Day 102 to 115: Vang Vieng, Vientiane, Pakse and being caught by the fuzz

Kids with guns

Easy does it

As the clock was close to striking 1am, darkness had shrouded the detail as they approached, so things didn’t register until it was too late. The 3 figures made it clear that they wanted us to stop to speak to us…

…me, Ryan and David didn’t argue.

Even though they identified themselves as police, as their faces drew near, we could also see that they were worryingly young to wear the badge, barely in the latter half of their teens.

And they were drunk.

Guarding over the quiet Mekong River border that splits Laos and its neighboring Thailand, in the capital city of Vientiane, their nights are long, soulless and desperate

Alcohol numbs the pain, and passing falang (foreigners) provide the entertainment.

They mumbled their reasoning –  a laughable curfew of 12am set in place in Laos. But the nearby night club, providing a muted bass line to his words, exposed it as a farce.

Nevertheless, they weren’t going to pass up this opportunity.

Their hands dived into our pockets, like last orders at the Blue Oyster, to find something more prosecutable.

They pulled out our wallets to alleviate us from our money.

And as the moonlight glinted off the AK47 hanging loosely around one of their shoulders…

…it would be a brave man to do anything foolish....

Laos is beautiful.

Stunning.

Its cream your pants, slap your thigh, wow inducingly gorgeous

From huge limestone mountains, golden plains, mighty rivers, secret islands and green rolling hills –  as a whole this country has usurped every other I have seen on my travels.

You seem to walk around in a day dream, looking around, shaking your head, smiling at the sheer ridiculousness of its beauty

And its fresh, its new –  its still gleaming from its borders having opened.

And its still coping fine against the flood of Bucketeers – straight over from the beaches of Thailand – planning to destroy themselves in Vang Vieng’s tubing culture.

As with the Thailand Islands in the south, the Bucket is held high in regard here – Lao Lao (the local whisky), mixed with M150 (their ‘version’ of Red Bull) and a soft drink of your choice. And they inflict as much damage as they do elsewhere.

Tubing itself, is just a pub crawl on the water. The Bucketeers fling themselves down the Nam Song river literally in rubber tubes, as riverside bars throw them lines to drag them in.

You’ve barely arrived at the first bar enroute before free shots are thrust into your hands, the day starting as it means to go on. The bars tempt you with rope swings and slides that propel you into the water from tremendous heights and at log liberating pace. Happy pancakes, pizzas and shakes  - with either mushrooms, weed or opium – threaten to cloud your judgement and depth perception.

This is not for the faint hearted – people have died, and weekly there’s a damaged Bucketeer whose alcohol consumption has affected his/her accuracy off the rope swings.

Broken legs, noses and pride are not uncommon.

But it’s a true celebration of Spring Break proportions. The young, dumb and beautiful dance, chill, and cavort till sunset – or until they’re dragged home by their friends.

Vang Vieng suffers from this – as the spectacle of a Bucketeer in a Tubing T-shirt, Pink Shorts, no shoes and holding a bucket stumbling in stuttering zig zags, trying to communicate in vowels is not a pretty sight. However there’s too much to see and do to make it really affect your stay.  And the nearby countryside is too full of secret Blue Lagoons, Caves, Rock climbing, kayaking and treks to allow the Bucketeer take the town’s soul.

I had arrived to meet back with my old friend Ryan Kelley – my Himalayan partner in crime. And sure enough after our weeks of missing each other we were back on the road together again. The new, shorn, moustache-less Ryan had been in Laos 6 times before and his ability to speak broken Laos (usually) made things far more interesting.

So after Tubing was ticked off the list, we went East to Vientiane – the capital of Laos. Oozing Frenchness from its every pore, this is a laid back city with the confident air of a future big player, while happy to keep things Laos.

The Mekong River flows South of it, and the Thailand border beckons on the opposite bank.

People tell you to get out of Vientiane as soon as you can. They say it offers nothing. To me it offered character in abundance, and a charm that the presence of falang has affected, but not damaged.

Just don’t go near the river at night.

We had met up with David – a slowboat compradre of Ryans. Laos’ quite predictable travelling route (down its narrow spine south to Cambodia) makes quite a natural trail for people to follow. This means that the majority of the people that take the slow boat journey from the Laos border to Luang Prabang, are bound to meet again along the way.

Its astonishing how this cultivate almost a community of people that seem to travel together – after meeting slow boat friends, friends of slowboat friends, friends of friends of…

…you’re basically never far away from a familiar face

David himself is no exception. Though this gangly, annoyingly handsome, even more annoyingly charming, boisterous musical French lothario doesn’t half steal the show. But it’s fun to watch…

…until things go wrong.

He had barely touched it.

He was only leaning on the sink to support himself washing his feet. And they needed washing, believe you me.

It didn’t matter. As it plunged towards its impact with the toilet bowl, it didn’t matter. As it cracked the toilet bowl in two, in didn’t matter. As the sink split into several pieces, it didn’t matter. And when the torrent of water starting spraying everywhere like an epileptic fireman with a hose…

…it didn’t matter.

What mattered, was that just 2 minutes before David Neo broke a whole bathroom in room 1 at the Seang Pamphone guesthouse, the owner had just collected our passports for check in.

As he looked in absolute stone cold shock at the damage, he could literally only mumble the words we were dreading…

“you pay”

What ensued was one of the longest days I’ve had.

David refused to pay. The sink was hopelessly attached to the wall. The owner didn’t care so called the police. As we had done nothing wrong, and the sink was hopelessly attached to the wall, we were happy to talk to them. Except it was the police’s day off, being a Sunday, so they might take a while. 3 hours in the end. No matter, we were sober, we had done nothing wrong and the sink was hopelessly attached to the wall. Mutterings in Laos, laughter in Laos, jibes at the stupid falang in Laos, you must come to station in English.

Fine. Because we’re calm and reasonable, we are completely sober, we’ve done nothing wrong…

…AND THE SINK WAS HOPELESSLY ATTACHED TO THE WALL!!

Bear in mind that this played out after an all night bus journey with no substantial sleep, an hour of looking for a hostel at 5am in the morning, and within minutes of finding  our room.

In the end David agreed to pay 100 dollars. Not too bad, considering how much the damage will cost the owners. But things should have ended in the amicable way they did at the police station.

Because as soon as everyone returned to hand over the passports, even though he had agreed the of price 100 dollars to have our passports returned, the cheeky guest house owner asked for us to pay for the room on top – and we weren’t even going to stay there.

Now I’m not one for swearing aggressively at foreigners that don’t understand me…

…but there are exceptions.

Needless to say they rethought that strategy pretty quickly.

This was in Pakse, one of the southern most towns in Laos. And it been a delight getting there from Vientiane.

We had stopped half way to visit a 7km cave. Through shear rock, boats take you through, from one end to the other, and back again. Huge cavernous rooms echo your name (and the rude words you find funny to shout out loud) right back to you. Stalagmites and Stalagtites (tites down remember) are lit up in dramatic displays.

And at its entrance, a clear, blue water lagoon pans out, flanked by huge rocks to jump off and sand to savour the journey you’ve just taken.

This was travelling at its best. This was no guided tour, no pampered VIP journey. To reach it we had to jump off the bus at the Junction of Route 13 (north to  south) and Route 8 (east to west) at night, hope of finding somewhere, before sussing out a way of getting to the cave the next morning.

We found our way, spent the day and headed back

And on the way back me and Ryan – and 3 sound greek lads who’d we’d befriended – sat on the roof of our packed tuk tuk for its 50km journey to the junction, as dusk fell slowly and gracefully across Laos golden plains,  and as the sun set into dazzling orange, we shared stories, laughter and a cheeky spliff.

In the myriad of stories, faces, memories and incidents that litter the travelling itinerary, there are still moments that echo with joy above most others.

That journey back will live long in the mind.

This was what Laos had given me. And Laos continues to offer this.

It can be a little backward, a little naïve, a little officious, but rarely.

More often its smiles on the faces, scenery to indulge in and a pace of life that relaxes anyone prepared to give it a chance.

And with the absolute paradise that I have found myself in, the 4000 Islands, I know Laos is STILL going to get better.

But enough adventure for now…

…after all one close call is more than enough

…a really brave man.

But they got tired, they got restless. We weren’t providing them with the scared falang fun and frolics they were looking for. They gave us back our wallets, with our funds intact. We offered them cigarettes, and suddenly they looked like normal kids for a brief second, sniggering and laughing about their carcinogenic prize.

We were allowed to go. We didn’t need asking twice.

They had looked but seen nothing.

They especially hadn’t seen the 2 strings tied round a belt, that led down behind one of our trio’s trousers, that led to a pouch, that led to a zip, that led to plastic bag, that led to a henry’s worth of…

“That was narly”

I know

Day 89 to 101: Thailand, Laos and hitting 100

The slow boat from Pak Beng for the second leg of my journey down the Mekong River to Luang Prabang in Laos was going to take 8 hours, setting off at the bright and breezy time of 9am.

It took barely the first hour for the young group of Aussies behind me an hour to get on the beers. It took barely the second hour for them to get loud. It took barely the third hour for them to get wasted and VERY loud.

It took barely the first minute for them to piss me off.

8 Hours you say? Ho hum. At least we won the Ashes.

At one point the loudest and ‘craziest’ of them (he wore his cap sideways for fucks sake), climbed over the railing, clinged onto the side of the boat and tried to ‘waterski’. Rather than the display of heroic machismo he so craved it to be, this simply resulted in the passengers behind getting nicely wet from the backsplash.

As he emerged to an angry dialogue with his saturated boat mates, I sat back and pleasantly imagined a scenario where he had slipped, fell under the boat and was mauled to pieces by the boats rotor blades, but not before pleading for our eternal forgiveness for his stupidity and lack of humility.

I had been across the border into Laos barely 2 days and already the curse of our increasingly small world had glared its teeth as it had in Thailand frequently.

I had no idea what to expect from Thailand. But with the exciting bright lights of global Bangkok to the tourist saturation of the islands it became clear that my route was not going to take me anywhere fresh and new.

It had its perks – the main one being my New Year celebrations, a special night crowned atop of one of Bangkok’s tall, swanky hotels watching the city’s fireworks with old friends (Bobby D) and new.

The weekend Chanatuk market gave a little hint - full of wildlife, bustle (and hustle), colours, smells and wonders - like something from the pen of Terry Pratchett.

But North Thailand was a very different proposition. A world away from the drunken mayhem of the islands.

Chiang Mai – Thailand’s second city – is a fraction of the size of the capital, but still holds the prestige as a significant draw. As the base camp for its Doi Inthanon mountain – the country’s highest peak – and the launch pad for Laos, it attracts those willing enough to escape the comfort blanket of the south.

Arriving here from Bangkok it was refreshing to see a town not littered with the Western influence/pandering I had been exposed to the previous 3 weeks. It’s laid back, cheaper and offers glimpses into the way Thailand used to be.

Glimpses mind, and mainly because I got lucky.

After arriving in Chiang Mai with Julien and Samya (a wonderfully fiery French couple whose passion for music, love and life were almost on par with their passion for arguing) and their Corsican friend Yannick, we decided to take a 3 day trek into the mountains.

I had sworn, after my Himalayan epics to never embark on another trek for a very long time. To make that emphatic I had even had sent my walking boots home from Bangkok. But after receiving assurances that my Adidas Classics were going to work just fine, a trip into the jungle became too tempting to turn down.

Day one involved an elephant trek before our first walk. I say ‘trek’, but it was more just sitting atop this huge beast while he ate every 2 steps. We probably covered a 100 metres in an hour.

Still, elephants are pretty cool. You question how they’re treated sometimes, especially when the guide on the one behind us yanked his animal’s ear with a sharp hook to make it change direction, making the poor beast yowl in pain...

…but if you start to question this, then you could end up with a whole itinerary of campaigns to fight against. They at least are left alone in acres of grassland to roam and feed – Nepal was a far more unforgiving place for Dumbo’s relatives.

But this wasn’t the glimpse that I referred to. Nor was it the tribal village we stayed at the first night – genuine though it was, its freezers full of beer and artisans ‘who just happened to be passing’ offering us ‘just passing special discounts’ on their wares left you thinking you’re not the first gringo they’ve tried to manipulate.

No, the glimpse came the second night. But it was a good one.

After walking through the day – which in the heat of the midday sun and the humidity of the jungle isn’t  breezy, literally – we arrived at our next village in time to join in the celebrations of a local wedding.

Though we had missed the ceremony, we were certainly in the right place to enjoy the celebrations.

And don’t expect bucks fizz, a first dance or a 3 course meal.

The villagers had made 25 litres of rice whiskey for the occasion, and had killed a buffalo in the morning to consume over the course of the day.

People from the villages of the bride and groom grouped together in random houses, singing songs that wished the happy couple the best of luck in their life together. I say songs, as far as I could tell there’s only one. Sung over and over again.

Cigarettes made from tobacco and dried banana leaf were rolled and smoked till the huts became heavy with smoke, and vocabularies that amounted to around 3 words in English were stretched to their limits as they made us more than welcome in their homes.

Not only that, but I met a 5 other foreigners who had also hit gold with the wedding, and lo and behold one of them was from Chile.

I’m telling you the world is getting smaller.

We returned to Chiang Mai the next day, after a little stint of Bamboo rafting and to the reality of civilization.

I had come to like Chiang Mai a lot, especially after negotiating its rush hour traffic on semi automatic motorbike, merely hours after I’d learned to ride one.

It felt a bit like when I learned to drive a car on the streets of Sparkhill…

…cope there, cope anywhere.

With half a mile of traffic in  front and behind you, wedged between truck, lorry, bus, bike and tuk tuk, praying when the light turns green you’ll remember how to drive off smoothly in a place where every spare bit of free tarmac is greedily covered by motorized vehicle…

…is certainly an experience I won’t forget in a long time.

Might be a while before I join the Hells Angels, mind.

But no matter how much I liked Chiang Mai my lack of time on my Visa forced my hand – so Laos People’s Democratic Republic and its mighty Mekong River beckoned.

This once French Protectorate (which means a lot of crepes, croissants but no blue cheese dammit!) used to be one of the world poorest 10 countries, but with economic resurgence (in part due to extensive tourism since new roads allowed navigation into and around the country were finally introduced) its slowly but surely growing.

And while it’s no Thailand, places like Luang Prabang – a city rich in French style, artisan culture and a laid back way of life – holds the travelers attention as much as a bucket does for a Gap Year student.

I’ve come here with no guide book either, seeing if a reliance on the Lonely Planet can sometimes distract the traveler into seeing what it feels it needs to see, rather than what they want to see.

And maybe the poverty that still hangs around will ground me more than the commercialism duped me in Thailand.

We’ll see.

The extraordinary journey on slow boat along the Mekong from the Thai border is already an experience richer than I’d had anywhere travelling within its neighbor – bar the Aussie pissheads of course (though they did have something to commiserate).

Laos promises much. And though my journey has already been undertaken in amongst throngs of travelers, it still feels that this country is – like Nepal – one whose status among the world’s significant must sees will become apparent in a few more years time.

With the 4 thousand islands, 7km cave, the might of the Mekong, deep untouched jungle full of wildlife (as long as its timber provision for China is reduced before it becomes decimated), rich history, there’ll be plenty to enjoy and write about.

So like Alastair Cook, I’ve made a hundred with relative ease. A hundred days travelling.

But like Jonathan Trott, it’s been slow to watch occasionally – especially the bus journeys.

A hundred days across 4 countries – one that I’ve only just graced – but each with their own different personalities, stories and adventures, faces and friends.

And with a heavy itinerary planned, there’ll be plenty more to talk about for the next 100. Its almost too much to digest whats actually happened – but I reckon that won’t happen till I stop altogether.

Of course that will only happen I survive Tubing in Laos’ notorious Vang Vieng.

And if you don’t know what that’s about, at the expense of a more nail-biting cliffhanger (and without scaring my mom too much)…

…I’ll keep you posted.

Just wish me luck.

Day 76 to 88: Koh Samui, Koh Phangan, Koh Tao and mushroom shakes

My eyes spring open. I need at least a minute to register where I am.

Make that 5.

After the revelation that I am in the bed of the hotel room that I’ve been staying in for the last 2 nights, a welders torch flares up inside my head and starts attacking my brain.

Hanging pathetically from the ceiling, the elusive fan above me offers no protection from the heat of the day – already in its prime –  as I lie sweating in my plastic sheeted, single bedroomed sauna.

What the hell happened last night?

I need clues.

I raise myself out of bed. I check my wallet. Its saturated, wet through. And devoid of funds.

Not a good start.

I check my camera. It’s also wet. I try and switch it on. Nothing.

Bollocks. Thats the second time I’ve broken it.

Sudden urge for toilet for post night dispensing. Where are my Flip flops?

No flip flops. Not again – that’s the 3^rd pair I’ve lost in as many weeks.

Plant feet on ground. OW!! Check under foot. Find big hole in foot. Just under the ball of my heel. How the hell did I do that?

Limp over to shorts – wet and covered in sand.

Seriously – CAN SOMEONE TELL ME WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENNED LAST NIGHT????!!!!!!

There is a resolute fog clouding my mind that refuses to engage with anything past the beach. Oh yeah! I was on the beach. With the friend I’d met. And I was drunk. And she dropped her bucke-

Buckets. Hang on – were we drinking buckets? Ummm… yes. How many? Errrr… wouldn’t like to say even if I remembered. So why did get so drunk last night?

Then it dawns on me.

I check my mobile. It’s already 2pm.

Its 2pm, and its Christmas day.

Jesus Christ.

The islands of Thailand are supposed to be the crowniest jewels in its pretty impressive armoury of crown jewels.

Sprinkled liberally across clear blue water, skirting the country’s long southern arc, they effortlessly typify the standard view of paradise.

Having chosen the 3 islands (Kohs) off the southern eastern coast – Samui, Phangan and Tao – I was looking forward to the blend of isolation and party that the Thailand tourist board do so well to promote.

All I found after 2 weeks, was a LOT of tourists, a LOT of drinking, a LOT of noise and mere snippets of isolation and – to be brutally honest – very little relaxation.

I made several grave errors. Firstly, in my research. Lonely Plant circa 2007 is not as up to date as Lonely Planet 2010 (durr!) – and Thailand moves fast. Very fast. As soon as picture postcard beaches, untouched Backpackers paradises are found, the powerful engine of Thailands awesome tourist machine springs into life, to prevent anything from being untouched for long.

And every year more and more salivating, marauding, pillaging tourists steam roller in from December onwards and need satisfying. Koh Tao, in particular, was once a quiet diver’s escape. Now, like Phangan and Samui, the tones of tourist pandering echo from virtually its every pore.

Secondly, I wasn’t as mobile as I should have been. I only rented a scooter once on Ko Phagnan (and lo and behold, what did I find? An empty beach).

And thirdly, and most crucially, I’m weak and predictable. I didn’t plan to spend the 2 weeks getting pissed, but by some incredibly rare quirk of fate…

…I just spent 2 weeks getting pissed.

But before I sound like an old, cynical hack waiting to bemoan the ruination of the world’s natural wonders by the juggernaut of international tourism, let me say this.

I had fun. Sometimes I had wicked fun.

But before I sound like a young, energetic party animal, reveling in the islands’ tolerance towards carnage, let me say this.

I’m glad I’ve left. And all in all, the experience was a little unsatisfying.

Koh Samui – or more specifically its beach resort of Llamai – especially. It took me just 2 days to realize it wasn’t for me. Its stunning beach (and it really is cracking) and glamorous hotels are unfortunately backed up by streets dedicated to sleaze. Old men, from across the Western world, revel in their freedom to walk down the street with their young Thai bit on the side. Mcdonalds, KFC, Burger King, Subway are all in attendance. Tacky bars play host to shit music and high pitched, screeching Thai girls who are so eager and vocal to establish that:

a)      I’m handsome boy

b)      I want be loved long time.

If I was I an ugly, fat, balding, single 62 year old, then maybe it’ll be great.

But I’m only 32.

So the dirty spectre of Koh Samui was shed.

And so to Koh Phangnan. Via a Catamaran that bounced up and down on the water so much that the sick bags were being deployed at will.

Me? Don’t be silly. I didn’t need a sick bag…

…I just ran out the back and projectile vomited into the boat’s wake. Much to the delight of the 2 pissed up Brits standing nearby.

Still, Koh Phangan was to prove a very different proposition to Samui.

“Can I have a mushroom shake?”

“Certainly miss. 500 baht”

The Israeli girl who ordered looked a bit put out. “I thought 250?”

“No miss. 500”

She obviously wanted the shake, as she didn’t put up much of a fight for the extra fiver. As I watched, beer in hand, a couple of metres down from them leaning against the bar, I couldn’t help wondering: Why would anyone want a mushroom shake? And at such an extortionate price? It sounds disgusting.

So once the lady had departed, I said as much.

“You want try?”, the smiling, nodding, cheery barman said, seemingly keen to get my endorsement on his creation. He evidently had a lot left over,  and poured out half a glass. About 250 Baht’s (£5) worth by the sounds of it.

I agreed, and, grimacing, I finished off the remaining shake. Surprisingly it didn’t taste horrendous. He had mixed it with strawberries and a hint of sugar, to combat the overpowering umami nature of the mushrooms.

But though I finished it off,  it wasn’t great. I still wasn’t happy with the whole concept. Why would anyone genuinely want a mushroom shake?

“I’m still not happy with the whole concept. Why would anyone want a mushroom sha-“

His smile gave it away.

“Hang on. When you say mushroom, you mean MUSHROOM??!!!”

“Yeah, mushroom”

 How much had I just had again?

Koh Phangan plays host to the ‘legendary Full Moon Party’, on its beach resort of Haadrin. Immediately the differences to Koh Samui are obvious. The buses of young eager, teenagers and 20 somethings flooding in from the boats tell its own story. Sign everywhere promote Happy Hours and English Breakfasts in Ozzie bars. Lounge bars with huge cushioned sofas show movies all day to soothe the hangovers over grease and Chang. They’ve even got a typical British pub.

This island is for partying. It’s a simple brief that it sticks to very well.

But the reason my naivety with the magic mushroom shake sounds a bit stupid, is that it no longer promotes itself as having a drug fuelled rave scene a la Acid House days. Its policed heavily, and the horror stories of clueless young party goers smoking joints on the beach and being led off to jail (or the nearest ATM depending on the copper) are rife. So to be presented by what was a legitimate bar, supplying illegitimate hard drugs (as hard as shrooms can be) looking over the beach was a little surprising (and the only bit of anti-establishment that the Island really has).

Because the main drug of choice for these young scamps is the Bucket.

A Bucket, fully loaded with your spirit of choice, a can of pop and Thailand’s lethal Red Bull.

 And the damage they cause overshadows any effects from the special shake.

Tens of ‘Bucket’ stalls line the beach, calling out to whoever passes within earshot.

Hundreds of tourists stagger round swinging theirs along the streets trying to negotiate tricky challenges like ‘walking straight’ and ‘speaking coherently in their own language’. And Thousands of buckets are left abandoned on the beach, as if a bomb threat hit the international Sand Castle Building World Cup.

Until Full Moon hit (3 days into my stay on Phangan), I had stayed away from buckets – deciding that I would save them until the big night.

I had no idea what to expect from my first Full Moon, and while it was a great party, it wasn’t the spiritual event its name suggests. On the contrary, it’s a mix of the Dome, White Lion and Global Gathering on sand.

My dalliance with the Buckets on the Island was brief. The toxic concoction hadn’t got its claws into me. Yet.

I had to wait to Koh Tao for that.

After leaving Koh Phangan exhausted, thinking Koh Tao was going to a bit of peace and quiet, I relaxed on the boat across (no Catamaran this time) happy in the prospect.

Until Christmas Eve.

To be fair to Koh Tao, it’s the best of the 3 by a country mile. In fact it’s a really quite beautiful, laid back and relaxed. Tiny in comparison to the other 2. And if you want to do your Open Water diving qualification, it’s cheap, professional and its rich, clear blue waters are full of fish and coral.

However its still been done over by the tourist machine, and as I only opted for a one day dive (stunning mind) it left the rest of my time dedicated to one thing.

Hanging out at Lotus Bar.

This crazy little bar with cushions on the beach, had spectacular fire dancers every night, pulling off awesome tricks sometimes within a gnats pube of your face.

Unlike Koh Phagnans tourist torture chamber (their fire dancers would subject willing watchers to ‘skip rope’ and then raise the burning rope, whacking the fiery trail of molten string into a pissed up idiot’s thigh)...

...Koh Tao’s was about performance – and these guys were good.

The skipping rope came out, as well as other staples, but it was never about humiliating the tourists (though I did enjoy that about Phangan), but just putting on a great show and having a great night.

But it is a shame, that, having seen some of the ‘recommended’ islands of Thailand, my highlight was hanging out in one bar. And its not as if I haven’t seen firedancers before either.

I’m not massively into sunbathing and doing nothing. And though I loved diving and took to it pretty easily, the money – for now – is better spent on my Visa’s for other countries, leaving me a little devoid of options in these places. I’d happily come here again with friends or partners, but on your own, they don’t appeal to me.

People come for a week, and stay for 3 years. I get bored after 5 days.

Although I will remember fondly the people who I spent time with there. And one thing that Thailand does provide in the midst of the thousands of pissed up British, Israeli, Ozzie wankers…

…are some thoroughly nice boys and girls.

And also, from seeing the difference in personalities of the Islands I did visit, I know there’s plenty more to see, and in no way does this reflect what could be in store on the other islands.

In fact, returning to the mainland from Koh Tao, to the pier at Chumpon, my boat (another Catamaran, but  this time I kept my dinner firmly in my belly) passed a multitude of tiny lonely islands, small uninhabited beaches – the kind of isolation I had hoped to find, but never did.

So with not so much heavy heart, I’m back in Bangkok for NYE.

And back in BKK, and this time FAR from the Khao San Road, it feels like I’ve come home a little. This town – though filled with tourists, travelers, backpackers and ex-pats – is still principally Thai rather than a tourists playground.

You can find them all – the Israelis, Brits, Ozzies, Scandinavians – stumbling along, swinging their buckets. But unlike the islands I visited, its quite easy to stay far away from them. And this town has its own identity, crafted from its years of history and evolution, not from the culture of the Bucket.

And so to the New Year and 2011.

Let’s hope the bad times of the past year means that the next will be filled with the promise and hope we deserve.

I’ve learned some valuable lessons – not all Bucket related – and I can’t wait to learn a hell of more about life, love and the world through the next 12 months.

Like what the hell happened to my foot on Christmas Eve.

Anyone?

Happy New Year x