Asian Journal - Chapter 2 - Hangin' with Uncle Ho (Feb-Mar 2000)
Nothing had prepared me for the weather! Good old Lonely Planet said 15-20c and dry in the North so it was a bit of a shock stepping from Bangkok’s humidity to an icy February in Hanoi. The cold somehow became insignificant as Communist culture shock took. What I saw before me seemed to play out like a film. A street scene, showing Russia in the 40’s, grey crowds seething as they bustle through markets,desperate to bring food to the table. I could smell these people, hear them, touch them as they shoved past my body but it was as if a screen separated us. I had no idea how, or about what, I would communicate with these people.I was rescued when I made some Western friends and together with the help of waterproofs and brandy we explored the sights and streets of stuffed Ho Chi Minh and old Hanoi.Slowly I adjusted to the pace of life, the driving style and was warmed by the friendliness of these curious people. Sure, they tried to fleece me for dollars, trick me for tips and sell me the shirt off their back but I couldn’t blame them. They knew the importance our tourism and dollars to their economy in the long-term, but short-term they needed better medical facilities, an improved transport network and each of then wanted a new widescreen TV.
2 hours from Hanoi by bumpy minibus, an hour by boat then 3 hours uphill climbing, all in the pouring rain, knee deep mud and surrounded by 10,000 Buddhists on a pilgrimage sat the Perfume Pagoda! Heralded by the Lonely Planet as a cultural highlight of the Hanoi area this was the closest thing to Glastonbury I’d experienced outside the UK. OK, so it was lacking in music but the vibe remained, as did the cold, the damp and the hideously overpriced sparse foodstalls. I guess on a quiet day (ie. When there is not a pilgrimage going on) the voyage up the river and trail up the mountain makes for stunning scenery and a chance to take in the diversity of Vietnam’s landscapes, but on my visit I was treated to a different sight. In front of me, behind me and all around me where everyday Vietnamese who had travelled far and made huge sacrifices to be here at this time. Some had dressed especially for the occasion, wearing suits, high heels and Sunday bests for the climb. Others arrived in probably the only set of clothes they owned, and sandals borrowed from a neighbour. Here I saw for the first time a national of strong, determined people who hold dear their values and morals and continue to embrace their faith and beliefs. Young and old, rich and poor, never had I seen such a huge show of dedication to a religion.
Back in Hanoi and the rain continued to pour. Unable to get warm or dry I realised I was in danger of ruining my time in Vietnam if I did lose the cold i'd caught so buttoned my waterproof and booked a flight to Hué, approximately 700 Kms South. I was disappointed to be leaving the North before I'd explored properly, but knew i'd be back at sometime in the future.Being Vietnam’s main cultural, religious and educational centre there is plenty for the discerning tourist to do in Hué, but my primary priority was to get myself well.After 24hrs R&R and a couple of pints of noodle soup I was feeling healthier, and set off to explore Hué’s chequered past.Lying on the Perfume River Hué is the site of the splendid tombs of the Nguyen Dynasty, dating from the early 1800’s to the mid 1940’s. Scattered along the banks of the river the tombs feel somewhat older with their ornate Chinese-influenced architecture, armies of stone soldiers and gracefully carved elephants. Perhaps it’s the isolation and almost dereliction of these sites that also ages them. Between 1975 and the 1990’s the sites were considered politically incorrect and left to decay but since being made a UNESCO World Heritage site in 1993 the restoration and preservation work has slowly reclaimed them.Hué was also the site of bloody battles in the late 1880’s when the French surrounded the city following the 13-year-old Emperor Ham Nhgi objections to French activities in Tonkin. The Vietnamese launched a counter attack but were outnumbered and crushed when the French respond.In a small museum on the North bank of the town I found the Imperial museum holding the few remaining artefacts from the tombs and palaces. What furniture, clothing and ceramics remain give a glimpse of what life was like in this once regal area, but more fascinating for me was the Military museum, just across the path. With the De-Militarized Zone (DMZ) just a stones throw from the city, Hué also suffered a concentration of violence in the American War, what we in the West know as the Vietnam War. Inside this small building I was introduced to a different side of the story, and I had my first taste of true Communist propaganda. The South Vietnamese soldiers that fought alongside the American’s were named ‘The Puppet Army’, the young North Vietnamese girls who shot jets from the skies and stabbed soldiers in the streets were the nations heros, proudly uniformed and smiling in the photo exhibit. When you’re sold a story with such powerful media images as the West was with Vietnam its easy to forget theres another side, another history and another tale to tell, but here was this other story. OK, so it had been manipulated, edited, spliced and spiced into its present form but it helped explain to me the attitude I’d encountered with the Vietnamese to date. The images told of a nation that refused to lie down, that went underground to avoid its enemy and make daily sacrifices defend itself. It showed the same determination and commitment I saw at the Perfume Pagoda and on every street and in every shop. A desire to succeed, to proceed and generally make the best of every opportunity open to them. A national shaped and structured by Communism but driven by pride and passion for life.
I was beginning to adjust to the daily routine of Vietnam and along with the rest of Hué I crawled under my mosquito net at 10pm, ready for the 5am rise next morning.Headed North on Highway 1 the two hour drive sliced through paddy fields, worked by hand and ploughed by water-buffalo creating the picture postcard images I’d seen in Sydney that drew me to this place, but as we branched off onto highway 9 the landscape changed. We climbed high into the mountains on appauling roads to the heart of the DMZ and what was once the heart of the Vietnamese jungle. During the war the Americans dropped thousands of tonnes of napalm, Agent Orange and explosives in this area, clearing the jungle the Vietcong were so adept at fighting in, and with it clearing the monkeys, tigers and elephants that once inhabited the area. 30 years on from the war and the local communities are still feeling the effects. The chemicals have raped the earth so crops fail and the lack of vegetation has changed the climate, bringing more rain which in turn washes away the bare soil. Since 1975, 5,000 people have been killed by unexplored ordinance and thousands more injured. Landmines, bombs and grenades litter the ground and although teams from the UK, Denmark, Germany and the US working to clear the area current estimates say it'll take US$17Million and another 20yrs before the jobs done. When the locals say “don’t stray from the path” they really mean it. Society may have moved on but the environment has been destroyed. Indeed looking at many towns and villages in the area today its not overly obvious there was ever a war in this area, such is the Vietnamese drive to embrace the future. Closer inspection reveals the truth. The women dream of healthy babies and husbands with 2 arms and 2 legs. The unexploded bombs and landmines cause physical damage to the survivors but unborn children are feeling the effects of the huge levels of chemical contamination from the war. Birth defects are high, stillbirths commonplace and infant mortality is part of everyday life. But being Vietnamese they are making the best of their situation. Daily the ground is combed for pieces of damaged tanks, trucks and helicopters that can be sold for scrap, and every so often a piece will appear that will make rich pickings if offered to the right Western tourist, at the right price.Although I’d flown from Hanoi to Hué I was now behind schedule and needed to move on if I wanted time to explore the Mekong Delta. Leaving town by train I headed South to Da Nang, the war time Vietnam equivalent of Hawaii, where I was hoping the weather would be warmer still.
Da Nang disappointed me. I’d suddenly moved from wide open agricultural spaces to dusty dirty industrial landscape an in no way resembled the Hawaii I’d seen and heard of. Its one saving grace was an all night Internet access, and having dropped my kit in a hostel I popped down to the café to catch up on the only decent surfing in town. Good news was waiting. Baruch, an American I’d met in Hanoi was just 15 miles South in a small coastal town he described as ‘heaven on earth’. I had directions to his hotel a rough verbal map of the town and promise of fantastic seafood. I wasn’t going to hang in Da Nang for long!Half an hour on a local bus next morning and I arrived in 'tailor town', otherwise known as Hoi-An. Baruch was, as promised, having breakfast in his favourite café and almost as soon as I met him he was introducing me to his tailor, and I was being measured for countless suits. One minute I was a traveller, the next I was in a stunning silk evening dress. I was backpacking Barbie! The next week was spent lazy on beaches in the morning, and being measured for suits and dresses in the afternoon. Evenings were saved for exploring the most amazing seafood all with a stunning back drop of the beautiful old Vietnamese town. Suddenly I felt like I was on holiday. Being a small thin country, Vietnam is generally travelled either North to South, or vise-versa and in Hoi-An I was bumping into people I’d met in the North and gathering travel tips from those that were moving North. I soon learnt there was plenty waiting for me further down the country and somewhat begrudgingly packed up the rucksack for another journey South. It turned out a Dutchman, Martin, who I’d also met in Hanoi and a similar plan so we made our way together back up to Da Nang in order to take the train South to Nha Trang. One thing that strikes me about travelling, and travellers is the ease at which friendships are made. Some you know will last no longer than a few days, but every so often you meet a kindred spirit, a like mind who you genuinely feel you can get on with and possibly survive a long journey together. Luckily this was how Martin and I felt as we said goodbye to Baruch and squashed our Western sized bodies into the Vietnamese proportioned train for the 12 hr journey ahead of us.
Tired, hungry and somewhat weary we unfold ourselves from out seats and tumbled from the train into a warm summer night in Nha Trang. The usual hassle ensued as we wrestled with our packs, and the throngs of drivers ready to take us to their brother’s/aunt’s/neighbours’s hotel. With elbows in full working order we muscled through the crowd to a passive looking taxi-owner who after a little persuasion agreed to take us to the hotel of our choice whereupon we collapsed, exhausted from the effort of another Vietnamese voyage.Whilst Martin had travelled in the Halong Bay region of the North he’d become friends with a Danish couple and two solicitors from London, all 4 of which we meet up with in Nha Trang. Now we were six, all with the same desire to escape the tourist bustle of town and adventure out a little into the surrounding hills and countryside. The weather was with us now and as the Lonely Planet promised glorious beaches an hours ride away we hired motobikes, grabbed outr day packs and hit the road. I’m not sure if someone was watching out for us or may-be Lady Luck had come along for the ride but I'll think twice before riding through the busy town market again (Jackie Chan style) on the back of a bike! Out onto the open road we opened the throttles as Highway 1 sped below us and snaked out before us. Being the main North-South route it has a fair amount of traffic, mostly large trucks, lorries and buses, all carrying their load of people, pigs, goats or all of the above simultaneously. Dealing with these obstacles at speed was one thing, but dodging the water-buffalo sized pot holes was another. After what seemed like hours of bumping and jarring we arrived at Doc Let beach, much in need of its cooling waters and quiet sands. The lack of children selling pineapples ensured we were now well off the beaten track and despite the bruises, it felt good.Next day we did Mama Hanh’s Boat Trip, truly the most tourist orientated day-trips Vietnam has to offer, and something I’d heard whispers of, long before I’d even considered coming to town. You have to hand it to Mama Hanh. She has realised the potential for fun in the sun on this stretch of coast, and provided all the necessaries to ensure you have a good time. Boats are laden with obscene amounts of Tiger beer, stunning food and stashed full of Cambodian pot then launched into the South China Sea to cruise around a bit. Needless to say I remember very little of the trip other than the first few beers and well rolled joints. A few of the revellers on board were all set for another day with Mama Hanh next morning but sober once again we decided, 'en mass', to leave Nha Trang and head for somewhere a little quieter. Backpacks were hastily packed and we jumped on the local bus inland to the hill town of Dalat in the Central Vietnamese Mountains. The plan here was to sort out a couple of days trekking to stretch the old legs and get into the heart of the countryside. Upon arrival we hired a couple of guides, bought provisions from the local market and set off into the jungle. And I’m not joking, this really was the jungle! Our guides hacked away at the bamboo and vines whilst we stumbled along in semi-darkness with the mid-day sun blazing far above the tree canopy. After 6 hours of tough going we arrived at a minority peoples village where the guides sorted out food, a fire and showed us the huts we could stay in. After supper of wild boar, deer, porcupine and some fish we caught in the lake we were pretty much exhausted and wasted no time getting to bed. The two solicitors, Martin and I were sharing 2 rooms in a hut on stilts down by the lake where everything seemed hunkey dorey until the lights went out. The first thing that became apparent was that when anyone moved, the hut moved. Soon after this we discovered we weren't the only creatures in residence…In the darkness the walls started to move, then the mossie net started shaking and before long the whole bloody hut was jumping with hundreds of furry monsters. Words cannot describe what was going through my mind as animals (and big ones at that) dropped from the ceiling next to my head and ran across the wall next to my feet. At this point I decided to play the female joker card, turned into a complete girl screaming "kill it, kill it" whilst Martin lashed out at the walls with an empty water bottle. ‘Plan A’ wasn't doing the job so Martin got out his Maglight to shed some light on the scene. Now Martin’s English is good, but his eyesight’s not much better than mine so when he described seeing a rabbit-sized animal with black and white stripes running up the wall I freaked and assumed we were being attacked by bandit badgers. Through-out the night they came in waves, ensuring no more than 10 minutes sleep before they're next assault and this went on until sun-up when we stumbled outside to see the mess they'd made of out kit. The guides later explained that the badgers were probably wild rats - but I’m not convinced… Tired, filthy and hungry we set off at 7am for the 4-hour jungle trek back to the town. 6 hours later the guide admitted we very lost,very lost, and the best thing would be to climb to the highest peak and get our bearings from there. Climb we did, through dense jungle, our legs and arms being continuously shredded by bamboo and creepers. Two hours later we'd found a disused helipad left by the US forces and our guide found his bearings. We set about beating a new track back down the mountain, hopefully before darkness fell. Looking back on it the night of rodent abuse and the hours of trekking it really was hilarious, but on countless occasions I was close to tears; like the time I took my shoe off to remove what I thought was a stone, and found 5 leeches stuck to my foot. Need I say more. Back in the safety of civilisation and a couple of beers later we hired a minibus for the 7 hr journey South to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City). We arrived in town at 2am, tired, filthy but very happy and now a fairly tight-knit group following our adventure. In just 7 days I’d laughed, cried, seen sights I’ve never imagined and done things I’ve never dreamt of, all with 5 people I met a couple of days ago in a small town 700Kms from here. And I still could not quite believe I was in Vietnam.
Thursday, March 16, 2000
Asian Journal - Chapter 3 - This week I have been mostly eating...(March 2000)
FISH! And if I so much as see one more I'll scream!!! Never before would I have thought I'd get sick of eating fantastic seafood but sometimes a girl just has to have steak, chocolate, or Pringles and ice-cream. Unfortunately none of the above was available where I'd spent my last week in Vietnam. Roughly the same size as Singapore, Phu Quoc sits about 15km off the Cambodian coastline and has some of the most spectacular beaches and water I've ever seen. One of the things that makes this place special is that hardly any Westerners get there, simply because its so bloody difficult to get to. Having by now got used to being off the beaten track and away from the mini-bus tours of Saigon, the Danish couple and I left the air-conditioned comfort of the Saigon Tourist bus and boarded the jam-packed, sweaty local bus headed out to the coastal town of Rach Gia. 8 hours later we arrived. Dusty, somewhat bruised and nursing only minor cuts and grazes we discovered the next boat to the island did not leave until the following day so we settled into a grimey hotel to get as much rest as possible before the next leg of our journey. Up at 5am next morning, we made it to the port in an hour and boarded the old wooden boat that was already sitting low in the water. Within minutes we were on our way and quite pleased to see there were only about 50 people on a boat that was designed to happily carry 100. After about 30 minutes of steaming we slowed to a halt and sat looking puzzled as the anchor was thrown over board and the crew put on the kettle. At this point I ventured onto the roof of the cabin to see what was happening and why we’d stopped. Up there in the blazing sunshine I met Bao, an elderly man who explained in reasonable English that because of the low tide we'd left port early and would now ‘tread-water’ for 2 hours whilst smaller boats brought passengers and cargo out to us. As time passed the space we'd reserved for our bums and backpacks got smaller and smaller as more and more people, chickens, boxes and fruit were loaded onto the deck. It seems its compulsory for every piece of Vietnamese public transport to have on board at least 3 chickens and a goat before a journey can begin and only when there was not another spare inch of space onboard did the captain give the order to raise the anchor and start the belching engine once again. At this point I was able to sympathise with the thousands of Vietnamese boat people that fled the country! It took a further 11 hours of sailing across smooth seas before we reached Phu Quoc and in that time I learnt from Bao that he had taught himself English from a book and was now the English teacher at the airport on Phu Quoc. I was the first Emglish person he'd ever met.Because of its close proximity to Cambodia, the Northern half of the island is controlled totally by the Vietnamese Army and Boa now found himself teaching both the civilian and military staff the fundamentals of the English language. By the time we arrived at the port I'd agreed to meet with Bao the following evening so he could practice his English some more. The first morning I awoke and stepped out of my beach hut I couldn't believe the view in front of me, white sand beaches, crystal clear waters and not a sign of another human for miles. 3 minutes later I was in the water, shocked at how warm it was even in the early morning. After hours of lying in a hammock, reading in the shade, I walked the mile into town and met with Bao at the town’s airport. Here I was surprised to find the Director of the airport and also the islands military leader who also wanted to practice their English. Over tea and fresh fruit they explained that although they had good books and plenty of them it was difficult for them to pronounce many of the English words and asked if for a couple of days I could visit the classes and join in their conversations. Curious to see how the education system worked I agreed to join two of the classes the next day. So set the agenda for the rest of my time in Phu Quoc. The mornings I would have to myself on the beach, at 2pm I would take the first two hour class, spend a couple of hours in the town and then take the second class from 7.30 to 9.30pm. Each class consisted of 7 or 8 students, aged between 28 and 60 who did various civilian and military jobs around the airport. Shy at first the students soon got used to me, and me to them, as we read through their textbook conversations stumbling over words they found difficult, like mother, washing and strangely enough, airport. I never realised how different languages use such different sounds and noises. It was totally alien for them to make the SH sound of 'wish', or the strong P in 'airport' so most of the lesson was given over to practising noises to help them with their pronunciation! And to think I was constantly being picked up for dropping my T's and D's at the end of words at home! One of the great advantages about having lots of 'friends' in the military and at the airport is their able to bend a few rules and turn blind eyes to help make life a little easier, so on the 3rd day I hired a motorbike and explored a small section of the North of the island which is usually barred from tourists and residents alike. I then headed South to meet the Danish couple who had discovered a fantastic beach on the gulf of Vietnam where we rode our scooters up and down in the surf and sand. When I went to the lesson that evening I was told the Director had found a way of getting me on one of the ‘fully booked’ flights off the island, saving me the 11 hour boat journey and therefore a full day on my way back to the mainland. When it came to Sunday and my bag was packed I found a huge farewell committee waiting for me at check-in. Once assigned my seat I was taken for more tea and fruit and then up to the control tower. Just the evening before I had been racing the motorbike I hired up and down the dusty strip used as a runway, now I had on a pair of headphones and was listening to Duong (one of the older students) talk in the rickety plane that would take me back to Rach Gia. After more tea with the pilots and goodbyes to my new friends I took my seat and within 20 minutes was back on mainland Vietnam, in a local bus on my way to Saigon. Looking back I really cannot believe I was lucky enough to have had the chance to teach these people. I could easily have spent every day on the island sitting on the beach, swimming or swinging in my hammock but instead I met a great group of people, got closer to Vietnamese life than I have in my earlier 3 weeks and had a totally unique experience to-boot, one that I will not forget in a long time. Back in Ho Chi Minh City I ate my fill of ice-cream and Pringles and integrated back into fast pace of Vietnamese city life. All that was left to do now was move up a gear or two in preparation for tomorrow’s landing in Thailand then say "Tam Biet" to Uncle Ho and all his friendly comrades.
FISH! And if I so much as see one more I'll scream!!! Never before would I have thought I'd get sick of eating fantastic seafood but sometimes a girl just has to have steak, chocolate, or Pringles and ice-cream. Unfortunately none of the above was available where I'd spent my last week in Vietnam. Roughly the same size as Singapore, Phu Quoc sits about 15km off the Cambodian coastline and has some of the most spectacular beaches and water I've ever seen. One of the things that makes this place special is that hardly any Westerners get there, simply because its so bloody difficult to get to. Having by now got used to being off the beaten track and away from the mini-bus tours of Saigon, the Danish couple and I left the air-conditioned comfort of the Saigon Tourist bus and boarded the jam-packed, sweaty local bus headed out to the coastal town of Rach Gia. 8 hours later we arrived. Dusty, somewhat bruised and nursing only minor cuts and grazes we discovered the next boat to the island did not leave until the following day so we settled into a grimey hotel to get as much rest as possible before the next leg of our journey. Up at 5am next morning, we made it to the port in an hour and boarded the old wooden boat that was already sitting low in the water. Within minutes we were on our way and quite pleased to see there were only about 50 people on a boat that was designed to happily carry 100. After about 30 minutes of steaming we slowed to a halt and sat looking puzzled as the anchor was thrown over board and the crew put on the kettle. At this point I ventured onto the roof of the cabin to see what was happening and why we’d stopped. Up there in the blazing sunshine I met Bao, an elderly man who explained in reasonable English that because of the low tide we'd left port early and would now ‘tread-water’ for 2 hours whilst smaller boats brought passengers and cargo out to us. As time passed the space we'd reserved for our bums and backpacks got smaller and smaller as more and more people, chickens, boxes and fruit were loaded onto the deck. It seems its compulsory for every piece of Vietnamese public transport to have on board at least 3 chickens and a goat before a journey can begin and only when there was not another spare inch of space onboard did the captain give the order to raise the anchor and start the belching engine once again. At this point I was able to sympathise with the thousands of Vietnamese boat people that fled the country! It took a further 11 hours of sailing across smooth seas before we reached Phu Quoc and in that time I learnt from Bao that he had taught himself English from a book and was now the English teacher at the airport on Phu Quoc. I was the first Emglish person he'd ever met.Because of its close proximity to Cambodia, the Northern half of the island is controlled totally by the Vietnamese Army and Boa now found himself teaching both the civilian and military staff the fundamentals of the English language. By the time we arrived at the port I'd agreed to meet with Bao the following evening so he could practice his English some more. The first morning I awoke and stepped out of my beach hut I couldn't believe the view in front of me, white sand beaches, crystal clear waters and not a sign of another human for miles. 3 minutes later I was in the water, shocked at how warm it was even in the early morning. After hours of lying in a hammock, reading in the shade, I walked the mile into town and met with Bao at the town’s airport. Here I was surprised to find the Director of the airport and also the islands military leader who also wanted to practice their English. Over tea and fresh fruit they explained that although they had good books and plenty of them it was difficult for them to pronounce many of the English words and asked if for a couple of days I could visit the classes and join in their conversations. Curious to see how the education system worked I agreed to join two of the classes the next day. So set the agenda for the rest of my time in Phu Quoc. The mornings I would have to myself on the beach, at 2pm I would take the first two hour class, spend a couple of hours in the town and then take the second class from 7.30 to 9.30pm. Each class consisted of 7 or 8 students, aged between 28 and 60 who did various civilian and military jobs around the airport. Shy at first the students soon got used to me, and me to them, as we read through their textbook conversations stumbling over words they found difficult, like mother, washing and strangely enough, airport. I never realised how different languages use such different sounds and noises. It was totally alien for them to make the SH sound of 'wish', or the strong P in 'airport' so most of the lesson was given over to practising noises to help them with their pronunciation! And to think I was constantly being picked up for dropping my T's and D's at the end of words at home! One of the great advantages about having lots of 'friends' in the military and at the airport is their able to bend a few rules and turn blind eyes to help make life a little easier, so on the 3rd day I hired a motorbike and explored a small section of the North of the island which is usually barred from tourists and residents alike. I then headed South to meet the Danish couple who had discovered a fantastic beach on the gulf of Vietnam where we rode our scooters up and down in the surf and sand. When I went to the lesson that evening I was told the Director had found a way of getting me on one of the ‘fully booked’ flights off the island, saving me the 11 hour boat journey and therefore a full day on my way back to the mainland. When it came to Sunday and my bag was packed I found a huge farewell committee waiting for me at check-in. Once assigned my seat I was taken for more tea and fruit and then up to the control tower. Just the evening before I had been racing the motorbike I hired up and down the dusty strip used as a runway, now I had on a pair of headphones and was listening to Duong (one of the older students) talk in the rickety plane that would take me back to Rach Gia. After more tea with the pilots and goodbyes to my new friends I took my seat and within 20 minutes was back on mainland Vietnam, in a local bus on my way to Saigon. Looking back I really cannot believe I was lucky enough to have had the chance to teach these people. I could easily have spent every day on the island sitting on the beach, swimming or swinging in my hammock but instead I met a great group of people, got closer to Vietnamese life than I have in my earlier 3 weeks and had a totally unique experience to-boot, one that I will not forget in a long time. Back in Ho Chi Minh City I ate my fill of ice-cream and Pringles and integrated back into fast pace of Vietnamese city life. All that was left to do now was move up a gear or two in preparation for tomorrow’s landing in Thailand then say "Tam Biet" to Uncle Ho and all his friendly comrades.
Asian Journal - Chapter 4 - Not such a happy camper (March 2000)
After flying back into Thailand I headed directly East hoping to make my way across the Cambodian border for a couple of days, then chill out for a few days on one of the islands off the coast. I’d heard various good and terrible tales about this land border, but left confident as I boarded the bus to Trat, Thailand’s Eastern border town, known for its gem trade and smuggling of consumer goods. The trip out went smoothly and en-route I met a couple of English and American guys who were on holiday from Japan where they were teaching English. They too planned to travel to one of the islands, Ko Chang, but by the time we arrived in the port town it was getting late so we decided to find a place to stay for the night and get ourselves some rest. Next morning Rob, from Surrey didn't look too good. By 10am he looked worse and come 11.30am he was in the local hospital with a drip in his arm. Things in general weren’t looking healthy! In his best English the doctor explained that Rob had some kind of fever, was severely dehydrated and couldn't be moved for a couple of days. This put me in a bit of an awkward situation as I really didn't have a couple of days to spare but I didn't want to turn my back on these guys when one of their friends was in a bad way. They needed some space to decided what they were going to do and it was whilst I was sitting outside in the shade, pouring over the Lonely Planet, I got talking to another English guy who'd just got off one of the smaller boats. We talked about Ko Chang and the border crossing for a while and he mentioned he'd just come back from a wonderful little island South of Ko Chang, which he promised was the perfect place to chilling out. ‘The Book’ made virtually no mention of Ko Mak so in that spilt second I decided to forget Cambodia, by-pass Ko Chang and head further South to this little tropical oasis. On returning to the hospital Rob had turned from white to green and the Americans had been chosen to stay and mind Rob whilst Rowan, the other English guy was going to be sent ahead to find a good destination for when Rob was well enough to travel. I explained my plan and was surprised when they decided to follow my lead. We sailed that afternoon and after 3 hours on the water arrived at the beautiful island of Ko Mak. I swear that the illustrator for the book 'Where the wild things are!' had spent time here. The sea was jade green, the beaches ice white and the coastline fringed with dense palm forests in which any number of scary monsters could have lived. Monsters or not, this was the stuff island dreams are made of. I soon settled into the swing of things, hung my hammock on my bungalow porch and tucked into a fresh coconut. Whilst sitting back to watch the first of many glorious sunsets I met Phelim from Ireland. We got talking and discovered we had both lived in Newtown in Sydney at the same time, we'd virtually lived next door to each other in Australia, and now we were beach neighbours on this small island in Thailand! Phelim only had a couple of weeks left until he flew back to the Emerald Isle and was determine to top up the tan for the folks back home. After a lazy day on the beach we were surprised when the islands tractor pulled up loaded with Mark and a marginally healthier Rob. His fever had broken the night before and by lunchtime they'd decided he was well enough to travel, so long as he took it easy. Rob really had no choice other than to sit back and relax now. No TV, no radio, in fact no power, except a generator that worked the minimal lighting and the milkshake machine! After 4 days of doing next to nothing and having read every inch of English text on the island I got itchy feet and I decided it was time to move on. Ko Samet lies just off the Thai coast about 3 hours from Bangkok and given that it was on our way back into the capital Phelim and I decided it would be the perfect place to break the return trip to the city. I'd heard about the island from a couple of friends who had sung the praises of the place, and indeed the Lonely Planet itself described it as ‘a quiet haven with amazing beaches and a relaxed atmosphere’. It sounded perfect but I have to admit that I really did have second thoughts about leaving my hut on Ko Mak. Could anything really be any better than this? Is the grass really greener? Nothing could have prepared us for what greeted us as we stepped off the boat on the northern tip of Ko Samet. Countless beach bars, banging techno tunes and the waves were awash with jet-skis. This was definitely not what it said in 'The Book'. Trying to ignore the deafening bass we set off to find a place to stay for the night. In Bangkok the going rate for a good, clean room with a fan is 120B. In Ko Mak the cost of a beachfront bungalow with no lights, no fan and a mossie net is 80B. At Tumtin, the only hotel with a vacancy on the island, the cost for a tiny, dirty room with no window was 350B(non-negotiable). By now i'd crossed from borderline miserable to positively not a happy. It was only Phelim’s quick reactions that saved the blessed Lonely Planet from being flung into the Gulf of Thailand that night and as a lay in my bed listening to 'Hotel California' for the 14th time from the bar below. I convinced myself things would be better tomorrow in the morning, but at 3pm the following day I swung my pack onto the deck of the boat and was more than pleased to see Ko Samet disappear over the horizon behind me. If I wanted to go to Ibiza I would have gone to Ibiza, Ko Samui or any of the other islands the Lonely Planet describes as party places, but Ko Samet was not what I was looking for. ‘The Bible’ lied! I arrived back in Bangkok 4 days early than planned, depressed at the thought of having left the perfect isle of Ko Mak, and driven insane by the city heat and humidity (thank God for air-conditioned shopping malls). Staying in the city however did allow me to meet some genuinely interesting Thai people but also a few more equally disheartened backpackers. Bangkok has become a major international stopover for those travelling East-West, or vise-versa, and is often the first port of call for travellers heading to Australia from the UK. Given this it is not a bad place for your first eastern experience. Upon arrival you instantly know you’re no longer in a fully developed westernise society, yet being a major commercial centre Bangkok has all the trapping and conveniences of a modern metropolis. Its shopping centres are huge. Theres a sky-train to convey you from one plush plaza to another. MacDonalds, Boots and Baskins Robins greet you at every turn and the likes of internet cafes, ATMs and western press are all easy to come by, lulling you into a false sense of familiarity and security. However once outside these conveniences you need your wits about you, and they are best kept taped to your body, along with your money & passport, at all times. Bangkok looks western, but moves to the pulse of an Eastern drum…One complaint I heard over and over from travellers was of the tuk-tuk drivers. By far the quickest, most readily available and suicidal form of transport in the city the tuk-tuk is a 3 wheeled taxi-cab powered by lawnmower engine and licensed to carry a minimum of 12 people, or 16 chickens at any one time. The drivers know all the short cuts and all the silk houses in town so you can be sure to visit at least 3 tailors a day if using them as your preferred mode of tourist transport. It’s a nifty scam the drivers have going. You jump in and randomly name your tourist destination of choice and they automatically name a price that’s 4 times the Thai cost for the same trip. You then haggle, they pull faces and a cost of half the original fee is finally, painfully, arrived at. Feeling smug at having just negotiated a bargain you clamber in the back of the cab and they grin in the rear-view mirror whilst mentally totting up the amount of money they’re going to be able to get out of you today. Then you’re off! Hurtling towards 3 lanes of oncoming traffic, sharp left, sharp right, a U-turn across the central reservation curb. There is no stopping these guys, and no way of following your route should you need to know where you are. At this point you’re tuk-tuk driver fodder. You’re lost, in a strange city, and this man in front of you is the only person looking reasonably friendly. Surprise, surprise you glance around and notice you’ve come to rest outside a silk house! Why, oh why, do tuk-tuk drivers bring you here? The answer is easy. They are paid to. Each time they bring a ‘customer’ to the store they receive a petrol voucher. Fuel is expensive here, without fuel they cannot work, so if they receive free fuel then they can continue to drive whilst pocketing the extortionate fares they’re making from you. When you come out of the silk-house they’re waiting patiently and will, if paid the correct amount of money, continue on to the destination of your choice, or return you to a recognisable part of town, from which you can make you own way home. The end result of this scam? 1 happy tuk-tuk driver, 1 happy silk-house owner and 1 angry tourist who has wasted half a day, been fleeced for a reasonable sum of Thai money and still hasn’t managed to see The Grand Palace/ Floating Market/ or Reclining Buddha.One Japanese girl I met had spent 2 days trying to see the city in this way, each evening returning more tired, frustrated and poorer than the last. For a country that realises so heavily on tourism I was surprised this level of corruption was allowed to exist. Thailand certainly has many faces, that of its quiet, serene tropical islands and that of its tourist-scamming, money-grabbing side and I guess it’s a shame that most travellers will only have contact with 1% of the nation, the dollar-greedy gang. I had fallen in love with my island paradise but Thailand by now was tainted for me, and my only thought was to leave the country and move on. Besides, I was more than keen to replace some of the pollution-heavy air in my lungs with pure, clean Himalayan breeze blowing just a few hours flying time from here
After flying back into Thailand I headed directly East hoping to make my way across the Cambodian border for a couple of days, then chill out for a few days on one of the islands off the coast. I’d heard various good and terrible tales about this land border, but left confident as I boarded the bus to Trat, Thailand’s Eastern border town, known for its gem trade and smuggling of consumer goods. The trip out went smoothly and en-route I met a couple of English and American guys who were on holiday from Japan where they were teaching English. They too planned to travel to one of the islands, Ko Chang, but by the time we arrived in the port town it was getting late so we decided to find a place to stay for the night and get ourselves some rest. Next morning Rob, from Surrey didn't look too good. By 10am he looked worse and come 11.30am he was in the local hospital with a drip in his arm. Things in general weren’t looking healthy! In his best English the doctor explained that Rob had some kind of fever, was severely dehydrated and couldn't be moved for a couple of days. This put me in a bit of an awkward situation as I really didn't have a couple of days to spare but I didn't want to turn my back on these guys when one of their friends was in a bad way. They needed some space to decided what they were going to do and it was whilst I was sitting outside in the shade, pouring over the Lonely Planet, I got talking to another English guy who'd just got off one of the smaller boats. We talked about Ko Chang and the border crossing for a while and he mentioned he'd just come back from a wonderful little island South of Ko Chang, which he promised was the perfect place to chilling out. ‘The Book’ made virtually no mention of Ko Mak so in that spilt second I decided to forget Cambodia, by-pass Ko Chang and head further South to this little tropical oasis. On returning to the hospital Rob had turned from white to green and the Americans had been chosen to stay and mind Rob whilst Rowan, the other English guy was going to be sent ahead to find a good destination for when Rob was well enough to travel. I explained my plan and was surprised when they decided to follow my lead. We sailed that afternoon and after 3 hours on the water arrived at the beautiful island of Ko Mak. I swear that the illustrator for the book 'Where the wild things are!' had spent time here. The sea was jade green, the beaches ice white and the coastline fringed with dense palm forests in which any number of scary monsters could have lived. Monsters or not, this was the stuff island dreams are made of. I soon settled into the swing of things, hung my hammock on my bungalow porch and tucked into a fresh coconut. Whilst sitting back to watch the first of many glorious sunsets I met Phelim from Ireland. We got talking and discovered we had both lived in Newtown in Sydney at the same time, we'd virtually lived next door to each other in Australia, and now we were beach neighbours on this small island in Thailand! Phelim only had a couple of weeks left until he flew back to the Emerald Isle and was determine to top up the tan for the folks back home. After a lazy day on the beach we were surprised when the islands tractor pulled up loaded with Mark and a marginally healthier Rob. His fever had broken the night before and by lunchtime they'd decided he was well enough to travel, so long as he took it easy. Rob really had no choice other than to sit back and relax now. No TV, no radio, in fact no power, except a generator that worked the minimal lighting and the milkshake machine! After 4 days of doing next to nothing and having read every inch of English text on the island I got itchy feet and I decided it was time to move on. Ko Samet lies just off the Thai coast about 3 hours from Bangkok and given that it was on our way back into the capital Phelim and I decided it would be the perfect place to break the return trip to the city. I'd heard about the island from a couple of friends who had sung the praises of the place, and indeed the Lonely Planet itself described it as ‘a quiet haven with amazing beaches and a relaxed atmosphere’. It sounded perfect but I have to admit that I really did have second thoughts about leaving my hut on Ko Mak. Could anything really be any better than this? Is the grass really greener? Nothing could have prepared us for what greeted us as we stepped off the boat on the northern tip of Ko Samet. Countless beach bars, banging techno tunes and the waves were awash with jet-skis. This was definitely not what it said in 'The Book'. Trying to ignore the deafening bass we set off to find a place to stay for the night. In Bangkok the going rate for a good, clean room with a fan is 120B. In Ko Mak the cost of a beachfront bungalow with no lights, no fan and a mossie net is 80B. At Tumtin, the only hotel with a vacancy on the island, the cost for a tiny, dirty room with no window was 350B(non-negotiable). By now i'd crossed from borderline miserable to positively not a happy. It was only Phelim’s quick reactions that saved the blessed Lonely Planet from being flung into the Gulf of Thailand that night and as a lay in my bed listening to 'Hotel California' for the 14th time from the bar below. I convinced myself things would be better tomorrow in the morning, but at 3pm the following day I swung my pack onto the deck of the boat and was more than pleased to see Ko Samet disappear over the horizon behind me. If I wanted to go to Ibiza I would have gone to Ibiza, Ko Samui or any of the other islands the Lonely Planet describes as party places, but Ko Samet was not what I was looking for. ‘The Bible’ lied! I arrived back in Bangkok 4 days early than planned, depressed at the thought of having left the perfect isle of Ko Mak, and driven insane by the city heat and humidity (thank God for air-conditioned shopping malls). Staying in the city however did allow me to meet some genuinely interesting Thai people but also a few more equally disheartened backpackers. Bangkok has become a major international stopover for those travelling East-West, or vise-versa, and is often the first port of call for travellers heading to Australia from the UK. Given this it is not a bad place for your first eastern experience. Upon arrival you instantly know you’re no longer in a fully developed westernise society, yet being a major commercial centre Bangkok has all the trapping and conveniences of a modern metropolis. Its shopping centres are huge. Theres a sky-train to convey you from one plush plaza to another. MacDonalds, Boots and Baskins Robins greet you at every turn and the likes of internet cafes, ATMs and western press are all easy to come by, lulling you into a false sense of familiarity and security. However once outside these conveniences you need your wits about you, and they are best kept taped to your body, along with your money & passport, at all times. Bangkok looks western, but moves to the pulse of an Eastern drum…One complaint I heard over and over from travellers was of the tuk-tuk drivers. By far the quickest, most readily available and suicidal form of transport in the city the tuk-tuk is a 3 wheeled taxi-cab powered by lawnmower engine and licensed to carry a minimum of 12 people, or 16 chickens at any one time. The drivers know all the short cuts and all the silk houses in town so you can be sure to visit at least 3 tailors a day if using them as your preferred mode of tourist transport. It’s a nifty scam the drivers have going. You jump in and randomly name your tourist destination of choice and they automatically name a price that’s 4 times the Thai cost for the same trip. You then haggle, they pull faces and a cost of half the original fee is finally, painfully, arrived at. Feeling smug at having just negotiated a bargain you clamber in the back of the cab and they grin in the rear-view mirror whilst mentally totting up the amount of money they’re going to be able to get out of you today. Then you’re off! Hurtling towards 3 lanes of oncoming traffic, sharp left, sharp right, a U-turn across the central reservation curb. There is no stopping these guys, and no way of following your route should you need to know where you are. At this point you’re tuk-tuk driver fodder. You’re lost, in a strange city, and this man in front of you is the only person looking reasonably friendly. Surprise, surprise you glance around and notice you’ve come to rest outside a silk house! Why, oh why, do tuk-tuk drivers bring you here? The answer is easy. They are paid to. Each time they bring a ‘customer’ to the store they receive a petrol voucher. Fuel is expensive here, without fuel they cannot work, so if they receive free fuel then they can continue to drive whilst pocketing the extortionate fares they’re making from you. When you come out of the silk-house they’re waiting patiently and will, if paid the correct amount of money, continue on to the destination of your choice, or return you to a recognisable part of town, from which you can make you own way home. The end result of this scam? 1 happy tuk-tuk driver, 1 happy silk-house owner and 1 angry tourist who has wasted half a day, been fleeced for a reasonable sum of Thai money and still hasn’t managed to see The Grand Palace/ Floating Market/ or Reclining Buddha.One Japanese girl I met had spent 2 days trying to see the city in this way, each evening returning more tired, frustrated and poorer than the last. For a country that realises so heavily on tourism I was surprised this level of corruption was allowed to exist. Thailand certainly has many faces, that of its quiet, serene tropical islands and that of its tourist-scamming, money-grabbing side and I guess it’s a shame that most travellers will only have contact with 1% of the nation, the dollar-greedy gang. I had fallen in love with my island paradise but Thailand by now was tainted for me, and my only thought was to leave the country and move on. Besides, I was more than keen to replace some of the pollution-heavy air in my lungs with pure, clean Himalayan breeze blowing just a few hours flying time from here
Asian Journal - Chapter 6 - Messin' about on the river (March - April 2000)
Set deep in the Himalayan hills, just 6Km from the Tibetan border the Borderlands reserve is a wonderfully remote area totally unspoiled and with the feeling of being very much removed from time. Along with the rest of my group we spent most of the morning rehearsing paddling techniques, learning how to read the river and what seemed like far too long on what to do if you fall out of the boat, and various ways of getting back in. I'm all for safety, especially when playing with large volumes of water hurtling down narrow gorges but the lengths to which our safety training went began to scare me, very very much. Was I really ready to partake in something that required this much depth of water rescue knowledge??? Over lunch I was somewhat relieved to find I wasn't the only one feeling slightly nervous, but before we had time to scare each other too much lunch was cleared and we were suited up for our first set of rapids. Our river guide (a former bodybuilding Mr Nepal!) launched us out into clear water and for the first 10 minutes we trundled leisurely downstream whilst he shouted "Left paddle! Back paddle!" and we all admired the view. Mr Nepal wasn't impressed. "This is a very serious river!" he screamed, "if you do not listen and obey me you will get hurt, seriously!" OK, he'd got our attention, from now on we'd paddle. All rapids are classed according to their difficulty, 3 being reasonably taxing, 5 being very difficult and grade 6 being applied to those that were technically impossible. All the rapids we'd be tackling on ourfirst day were 3's and 4's and we were now fast approaching our first white water, appropriately named 'Frog in a blender'. Imagine being stuck in a bouncy castle, wedged inside a washing machine that's chock full of rocks and set on fast spin cycle. Everything happens very very fast and its easy to forget to listen to Mr Nepal because your concentrating on that large bolder that's hurtling towards you. Then suddenly you plunge 5 feet over the edge of the rapid and you pop up in a pool of calm still water, wring out your soaking t-shirt and wondering just what the hell happened back there. We'd survived our first class 3! Fear took a back seat and the adrenaline came out to play. . . With the sun on the water and feeling very much more confident in ourselves we eagerly paddled down stream to our next challenge, a class 4 rapid named 'Ex Lax'! Once we'd watched the safety kayaker go down through we realised why. Still riding on the adrenaline rush of earlier in we went, and 45 seconds later out we popped, battered, bruised and grinning like Cheshire cats. We turned our raft around so as to watch the second team come through, and so they did, one by one without their raft! I'd been waiting with my waterproof camera hoping to get some action shots but now we had to work quickly and pluck these poor people out of the drink. Our hours of training paid off, we'd been suitable drilled and using arms, legs, and any other body part we could gasp we unceremoniously hauled them aboard. More than their confidence was shaken, and suddenly we weren't feeling so gung-ho either. The rest of the day was less dramatic but still incredibly exhilarating and we retired to the campsite that evening exhausted but happy and swapping differing accounts of the same day. Bright and early next morning we paddled out again, the river swollen further from by the rain during the night and snowmelt from further up. A couple of class3's and a 4 in before lunch and we were doing well. Mr Nepal congratulated us in the way we worked as a team but informed us that we were not yet up to tackling what was round the next bend, a class 5. We put the raft ashore and clambered over the rocks towards the awful din that was coming from downstream. 'Hydraulic holes' appear when large volumes of water drop over a ledge directly towards rocks and anything that falls into these black holes gets sucked deep down, and stays down. We unloaded the raft of everything that wasn't necessary and watched in awe as our guide brought the raft over the rapid and to the side of the hole single-handed. This man definitely knew what he was doing. Having seen Mr Nepal in action I'm now better able to understand what happened next. We'd reloaded the raft and changed our seating so as to better spread the weight to get us over the next set of rapids. I was now perched at the very front of the raft, far away from the safety zone where I'd nestled for the first part of the trip but this didn't concern me too much, how much different could it possibly be? "Don’t look at the rock. Don’t look at the rock" I remember saying to myself, repeating the mountain biking logic that if you don’t look at the obstacle you wont hit it, as we hurtled towards the bolder. SMACK, we hit it broadside. The force reverberated through our bouncy-castle-raft and I was quite literally shot out of the boat, hit the rick then fell into the river. I remember having time to think 'wheres the raft gone???' then before my safety training had time to kick in I was back in the boat, dazed and confused. Henning, who was sat opposite me at the front of the raft, informs me it all happened so fast that I was still paddling and smiling as I flew through the air and bounced off the rock. And within seconds of going overboard Mr Nepal had bent down and with one arm quite literally plucked me from the water. He said he didn't even have time to scream "man over board!". I'm pretty sure that if we didn't have such an experienced guide I would have come back with more than just a blue bum and a few cuts and bruises. To the river I now owed much respect, and to him I am eternally grateful. Not wanting to subject my bruising to the 48hrbus/train/bus journey overland to India I grabbed my trusty credit card and booked a flight - well a girls got to have some luxury!!! Stepping gingerly on to the tarmac at Delhi's International airport, I was ready to embark on the last leg of my travels. Hopefully things would a little more relaxed from here on in.
Set deep in the Himalayan hills, just 6Km from the Tibetan border the Borderlands reserve is a wonderfully remote area totally unspoiled and with the feeling of being very much removed from time. Along with the rest of my group we spent most of the morning rehearsing paddling techniques, learning how to read the river and what seemed like far too long on what to do if you fall out of the boat, and various ways of getting back in. I'm all for safety, especially when playing with large volumes of water hurtling down narrow gorges but the lengths to which our safety training went began to scare me, very very much. Was I really ready to partake in something that required this much depth of water rescue knowledge??? Over lunch I was somewhat relieved to find I wasn't the only one feeling slightly nervous, but before we had time to scare each other too much lunch was cleared and we were suited up for our first set of rapids. Our river guide (a former bodybuilding Mr Nepal!) launched us out into clear water and for the first 10 minutes we trundled leisurely downstream whilst he shouted "Left paddle! Back paddle!" and we all admired the view. Mr Nepal wasn't impressed. "This is a very serious river!" he screamed, "if you do not listen and obey me you will get hurt, seriously!" OK, he'd got our attention, from now on we'd paddle. All rapids are classed according to their difficulty, 3 being reasonably taxing, 5 being very difficult and grade 6 being applied to those that were technically impossible. All the rapids we'd be tackling on ourfirst day were 3's and 4's and we were now fast approaching our first white water, appropriately named 'Frog in a blender'. Imagine being stuck in a bouncy castle, wedged inside a washing machine that's chock full of rocks and set on fast spin cycle. Everything happens very very fast and its easy to forget to listen to Mr Nepal because your concentrating on that large bolder that's hurtling towards you. Then suddenly you plunge 5 feet over the edge of the rapid and you pop up in a pool of calm still water, wring out your soaking t-shirt and wondering just what the hell happened back there. We'd survived our first class 3! Fear took a back seat and the adrenaline came out to play. . . With the sun on the water and feeling very much more confident in ourselves we eagerly paddled down stream to our next challenge, a class 4 rapid named 'Ex Lax'! Once we'd watched the safety kayaker go down through we realised why. Still riding on the adrenaline rush of earlier in we went, and 45 seconds later out we popped, battered, bruised and grinning like Cheshire cats. We turned our raft around so as to watch the second team come through, and so they did, one by one without their raft! I'd been waiting with my waterproof camera hoping to get some action shots but now we had to work quickly and pluck these poor people out of the drink. Our hours of training paid off, we'd been suitable drilled and using arms, legs, and any other body part we could gasp we unceremoniously hauled them aboard. More than their confidence was shaken, and suddenly we weren't feeling so gung-ho either. The rest of the day was less dramatic but still incredibly exhilarating and we retired to the campsite that evening exhausted but happy and swapping differing accounts of the same day. Bright and early next morning we paddled out again, the river swollen further from by the rain during the night and snowmelt from further up. A couple of class3's and a 4 in before lunch and we were doing well. Mr Nepal congratulated us in the way we worked as a team but informed us that we were not yet up to tackling what was round the next bend, a class 5. We put the raft ashore and clambered over the rocks towards the awful din that was coming from downstream. 'Hydraulic holes' appear when large volumes of water drop over a ledge directly towards rocks and anything that falls into these black holes gets sucked deep down, and stays down. We unloaded the raft of everything that wasn't necessary and watched in awe as our guide brought the raft over the rapid and to the side of the hole single-handed. This man definitely knew what he was doing. Having seen Mr Nepal in action I'm now better able to understand what happened next. We'd reloaded the raft and changed our seating so as to better spread the weight to get us over the next set of rapids. I was now perched at the very front of the raft, far away from the safety zone where I'd nestled for the first part of the trip but this didn't concern me too much, how much different could it possibly be? "Don’t look at the rock. Don’t look at the rock" I remember saying to myself, repeating the mountain biking logic that if you don’t look at the obstacle you wont hit it, as we hurtled towards the bolder. SMACK, we hit it broadside. The force reverberated through our bouncy-castle-raft and I was quite literally shot out of the boat, hit the rick then fell into the river. I remember having time to think 'wheres the raft gone???' then before my safety training had time to kick in I was back in the boat, dazed and confused. Henning, who was sat opposite me at the front of the raft, informs me it all happened so fast that I was still paddling and smiling as I flew through the air and bounced off the rock. And within seconds of going overboard Mr Nepal had bent down and with one arm quite literally plucked me from the water. He said he didn't even have time to scream "man over board!". I'm pretty sure that if we didn't have such an experienced guide I would have come back with more than just a blue bum and a few cuts and bruises. To the river I now owed much respect, and to him I am eternally grateful. Not wanting to subject my bruising to the 48hrbus/train/bus journey overland to India I grabbed my trusty credit card and booked a flight - well a girls got to have some luxury!!! Stepping gingerly on to the tarmac at Delhi's International airport, I was ready to embark on the last leg of my travels. Hopefully things would a little more relaxed from here on in.
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