The post Around The World In 180 Days appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

After three super-chilled nights on laid-back Lanta, it’s time for a change of scenery once again, so today we’re taking another ferry – this time to Krabi. Each ferry ride takes a couple of hours, costs about 350 baht per person (about £8) and includes minibus transfers to the pier.

We savour the last morning at Moonlight Exotic Bay Resort; pottering around collecting shells and watching the hermit crabs crawling across the rocks. The hotel supplies delicious-smelling organic aromatherapy bath products by a brand I’ve not heard of called Voyag, and we decide to purchase gallons of them when we check out. I’m fully aware that recreating the tranquillity and beauty of Thailand in my 2-bed terrace in Kent may take some imagination, but I’m hoping that the scents and textures will jog my memory, and if I squeeze my eyes really tight I’ll be transported back to Koh Lanta…

I’m jolted from my daydream by the horn-honking of our ride to the pier, and we squeeze into the van alongside a large Chinese family. The ferry departs at 1.30, and by 3.15pm the stunning rock formations of Krabi are coming into view…

We are staying at Railay Beach, which is only reachable by longtail boat, so we have to clamber in a most ungainly fashion over the side of the ferry and onto the much smaller boats below, which hold about ten people each. As Ali G used to say: “West siiiide is da best siiide!” and sure enough, Railay West is the best, with a white sandy beach and a stunning backdrop of cliffs all around – yet accommodation gets very booked up and more expensive on this side, so like us, most people on our longtail are staying at Railay East. Our taxi-boat owner wants to charge everyone another 200 baht each to take us over to the east side, but the loud protests indicate that nobody is prepared to pay extra since we’d all been told the price we’d already paid was direct to Railay East. This unfortunately riles our skipper, who mutters what I can only assume are Thai profanities under his breath, before stopping the boat miles from the beach and demanding we all get out. Oh.

Being the stoic (ie stubborn) Westerners that we are, we refuse to pay again; instead piling suitcases, rucksacks (and even babies in one family’s case) onto our heads and wading in the sea up to our thighs all the way to the beach. The shallows in Krabi go for miles! And the tide seems to come waaay in and out at a surprising rate. To add to the challenge, the sea is full of rocks and chunks of dead coral, leading to several stubbed toes, grazes and yelps of pain. We tentatively inch forward using our toes to feel the way before putting our full weight down – not easy when you’re carrying 15kgs of luggage above your head.

Finally, we’re back on dry land, and head over the skinny peninsula to the east side. The first thing that hits us on this mid-afternoon mission is the smell: weed.

Everywhere you look there are Jamaican colours, references to Bob Marley and stoner hippy types; the unmistakable aroma of weed curls under your nose as it emanates from the shack-style bars made from wood and palm leaves. I’m slightly surprised by how brazen it is, since there are few places scarier to get caught with drugs than Thailand. Having met a few people on my travels who have experienced Thai jails, I hear that ‘Bangkok Hilton’ is not too far from reality…

We pass an area we later nickname ‘Monkey Corner’ on our way to our hotel, so-called because it’s home to a large number of cheeky macaques, who flirt with tourists before attempting to steal food, sunglasses, or whatever unsecured items they can get their little mitts on. Don’t be fooled by their seduction techniques, the Monkey Mafia is responsible for most of the organised crime in Railay. Finally, we come to our hotel over on the east side and instantly see why this side’s cheaper: the beach is not so much a beach as an area of dense mangroves, and the tide is way out, revealing a kind of brown muddy silt rather than inviting white sand.

The Anyavee hotel is a world away from Lanta’s fabulous Moonlight Bay, but is directly on the beach, has a decent pool and is nice enough for our requirements for a few nights. After unpacking a bit we head back out for a mosey around, and Luke and I decide to sample The Black Pearl’s mushroom shake, washing it down with a vodka mango.

Mum, meanwhile, is sipping a fruit shake on the beach. An hour or so later and the mushroom concoction seems to be doing its thang; I feel mildly giddy and giggly…and then completely paranoid. Time seems to slow down to a ridiculous pace – so much so that it feels like about midnight…but is actually only 8pm. Ha! We watch the sunset on the beach, surrounded by hippies, then eat Pad Thais and have a few cocktails at one of the few restaurants, before taking Mum back to the hotel room to bed.

Having mocked all the cautious tourists carrying huge rolled-up umbrellas around “just in case”, they have the last laugh when the heavens open on the way back to the hotel and we are promptly soaked to the skin. When it rains in Thailand, it RAINS. We’re talking biblical proportions. We retreat to our rooms to wait for the rain to stop, and eventually it does…but the water outside my room is calf-deep, and Luke has to come and rescue me. Having seen a few snakes already in Thailand, I’m paranoid that they’ll be out in force after the downpour.

Wading back to the Black Pearl in Railay West, we order some more drinks and chat to some people as we all sit around the bar, including a dishevelled hippy couple and a pretty British actress from West London who’s travelling alone, having split from her husband. A blind Thai man approaches the bar and starts fire-dancing – which is pretty impressive in itself, as he throws the lit baton high into the air…and then he takes it to another level by balancing on a tightrope between two trees at chest-height whilst spinning his lit batons this way and that.

Feeling peckish, we go off in search of salt and vinegar crisps (Luke and I are huge fans), avoiding the bullfrogs crossing our paths, and then, slightly squiffy, eat a giant family-sized bag each in bed before falling asleep on a bed of crumbs. Stay classy!

30th January

Whilst eating our breakfast with one hand and swatting away a ridiculous amount of wasps with the other (fancy putting bowls of jam out at the buffet…fail!), we spot a huge snake swimming in the sea, weaving its way towards the mangroves. I knew my snake fears were not unfounded!

Despite the dramas on Phi Phi when we trekked up to the viewing point (I was sick as a dog from food poisoning and almost collapsed in the midday sun), we decide to check out the hike to Railay’s viewpoint this morning. We make the short walk across to Ao Phra Nang beach and caves, which is where the viewpoint starts. And then we stop. The pathway up to the viewpoint is via a vertical climb up a cliff-face covered in orange clay, with only a rope for assistance. We decide to give it a miss, as we watch other tourists puffing and panting in the 35-degree heat, clinging to the rope, slippery with sweat as they search out their next foothold. There is no such thing as Health and Safety in Thailand, and I’m gobsmacked to see parents pushing terrified kids as young as three or four past the warning signs and up the cliff face, which is extra-slippery after the deluge last night. What the…?!

We marvel at the mystical stalactites and stalagmites of the huge caves as we follow the pathway through them. As we round the corner onto the beach, we’re taken aback: the view is breathtaking. So many times on this trip we’ve been bowled over by the outstanding natural beauty of these islands. Words simply cannot describe it. ‘Paradise’ sounds like a tired old cliché, but it’s the closest word I can think of to describe this place: gorgeous white sands and crystal clear waters set against a backdrop of limestone cliffs covered in dense green foliage. Simply unforgettable.

Obviously, we’re not the only ones who think so, and this is high season (October to March), so the beach is pretty busy, with people of all nationalities delighting in the sun, sea and scenery. Longtail boats fashioned as street food stalls are lined up along the shore, and the aromas of lemongrass and garlic fill the air.

We find ourselves a decent spot directly opposite the vast shard of rock jutting out from the ocean and Luke and I challenge ourselves to swim out to it. It’s further than it looks, and we are exhausted by the time we’ve swum there and back.

We collapse in the sun to dry off, before checking out one of the longtail food stalls for lunch. A meal is the equivalent of just a pound or two and is delicious. We wash it down with fruit shakes and spend the afternoon soaking up the sun (okay, getting burnt to a cinder). An hour or so later the tide has gone out so much that people are now able to simply wade through the sea across to the mountain we’d taken ages to swim over to earlier.

The more adventurous holidaymakers are scaling the limestone cliffs under the close supervision of skilled rock-climbers, and Luke and I go for a walk, spotting the famous fertility shrine, which is basically a series of large carved wooden phalluses strategically positioned in the opening (vagina) of a little cave. Oo-er missus!

When the sun gets too much we go back to the hotel and chill by the pool, being entertained by a family of curious macaque monkeys who jump and cavort around in front of us. Things turn mischievous when they decide to tip the bins out looking for food, and the hotel staff are not impressed with the mess, throwing stones to try and scare them off. Our hotel obviously hasn’t paid its protection money, so the Monkey Mafia has shown up to show them who’s boss, chucking bottles and food wrappers over their shoulders as they forage around for tidbits. Eventually they’ve had enough, and move onto the next establishment, sneering over their shoulders with a look that says: “We’ll be back…”

The evening brings another ark-worthy deluge so we eat at a restaurant close to the hotel before heading off to bed, ready for an early start in the morning when we’ll hike up to the viewpoint.

31st January

The next morning the sun is shining as brightly as ever; zero evidence remains of the monsoon from the night before. Considering this is the dry season, it’s rained more (only at night, thankfully) during this trip than the times I’ve visited Thailand in the rainy season.

Did I say ‘we’ would be trekking up to the viewpoint? I meant Luke. When we arrive at the base of the muddy mountain, Mum and I look up at it dubiously…before opting to wait on the beach nearby.

I think we’ll just settle for seeing his pictures, I think to myself. Sure enough, Luke comes back some time later, having got covered from head to foot in red clay and leaked out several pints of sweat. We swim, sun ourselves and feast on treats from the boat sellers. Yesterday was salt and pepper shrimp; today basil chicken with vegetables.

Later, we take a longtail boat (300b) around the headland to Tonsai Bay, where a curious lizard tries to climb into Luke’s bag, before resting his weary head on a little rock. Cute!

Then….dun dun dunnnn….disaster strikes. Mum gets ill. Like really ill. We’re sitting at a beach bar when she gets that panic-stricken look that has become all too familiar on this holiday; it either means one of us is about to throw up…or follow-through. Usually both. She scuttles off, thighs clamped together, to the loo around the back of the bar, and is violently ill. On these beaches, there’s always the grave danger of a shart attack. No that’s not a typo – sharting is a real and present danger; more likely and almost as attention-grabbing as a shark attack. We have to get her back to the hotel, but the boats have all disappeared, it’s scorching hot and we’re literally stranded on a desert island. Uh oh. Fortunately, by the time she is able to regain her composure enough to stagger along, crab-stylee, the tide has gone out again and we manage to manhandle her over the rocks and around the bay until we’re safely back at Railay. She’s sick as a dog and doesn’t leave the room again until we have to travel the next day to Phang Nga. Man down!

With Mum out of the game, Luke and I decide to stay close to the hotel and sit by the pool. We’re glad we do, as we’re once again treated to the nightly show by the troop of wild monkeys, and we have ringside seats by the bins.

Once again, they fool about, terrorising tourists, much to the fury of the staff….only this time there’s another breed of monkey as well as the mischievous macaques: the capuchins. These gorgeous creatures have smaller, rounder heads, black rings around their eyes, and are much more well behaved. If the macaques are ASBO hoodies, the capuchins are the innocent little choir boys.

Remember Chicaboo monkey toys in the eighties? These are real-life versions of those. They swing from the trees, playing and cuddling…and then I see possibly the cutest thing I’ve Ever. Seen. In. My. Life. A mother capuchin cradling a tiny ginger baby. Oh em geeeee! Off the charts gorgeous! I manage to capture a photo of mum and baby:

Another night, another EPIC storm, as the black sky is illuminated by forks of lightning over the limestone cliffs. At least the sound of the rain hitting the tin roof next door drowns out the sounds of Mum’s death-throe groans. Luke and I venture out for pizza and Changs, before hitting the hay, ready for the (400b) mission of a trip to Phang Nga in the morning, involving a longtail boat and no less than three buses…

Published tomorrow:

The Thai Diaries: Phang Nga Bay (6/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries: Krabi (5/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

For this particular island-hopping adventure we fly directly into Phuket from Gatwick for three nights, then a two-hour ferry to Phi Phi for three nights, then another ferry to Koh Lanta for three nights, then a ferry to Krabi for – yes, you guessed it – three nights. Then it’s on to Phang Nga (Pang Ahhh) for a night in the jungle followed by one final night back in Phuket before our Saturday morning flight home. So it’s a circular anti-clockwise island tour planned solely by Yours Truly with a little bit of helpful input from my good mates Google, Booking.com (this link gives you £15 off) and Hotels.com. We’re away for fifteen days: two direct 12-hour flights, three ferries, six hotels (all three or four stars and great reviews). Sound pricey? Nah! The entire trip has cost us less than £750 each. A weekend in Ibiza costs more than that. Sweet, huh? I’ll write a separate blog post about how to bag the best holiday bargains later…

So, the flight to Phuket is deemed a success by both De Mama and myself, having met the major qualifying criteria that I judge airlines by, which are a). air stewards smiling genuinely, rather than plastering on a lipsticked grimace whilst cursing their customers ventriloquist-style to one another and thinking we’re either too dumb or drunk on the drinks trolley offerings to notice. Which brings me nicely to point b). liberal application of free wines and spirits to aforementioned customers, served with a cheeky wink rather than a jobsworth’s calculation of alcohol measured to 3 decimal points of a cubic millilitre, and c) sufficient legroom for a six-footer like myself, without having to pay an arm and a leg for an emergency exit seat, or saw off an arm and a leg in order to fit in a regular one. Nice one Tui – you did good.

Stepping off the plane at 7am, we’re hit by a wall of humid heat. It’s as though we’ve stuck our heads into a furnace; we’re wearing our winter-in-London woollies and are instantly sweating like pigs at a disco. Once inside the terminal building, it’s clear we’re going to be here for a while: poker-faced customs officials are painstakingly photographing each person and slowly sorting visas (which are issued for thirty days upon arrival – no need to arrange prior to travel from the UK – which is handy, at least). Less handy is the fact that several planes have come in at once; humans of every flavour and ethnic origin are shedding clothes like we’re at the International Strip Polka Championships. It’s clear we’ll be here for the duration. Ninety minutes later and we’re finally through. I clap eyes on my GBF (Gay Best Friend) Luke in the arrivals hall – he’s just flown in from Kuala Lumpur – grab our bags from the carousel and the three amigos are finally ready to rock and roll.

Our hotel is called Swiss Villas Panoramic, and there’s a teeny clue in the title: in order to get those ‘panoramic’ views they boast about on the website, it is obviously very high up. Which is great…but not exactly ideal when the minibus drops us off at the bottom of the steps and we have to haul our baggage plus our jetlagged asses up a gazillion tiny steps in the blistering heat. Wearing jeans. And thick flight socks. My ears are popping more from the climb up to the hotel than the flight take-off. I need one of De Mama’s boiled sweets for the ascent. We are greeted at the top by our hosts with a ‘welcome drink’ as promised – which is very welcome indeed, seeing as we’re red-faced and gasping for breath like three (unfit) fish out of water.

The most we can muster is a swim in the rooftop pool, a melanin-awakening sunbathing sesh accompanied by the first of many outdoor Thai green curries and an ice cold Chang (or three), then it’s time to catch some much-needed zeds.

Much later, we wake in darkness. Looking out of our little villa over Phuket, we can now appreciate just why they decided to build the place at such altitude: the view is breathtaking. Thousands of twinkling lights from the district’s many buildings adorn the night sky like diamonds, and there’s a light breeze at this height which takes some of the humidity from the air. Up here it’s still like having a hairdryer aimed at your face, but it’s set to medium rather than hot; a welcome relief after an energy-sapping day of unaccustomed heat for us squid-skinned Brits.

We have a cheeky drink at the bar before heading out to explore Patong. The district’s main ‘walking street’ is Bangla Road: an intoxicating blend of blaring music, dancing ‘girls’ (some with giveaway bulging Adam’s apples and a five o’clock shadow) winding and a-grinding round poles, bars, restaurants and shops. It has a distinct flavour of the Khao San Road, which any traveller worth their salt will be familiar with – compulsory backpacker-circuit stuff.

Slightly shell-shocked and jetlagged, we slide into the seats in a randomly-chosen restaurant and select a set menu for three, for convenience. It arrives on segmented school dinner-style trays and we tuck in hungrily. Within seconds, red-hot chilli juice has hit the back of my throat and I proceed to choke almost to death for the next half hour, much to the bemusement of the proprietor. A tourist clutching their throat and writhing about in agony in full view of passers-by browsing the menu outside is hardly good for business, is it? I guzzle down water by frantically upending the bottle like a marathon runner at mile twenty-five and attempt to stifle my agony. Red-faced and eyes bulging for the second time that day, I concede defeat and head home to bed – even the fact that Sven Vath is headlining at the Illuzion nightclub a few doors down doesn’t tempt me. Whaat?! I know, I know: I’m getting O.L.D.

21st January 2018

We wake up refreshed and excited, the entire two-week adventure stretching ahead of us. You just can’t beat those First Day Feels (FDFs); the ones you get when you’ve successfully shrugged off the monotony of the rat-race and life feels full of endless possibilities. And in Thailand those possibilities are even more endless than anywhere else. Why? Because they are CHEAP. Maaannn are they cheap. To a Westerner, everything is just so goddamn, ridiculously, laughably, cheap. You wanna feel like a millionaire, even just for a little while? The answer…is South. East. Asia, my friend. I keep expecting them to get the memo and create a two-currency system or something, like in Cuba (which I visited last year). The Cubans have one currency for the locals…and another for fleecing wealthy foreigners. Clever, huh? But no, Thailand and the surrounding countries are still dirt cheap. Huzzah! Compared to the absolute rip-off central that is London, Thailand is a skinflint’s wet dream. You can buy an entire main meal, including drink and dessert, for the price of your morning coffee at Starbucks (other equally-overpriced coffee chains are also available). Hence why this newly-unemployed ‘writer’ (I still feel like a fraud describing myself as a writer without mentally adding an asterisked explanation – or at the very least inverted commas) has chosen this holiday destination. It was a no-brainer.

Anyway, I digress. We inhale the breakfast buffet, which has been lovingly handmade by the proud Swiss owner right down to the jam and muesli (well, it would’ve been rude not to, right?) before heading out to find the nearest massage shop.

Did I mention it was cheap here? An hour-long, full body massage, including clicking of every knuckle and walking barefoot up and down your spine (believe me, no muscle is left unturned), costs the princely sum of…drum roll please…five pounds. Yes, that’s right folks: an hour of bending, twisting and face-pulling as the Thai ladies fold your body into positions not even found in the Karma Sutra (Contortionists Edition), costs a single crisp five pound note. 250 baht. In London, that exact same hour is gonna set you back around fifteen times that amount. And these women don’t mess about; a Thai massage is like a strenuous workout. Not that I would know what one of those feels like, granted. I can’t remember the last time I set foot in a gym. Needless to say, I don’t need a Happy Ending to bounce out of there an hour later with a Cheshire Cat grin plastered on my boat race. Fully limbered up, it’s time to hit the beach.

People-watching on the sand is one of my favourite pastimes, and there’s a lot going on on Patong Beach: sellers touting their wares, couples cavorting, jet skis whizzing, and the smell of a thousand dishes mingling from the many restaurants, luring us up to the nearest one. We sip colourful Del Boy-esque cocktails and eat delicious Pad Thai, sprinkling the ground peanuts on top with a squirt of fresh lime, before heading back to sit by the pool.

Feeling frazzled, we get ready to go out before a quick tequila shot at the bar with the Thai co-owner. My (sixty-five year old, usually teetotal) mum Pat gets carried away on the breeze of those FDFs, and spontaneously opts for an ignited B52 from the drinks menu….and almost spontaneously combusts as she sucks the liquid petrol up the straw.

Taking a few deep breaths, she regains her composure sufficiently for the steep walk back down to the town. Good girl! We opt for the more sophisticated surroundings of the Beyond Patong Sky Bar this evening, a rooftop bar located high above the chaos that is Patong at night, and sip our cocktails in an unusually civilised fashion. Then we have dinner nearby and book a cabana at Kudo Beach Club for the next day, hoping for a spot of pool-party action.

22nd January

Kudo Beach Club is an upmarket establishment, Western in style: think large four-poster beds around a large slate-tiled pool, fluffy towels, house music, DJs – this place wouldn’t look out of place in Ibiza. Which is right up our Strasse. So we attempt to create a beachy-but-glam vibe with our attire (basically swimwear with makeup – and that may or may not include Luke), then position ourselves carefully on our private bed and try to look elegant. For about ten minutes. Then we make for the swim-up bar and start ploughing into the cocktails.

Well what did you expect? We’re British, it’s in our DNA. The minimum spend for a cabana is 2000 baht, about forty quid. This is actually quite a lot by Thai standards, but as I said, we’re Brits, so we don’t bat an eyelid and have achieved the spend by about…oooh…lunchtime. The sun is shining, the drinks are slipping down nicely and the choons being crooned are soothing our souls. By the time the DJ turns up mid-afternoon the place is buzzing…and so are we.

Enjoying the vibe and determined to get our money’s worth out of our cabana, we stay by the poolside until it’s late, pitch black, and they are literally tipping us off it. The bill is 5000 baht, about £35 each, which is an absolute bargain considering the amount of food and drink we’ve put away. If this was Europe it’d be five times that. We stop on the way home for a hearty bowl of noodle soup in our swimwear (well it’s still 33 degrees at 10pm and we’re too sozzled to be self-conscious so we figure “What the hell!”) before hitting the hay, for tomorrow we set sail for Phi Phi island…

Published tomorrow: 

The Thai Diaries: Phi Phi (3/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thai Diaries: Phuket (2/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

19th January 2018

Right, Thailand! I need your help. (“Again?!” I hear you mumble, raising your eyes heavenwards.) Sorry, yes. I need you to fix me. Just saying your name is like drizzling honey onto my soul, giving me the sugar high I need to keep me going until I catch a glimpse of you once more from my window seat on the plane, chosen specifically for that moment.

Like an old lover you’ll scoop me up in the arms I know so well, and all the wintery chills and memories of ills will seep from my brittle bones, to be replaced by your comfort and warmth. I’ll nestle against your shoulder, breathing in your characteristic aroma that I’ve dreamt of continuously since our last liaison, as you brush away my tears and dry them with sunshine.

With the tender love of a mother, you’ll nurture me with good food, warm air and blue skies, and rock me to sleep with lullabies sung by the sapphire-blue ocean lapping at the shores.

And if for some reason the spell has been broken and we no longer find ourselves entwined with love…

..at least I’ll have De Mama with me to share Sangsom buckets and dance to tinny techno on the sand.

I’m roused from my dreamy musings by Mum’s frantic nudging, her elbows jabbing my ribs in alarm as the whiskery warthog of a man in the seat next to hers on this 787 Dreamliner is stroking her calf with his outstretched toes.

“He’s playing footsie with me!” she hisses, and I lean over to take a look, before peering over the seat in front where his middle-aged wife is snoring gently, her snood-style hoody pulled up over equally hooded eyelids. The toggle on the drawstring collar is pulled tight, her entire face concealed, reminding me of a slumbering slug in a polo neck.

Mum yanks her leg away from Warthog and passes me the white wine she’s just accepted from the flight attendant even though she has no intention of drinking it. One sip of alcohol and her face is the colour of a baboon’s backside, so I kindly take it off her hands and consume it myself instead. I know, I’m all heart. Mum takes this as her cue to recount a recent incident whereby she and my younger sister, who is also always willing to take alcohol off her hands, attended a local healthy living exhibition. Whilst receiving a skin diagnosis, the therapist pointed out Mum’s ruddy complexion and remarked: “Like a drink, do we?” Teetotal Mum could only gawp at the audacity of the woman, whilst my sister Karen sniggered Muttley-style into the face-hole of the massage table she was lying on.

What she misses out on in alcohol she makes up with in-flight meals and boiled sweets (“essential for stopping ears popping”) and the 12-hour flight passes without further event, save for the diminutive woman in the row parallel to ours constantly popping the lock on the overhead storage cabin and climbing up on the seat like a cheeky capuchin monkey to retrieve some random item or other.

Finally, the pilot makes that welcome announcement: “ Cabin crew: prepare for landing” and there she is: my favourite place on Earth. Thailand. Land of Smiles. It’s like coming home…

Published tomorrow:

The Thai Diaries: Phuket (2/6)

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
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The post The Thai Diaries (1/6) appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I’ve always valued experiences over things, and this is never clearer in my mind than upon returning from South East Asia, where people have far less stuff but always seem so much happier than us Western folk. Can you relate?

The Thing About Things 

The thing about things
Is that objects can’t talk
They won’t laugh at your jokes
Or come out for a walk

The thing about things
Is that stuff gathers dust
It clutters your house
Or turns into rust

The thing about things
Is they can’t make you better
They won’t say the right thing
Or cheer you up with a letter

The problem with things
Is the buzz won’t last long
You hand over your money
But what’s wrong is still wrong

The things that we buy
To fill holes that we’ve found
In our souls end up filling
Big holes in the ground

So whenever you think about buying a thing
Consider the happiness it may bring
If the thing won’t benefit your heart or your head
Put it back on the shelf
And buy an adventure instead.

Sam x

Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post The Thing About Things appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

I. Love. Travelling.

No surprises there – who doesn’t, eh? A boost of vitamin sea is usually just what the doctor ordered; a reminder of the rich tapestry of Mother Nature’s creative artwork that lies beyond the short-sighted humdrum of the nine-to-five. Travelling the world is one of the most enlightening and enriching lessons you can give yourself, more educational than any geography lecture or history class; providing a better understanding and appreciation for Planet Earth than any nature documentary. But if there’s one thing I love even more than stepping off a Boeing 747, savouring the moment my freshly-manicured trotters touch foreign tarmac, squinting in the sunlight before flipping down my shades to protect against a blazing sun that always seems that much brighter than back home – it’s the build-up to a trip. The vacation anticipation.

Don’t get me wrong, I love a last-minute bargain; snapping up a deal and heading off within days on an unplanned jolly is always a bonus – but you can’t beat the shivers of excitement that arise from carefully plotting a long-anticipated adventure. If I’m going to fork out the lion’s share of my salary on a trip then I want all the feels. I’ve paid through the nose for that excitement, so give it to me by the bucketload. I want to revel in glorious sun-drenched daydreams as I ride the 07.56 commuter train to Bromley surrounded by grey-faced grumbling gargoyles. I want to let my mind wander, conjuring up images of crystal-clear seascapes and swanky city-breaks as a glorious diversion from reading about the latest horrors in the newspapers.

Some people haphazardly pack their suitcase in a few minutes, slinging it all in willy-nilly an hour before they’re due to leave for the airport. Not me. I’ll have my case out of the loft and splayed open in the spare room at least a week before I fly. As a sunworshipper (with the telltale wrinkles and sunspots to prove it) my wardrobe consists of mostly summer garb. Oh I’m a fair-weather friend alright. Stick my face under a UV lamp and it’ll show more pigmentation patches than a Dalmatian, but boy do I have some nice summer dresses – and what’s a few freckles between friends, eh?

As I prepare for my next trip, I’ll lovingly take them out of the wardrobe, where they’ve no doubt been lurking in the darkness feeling neglected and unloved since my last trip due to our miserable British climate. I hold up the brightly-coloured wisps of skimpy fabric to my body as I turn this way and that in front of the mirror, allowing memories of tipsy moonlit walks on the beach and frenetic dancing at sunrise to come flooding back. If you look carefully you can see a scuff on my favourite sandals from scaling that cliff face in Thailand…or the catch in that top from getting caught on a branch in the Costa Rican rainforest. I won’t part with them, despite their imperfections, as my beloved memories are woven tightly into the fabric.

Those clothes make me happy; to me they symbolise freedom, fun, and adventures past and future. Away from the monotony of the daily grind, we’re free to indulge all our senses: tasting new foods; inhaling the aroma of exotic spices; experiencing unusual wildlife, cultures and architecture for the first time. Everything seems so fresh, it’s like being reborn; brain buzzing with electrical impulses as  neurons are fired up to process all this new information.

It’s when I’m travelling that I truly feel most alive, so anything that prolongs a trip is fine by me – be it planning, blogging or photography. Having forked out thousands on a six-month round-the-world trip in 2008, it was that sense of wanting to capture the memories that inspired me to start blogging in the first place. If ever something jogs my memory about a particular country, I can go to my blog and every detail is right there; I relive the moments in my head all over again.

As well as the wistful romanticising, I also love the practical pre-holiday prep: buying the travel guide from Amazon; plotting my route around a country. Routine trips to Superdrug suddenly become exciting when I’m in the market for mini travel toiletries. I know they’re not economical, but they’re just so goddamn cute! I add my next destination to my weather app so that I can flip between it’s blue skies and London’s bland ones on chilly grey days and remind myself why I go to work at all. I’ve even downloaded a countdown app so I can happily tick off the days from booking until trip time, excitement building as triple digits quickly become single ones and it’s time to check in online.

As each final item goes into the suitcase so does another sprinkle of fairy dust, until it’s time to zip up my luggage and head off on another memory-filled voyage into the unknown…

Next stop? Cuba, baby!

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Vacation Anticipation appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My last trip to Goa saw me tripping like a hippy at a hilltop rave. Unfortunately, this was not due to imbibing some fantastical mind-bending substance and having a “spiritual awakening” – you know, the kind those faux-Rasta gap yah brats bang on about down the pub on their return…to Kingston (Upon-Thames, not Kingston Town).

Ohhh no.

My hallucinations were due to my having imbibed some…human faeces. Yep, I’d basically eaten shit. Delicious. The holiday ended with me being whisked to hospital where I was quarantined and hooked up to a drip whilst the doctors scratched their heads and frantically tried to fathom whether I’d contracted malaria. Luckily(?), it turned out to be dysentery instead. On the plus side, I was as brown and skinny as a Pepperami within days – so much cheaper than a colonic, daaahling.

So, you may ask, why the hell am I Goa-n back for more? Well, you’re not a proper traveller until you’ve had a parasite eat you from the inside out, so I thought it only fair that Andy experience the delights of India too. I know, I know: I’m all heart (quite literally – that’s about the only internal organ I have left after that darned bug ravaged my guts).

There are various tiers to India, and it’s vital that you ease yourself into it gradually, in stages, like getting into an icy swimming pool. First, you visit Goa, which is basically India Lite: for beginners. Once you’ve built up your immune system you might want to progress to intermediate level: Mumbai. Only when you have guts of steel or a blackbelt in backpacking should you attempt the ninja stage: Delhi.

True to form, I feel as rough as a cat’s tongue within hours of take-off from Heathrow on our Air India flight. Everyone on the aircraft has already consumed two plane meals of curry, and the methane levels are rising to dangerous levels in the cabin. I’m already turning a deep shade of Kermit as passengers shift in their seats, bellies rumbling, releasing a steady stream of toxic gases. We are the only non-Indians on the flight. Our noses twitch like Bisto kids’, and I realise now why the crew confiscated Samsung phones: one spark from a dodgy Galaxy Note in here and we’d all go up in a fireball.

After a 22-hour journey, the first thing I want to do when we finally reach the hotel is shower and clean my teeth. Absent-mindedly, I run my toothbrush under the tap. Big mistake! The water in India is liquid poison: one drop and your insides melt like ice in the sun.

I then accidentally ingest a single molecule of H2O in the shower and frantically run around the bathroom naked to locate a towel, mouth open in a state of panic, like that little girl in Vietnam, the one who’d had Agent Orange dropped on her from a great height. Napalm is less toxic than the water here, let me tell you.

Hungry, we hit the hotel restaurant. As soon as the first mouthful of curry hits my stomach, my guts start churning like a washing machine on spin cycle. It may only cost a few hundred rupees, but it’s guaranteed to give you the poopees. The flavours are like fireworks going off in my mouth, and a nice cold Kingsfisher compliments them beautifully, but I know the true cost will be more than those few rupees. Sure enough, as Andy later snuffles and snores like a contented puppy, my immune system implodes and I’m writhing in agony with a classic case of Delhi belly.

Having spent most of the night sleeping upright on the loo popping Immodium Instants like sweets, my eyes are bulging like an overactive thyroid sufferer when I stagger down to breakfast in the morning, silently questioning my sanity for returning to this godforsaken land.

What do you eat in a country where everything is laced with chilli? I opt for a plain omelette. Unfortunately, an Indian’s idea of an omelette is a hot curry wrapped in a thin veil of egg. Sickos! After what’s left of my already-pounding head has been blown off, we take a taxi to Anjuna. I pray there are no shark attacks at the beach today, as we stroll gingerly along the hot sand, buttocks clenched.

Within seconds, swarms of stallholders descend on us, commenting on our “chicken skin” and attempting to drag us in various directions to “come look at my cheap rubbish” (their actual words, which did make us lol). Like careworn rag dolls, we are resigned to our fate and we stand patiently as I have sarongs draped on me, tacky ankle bracelets hooked on and all manner of tat thrust under my nose. Considering cows are sacred here, they seem to be rather fond of turning them into handbags, I think to myself as I cast a wary eye over their wares.

They ignore our feeble excuses that we have no money, although it is in fact true: the Indian government has withdrawn 500 and 1000 rupee notes overnight in a bid to combat the country’s huge fraud issues. There are mile-long queues snaking from every ATM and the banks are all closed as they are empty. We attempted to swop our cash in pounds for rupees at every exchange bureau we could find, to no avail. Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt when they were constantly told there was no room at the inn. The country is in a state of panic, with tales of people dying in the stampede for money on the front of the papers.

Eventually, we manage to get a stack of old notes when a security guard takes pity on our sorry, sweaty selves and directs us towards a huge Portuguese-style house in town, where a man takes our British cash and swops it out on his porch, no questions asked…

…although we discover later that these denominations are useless in most parts of town. Even the most poverty-stricken turn their noses up. The words “beggars” and “choosers” spring to mind, especially when we attempt to offer wads of notes in restaurants for dinner later and get sent packing, as contemptuously as if we’d tried to pay with shirt buttons.

Having fought through the sellers and onto the beach, we plot up on sunbeds outside Lilliput, a beach bar pumping out house music, order up the drinks and relax (sort of – not our sphincters, obvs). The more we’re hassled to buy jewellery (which will clearly turn whichever body part it’s adorning a deep shade of green), the more we chug back the bevvies in a bid to take the edge off the annoyance factor.

By mid-afternoon, I’m half-cut and laughing along with half-a-dozen sellers – and have so far bought two anklets, had a couple of massages and Andy’s got a hat that we both know he’ll never wear again. That’s when I really let my guard down – and the henna ‘artiste’ strikes…

A beautiful girl with big doe eyes (and impossibly long lashes that handily double up as fans, such are their breeze-creating abilities) hypnotises me somehow and I recline, eyes closed, allowing her to use my pure white carcass as her blank canvas, armed only with a pot of black henna and a toothpick. What could go wrong huh? Well, quite a lot as it happens. When I casually glance down to check on her progress, it looks like a toddler has drawn all over me with black marker. Great.

That night, we decide to go to the Full Moon Party, since it’s the much-hyped ‘supermoon’,  and we’ll take any excuse to party. Only this is not like any full moon party I’ve ever been to (and as a regular visitor to Thailand, I’ve been to plenty): everyone is sitting inches from huge speakers, ear-bleed trance pumping out….eating curry. Yep, no-one is even so much as tapping a foot (except one overweight Russian couple incongruously going nuts at the seashore). I’m not impressed. Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse, we’re joined by some nauseatingly loud and annoying Texans, who proceed to wedge themselves between us and shout drunkenly in our ears for the next hour. Joy.

Not content with the relentless harassment we received at the beach, later in the week we go to Anjuna flea market. It’s blisteringly hot and we drink a plastic cup of sugar cane, which is priced more like cocaine, and head into the throng. I attempt to look at the wares without moving my head too much – as soon as I show the slightest interest the stallholder pounces. We’re clearly regarded as cash-cows…and we’ve already seen what happens to the cows.

Andy wants to buy a few packets of herbs, but the seller gets greedy and attempts to relieve him of 2000 rupees (25 quid!) and we fall out with him. The same scenario plays out at various stalls around the market. These guys hustle like New York crack dealers: you’d think they were selling drugs in those little baggies, not garamasala. After several attempts to completely mug us off, we eventually settle on more realistic prices for a few bits of junk, and escape the chaos, exhausted from the heat and haggling. Two large Kingfishers please!

Throughout the week, whenever we visit a tourist attraction, it becomes apparent that we are the tourist attraction. As we snap away at the church or a cow in the road, the locals snap us. The boldest ones grab me, shouting “selfie” in an Indian accent, then taking a selfie of us before I can change my mind, whilst others just take pictures when they think I’m not looking. I don’t mind; I guess they don’t get many 6ft blonde women in these parts. I jokingly put my hand out for money in exchange for the shot, as they do to us.

At Vagator beach, a local attempts to scam Andy using an age-old distraction technique: he gesticulates that he has something in his ear and sticks a toothpick in Andy’s lughole, pulling out what looks like a waxy maggot. Gross. Of course, it hasn’t really come from his ear at all, and the guy is probably about to cunningly relieve Andy of his mobile or wallet. I’ve seen similar tricks whilst backpacking, so quickly shoo him away and we escape with all our belongings intact – although Andy is left feeling slightly queasy.

A trip to the spice plantation is interesting, and we buy some essential oils for various ailments. I wonder how essential they really are, having successfully survived 40 years without these particular oils, although I’m super-impressed when the cinnamon one I buy totally sorts out my neck and shoulder pain when massaged in (caused, no doubt, by the air-con wars Andy and I have most nights, with him insisting on total refrigeration of the room, grrr).

By the end of the week, we’ve had fun, but it’s all been rather a lot of hard work. I do love you India, but it would appear the relationship is a little one-sided. I’ve had enough spicy food to last me a lifetime; even the crisps here are masala flavoured. I’m craving bland British fodder, all flavourless and beige-coloured. Mm-mm-mmmmm.

So that’s it India, my love. I came back for more and you used and abused me once again. You’ve had all the chances I’m willing to give. You win; I’ll never get past beginner level. You’re like a computer game I can’t play; I just don’t have the dexterity.

Stick a fork in me – I’m done.

Which is more than I can say for some of the food here…

The post No Goa-n Back This Time… appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My fourth blog, written in February 2016, documenting the adventures of the 3 musketeers (ok, volunteers, but that sounded better): De Mama (my mum), Andy (my partner) and I, as we travelled to San Jose, Costa Rica, to help disadvantaged children living in the capital, having fundraised in the preceding months. We then travelled around Costa Rica exploring the volcanoes, rainforests and beaches. The best trip ever!                                                       www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Costa Rica Chica appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My third blog, Sam Goes Solo (aka No Emotional Thais: New Beginnings…Happy Endings?) was written in 2014, when I went travelling around the Thai islands on my tod….

www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com

Sam x


Fancy reading my back-story before you go any further? You can find my other blogs at:

www.costaricachica1.blogspot.com
www.samgoessolo.blogspot.com
www.mummymission.blogspot.com
www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

Follow me:

Twitter: @SamanthaWalsh76 (Life:ABird’sEyeView)
Facebook: @lifeabirdseyeview
Instagram: @lifeabirdseyeview

The post Thailand: Sam Goes Solo appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.

My first ever blog, written September 2008 – March 2009 :A 6-month round-the-world backpacking adventure with my then-husband Liam…

www.worldwidewalsh.blogspot.com

The post World Wide Walsh appeared first on Life: A Birds Eye View.