Journeys Beyond the Front Door Read online

  With more beers consumed I believe it was about this point where my line of human decency began to sway and I found myself interjecting into opinion pieces and personal stories to obnoxiously inform people of when they were wrong. While I was not staying at this hostel, nor did I know these people at all or would ever hear or see them again, the worry of causing extreme offence was just not a concern I had at this point in time. Through fragmented memories of the small circles of conversation, I remember there was an incident with an American chap, complete with obligatory baseball cap and southern drawl, who had apparently made his way over the past couple of months down the coast and through the mountains and jungles of South East Asia. Sadly, it appeared that he had also brought his CNN opinions along with him in his trusted napsack. As this man voiced his genuine surprise that people in such countries still had gripes with the old county USA - with its history of regime changes, various cold or secret wars and bombing campaigns for the control of the mythical golden triangle – it was at his outrageous assertion that the US had never been involved with any military action either directly or by proxy within countries such as Laos or Cambodia, that I felt the overwhelming need to interject. I do believe a rant occurred at this point that was laced with facts of carpet bombings, land mines, assassinations, domination and transportation of the opium fields and with a scowl, this American fool packed up his things and went home.

  Upon realising too late what was occurring and the transition in mindset that the extras beers were inducing, I quickly settled myself down, only to be encouraged further by the burly Serbian sitting across from me. With a hearty laugh, this love child of a lumberjack and old timey pirate clasped my hand and offered hashish as we exchanged stories of travel. As we passed infused joints around our small laughing circle, I found myself drifting into a quiet stonedness and tunnel vision observations of the other groups around us. Various stories were being shared, such as tales of cars disintegrating while being lost in the wilderness of the North African deserts, intermixed with the stories from the Israeli guy sitting next to me, who weaved a sad story of leaving the army after deployment upon realizing that it was he who was the terrorist . . . before proceeding to flirt wildly with a Swedish girl.

  As conversations began to die off and more and more beanbags were being used for sleeping arrangements, the Canadian girl who brought me along for the adventure nestled into my side. Not being one to sufficiently read social cues, I attempted to stand and bid my farewells before being pulled back down to the floor and kissed by the Canuck and asked to stay. Taking my hand in hers, she led us drunkenly down the stairs and through the winding hallways of the hostel into a large vacant dormitory of a dozen bunk beds, none of which appeared to be occupied bar one in the corner where inevitably her backpack lay under the bed. As we stripped down to underwear and passionately kissed, she pushed me down onto the bed and climbed on top of me. It was here that it became evident that inviting someone to your room on New Year's Eve has different repercussions in different parts of the world as she paused and spoke those fateful words: “I love my boyfriend, so can we just cuddle?”

  With disappointment, we awkwardly proceeded to share the single bed as sleep descended and at first light, when consciously becoming aware of the situation I had found myself in, I gathered my things, got dressed and searched for a hasty exit. After traversing the multiple stairs and hallways that constituted this strange little hostel, I found myself in the lobby where curled up on the couch under moth-eaten blankets, was the Israeli and the Swede, wide awake. They enquired about the events of the night and we all had good laugh at the state of affairs of foreign boyfriends and to change the subject, I began to question them of their intended plans. As it turned out, they were in the process of organizing transport down the mountains to Chitwan to visit the elephant sanctuaries . . . just as we had. So I regaled them with tales of impending doom on buses held together with duct tape and hope and the visible signs of trucks having gone off the edge and bid them farewell.

  As I made my way out of the hostel doors, I was confronted with an intersection of narrow alleyways all leading into the unknown. As I did not exactly remember the path we took to arrive at this location, I instinctively turned to the left and with scraping feet made my way past locals going about their day to their bemusement of my walk of shame. With much luck, I suddenly found myself shuffling past the Garden of Dreams and with that as a designated landmark, I felt much more assured in my internal compass and before too long found myself strolling through the tourist district where my sobriety and solid memories had been left behind. As the stomach burned with emptiness and the liver whimpered with damage, I went in search of breakfast to both consume and to bring home to the apartment and soon stood before a small restaurant hawking crepes and coffee. This I had deemed would be exactly what the body required - pastries drenched in chocolate sauce and washed down with cups of sweet, sweet warmth. With a gallant effort, I held my shredded stomach in place as I methodically took apart the dish in front of me and stumbled back into the now bustling streets. As I walked back through the district, I was drawn again to the bakery by the smell of freshly cooked bread products and I could not resist acquiring an assortment of products to bring back home as treats.

  Entering the hotel, I was greeted with a mixture of shock and hugs. As it turns out, Sarah had been awake and worried for my well-being for hours, downing valiums while dancing with increasingly sinister thoughts involving me being locked up in jail as a result of an act of traditional drunken stupidity or laying in some godforsaken bath tub downtown, missing organs, both of which realistically were valid concerns. With my tribal peace offerings of pastries well received I shared my story of the debacle that unfolded around me the night before before crawling my way into bed to pass out in comfort and attempt to regain my composure. We did after all have a long flight ahead of us this day. Sigh.

  Chapter Eighteen: Traversing The Mountains For Palm Trees

  Throughout the remainder of our last hours spent in Nepal, I broke in and out of consciousness until I was convinced to help search for some legitimate food to tide us over for our flight back to South East Asia as to avoid eating more of the bactiera-ridden aeroplane meal. This seemed entirely logical, so we ventured back down into the tourist district to dine on some delightfully creamy pasta and do some last minute shopping for more completely unnecessary small nick nacks. We returned back to the Isis Bar for final time and were presented with some traditional prayer beads as parting gifts. With feelings of embarrassment and contentment, we bid farewell to our new found friends Samesh and Sonam and then slipped them a months wages in handshakes and hugs and we were on our way. Good byes are best left short and sweet.

  As we returned to the apartment for the final time, we silently packed up the remainder of our things into their bags and attempted to clean up slightly. The pried open windows were secured shut once more with the hopes that no one would look out of them and see the magnitude of cigarette butts that littered the roof top below us. We left a note of thanks and good blessings on the dresser trimmed with half a dozen key rings that would no doubt ensure their secrecy for our indiscretions. And with a click of the door, we descended to the awaiting taxi and made our way back through the winding streets to the airport where we boarded our hazy, red-eyed flight to leave the mountain regions behind for the tropical islands that lay around Malaysia. Unfortunately once again it was pitch black by the time we were in the air, so there was no opportunity to see the undulating landscapes below us once more.

  As the intense hangover began to part ways for delirium, our aeroplane came into land into the relatively deserted section of Kuala Lumpur airport. We shuffled our way through the concourses hoping to find something to settle the waves of nausea but alas found nothing but stares and quizzical looks, as while our smelly winter hippy clothing were duly sufficient for the cold mountain air, it was evidently not a wise nor popular choice for the ever warm tropics. As we had not sle
pt on the flight across continents nor eaten the dismal concoction that passed for food, we now found ourselves in the seemingly desperate hunter-gatherer state of mind as our nutrient levels dropped below critical. The disheveled she-beast in particular was significantly lacking in energy and was well and truly on the borderline of another spell of hypoglycemic shock, so I wrapped her up in my excessive jumpers on a spare bench seat in the terminal and went in search of chocolate products from the convenience store located some gates away. Upon my return, we were soon both drifting in and out of consciousness while feebly snacking on sugar laden treats perched in foetal positions under jumpers until our connecting flight was called and we wearily followed the crowd of Hawaiian shirts and flip flops into another small plane for our short ride to the island of Langkawai.

  Upon landing of our second joy ride for the day, we once more gathered our bags and backpacks and wearily made our way through the brightly lit and comparatively sparkling terminus, stepping through the sliding glass doors of the arrival lounge into the morning island air. We stood around aimlessly out the front of the terminal, smoking cigarettes and hoping to be picked up by a taxi by the means of telepathy. After some time of being ignored, a driver also on a smoke break approached and informed us that there was procedures in place and we would have to seek out the desk inside the terminal that allocated tickets to ride. Armed with this information in hand, we took the first available car through the island of palm trees, past a small local fishing village and into the Tubor hotel, of whom’s novelty value lay in in the oddly design of its rooms – essentially large concrete tubes laid on their sides facing out towards the sparkling blue ocean.

  We arrived at our beach shack at the reasonable hour of 9 AM but alas found ourselves too early to be able to check in and were thus asked if we minded lounging around on the deck until our room was ready. We abandoned our luggage behind the check-in desk and eloped onto the large wooden deck that over-looked the ocean and retreated to a large day bed to sit and gaze out at our surroundings. We were surely not dressed for the occasion, as couples in their bathers and bikinis lounged around with cocktails and played ping pong, we sprawled out in jumpers and thick pants, nauseated, sweating buckets and lapsing into heat stroke. As the minutes passed, Sarah fell asleep across our small backpacks to enjoy the delirium dreams of exhaustion and sun stroke whilst I found good use of our newly converted currency and purchased the cheapest beers and cigarettes on offer.

  After some ludicrous amount of hours and with many, many more beers consumed in the interim, we were finally permitted to our tubular room, to change out of our smelly mountain clothing and into something more geographically sensible. Whilst Sarah recovered from her punishment time in the sun, I sat out of the front of our room overlooking the islands and a small pirate ship bobbing out at sea in the while preserving with the established routine of drinking cheap beers. It was here that I met our neighbor, Alisha. A bubbly and energetic, youthful yet middle aged woman from Kuala Lumpur, who had initially come on holiday with her daughter and her friends but found that she needed to escape and have some time to herself. She engaged me in rapid conversation, asking details of our trip so far and enquiries as to our private lives before over sharing with copious amounts of details of her own. Having not slept and now into the higher digits of cans conversation continued and monologs were spoken. As it turned out, Alisha was a real estate agent in the area and was a wealth of local knowledge. This island that we had arrived at was her weekend escape, and in between mixing large amounts of vodka and lemonade into water bottles, she assured us that she was friends with many of the restaurant and bar owners and if we would allow, she would gladly show us all the things to see in her back yard. Graciously we accepted, as in reality, neither Sarah nor myself really knew where we were nor what this island had to offer.

  And that is how it came to be that we drunkenly accepted a ride into the heart of the island in Alisha's car to a small restaurant on the beach where some of her friends had apparently been whiling away the day consuming cocktails at the waters edge. Between ordering drinks for ourselves we listened in to this sordid group of English exchange teachers tell their stories of suspect sexual encounters and generic debauchery whilst relaxing under the canopy of palm trees and advertising gazebos. With more alcoholic concoctions absorbing their way into the stomach, Alisha ventured a query at the possibilities of jet ski activities. Sarah in her wisdom of past experiences waved this suggestion away whilst the idea generated a notion of excitement in myself and was readily agreed to. With stumbling feet, we made our way down the beach to sign the relevant wavers of responsibility and were sat upon our water mounts. With a brief introduction to the areas of the bay where the skis were not allowed, which was generally near and around the cluster of small islands where the rocks were subtly exposed above the waves. As soon as our minders crept their way back to the shore line, the accelerators were engaged and all notions of safety were left in the wake as these motorized monstrosities belched their way across the water.

  As there was no breaking mechanism on such machines, it seemed logical that there should be nothing but throttle and wild sporadic directional changes as we skirted past sail boats and zipped past other riders. Whilst this did produce a large amount of spray as the machines attempted to spin backwards, it also allowed for many opportunities to fly off the seat and hit the water at speed requiring a drunken swim back to the craft. With the sea based shenanigans complete, Alisha and I high fived our way back up the beach before making our way to the canopy where we had left our compadres, who had very obviously kept themselves entertained with streams of happy hour cocktails . . . and so we took it as our cue to order ourselves another round of drinks. As the sun began to set between the islands jutting out in the distance and the glasses piled up on the table before us, the suggestion of attending the night markets was brought forward. The novelty value of such an excursion was not lost on us and so this was again readily agreed to.

  We quickly departed our table and we soon found ourselves piled drunkenly into the rental car once more and zooming down the back streets of the island. We parked on the side of the road, successfully on the third attempt, surrounded by fields and rice paddies and made our way into the generator powered lights of the markets. Since I was still barefoot, the first port of call in this plethora of stalls hawking their imitations wares was to sift through the pile of shoes to find a pair of thongs that were reasonably close to my size. With the newly acquired sensation of walking on air, we then continued around the labyrinth of markets, gorging on the endless banquets of local delicacies that were being cooked in slightly questionable conditions before heading back to the hotel to hope away the statistical probability of gastroenteritis.

  Chapter Nineteen: Tiki Bars, Bonfires And Missing Time

  I was awoken the following morning by the sound of chatter emanating from outside the room and rolled over to see Sarah and our self appointed tour guide conversing over smuggled vodkas on the deck. Between the recharging of ice and lemonade, it had been decided that we would venture back into town and do another round of shopping at one of the duty free megastores to resupply on cheap cigarettes and even cheaper booze. So with another suspiciously drunken car ride, we found ourselves back on the main strip and on the hunt for novelty t-shirts and cocktails before stepping through the extravaganza that is tax free shopping, where baskets were filled with items of debauchery and tiny key rings. With dumb trinkets secured, we made our way to a small restaurant on the shoreline in an attempt to line the stomachs with food stuffs before ingesting more highly volatile alcoholic cocktails. As we dined, we were informed by Alicia that there was a heavy metal club on the island, and since she was friendly with the owners, it was decided that we should go as we would sure to be well looked after. With the running theme of bad karaoke, it was agreed that no doubt it at the very least would no doubt be an interesting way to close out our trip.

  After venturing back to the hotel to
change into more appropriate island attire and consume more homemade vodka infused concoctions, we found ourselves driving back off into the night to find this fabled rock club. Whilst in the car park, we transferred our booze into plastic bottles in a shameless, if not wholly symbolic attempt of sneaky deception and made our way up to the large wooden doors of the establishment . . . only to be greeted by the unmistakable synth pop sound of Katy Perry emanating throughout. With resignation that it was obvious that the term ‘heavy metal’ club had been very loosely prescribed, we nonetheless committed to the disaster that would be this night since we had by now long already swapped our death metal attire for sun dresses, beads and hideous Cookie Monster t-shirts, so it almost seemed quite fitting. Conveniently, a day spent consuming vodka and cocktails bypassed the notion of shame and we found ourselves sidling in towards the bar.

  With the first obligatory alcoholic drink ordered, we met up with the English teachers from the previous day at a side table, where we were free from there on in to acquire copious amounts of soft drink in an effort to appear sensible. However, as we were mixing our own drinks at the table this would ensure that this would indeed not be the case. As we sat back and surveyed the scene of this abstract tiki bar, it seemed obvious that the clientele consisted of a similar crowd as one would expect in a standard tropical island kind of way. A healthy mixture of shit faced tourists making questionable decisions and local hash dealers targeting those said tourists. The live band played on a miniature stage in the center of the dance floor and also took requests from the crowds but strangely not the obligatory Pantera and Metallica token classics that one might expect from a “heavy metal rock club”. Whilst slightly disappointed at this, amusement was found in watching what we were told were the local gigolos bump and grind their way to fame on the inebriated middle aged women. As tradition would required of the situation, I had soon finished off my smuggled bottle of vodka in a handful of drinks while the trusted and tropical she-beast was becoming nonchalant and increasingly disappointed in our surroundings. Sarah and Alicia were in the mood to head back to the hotel and get an early night so that they could be up early for massages before the flight home. In my delusional wisdom I sequestered the remainder of her vodka and decided to stay on and drink with the disorderly bunch of teachers. As the increasing amount of alcohol took hold, I found myself dancing about like a lost soul within this group of vagabonds until it was suggested that we continue the party elsewhere.