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 18 - KOH CHANG

03/02/03: Minibus to Koh Chang, stopping off at motorway services along the way, with L, ‘A’ and F – Welsh L & K to follow. Book into the last bungalows in town, eat at Thor’s, and drink on the beach with F.

Koh Chang feels a bit like Au Nang but with less traffic. They are building actual hotels. The intended prey is the 30-something holiday maker away for a few weeks’ peace and quiet. There are ‘travellers’ but not the sort you generally find in Koh Samui or Koh Phangan. They could be taking time out in-between a stint on the nearby islands of Koh Kut and Koh Samet, perhaps after returning from a tour of Vietnam and Cambodia, or maybe fleeing the licentiousness of Pattaya, which is not far away. Or, like us, they’ve pretty much finished with Thailand and fancy a week or so relaxing before exploring Cambodia’s hinterland.

The beach at White Sands is shallow but just large enough for games. An emaciated man practises yoga in a modest hut overlooking the beach. His extensive collection of new-age paraphernalia suggests that he’s put up home here.

L is coming to Koh Chang with us, and ‘A’ and F are coming too. It is said that Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, plan on doing the same, although nobody has seen them since we arrived in Bangkok more than two days ago. Apparently O might join us but we can't be sure. Koh Chang isn’t far and L has booked us on a minibus to take us there. It’s an early start, but not too early: favourable terms.

Minibuses haven’t featured very heavily on my travels up until now; we’ve used just the one, on our journey from Chumphon to Surat Thani. This is also a good opportunity to bask in the magnitude of Bangkok’s sheer scale. As with any megacity, it takes some time to exit its inner circle, the first hour or so spent negotiating gridlocked traffic under and over the many flyovers that weave in and out of each other. Bangkok’s suburbs give an indication as to the impact of the 1997/98 Asian Currency Crisis. In the run up to this financial calamity, Thailand had been regarded as a Tiger Economy and did much to open itself up to foreign trade. And then things went all wrong and financial institutions crumbled, businesses went bankrupt and people became unemployed. As a testament to this, redundant concrete brackets strike out into the countryside, like giant H’s, intended to support flyovers that will never be built. (Probably irreparable but too expensive to pull down, many of these stanchions remain in place to this day.)

The journey to Koh Chang is long enough to justify a pause at a roadside service station. I like service stations immensely, although it would be mistake to assume that they’re the same the world over. Here they comprise of little more than a petrol garage, a 7-Eleven type establishment and a forecourt with a few stone benches. But it is a service station none the less, and I am glad we stop there.

Our transport bypasses the town of Trat and takes us directly to the ferry terminal. We’ve just missed one, so we’ll have to wait a while; more coffee. As it was when we sailed to Thailand’s southern islands, there appears to be a variety of boats servicing a number of destinations, but we need one to take us to Hat Sai Khao (White Sands Beach) on the island’s west coast. There is no pier there, so the quickest route is by way of a weathered fishing vessel, taking about an hour, capable of anchoring within wading distance of the shore. Fish are caught along the way – big fish – and many of the travellers on board wince at the sight of them being clubbed to death. I wonder to myself whether these same travellers intend on eating any during their stay on Koh Chang.

White Sands Beach is deceptively calm. The beach huts are all booked up, there are hotels shooting up along the main drag, and swanky villas beyond. Struggling to find accommodation, we split up and broaden our search, until L reports back that she’s found somewhere with room to spare. We had it pretty good in Laos, renting reasonable rooms in solidly built hotels, but it looks like we’ll have to slum it again. The hut on offer is not small but the bed looks like it’s about ready for retirement, and I reckon I could punch my fist through the dividing wall without too much bother. We have a front porch but that’s on the verge of collapse, and in front of that there’s a rockery of rubble. It occurs to me, what with the construction going on up the road, that White Sands is probably in the process of gentrifying itself and these dilapidated bungalows have probably been slated for redevelopment in the not too distant future, so why invest in maintaining them?

No matter: L knows a lovely place to eat called Thor’s, which serves the best red curry I’ve had thus far. Thor’s establishment is located at the end of the beach, where the sand segues into rocks, with an unobstructed view west over the Gulf of Thailand. It’s nice to be on the coast again.

04/02/03: Cookies for breakfast with L, F and ‘A’. Hang out on beach. Welsh L & K, G and O arrive. Thor’s again with all; get drunk on buckets.

05/02/03: Very hungover. Cookies with partner, random bar, plus L and ‘A’, to play cards, Thor’s and 15 Palms with all except O and F. Drinks at guesthouse with L and G.

Koh Chang was just what I needed without having realised it. Beaches aren’t my thing generally – I’m too easily bored – but I do like being beside the sea, listening to the water and studying the horizon. And I could put up with our ramshackle hut, to whose inventory I could now add bedbugs, rats, seawater and a large lizard. It took a while to be sure about the bedbugs, but then little red dots started appearing about my person, and on my partner’s too. I dealt with this by covering my bed with a dramatic flourish of DEET, which seemed to put a stop to the little red dots appearing about my person.

The scurrying about in the loft I assumed to be nesting birds, but what birds? Other than the gallinaceous kind, I’d not noticed much in the way of wild fowl anywhere in Thailand, and the birds I had observed were too spindly in leg to produce this racket. Must be rats, so I sprayed more DEET into every point of access anywhere in the room that I could find.

It took a while to discern that what I was washing in was not fresh water but something more brackish. Whether it came directly from the sea or the tide backed up into the water supply I could not tell, but I didn’t at any point taste the salt. What alerted me to its presence was the absence of soapsuds, although it took two showers for me to notice.

And on top of all that was a large lizard, although not as large as the one that S suffered in Haad Rin. It was a welcome addition anyway: a sort of sentry to guard against the insects and rats.

Our first full day on Koh Chang sees the arrival of Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G. I like the way these people are so spontaneous in their travels. It always takes me at least a day to update my itinerary, and when I do get around to it I’ll then normally book something for the day after that. This held true even when we were using public transport, where booking in advance is not normally required.

Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, have arrived and they are in good spirits. They apologise for not meeting up with us in Bangkok but they’d high-end accommodation to enjoy. They’d also wanted to show G some of the sights, and the Khao San Road wasn’t among them. I could have done with them around in Bangkok, if I’m honest. Or failing that, I could have done without L and her Welsh friend B being around.

So Welsh L & K and K’s brother, G, have arrived, and O’s on his way too. L’s looks a little put out by that last snatch of information. Turns out that she’s not so keen on O. You would have thought that she’d like another American among the rank and file, but no, she thinks that O’s a ‘bit weird’. She’s not ingratiating herself towards me with statements like that, as she didn’t when she turned on M (Mk.2) in Luang Prabang.

Welsh L, K and K’s brother, G, are up for a few drinks tonight, and so is O now that he’s arrived. It’s great to hear L advocating a return to Thor’s because it really is the perfect place to make merry. There are global flags hanging from the rafters, wooden picnic-bench style seating, reasonably priced drinks, a toilet embellished with (gay) porn, and Thor plays good music. [Saint Etienne’s Heart Failed (in the Back of a Taxi) is a highlight, featuring on some ambient compilation that plays on rotation.]

After dinner, we work our way along the beach in search of watering holes. The thing with Koh Chang is that the entertainment isn’t as concentrated as it is on other beaches – it’s not that sort of place. None of the bars are particularly busy, but there are people drinking and there are plenty of bars to choose from. And to hit the point home, some bright spark goes and buys a Bucket of Joy, and then somebody else buys another after that – maybe even me.

Thor's

It’s not surprising that I’m hungover the next day and nor is it surprising that I’m not the only one. What’s slightly more confounding – only slightly – is that the following evening offers up a repeat performance of the one before. O and F aren’t involved this time around, the latter on account of the nasty headaches he’s been experiencing from the anti-malarial drugs he’s been taking [Larium]. I’m not sure what O’s excuse is.

Come the end of the night, it’s me, Welsh L and G battling it out for supremacy back at The Meeting Place – our guesthouse’s sorry excuse for a bar. We’re joined by two English lads who have just completed a two week tour of Cambodia, where they paid money to liberate ammunition from an AK-47 selective-fire assault rifle. Good fun, you would think, and if/when we end up in Cambodia then I might have a go myself, but one of the guys is traumatised by the experience. Sounding genuinely disturbed, he tells how delicate he now realises life really is, an epiphany that dawned on him the moment he squeezed the trigger and fired the rifle. The rest of us find this hilarious, but he stands firm and assures us that his life has been irrevocably changed.

06/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast. Stroll about town, back to 15 Palms for coffee with L and ‘A’, dinner at Cookies – barbequed fish on the beach. Drink and a game of cards at Pens with all – a rather subdued evening.

07/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast, beach, Pens for a small drink with F, G, Welsh L & K, dinner at Tonsai with L and ‘A’. Oodies to see a band with L, ‘A’, F and O, and drinks on the beach.

08/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast; post postcards – getting very hot now. Thor’s for tea with L and O. Oodies plus Welsh L, K and G, drink on beach with Welsh and G, and make man-trap.

09/02/03: 15 Palms for breakfast. L departs. Tonsai for tea with partner, play cards back at Welsh L & K’s bungalow, with F too.

I have found an establishment that can cater for my hangovers. Up until now I have been ignoring L when she knocks on our door at 10:00, pausing for 10 minutes or so and then moping off to the local store and for crisps and Gatorade (or my partner has – we’ve been taking it in turns). Then I’ve been taking a cold shower, and, finally, I’ve been going to Cookies and battling with an American Breakfast. But even the mighty American Breakfast has been coming up short of late. I must have seen something at 15 Palms last night I liked, or maybe I just can’t be bothered to walk any further, but that’s where I find myself seeking succour today.

My new breakfast is this: 1 bacon and egg roll, 1 serving of fries (with chilli sauce to taste), 1 lime and mint shake, 1 cup of coffee. If I can get the egg and bacon roll down my throat before my gag reflex kicks in then I’m home and dry (fries are never a problem, and the chilli sauce merely adds flavour). Solids ingested, I get to work on the lime and mint shake. I’ve been drinking these shakes regularly since I chanced upon them in Bangkok. Made from crushed ice and real fruit juice, they’re a great form of rehydration and hugely refreshing. Some folk prefer a Lassi, which adds yoghurt to the mix, but I don't them them to be as rejuvenating. Then I finish off with the coffee at my leisure.

Like some sort of bonus feature, 15 Palms also plays Mezzanine by Massive Attack and Once in a Lifetime – The Best of Talking Heads without fail, and sometimes on the bounce. This will ensure that from now on I will take breakfast here every day regardless of my physical state of being. [Incidentally, O’s parents were/are friends of Tina Weymouth and Chris Frantz – the bass player and drummer from Talking Heads respectively – and O has met them. The music in 15 Palms, and my fondness for it, enables him to reveal this fact to me with a gratifyingly insouciant air.]

After those first two nights of intense revelry things began to settle down a bit. As a group we’d be pretty fragmented by day. Welsh L, K and her brother, G, hired a motorbike at one point and ventured off to explore the island’s interior. My partner and I attempted a long walk but found nothing of particular note, so spent most of the time reading or playing cards with whoever was about. I recall that I struggled with dinner at a place called Tonsai but quite enjoyed the barbequed fish at one of the pop-up restaurants on the beach, and was very glad when we made one last trip back to Thor’s place – especially so when it prompted a final night of heavy drinking and the construction of man-traps with an inebriated Welsh L and G.

And then, on our sixth full day on the island, L parted company having finally realised than the rest of us had our hearts set on travelling to Cambodia. The skirmishes on the border had abated, but there was no time now to launch an offensive into Vietnam. I was relieved that she was gone if only because her presence seemed to scare off Welsh L & K, and I very much wanted for them to accompany us to Cambodia – at least until I got a handle on the place.

But was it as simple as that, now that L was out of the way, so to speak? We made it clear to our friends that we were ready to leave and that it was to Cambodia that we would be travelling, and we’d probably be catching the earliest ferry back to the mainland the next day. Yet no invitations were extended and no plans were shared. Maybe it wasn’t L who was the problem after all?

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 16 - NONG KHAI

29/01/03: Catch bus to Vientiane and pick up passports. Cross the border into Nong Khai and book into Mut Mee Guesthouse; to a bar with L and meet O.

30/01/03: Breakfast and then explore town with L. Buy T-shirt from market for 40 Baht. Drink at Mut Mee with usual crowd, plus ‘Poppy’ and some Dutch girl; on to a bar.

31/01/03: Ride bikes to Sala Kaew Ku with Welsh L & K and marvel at the genius of Luang Pu Bunleva Suirat. Tea at Mut Mee, and then catch the overnight train back to Bangkok.

Nong Khai: town of the wild frontier. Actually it’s rather quiet, but compared to Vientiane, staring back at us from the opposing banks of the Mekong, it’s a riot. Maybe it’s just the stories I've heard, but there’s a sense of violence about the place, a feeling that the simplest faux pas will not be forgiven easily. Or maybe it’s just the cold showers, or the belligerent mosquitoes. Even the Beer Chang seems uptight compared to the Beer Lao I’ve been drinking of late.

But do not despair, for Nong Khai possesses a strange jewel that I’ll struggle to find the likes of ever again. Sala Kaew Ku is a bizarre collection of concrete follies on a massive scale. Hindu deities collude with every different form of Buddha you can think of. There are serpents, giant frogs, skeletons and strange symbols. In the centre, a mausoleum with graphic depictions of the demise of Luang Pu Bunleua Surirat, the late, crazed genius responsible for this place. You can make out his body beneath a glass dome; it’s been there since he died in 1996.

Despite my hangover, part of me thought we should have caught an earlier bus. The journey to Vientiane itself was not a problem – the local transport had already proved itself to be fairly reliable – but we had to collect our passports and then make a dash for the last permitted border crossing of the day. It wouldn’t be a complete disaster if we missed this because we knew our way around Vientiane and where to find accommodation, but we’d made arrangements to stay at the same place as L, Welsh L & K, a guesthouse they rated very highly, which puts on yoga classes. On top of all that, I hoped we might be able to make a final visit to the Scandinavian Bakery.

But time was not my primary concern. I had never felt entirely comfortable about surrendering our passports for transportation back to Vientiane. It wasn’t so much foul play that concerned me, so much the possibility of human or administrative error. When we turned up at what appeared to be a derelict passport office it looked as if my worst fears might be realised. The doors were open but there was nobody home and little sign of activity. Perhaps we had the wrong building? We double checked the address and the surrounding street signage. No, this was definitely the right building. 20 minutes’ worth of panic later, a member of staff walked in off the street to inform us that the passport office had been closed for lunch – no matter about the doors being left unlocked. Our passports secured, we met up with L, had lunch at the Scandinavian Bakery and then hailed a taxi to take us to the border, which seemed a lot farther outside of town than I remembered.

First impressions of Mut Mee Guesthouse are good. It overlooks the Mekong, faces Vientiane, the rooms have a certain charm, and the riverside garden is a delight. And yet I can let go of the feeling that I’d rather be back in Laos.

Before we parted company in Luang Prabang, the congenial M (Mk.2) had said something that struck a chord: that on any given travel it took him at least a month to get into his groove. Until such time had passed he’d find the whole thing quite stressful, but something he had to put up with as a matter of course. It had taken at least that long for me, and, without even realising it, I’d finally found my groove in Laos. But I wasn’t in Laos anymore (which I didn’t feel was haunted, despite the many bombs the USA dumped there during the course of the Vietnam War) and I could feel the attendant stress I by now associated with Thailand slowly edging its way in.

When L asks anyone if they would like to accompany her to meet some friends for a drink in town I jump at the chance. I am the only person that does: my partner is tired, and Welsh L & K fancy a break too. The bar in question overlooks the river, so the quickest way there is to follow the waterfront; only a gloomy, empty market stands in our way. A maze of corrugated iron, it isn’t the route I would have taken, but I assume L knows what she’s doing. All is well until we come across a dog guarding its territory. Formed like a ripped Doberman Pincher, it just sits there waiting for us to make our move. L reckons the best approach is to simply walk straight passed it. I feebly suggest that we retrace our steps and go back around the houses, but L assures me that this would add an extra 15 minutes to our journey. My pride ensures I acquiesce.

To my relief the dog allows us to pass. I cannot say whether or not it does so with much grace, because I avoid eye contact in an effort to appear as nonchalant and unthreatening as possible. The bar, when we arrive there, isn’t anything special but is pleasant enough. We are there to meet an English girl and a Dutch girl who L met while teaching in Nong Khai, some of her former Thai students, and O, and American chap who somehow knows this lot. I feel like I’m intruding on a reunion, but I like the students and I like O, who seems keen on having a bit of a drink. I don’t get particularly drunk but the walk home back through the empty market is a breeze.

We decide to spend a day in Nong Khai before catching a night train the following evening, effectively allowing us two days to explore the place. On the Thursday my partner and I amble into town. I’m after a pair of shades to replace the ones I damaged at that bus station in Prachuap Khiri Khan, which have since completely fallen apart. I don’t find any to suit, but I do find a nice T-shirt at the local outdoor market – adorned with an image from the Ramayana – for the bargain price of 40 baht.

           I'm a starting to like Nong Khai. Mut Mee’s grounds in particular are proving the perfect environment in which to relax. Come the evening and everybody seems to be hanging out: there’s myself, my partner, Welsh L & K, L, O, and those girls we met last night in that average bar. On top of all that, people seem to be in the mood for drinking. I still feel like I’m intruding on this group a little, but some of the anecdotes we’re treated to are quite startling.

It turns out that one of their number is presently recuperating in a nearby hospital after receiving a severe beating from the local 'mafia'. She (she!) became involved with a local lad, but that wasn’t the issue. In a bar where the foreign teachers from the nearby English school readily mix with the locals, this English girl intervened when some Thai guy got a bit rough with his girlfriend, who may or may not have been one of the English girl’s students. In Thai society you're expected to mind your own business, but some of the foreign teachers couldn’t help but get involved. This caused a a bit of a scene and forced the local lad who’d been seeing the English girl to step in, which in turn caused a bigger scene. Ostensibly the matter was resolved, but hell hath no fury like a Thai humiliated. Some days later, the English girl and her local boyfriend were intercepted while out driving their scooter. She was beaten up. So was the young lad, and he also had an eye gouged out for good measure. This was all second-hand news, and I can’t verify any of it, but apparently there is some sort of local Lao/Thai organised crime thing going on, and these people don't mess about.

L also has an anecdote concerning the in-house masseur (who, incidentally, bears an uncanny resemblance to a young John Malkovich). Using the pretence of massage, she asserts he persuaded her to take off all her clothes before proceeding to manipulate her in a weird way. She’s at pains to point out that this wasn’t as blatantly indecent as it sounds, but she felt violated nonetheless. Again, I cannot verify any of this. Indeed, if it wasn’t for the spectre of John Malkovich’s face hanging about the scene, I’d have filed this tale alongside the one about M (Mk.2) being a bit 'creepy'.

Welsh L & K are taking me and my partner to the local Buddha Park. The Buddha Park, or Sala Kaew Ku as it is known locally, was the brainchild of an eccentric cove named Luang Pu Bunleua Surirat. The story goes that sometime during the 1970s Luang Pu was wandering the countryside when he suddenly stumbled into a ditch, only to find a preying monk at the bottom of it. This monk persuaded Laung Pu that it was his destiny to create statues of Hindu and Buddhist deities. Completely untrained in the mixing of concrete, let alone the infra-structuring of these giant sentinels, Luang Pu proved himself to be very adept at this (I do not know whether or not the monk had been material specific) and built a whole park of these things, first in Laos and then, to escape the communist regime, in Nong Khai across the border.

And they really are a joy, if a little bit bonkers. The craftsmanship is quite astonishing considering the self-taught circumstances. Although Luang Pu died in 1996, his minions continue building to this day, which allows a glimpse into the process involved. They start off with a crude construction of bricks built up into the rough size and shape of whatever form they’re assembling – it might be a 40ft seven-headed serpent, a Buddha the size of a two storey house, a squat toad. Then twisted metal is used to form the more intricate parts, and on top of this framework the concrete is sculpted.

There’s an exodus headed for the capital. As well as Welsh L & K and our American friend, L, we also have O and one of the faceless extras from Mut Mee. This turns out to be of real benefit because there’s been a mix-up with the train tickets and we don’t have the beds we thought we’d booked; instead we’ve reclining leather chairs. There are far more rudimentary versions somewhere on this train, so it could be worse. Only L seems particularly bothered, citing a hitherto unspoken about back condition as the cause of her consternation. She hobbles off in search of an empty bed while the rest of us play cards and drink beer well into the night, O now proving a most welcome addition to the team. I think I’m probably the last to fall asleep, the soporific nature of booze finally getting the better of me just around midnight.

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.