TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 24 - TWO NIGHTS IN BANGKOK / EPILOGUE

 

05/04/03: Breakfast at some swanky joint before boarding our flight back to Bangkok. Book into Kho San Palace and go straight to bed.

 

06/04/03: Breakfast at Wally’s. Look for souvenirs for relatives. Go to Siam Square for a third and final time. Tea at Chart; drinks at Dong Dea Moon, the Banana Leaf and Hole in the Wall.

 

07/04/03: Hungover. Send e-mails. Rainbows for coffee. Buy more souvenirs. Place with spinning ball for more coffee. Eat at Wally’s and then get a cab to the airport for flight home…

 

 

When we’d booked our flights a year earlier, we decided a few nights in Bangkok might make the passage home easier to bear. When it came to it, I regretted us not arranging to stay for longer. New Zealand's mild climate had left me with a yearning for tropical heat and the poignant aromas that come with it: grilled meat, fish sauce, garlic, even the smell of stagnant drains. We entertained the idea of putting back our flights, but I didn’t know if this was something I could afford to do and was in no fit state to carry on regardless. In New Zealand, I’d put back on a bit of the weight I’d lost in Southeast Asia, but my general condition wasn’t great and my clothes were torn and frayed.

In keeping with C’s enthusiasm for fine dining, he drives us somewhere nice for breakfast before dropping us off at the airport ahead of our flight to Bangkok, which will take something like twelve hours. The time difference between Auckland and Bangkok works in our favour and we arrive at the Kho San Palace, to check into the room we had the foresight to book before we left for New Zealand, at around midnight.

Breakfast at Wally’s. This must be at least our tenth visit, and it will not be our last. Peruse the gift shops on Rambuttri Alley, a charming street that runs parallel to the Khao San Road, and wonder why it was that we hadn’t spent more time here during our previous visits. Back to Siam Square to make last minute purchases and take shelter from the sun. It’s hotter now than it has been at any other time since arriving in November, with an average daily high of at least 35°C. In less than a week Songkran will commence, a national holiday that once denoted the beginning of the Thai New Year, in accordance with the solar calendar. It is traditional to engage in the throwing of water, to symbolically cleanse sins and to relieve one another of the heat. If we’d known about this when we scheduled out flights then we would surely have accommodated it.

We eat at Chart. I don’t know why here and not, say, Gulliver’s, but I do know that our last night in Bangkok is about drinking rather than eating. We go to Dong Dea Moon for old time’s sake, then to new favourite The Banana Leaf, and finally Hole in the Wall. The Hole in the Wall is where it all started – the first bar we frequented, where we were impressed with how the staff kept your beers cold for you until you were ready to drink them. Pipi’s still there, hustling around the pool table, but I don’t think he recognises me. Why should he?

It’s a heavy night – I drink Chang, not Singha – and a bittersweet one. The next morning, hungover, I can only manage coffee for breakfast. Our flight isn’t until the evening, so there’s plenty of time to recover, and we return to Walley’s for lunch. Nothing is enjoyable from thereon in: pick up our luggage, taxi to the airport, passport control, customs, and then just waiting, with nothing in particular to look forward to.

 

'Hole in the Wall'

When we touched down at Heathrow, it was typically overcast – no rain, just that grim low-lying cloud that we get so much of in the UK. It was a genuinely depressing situation. Freed from the anxiety and trepidation that I suffered at the beginning of my trip, I hadn’t wanted to come home, maybe ever. The next month or so was spent moving about between my parents’ house in Plymouth, Louise’s in Upminster, and my brother’s in Wandsworth, as I went about signing-on, seeking employment and a place to live. It turned out that I had more money left over than I’d thought, although given my predicament it was probably just as well I hadn’t spent more of it.

The routine that afflicts Western living seemed absurd now, even if it did come with certain benefits. What was harder to reconcile was the sheer formality of things – being expected to dress a certain way, cross the road at predetermined points, or being told to turn up to work at a specific point in time. Not to mention so-called first world problems and the sense of entitlement a lot of people seem to possess. It wasn’t as if I didn’t appreciate any of this before, just that I saw it now with greater clarity: that modes of living are generally arbitrary in nature and that our problems are rarely a matter of material survival.

But travelling had been an unsustainable way of life. I may have exaggerated the volume we drank, for dramatic effect, but we did by and large drink every day, if only because there had been very little else to do in the evening. Our movements had been governed by our whims, bereft of any impetus other than boredom or a vague curiosity. This was not altogether a bad thing because it gave room for places, or people, to surprise you. In this respect, travelling is a form of gambling. No matter what the guidebook says, you don’t usually know whether you’re making the right move. Thing is, the stakes are never very high, because there’s not anywhere that isn’t worth even a brief visit, and there aren’t many places so amazing that it’s worth staying for much more than a week. And so you plod on aimlessly without a care for anything, until you realise that you're in thrall to a different sort of routine, but a routine nonetheless.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 23 - BANGKOK THE FOURTH

27/02/03: Bus to Bangkok and book into Chart on the Khao San Road. Tea at Gullivers, Dong Dea Moon for a few drinks.

28/02/03: Bump into L on the way to Wally’s. Develop more photographs, dinner at Chart, drinks at Banana Leaf, Dong Dea Moon and then back to the Banana Leaf.

01/03/03: Wally’s for breakfast. Taxi to weekend market, Namaste for an Indian, Chart to watch Catch Me if You Can; Banana Leaf.

02/03/03: Walk to Palace. Check emails, Gullivers for dinner, Hole in the Wall for drinks.

03/03/03: Go to Siam Square and MBK Center (sic). Wally’s for dinner, play cards at Chart – early night.

04/03/03: Wally’s for breakfast, minibus to airport – leave for New Zealand.

We've decided to break with tradition and book into Chart, a hostel that S stayed in during his brief sojourn on the Khao San Road, and one he speaks of highly. It’s not too dissimilar to the Khao San Palace, which you can throw stones at from across the road, except Chart has its own dining area, which the Palace never did.

We have four days and five nights to kill in Bangkok, which is more than we need. One of us floats idea of going someplace else for a couple of nights – Kanchanaburi, say – but it's hard to muster the enthusiasm. The storms that punctuated our first two months in South East Asia are long gone and it’s very hot, which makes us lazy. At least there are less mosquitoes about.

I’ve been looking forward to New Zealand, and still am, but not like I was. I've grown accustomed to my environment, and the idea of starting over in a different climate is not as appealing as it was three months ago. Off to Gulliver’s, and then Dong Dea Moon. Gulliver’s isn’t as nice as I remember it, but the air conditioning is welcome and the food remains consistent in what’s otherwise an entirely inconsistent state of affairs. Every visit here has revealed a slight change, the destruction of The Hendrix being the most pronounced. Even Dong Dea Moon appears vulnerable. It’s quieter tonight and the lively bartender, capable of removing bottle tops with violent efficiency, is conspicuous by his absence.

The next day we bump into L on the Khao San Road. She went south after we parted company and she'll be flying back to the States in a few days' time. We don’t make any arrangements to meet up for a drink but we do exchange email addresses, and she tells us to look her up should we ever find ourselves in New York. (It will be another five years before we do, by which time we’ll have adjudged the invitation to have expired.)

After tending to business, we take a taxi to a market recommended by F. He bought a fake Bathing Ape polo shirt there, and I figure I might be able to find something similar to replace the items in my wardrobe that are falling apart. No counterfeit Bathing Ape, but I do come away with two Playboy branded polo shirts that will do the job. My desert boots have just about had it too, so I'm going to replace them with a pair of Cuban heels, like the Thai policemen wear, which will cost less than the equivalent of a tenner from a shoe shop down the road.

In the coming days we will revisit Siam Square and the Royal Palace, walk around Suphachalasai Stadium, continue to eat at Wally’s, try out a disappointing Indian restaurant off the Khao San Road, and find a new place to drink called the Banana Leaf. There will be an evening that finishes at the Hole in the Wall, but we give up on Dong Dea Moon when our second night there turns out much like the first. We are marking time. I’m not certain that I want to leave Asia, but I am restless all the same. The weather is just too stifling, not variable enough. What I really want is hard rain. That’s not going to happen – I’d have to wait around for another three months to see any of that. Something's got to give, so it's probably just as well we're leaving.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 17 - AND BANGKOK AGAIN

01/02/03: Arrive early in the morning and head to the Khao San Palace. Wally’s for breakfast, check emails, coffee at random café with L, O and the mercurial F. Drop of a roll of film for development, dinner at The Connection – not great – with the aforementioned crew. Dong Dea Moon and Chart with the same, plus ‘Mai’ and ‘A’ – Thai friends of the Nong Kai contingent.

02/02/03: Wally’s again. Pick up photos, riverboat to Chinatown with L, F and Welsh B. Back to our domain and then get a taxi to Nana for an Indian. Dong Dea Moon for a quick beer before bed.

Welsh L & K had a connection in Bangkok: somebody who lived there in a penthouse apartment, with a swimming pool and everything. Furthermore, it happened that K’s brother, G, was on his way over for a month’s holiday and they’d be tied up with all of this for at least the next couple of days. They left our train at Samsen Station, as opposed to terminating at Hua Lamphong Station with the rest of us, and it wasn’t long before O and the faceless extra from Mut Mee had gone their separate ways too. By the time we reached the Khao San Road it was just me and my partner left, booking a room back at the Khao San Palace.

But our accompanied travels were far from over – L made sure of that. Before we parted company, she arranged for us to meet her and O later, in a café at the end of the road. There we would be introduced to F, a by now semi-mythical Dutchman who L and O knew through their time spent teaching English in Nong Khai.

The rainy season had reached cessation and, as we entered February, the climate had levelled out onto a very hot plateau. I didn’t feel uncomfortable being back in Bangkok, but neither did I feel much at ease. This probably had to do with the pending arrangements that needed to be agreed upon as a matter of urgency, especially if we decided to revert to our Vietnam plan and had to obtain visas in advance.

After returning to Wally’s for breakfast, I found myself in an internet café checking my e-mails. After that, I moved onto our rendezvous early to drink coffee and gorge myself on CNN and find out how the UN Weapons Inspections were getting on (Laos had been a television free zone, for the most part). Nothing substantive had materialised as yet, but that didn’t seem to be good enough for the United States, who, like some wild animal being held back by Colin Powell’s leash, were gnashing at the bit, impervious to the UN’s pleas to allow the inspectors to complete their task. I had another cup of coffee and cursed it was not of the Laotian kind.

One by one our entourage arrived: first O, then L, and finally F. Standing at around 6 feet 4 inches, this lanky Dutchman, with an Andrew McCarthy-esque quality about him, possessed a voice of surprisingly deep timbre. As with O, I took to him almost instantly.

Our meeting was brief but attempts were made to decide what to do with the rest of our allotted time in Southeast Asia. My partner and I had a month left before we were due to fly out to New Zealand. O had almost the same amount of time at his disposal, after which he was scheduled to leave for Outer Mongolia. L was in a similar predicament, but she’d be returning to New York. I cannot recall F’s circumstance but I think he was the least restricted of us all. The early reports were that Welsh L & K had disappeared off the radar, but we knew that they too had plenty of time on their hands and had made explicit their intention to explore someplace else other than Thailand, once brother G had settled in. Given that everybody had either already explored the south of Thailand, or had no interest in going there, a common dilemma appeared still to be shared: Cambodia or Nam? Or even Cambodia and Nam? Indeed, unless one flew, to get to Vietnam one would have to travel through Cambodia anyway, so if any of us were intent on going to Nam then they might as well go to Cambodia too.

About a week earlier, some Cambodian rag (the Light of Angkor) had attributed a highly inflammatory quote to the Thai actress Suvanant Kongying, wherein she had supposedly accused Cambodia of having ‘stolen’ Angkor Wat from Thailand and that she ‘hated’ all Cambodians. It’s almost certain that she’d said nothing of the sort, but Cambodians, apparently, are a people who don’t very often question what they read in their press. Not even the then Cambodian Prime Minister, Hun Sen, bothered to check his facts – for there was no physical evidence to back the story up – and publicly denounced Miss Kongying, chipping in that she was, 'not worth a few blades of grass near the temple,' with the Cambodian Government the next day banning the broadcast of Thai television programmes across the whole of the country.

Cambodia has a sort of inferiority complex where its larger, more economically successful neighbours are concerned (Vietnam to the east being an equal source of antagonism, although Laos, to the north, less so), and following Hun Sen’s comments protesters gathered en masse outside the Thai Embassy in Cambodia’s capital Phnom Penh to express their distaste. Worse was to follow when on the 29th January 2003 word erroneously spread through the protesters’ ranks that twenty or so Cambodians had been killed in reprisal back in the Thai capital. These rumours sent everyone ballistic: the Thai Embassy in Phnom Penh was razed to the ground and many Thai-owned businesses were either looted or destroyed. Consequently, the border between the two countries was closed indefinitely, although officially only to Thai and Cambodian nationals. And this is where F’s experience came to light, for he had recently tried to enter Cambodia via the border crossing at Aranya Prathet, only for the Cambodian Border Agency to stamp his visa, rendering it null and void, turn him around and send him back to Thailand.

We’d been aware of these goings-on (what would become known as the 2003 Phnom Penh Riots) since our second day in Nong Kai, but it had taken a while for the actual severity of the situation to reveal itself. Welsh L & K had raised the possibility of travelling to the island of Koh Chang to wait and see how events panned out. Located south of Trat Province on the southern tip of Thailand’s border with Cambodia, and not far from Bangkok itself, its location was conducive in the circumstances. It was also an island L had already been to but thought pleasant enough to visit again. The question was how long were people prepared to stay in Koh Chang and where would they go from there? The answer could only really be Cambodia, with maybe a short stay in Nam tacked on the end, assuming that the political tensions between Cambodia and Thailand could be resolved quickly enough.

This rough outline of a plan agreed upon, and with enough room still for manoeuvre, we re-dispersed and agreed to reconvene at The Connection – an establishment popular with travelling Israelis – at L’s behest. In-between, I submitted a few rolls of film for development. I did this because I was concerned that some of the older rolls of film I was carrying were starting to degrade in the humidity, and also because the many cartridges that I was carrying were taking up vital room in my bag.

Later, to compensate for the exclusivity of The Connection, my partner and I persuaded everyone along to Dong Dea Moon. Next up was Chart, where we’d watched K-19: The Widowmaker and Panic Room during our last stay in Bangkok, and where we were joined by Mai and ‘A’, young Thai lads who L had seemingly adopted as her guides, having got to know ‘A’ through her teaching network. (‘A’ was called exactly that, although I assume that this was an abbreviation of sorts.)

Meanwhile, L’s limits were fast becoming obvious: she demanded civility, liked things to be just-so, and had no obvious enthusiasm for getting drunk. But at least she liked to get out and about and was entirely unfazed by her surroundings, no matter how weird. With this in mind, we agreed to meet with her on the Sunday, where she had arranged to meet up with yet another of her many contacts.

The plan is to board the Chao Phraya Express, the riverboat that services the Chao Phraya River. L has brought F along, which I am very happy about. We’ll also be meeting Welsh B at Pier N13/Tha Phra Athit, the nearest port of call where we can board a vessel. (I include the proper adjective in describing Welsh B because she made a big issue out of her Welshness, whereas I apply the same description to Welsh L simply to differentiate him from American L.) We have no fixed destination in mind and so make a spontaneous alightment eight piers downstream at Pier N5/Ratchawong, which services the area in and around Chinatown. Chinatown is pretty hectic, and really there’s not a lot to see or do, save for the odd shop selling cute Asian tat. It is also very hot. Back on the boat, the river’s a good place to be in weather like this. The Chao Phraya River itself is the colour of mud and a pretty dirty body of water, but you wouldn’t know it from the preponderance of water hyacinths that float upon the surface.

The evening brings with it irritation. First up, it has become very apparent that Welsh B is some sort of racist, the focus of her heavy disdain being me and my partner – in other words, the English. The way she expatiates on the matter comes as quite some surprise, especially when she moves on to the subject of rugby. So brazen is her manner that I can only conclude one of four things: that Welsh B thinks that we are both Welsh too (unlikely, despite our surnames); that Welsh B has wrongly assumed that at some juncture she let us know that present company was excepted, or that she did actually say this but I just didn’t hear her (a little less unlikely); that Welsh B doesn’t like either of us and has contrived to cause as much offence as she can (not impossible); or that Welsh B takes great pleasure in talking up her Welsh heritage and it doesn’t even occur to her how she might come across (probable). My partner and I aren’t really bothered either way, but the relish with which she delivers a blow-by-blow account of how the Welsh Rugby Team narrowly defeated the ‘arrogant English’ on their own turf – an account that is delivered completely off-subject to a group of people who either don’t care for rugby or know not what rugby even is – is bizarre at best and egomaniacal at worst. The bad conversation would be easier to bear were it not for the bad meal that accompanies it. I had been looking forward to dinner: an Indian meal in the district of Nana, just down from Siam Square. L warned us that the area was a little salacious, although maybe not as notoriously so as Patpong (modesty permits me from expanding on this) but that the Indian cuisine found there was the best to be had in the whole of Bangkok. If this is true then we have drawn a very short straw. The food itself isn’t terrible but the chicken I’ve ordered is nothing of the sort; a dry, dark-grey brawn, I suspect it might be of canine origin. It could be pork, at a push, but if it is then the bones holding the meat together don’t make much sense, for they are quite small. And then there’s the service, which is cursory, and L apologies for the complete failure of it all – she’s visibly embarrassed by the behaviour of Welsh B in particular. There’s nothing for it but to head back to Dong Dea Moon.

It was around this time that I began to labour under the misapprehension that the classical actor and theatre director Simon Callow was no longer with us (i.e. dead). I have no idea from where I acquired this grim untruth – maybe I was disinformed, or perhaps I dreamt of it – but you can imagine my surprise when many months later (it could have been a full year) I chanced upon a television interview with said actor, looking very much alive, and, by all accounts, very well.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 12 - BACK TO BANGKOK

06/01/03: Hungover. Spend the day occupying cafes, drinking coffee and eating sandwiches and crisps. Get overnight bus to Bangkok via Surat Thani.

I take the Bangkok Post. The international reportage makes it perfect reading for the 12 hour bus journey from Krabi to Bangkok. Its sports coverage in particular is excellent, giving comprehensive cover of both the FA Cup 3rd Round and The Ashes.

I have mixed feelings about our impending mission. The distance we have to cover is considerable, and I am anticipating it to be physically discomforting. I don’t expect to get much sleep, although my hangover gives rise to the possibility. I’m a little sad to be leaving the south of the country and am apprehensive about this whole Laos-Vietnam thing. I am, however, looking forward to relocating to Bangkok for a few days, something that I wouldn’t have thought possible 50 days ago.

The first part of the trip is straightforward enough: we board a single-decked coach that takes us to Krabi’s bus terminal. On arrival, the vehicular form of the second stage of our journey is as yet unclear. Our previous experience of the larger VIP Bus involved a colourful single-decked coach of modest capacity replete with chrome interior, but I suspect that this was tailored to the hedonistic destination to which we were then travelling. At the other end of the spectrum, we have ridden a cosy minibus from Chumphon to Surat Thani, but I’m not expecting that this will be the case here.

I am now concerned by the amount of people apparently waiting for a similar charter to Bangkok. I am concerned because I have hitherto noticed a tendency to squeeze as many people as possible onto any given bus or coach, with a total disregard for notions of health and safety or comfort. I am also concerned because a few of my fellow travellers are voicing a similar tension. What’s more, the VIP Bus is running late.

My fears are soon allayed when two double-decked buses show up, both bound for Bangkok. True to form, they’re colourful things, adorned with various cartoon characters, and there’s even a TV on board. Closer inspection reveals these vehicles to be older than they appear – a stain here, a cracked air-con funnel there – but they are air-conditioned and they do seem to offer a credible degree of leg-room. I’m reasonably happy, although a little annoyed when our half-full coach alights in Surat Thani, of all places, to fill in the empty spaces.

I’m now getting a handle on how long-haul transport operates in Thailand. There’s nothing really 'VIP' about these buses: they’re just regular, long-distance coaches, with functioning utilities, that charge about twice as much than the alternative public model. This still only works out at about £13 for a 400 mile journey, and it will pick you up and drop you off at locations that are convenient.

The only problem now is the person sat in front of me who insists on reclining her chair as far as its fixtures will allow. I would say something but she’s dabbing at a nasty looking wound on her lower leg. Then her companion politely asks if he can borrow my Bangkok Post, leaving me impotent to do anything other than sit back and suffer.

07/01/03: Bump into 'Mel and Kath' from Haad Yao. Book into the Khao San Palace and take a nap. Wally’s for brunch. Sort out Laos visa and buy Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas. Gulliver’s for dinner, then Dong Dea Moon. See elephant and talk to yank. Hole in the Wall for a nightcap.

It’s Tuesday, about 05:30 on the Khao San Road, and the previous evening’s entertainment is just winding down. I managed to catch about three hours of sleep on the bus, which for me isn't bad going, and now we’ve got to contend with the lingering detritus from the night before. But there’s an excitement about the place, an energy and a coolness to the air, even though the temperature can’t be much below 25°C.

We have arrived earlier than expected – too early to find lodging. The staff at The Palace advise that we return in a couple of hours, whereupon guests will have checked out and rooms will have been cleaned. After about three hours, breakfast, and many cups of coffee later, The Palace is finally able to provide us asylum. We sleep a little and then hit Wally’s for something to eat, with a new found sense of authority gloriously coursing through my veins. I have no problem waving away the hawkers at lunch, and the pushy tuk-tuk drivers aren’t bothering me in the least. I may not have the most active tan in the world, what with the fair amount of southern cloud cover I’ve endured, but I feel a good deal less conspicuous than some of the paler arrivals that occasionally pass us by.

It seems hotter than it did down south and less humid. These are not perfect conditions for traipsing around and deciding which establishment is best placed to process our visa. It doesn’t really matter because, as with the VIP bus situation, everything’s hooked up to the same infrastructure and prices won’t deviate much from its predetermined course. That’s not to say that it doesn’t hurt to shop around, though, and iron out the possibility that some people somewhere might be trying to squeeze you for more than is good and proper.

We are being told that it will take at least three days to process a visa for Laos. This is not in any way unusual: passports have to be taken to the relevant embassies and are filed accordingly. You could always visit the intended embassy yourself, but I postulate that this would be an approach overly mired in bureaucracy. It seems very much easier to resign ourselves to a few extra days in Bangkok, which I don’t mind at all. I’m starting to feel that the capital offers me some sort of ‘peace at the centre’, a base camp from which to evaluate this whole adventure. The only problem with this course of action is that Bangkok gives me a terrible urge to drink.

Later and we’re back at Gulliver’s taking full advantage of their air conditioning and pork chops in pepper sauce. And when we’ve finished there it’s off to Dong Dea Moon for what turns out to be a relatively quiet night. I talk to a garrulous American sporting a ponytail who regales me with tales of his tight-fisted adventures in Burma. Draped in his own hubris, he proudly examples of how he and a friend refused to disembark from a public bus after being asked to pay double the going rate. Together, they peremptorily declared that it was their right to be charged the same as the Burmese and would not move until their demands for equity were met. This might seem reasonable behaviour on one level, but the likelihood is that they were holding more cash on their person than the average Burmese earns in a month. When I attempt anecdoture of my own (not my forte) I notice his eyes idly taking in the bar’s surroundings. Disappointingly, I am finding that Americans like to talk at you plenty but sometimes aren’t so keen about being on the other end.

08/01/03: Taxi to Siam Square to look at shops and Jim Thompson’s House. Back to Khao San Road for a shandy. Tea and then go to the Than Mago only to find it has been demolished. Return to Dong Dea Moon, whereupon we meet J (Mk.2).

09/01/03: Awake with Sangsom induced hangover. Brunch at Wally’s. Back to Dong Dea Moon to meet J (Mk.2) and his Canadian chum S (Mk.2). Take them to Hole in the Wall, before finding new place around the back

10/01/03: Wally’s. Collect visas. Go to Chart for dinner and watch K-19: The Widowmaker and Panic Room. Sneaky drink in Dong Dea Moon.

We never really escaped our little quarter of Bangkok the first time around. Sure, we made it far as the Royal Palace, the Golden Mount and Wat Indrawihan, but all this is navigable by foot, and abjectly touristic. My partner has a few ideas, though. She’d like to see Jim Thompson’s House and take advantage of the many shopping malls in and around Siam Square. I’m not that bothered about visiting Mr Thompson’s ex-abode but the malls could be interesting, and I like the change of tack. We will take a taxi to Siam Square – a proper taxi with a working meter – through heavy traffic and banal streets. It is estimated by our guidebook that it will cost about 200 baht, and it does, factoring in a 20 baht tip.

Our first port of call is the Siam Center (sic), outside of which our taxi-driver deposits us in great haste. Dating back to 1973, the Siam Center is one of Bangkok’s oldest malls. It doesn’t look that old to me but then my formative experience of the shopping plaza is based upon the Armada Centre in Plymouth and Treaty Centre in Hounslow – beige, eighties fossils both.

As is often the way of the shopping mall, the Siam Center attracts those of a more youthful condition. What strikes me here is how smart these juveniles are. Nobody is wearing shorts, for instance, clothes are of a tighter fit and the prevailing fashion appears to be highly accessorised (hair product, handbags, watches, brand names, etc.). I’m wearing brown needle-cords, a lank white T-shirt and a shabby pair of Converse, and I feel verminous by comparison. Moreover, these more affluent folk seem paler of complexion than their out-of-town cousins, or even those I have seen working on the Khao San Road. This is not so surprising when one considers it. A preference for fairer skin pervades in many Southeast Asian countries, Thailand being no exception, and a whole cosmetics industry is built upon it. It might be fair to speculate that – as was the way in Victorian Britain – darker skin brings with it an association with the labouring classes and that whitening one’s complexion suggests a higher position within the social strata. [This is in retrospect seems obvious, but at the time it genuinely perplexed me.]

The shops themselves are your standard high-street conglomerations with goods priced to match, so we don't hang about. The more recently constructed Siam Discovery Center is more upmarket than its sister mall, meaning that I feel even more under-dressed than I did there. The air-conditioning is more aggressive too, and the garments are priced even further beyond my range (constrained by my traveller’s budget or otherwise). A modest exhibition of photographs is on display on the ground floor: a collection of various national scapes.

The MBK Center (sic) is up next, a leviathan of a shopping mall eight stories high, stranger than known, attracting over 100,000 visitors a day, so it’s claimed. MBK was constructed in 1986, and this time it shows. Not as up-market as the previous two plazas, from which it can be accessed via a footbridge traversing the busy junction which all three overlook, you can find both the authentic and ersatz on sale here.

All malled out, it’s time for us to visit Jim Thompson’s House. Jim Thompson was an American silk-merchant who put down roots in Bangkok in the 1950s before making a strange disappearance somewhere in Malaya during 1967. In between he built himself a house wherein he amassed a vast collection of Southeast Asian art. Today it functions as a kind of museum, and you can pay to have a look around the place.

No disrespect to Mr Thompson and his beautiful home, and maybe it’s just because I’m starting to wilt in the heat, but I’m more enthused by the cup of black tea I’m given at the café around the corner. I say ‘given’ because I don’t actually ask for tea; I order coffee but I’m also served a complimentary cuppa as a sort of chaser. The proprietor senses my perplexity and reassures me as to what it is. She misses the point. I am not thrown by the contents of my cup – it’s plain to see that it’s tea – but merely why she felt it necessary to provide me with it at all. Place it in the context of the weather and it begins to make some sense: 'If you must drink hot liquid when it’s touching 35°C – and coffee at that – then at least take a sip of this.' She’s right. It really is quite a revelation, the most refreshing cup of anything hot I’ve had in all my life.

 I am glad when our cab deposits us right at the end of the Khao San Road. I’m not used to this level of activity in this sort of weather and in this kind of metropolis. That said, I’ve enjoyed our trip about town, so we indulge in a shandy to celebrate our modest achievement.

We’re set on having barbecued sea-bass tonight, sitting outside, serviced by the restaurant that trades beneath Dong Dea Moon. The fish is all right, despite the battle with its bones, although I do feel a little exposed eating on the road-come-pavement. But this is a mere introduction to the evening, for we are building towards a night in The Mango (aka, The Hendrix).

Before us, nothing but rubble. At some juncture during the six weeks we had been away, somebody had decided that The Mango wasn’t worth the recovered timber it was built from. This humble bar, where I got stuck into some serious drinking that first, fragile week, covered in sweat and bothered by mosquitoes, to be reduced to this.

So instead we returned to Dong Dea Moon and befriended J (Mk.2), fresh off the aeroplane from England and travelling alone. He took great interest in our story so far, as the Noisy American glanced over occasionally from the opposite side of the bar, and when it came to the subject of the islands and their accompanying Buckets of Joy, Louise saw fit to educate him in the practice. So comprehensive was her teaching that I was forced to bail out of the lesson early.

The walk home was an unsteady one, but I recall it vividly. I remember a desperate need to be back in my room and a fear that I might not make it. It wasn’t that I thought myself incapable of walking the 300-odd metres to the hotel, but more that I might find myself interrupted, be it by the Bangkok Police or a hostile traveller, or even an opportunist citizen. Worse still, I might collapse into a random group of strangers, or some roadside vendor’s stall.

Not surprisingly, the next day was a bit of a write-off for the both of us, although, weirdly, more so for me than Louise, who had shared in a second bucket with J (Mk.2) after my premature exit. I spent much of the day getting stuck into Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas, having read Fear & Loathing on the Campaign Trail many years before but never having gotten around to reading Thompson’s more well known tome. It seemed apposite material, especially given that I was keeping a sort of journal myself, although it did leave me feeling a bit barren in the literary department. Where Hunter Stockton Thompson had a car, a boot full of pharmaceuticals, a typewriter, a few firearms and a contract with Rolling Stone magazine to work with, all I had was a traveller’s itinerary, access to strong lager, and a biro. But I did suffer from a degree of fear, and there was enough about me to inspire a certain amount of loathing, if I could only find a way to convey this in print. In truth, what with my morbid fascination with Apocalypse Now running in parallel, such fantasies were best avoided.

Rather perversely, we met up with J (Mk.2) again that evening, who brought along with him a Canadian he’d befriended somewhere or other. Not even the Hole in Wall could inspire us this time around as my partner and I wearily shuffled through the motions and soon bade farewell to our newfound friends.

On Friday we collected our visas and prepared for our exodus to Laos. This involved the acquisition of anti-malarial tablets, the north of Thailand and beyond delineated as a higher-risk environment. We were probably over the worst of it because the rainy season had finally come to pass, depriving the common vector – the mosquito – of the conditions necessary to reproduce en masse. In any case, malaria isn’t a critical issue in Thailand (although persistent enough not to be discounted completely), but near and across many of its boarders one is advised to take precautions whatever the time of year. This is because the prevalence of jungle wetland enables the vector to proliferate. In built up areas such as Bangkok, on the other hand, the chance of infection is practically nil.

Malarial or otherwise, the mosquito is still an irritant that needs to be confronted. So far we had been relying on N-Diethyl-meta-toluamide – more commonly known as DEET – as a means of self-defence. DEET was developed by the United States Army and it is an aggressive solution. Sold as a roll-on or spray-repellent, I’d knocked out a couple of unwelcome bugs on the islands with this stuff. Directly applied, it can kill a cockroach of substance within a matter of minutes. I’d more commonly spray it onto our mattresses – in anticipation of bedbugs – or beneath doors, or into any ominous looking holes where creatures might feasibly take refuge. The idea really is to apply the liquid directly onto the skin, whereupon one will experience a general tightening of the epidermis, maybe even a slight burning sensation, but should otherwise remain unbitten.

Another weapon in our armoury is the mosquito coil. Made from pyrethrum – a natural insecticide derived from the dried flower-heads of the humble chrysanthemum – the hardened tendril is made to smoulder, mustering a light vapour repellent to most insects. It is as effective as any draught will permit, and therefore best utilised in enclosed spaces. Only the reluctance to let them burn while you're sleeping – especially in wood-based dwellings – prevents their more regular usage (it is claimed they will burn for up to 8 hours).

If the mosquito succeeds in breaching these defences, one can alleviate the discomfort with a camphor or menthol based balm. I use the Monkey Holding Peach brand. It’s a competent application – as good as any balm, I should imagine – but when confronted with the work of the Asian Tiger Mosquito [Aedes albopictus] it can be found wanting. The wounds these insects inflict are quite nasty: bruises as big as your fist, throbbing welts that visibly pulse, blisters prone to infection. Fortunately for me mosquitoes aren’t very interested in my blood. Unfortunately for Louise they're rather keen on hers.

Of course, we should have sorted all this out before we left England. I actually obtained a prescription for a drug called Malarone three weeks before I was due to travel, but it took me another two weeks before I bothered doing anything with it. In Plymouth, a week before my flight, I sauntered on down to Hyde Park Pharmacy, not appreciating that anti-malarials aren’t the sort of thing a chemist stocks as a matter of course. Assuming my departure to be still some way off, the staff seemed quite put out when I told them how quickly I needed these drugs in my possession. And when they offered to rush the order through, only for me to balk at the price (over £120 for a month’s supply) and tell them not to bother, they appeared even more so. But it was the right way to go because I managed to find the same amount of Malarone in the Boots on Khao San Road for less £40, and we embarked on our 37-day course – as prescribed – with immediate effect. [WARNING! This financial disparity no longer applies: on subsequent trips to South Asia I have found that the Malarone on sale there is nowhere near as affordable as it once was. Conversely, charged by the pill, it is cheaper in the UK in 2012 than it was in 2002.]

With greater motivation we could have departed there and then, but for some reason we decided against it – we had the days to spare on our visa so why not use them. It was also determined that we would try the overnight train, offering us the beauty of sleep and saving us a night’s rent, the same trick that we’d pulled off on the journey back to Bangkok.

We agreed that drinking profusely was best avoided and settled for supping a few shandies and watching a couple of films in an institution called Chart. K-19: Widowmaker and Panic Room were the movies in question, and they weren’t bad – the former in particular – although the watching of films plein air, in what amounted to someone’s backyard, felt odd.

We dusted off with a drink in Dong Dea Moon, possibly to keep at bay the inchoate unrest that tomorrow’s activities would assuredly deliver, and certainly because there’s very little else to do at night when you're slumming it in Bangkok.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 2 - STILL IN BANGKOK

18/11/02: Wally’s for breakfast (mediocre). The Royal Palace and the Reclining Buddha for some sight-seeing. Gulliver’s for tea, Dong Dea Moon and The Hendrix for drinks, early night.

Never get in the tuk-tuk. I didn't get in the tuk-tuk, which is just as well. What often happens is that the tuk-tuk driver will insist on taking you on a tour of all the local sights, before subtly dropping in that he needs to pick up his gorilla suit from the dry cleaners on the way (or something like that). What he really wants to do is take you round his mates’ house so he can SELL you a gorilla suit, at a hugely inflated rate. Primate attire don’t come cheap.

I am amused by Buddhas. They’re everywhere. There is even a temple built especially to house a huge reclining one. ‘Golden Gigantic Reclining Buddha’ it reads on the postcards, and they do not lie. The thing is a theistic behemoth, just lying there looking content. Anyhow, there are Buddhas everywhere, in all shapes and sizes, mostly golden and all with the same beatific grin.

19/11/02: Back to Wally’s for breakfast – far better this time. Visit Wat Saket (the Golden Mount) where you can see for miles. Got a bit miffed after being hassled by some local type, and the area was a bit rough all around. Went for food somewhere out of the way – bad move: food passably bland. Return to Hole in the Wall in the evening, get chatting to some Danish chap and bet some more with Pipi.

Bangkok simultaneously evokes pity and envy. Around the Golden Mount are streets filled with the stench of rotting waste and general poverty, yet this is not a third world country by any means. The beggars are benign in manner, as are the dogs. The con-artists play fair and the only reason you ever feel threatened is because sometimes things seem so unassuming it arouses your suspicion.

Everything functional is made of minimally reinforced concrete, and it looks great: so simple it gives the city a wonderful cohesion leaving centre stage to the glorious temples and Buddhas scattered liberally throughout the metropolis. But it must be quite a full-on place to take up residence. There are malnourished, disease-ridden canines everywhere, homeless people not much better off, street urchins with baby bats in hand hawking chewing gum and tissues, and a general air of licentiousness that makes Soho in London feel pedestrian. All this in temperatures that rarely seem to dip below 30 degrees Celsius. When it rains, though, it really rains. The lightning flickers on after the storm has passed and the thunder can no longer be heard, like a lamp with a bad connection.

20/11/02: Wally’s again, then north to see another Buddha at Wat Indrawihan, and dogs fighting. Internet café, bar with spinning orb, Gulliver’s for tea, back to hotel for an early night.

21/11/02: Do mundane things, then pop into The Hendrix for a shandy and bump into J and H. Have another drink, go our separate ways, eat pizza on Khao San Road and then meet up with J and H around the corner from The Hendrix for evening drinks. Rain, then another bar, yet more rain, even harder now, thunder, the works.

After six days spent kicking around Bangkok, we were fast running out of things to see and do; as much as I like Giant Golden Buddhas they do sort of all look the same. Come Wednesday and I had been to Wally’s for breakfast three days on the trot, and every day, expect for the first, for what they discern to be an American Breakfast. It turns out this is a standard interpretation in Thailand, consisting of two slices of toast, two fried eggs, two slices of something masquerading as ham (sometimes you get the option of bacon instead) a conserve of marmalade/jam, margarine, a side order of fruit (usually pineapple, water melon or banana) and either a cup of tea or coffee. For re-hydration purposes, I would back this up with a pineapple shake, given that most mornings I was grappling with a hangover of varying degrees.

We walk north up Samsen Road to investigate Wat Indrawihan and look over yet another Buddha, dodging tuk-tuk drivers along the way, having to contrive a very elaborate excuse at one point. When we get there a man offers to free a predetermined number of caged birds for a not insubstantial amount of money. I decline this sad opportunity for obvious reasons: if I collude, he’ll then have to catch more birds to replace the ones he’s set free, thus perpetuating the cruel cycle.

It is peaceful here, save for a couple of dogs gnarling at each other while laughing children look on, goading them cruelly, like something out of Sam Peckinpah’s The Wild Bunch. Then it’s back towards the Khao San Road to think very hard about our impending movements.

The plan was to hang around in Bangkok until a number (three) of our colleagues caught up with us, and then make a move en masse, but we are yet to receive the relevant emails indicating when this might be. Should we make a move now regardless, as another Southeast Asian veteran, in a recent email, has vehemently recommended I do? Or are we better served holding out for the arrival of our cadres? We decide to give it another couple of days, but on the next our minds our decided for us.

Drinking in The Hendrix late in the afternoon, two of our expected entourage breeze right on past. J and H are well travelled and their sudden presence is reassuring. It materialises that they arrived in Bangkok that very morning. Furthermore, they do not anticipate staying for a day longer. And so it is agreed. Tomorrow we will head southwards, and S, the last member of our party scheduled to arrive, will have to follow on when he finally shows up. (He’d originally been booked to come out on the same flight as me and Louise but had to reschedule, for various reasons.) These arrangements are willingly received, if only in lieu of a will to commit to anything else.

Later, we meet our friends for a drink at their hotel – just around the corner from The Hendrix – a place with the most rudimentary of dormitories – charged appropriately – which from their description makes our humble dwelling seem extravagant. At least their hotel has a bar. We do some drinking. Then we do some walking. Another storm pounces and we dive down an alley for cover. At the end of said alley is the smallest drinking establishment in the world – at least, I’ve not been to one smaller. Slightly more relaxed now,  tomorrow’s jump into the unknown no longer represents the unthinkable. I’d go as far as to say that our impending departure actually excites me.

TRAVEL: SOUTHEAST ASIA 1 - BANGKOK

14/11/02: Arrive and book in at the Asia Hotel. Go to a bar called The Rock across the road where a covers band play quality renditions of other people's hits (for example, My Sharona by The Knack). Local beer appears to be quite potent. Proceed to get thoroughly plastered.

Customs is pleasingly slick and Bangkok’s airport surprisingly modern. There aren’t people clamouring for your attention and there are no beggars. This does not surprise me at the time but retrospectively it will seem odd. I guess such places exist in their own world, exempt from the conditions and the customs of their host country.

Step outside and the predicament really hits home, the heat and the miasma and the noise illustrating the distance travelled. I sit down for a moment while my lady friend asks somebody about buses. It is a straight-forward operation and within 20 minutes we are aboard a moving vehicle. It is approximately 15:00.

The airport – as airports often are – is located a little way out of town, and it takes some while for us to breach a suburbia comprised of parking lots, warehouses selling car-parts, garden centres and green fields dotted with grazing cattle. Quite a sight, then, as we near this city’s hub: all tall buildings, advertisement hoardings and flyovers, a metropolis of intimidating proportions.

So this is Asia, this is inter-continental travel, and nothing has prepared me for it. The conductor lets us know when our bus reaches the intended point of disembarkation. I’m desperate to escape the stultifying humidity, to change clothes and discard any traces of airborne travel. Mercifully, the Asia Hotel is not hard to find and we book in without too much trouble (although a little more than you’d think: they give our paperwork a thorough going over). Ours will be a basic room with air conditioning, a television, mini-bar, and not much else. The décor within will be rather drab in hue and the bathroom will have seen better days. The view from our window has something dystopian about it: a yellow haze with geometric shapes fading into the distance. It doesn’t correspond with any vista I’d preconceived of. It’s not like Tokyo, Shanghai, Hong Kong or Mumbai – cities I’ve not been to but which have been impressed upon me vicariously by the likes of Michael Palin and Alan Whicker.

It is nice to be able to stretch your legs and have a shower after such an arduous journey. I am not as hungry as I should be but do have a terrible urge to drink. After venturing no further than 50 metres in either direction of our hotel, we settle for a bar across the street called The Rock. It is pretty empty inside, save for a group of Thai musicians executing competent renditions of other people’s hits. It’s actually Karaoke night, although every night could be Karaoke night for all I know. Nobody seems willing to take part, and you can count me out – I’m just here to familiarise myself with the local beer. Despite my fatigue, I opt to get really rather drunk in an attempt to ameliorate the strange, otherworldliness of the situation.

15/11/02: Have buffet breakfast at hotel. Leave to seek suggested accommodation on the Khao San Road – they call it a palace! Gulliver’s for food – pork chops have never tasted so good. Weather very hot but a thunderstorm alleviates the humidity. Find Hole in the Wall, play pool, get drunk and talk to English couple. Three ‘Beer Changs’ for the price of two.

Bangkok is a beast of a city. It reminds me of the sprawling metropolis from the computer game Grand Theft Auto, only if Hounslow Borough Council had been given the job of maintaining it for the previous 30 years. This is to say that a lot of the low rise buildings have been poorly maintained, giving rise to dirty, concrete fascias, although litter is conspicuous by its absence. Among the rudimentary construction, the city is regularly punctuated with pristine monuments and temples.

The next day, after a disappointingly insubstantial buffet breakfast, we check out and get a bus to the Khao San Road. If I thought it was hot when I arrived then have I got a surprise coming to me. Our bus stop offers shade but is ineffectual. The bus itself is even worse. There is no air-conditioning, just wooden framed windows that push outwards at the top, and the traffic is heavy, emitting fumes that prohibit the influx of any draft that might ordinarily be generated by the speed of such a vehicle. We then miss our stop and have to walk back over an imposing bridge that crosses the Chao Phraya River, fully laden, under the midday sun.

By the time we reach the Khao San Palace – a guesthouse recommended to us by friends, because it’s cheap and conveniently located – I am drenched with sweat. Thankfully, booking in is a pleasingly straight-forward process. We are given a key with a plank of wood attached, presumably to prevent us from losing it, and shown to our room, which is basic and small with no air-conditioning to speak of, just a Bakelite fan spinning precariously from the middle of the ceiling. But the room is very cheap (about 350 baht, which works out at about £5) and I suppose we should be grateful for the two scrawny, orange hand towels that come with it.

After a shower and a change of clothes, I visit the internet café at the end of the road to check in with anybody who cares; only the Khao San Road stands in my way. I have established that I will be confronted by taxi drivers the moment I reach the end of the tiled floor that acts as some sort of outdoor atrium, with a pharmacy just on the right. Anticipating this, I keep my head down, mumble something in English and break on through this commercial picket line with relative ease. I then feel an invisible force guiding me down the centre of this semi-pedestrianised zone, protecting me from the unwanted attention of the hawkers, eager restaurant staff and crippled beggars intermittently lining the street. For a short while, I am completely oblivious to the unremitting heat and humidity, until some vehicle starts snaking its way through the throng and I catch the smell of hot diesel mixed in with the aroma of unknown food-stuffs and stagnant drains. If this wasn’t enough, my fellow travellers are already annoying me. What’s with the cornrows, tattoos, beads, baggy clothes and the lax attitude? I’m not sure what I was expecting – more deference perhaps.

The internet café exudes a mellower timbre, and I can relax a little. Working the computer is a laboured affair, but at least it's cool here. I have no idea what I want to do or where I want to specifically be, but the idea of being out of doors seems particularly unappealing.

My appetite is starting to show signs of recovery from the disorientating effects of long-haul travel. We look for somewhere to eat and opt for Gulliver’s at the end of the road, by virtue of its air conditioning. The place is done out like a bar back home: dark stained wood, sport related paraphernalia, spirits piled high behind the counter. We are served from our table, which brings with it a welcome sense of formality. I order the pork chops in pepper sauce with fries, which has a positive effect. As does the darkening sky, painting everything in a more colourful and exciting light. We find a bar called The Hole in the Wall, play some pool and get drunk.

16/11/02: Wally’s for brunch; walk to a gallery and then down to the river; back to our hotel and then to Gulliver’s again, this time for egg fried rice; then to Dong Dea Moon; back to Hole in the Wall where ‘Pipi’ scams me for 40 baht via the medium of pool.

17/11/02: Breakfast followed by a spot of mild depression and a certain anxiety. Take a nap, followed by a shower, buy fresh pineapple from a street trader and feel all the better for it. Come the evening we’re out drinking again and discover two new bars: Dong Dea Moon and what we decide to call ‘The Hendrix’.

That first week took some getting used to, not least because of the fervid heat and humidity. Lying spreadeagled on our bead, with the fan rotating as fast as its modest motor would allow, I just couldn’t get comfortable. The sound of the neighbouring 7-Eleven’s door relentlessly bleeping open and closed, no less incessant by night than it was by day – perhaps even more so – exacerbated my restlessness. Consequently I spent a not insignificant amount of my time boozing. This was not so surprising, given that I was on a kind of protracted holiday, but I had five months of this to get through. If I couldn’t get a hold of myself soon then I might end up developing some sort of drinking problem.

The Hole in the Wall on Khao San Road: a local lad by the name of ‘Pipi’ – a rangy, wide-eyed guy wearing old clothes – insisted I play him at pool. He was a hustler, but charming with it. The bar offered a three-for-the-price-of-two deal on bottles of Chang and Singha. This worked out at no more than 60p for a bottle of premium strength lager (6.4% and 5% respectively), and they’d keep your second and third bottle on ice until you needed it.

On my first visit to the Hole in the Wall I recall being aware of an earthy odour to the water in the washroom. Standing there, sweating buckets – for most of the bars were devoid of air-conditioning – it struck me how completely trapped by my predicament I was, this not un-redolent smell a sort of metaphor for the unfamiliarity that had me in its thrall. I’d committed to five months abroad, and almost four of them in a climate as relentless as this. Counting down the days as a mechanism by which to cope seemed hopelessly futile. How to go about it? I could drink some of the time, but not all the time. Rather than spend the majority of my time in bars, I would need to move around and occupy myself somehow. And what impact would this have on my relationship? I didn’t know. I felt that an extended company of sorts would be hugely beneficial, and meeting up with other people was certainly part of the loose plan. In the meantime I would need to get a grip of myself, maybe think about what I wanted out of all this.

Come Sunday, I had reached something of a watershed. I felt emotionally desolate during the morning, and then, after taking a short nap, I began to feel physically unwell. I tried sleeping some more, with some degree of success, until a fan induced chill had me scrambling for one of the orange hand-towels for protection. Relief was only momentary as I suddenly became aware of an all-encompassing itching about my form. The mild dampness of the towel had attracted many small red ants, creatures that I was now transferring onto my body, encouraging them to bite. They were everywhere, yet I could not identify an obvious point of origin prior to them descending on my miserable rag. There were no holes, no nooks, no nests. The room was clean, I could give it that.

Insects eliminated, and starting to lose my mind, I decided to leave my room and buy pineapple from one of the many street vendors that work the Khao San Road. This proved to be of great benefit and I soon witnessed a significant improvement to my constitution. By the early evening we were out drinking again. What this lugubrious episode represented, I do not  know. Maybe I was suffering from mild heatstroke, or perhaps I was just homesick. Either way, for a while it had me staring into the abyss.

The Mango

There is a road around the corner from the Khao San Road – do a right at Gulliver’s and then first left – where everything feels a bit more laid back (emphasis on ‘a bit’). You can eat out on the street without too much interference, or take a drink in one of the many bars there with travellers who don’t seem so intent on drinking themselves into a stupor. Dong Dea Moon (now deceased) was particularly pleasing, run by a Korean guy who could flick the tops off bottles with the end of a lighter at a high velocity, for entertainment purposes only.

Further on down there used to be The Mango. It amounted to little more than a sort of garden with wooden tables, a wooden bar, a few small trees and a pond, which attracted mosquitoes. But they would often play an old BBC Jimi Hendrix session on rotation, the tunes inter-cut with broadcaster Brian Matthew providing a bit of background on the recording. They didn’t make a big show about calling themselves Mango and so neither did we, referring to it  as ‘The Hendrix’ instead.