The Long Road Home

Somewhere over Eastern Europe

I said my goodbyes to Rachael at the Phnom Penhs central station and boarded a rickety bus to the Thai border at around six thirty in the morning. Eight long hours later the shifty looking bus driver (who suddenly decided he couldn’t speak English anymore) stopped a good mile short of the border checkpoint and tried to palm us all off onto some eager moto drivers who were already fighting over our luggage.

Pink bus to Thailand, I wouldn’t travel any other way.

I was tired but somehow managed to get my backpack back on-board the bus and dropped off next to immigration control. I got my two-week visa on arrival with little fuss (1 month when you arrive by air) and mooched off across the border into Thailand. A minibus driver collared me on the other side (the bus company had stuck some blue tape on my shirt so he’d recognize me?!?) and I got crammed onto a tiny, sweaty bus for a six-hour journey to Bangkok.

I was fucked by the time I stepped out into the neon-lit chaos of Khao San Road. It was as soulless and expensive as ever so I got one of the street venders to rustle me up some Pad Thai for a dollar and went to get my head down in my unimpressive $15 room (trying my best to sleep through the badly blasted out Bob Marley covers). I got the shuttle bus to Suvarnabhumi airport early the next day and went to pay my respects one final time to my mate Jim, who died at the airport hotel over a year ago.

Bangkok/Mumbai (Notice the curry on the floor and the Bollywood film on the TV to the right…mint)

The five odd hour Bangkok/Mumbai flight was entertaining and gave me a much-needed taste of chaotic India. I’ve never been on a plane rammed full of drunken troublesome Indians before, who paid little attention to the seat belt signs during take-off and even less at the screaming air-hostesses. They proceeded to happily down Grants whiskey whilst passing around

Air Asia’s snazzy looking departure lounge

the in-flight meals and generally stood around in the aisle chatting. I watched ‘The Don’ (an Amitabh Bachchan classic) and soaked up the madness, it being by far my most entertaining flight to date. I got some grief off the pretty mean customs officials in Mumbai who seemed determined to find something untoward in my luggage but my winning smile melted their stony heats. I eventually found my way to Air India’s departures lounge where I slept for a while curled up on a couch. I had to get up after a few brief hours for my early morning flight back home to the UK. The ten-hour flight was turbulence all the way but I consoled myself with white wine and ‘Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid’ on the chair TV. It seemed like a really long flight but we eventually landed at Heathrow just before dinnertime. After standing around baggage collection for over an hour I finally spotted my backpack and yoga mat and, grabbing said items, made a dash downstairs to jump aboard the airport underground to Victoria station. I was very tired at this point, in need of a wash and it felt like I’d been on the road for days.

London was sunny, which I was very happy about as I’d lost my Burton’s hoodie in a Cambodian guest-house a few months back and only had a couple of dirty T-shirts to my name. I ate a quick bag of proper chips in a park next to the coach station and was just in time to jump on the four-thirty bus to Middlesbrough, the last leg of my long journey. Six and a half hours later I rocked up at Boro bus station, stinking and totally nackered but satisfied that I’d finally made it home.

 

 

The End….

The End

The temples of Angkor

The days cycling around the ancient temples of Angkor didn’t really help the sweaty fungal infection that had started to spread across my inner thigh; being the hero that I am though I applied some cream and persisted to pedal along through the heat. Angkor Wat was undergoing renovations so the iconic structure was blighted and slightly un-photogenic due to scaffolding and too many fat Americans in sun-hats asking me to “please get out of their shot.”

“Are you fucking serious….this is Asia’s premier tourist attraction and you want all your photos not to contain any other tourists….good luck with that one you fuckers,” I think as I casually stand in shot and stare blankly into the lush jungle surrounding Angkor Wat.

“Seriously,” one of the fat Americans shouts from the bottom of the stairs. Her arse is big enough for her camera and the massive lens attached to be comfortably shoved up it but I resist the temptation and stroll down the stairs as a sea of eager fat Americans stand, cameras in hand,waiting for that money shot without little old me in it. As soon as I’m out of said shot some more tourists appear at the top of the stairs and they begin to bitch all over again.”Hey guy, can you, like,

Angkor Wat

get out of my shot?” ……….Cunts!

I jump on my bike and try to find somewhere a bit more remote…….and fail. These ancient temples are so swamped in tourists that today I do not feel like Indiana Jones, Tomb raider or even that slightly adventurous dog out of that shit old TV series. I have to give in and join the hordes of snap happy westerners as I cycle through the jungle from temple to temple, avoiding the strategically situated stalls and the ubiquitous shouts of, “Hey, you buy coconut?” “You wan food friend?” “Hey friend, you like buy book?” As I park my cycle and wander up the well-worn path to my sixth temple I notice the sixth musical band made up from former landmine victims, who learnt to love music, sitting by the path hawking their CD’s at tourists. The music is OK but these guys are no Creedence so I bow my head and ignore them as  I walk on by.

Bitching aside these temples are amazing and it’s understandable that so many people flock here each year. As I only have one day here (I couldn’t afford the $60 three day ticket) I furiously cycle from temple to temple, each one becoming a little more deserted and more to my taste. “I wish I had longer to explore here,” I think as I sip a coconut and get hassled by the venders daughter to buy a bracelet. “C’mon, I bought a coconut.”

One of the giant stone faces at Banyon

“No, you buy bracelet.”

“I don’t want a bracelet.

“Book.”

“Go away.”

“Magnet.” I suppose I’ll have to buy some souvenirs at some point. We settle for three fridge magnets for a dollar and I jump back on my bike to try to nail the remainder of the temples before sunset.

I’m fucking knackered by the time I get back to Siem Riep. A pupil from a local school cycles back with me and we shoot the shit until I arrive at my hotel. I have some good photo’s but think my next epic adventure is going to be way off the touristy/lonely planet radar. I contemplate this as I eat Loc Lak and sip Angkor beer in one of Siem Rieps many restaurants or bars or somewhere.

As I write this back in Phnom Penh, in a bar next to the Mekong river, a local kid comes up and tries to sell me a book. A kindly tourist has drawn some pretty stars on his face in pen followed by the words “Fuck You.” He is oblivious. It makes me laugh and a bit of beer comes out of my nose.

Doorway with some tree-type shit growing forth from it's very bones....AAAAEEEEEIIIII!!!