Friday Night Fight Night!!

You know how there are those times when you really want to punch someone in the face...really, really hard?  Well this is one such a time.

Josh and I tucked into bed early as my ankle was still healing and Josh had his Open Water Diving at 8:30am.  

At midnight we were awoken by a belligerent drunk and his annoying friend.  The drunk started rambling about nothing of particular interest, but this is when the great spectacle began.

Annoyed friend- "Trent...shut up!"

Drunken Trent- "Why?  What are you going to do about it?"

Annoyed friend- "I'm going to give you three strikes"

Drubken Trent- Walks over to Annoyed Friends bed. "Okay tough guy."

Annoyed friend- "Strike 1!", as he throws his legs over the top bunk, wrapping them around his drunken friends neck standing beneath him. 

Drunken Friend- "What are you doing!  What are you doing!", screams Trent in a horse voice and scarily resembling a seven year old Justin Beiber.  

Annoyed Friend- Releases his World Wrestling Entertainment vice grip as Drunken Trent stumbles back to his bed gasping for breath and mumbling an incoherent sentence sbout his friends over reaction.

I could tell Josh was laying there wearing a smile above me, no longer annoyed to be awoken by the unexpected wrestling match.

Working out that lying down would be in his best interest Drunken Trent launches himself into the bottom bunk bed, almost causing another South-East Asian engineering disaster as the bed shudders under his dead weight.  Ranting about his newfound expertise on everything continues.

Annoyed Friend: "Shut up or else!"

Drunken Trent: "Or else what...you're going to turn crazy psycho again?"

Annoyed Friend: "No, i'm going to slap you in the face".

Drunken Trent mumbles something else to his friend; a 24 year old child seeing how much he can get away with, without getting smacked by a wooden spoon by his mum.

Annoyed Friend: "Strike 2. Dude I'm so close to smacking you in the face", whilst increasing the anger in his voice.

Drunk Trent mumbles something back again in reply.  It's at this point where I realise that Drunken Trent isn't just drunk, he's plain stupid.

Annoyed Friend: "Strike 3!"  He climbs down the ladder from his top bunk, fireman style and starts repeatedly slapping the drunk in the face in the bottom bunk bed next to me. 

I begin to start feeling sorry for Drunken Trent by about the fifth smack.  But at the same time, I can't help feel that the punishment is definitely appropriate for someone with no inclination that five other people need a solid nights rest to tackle another day.  

With his last ounce of drunken, idiotic spirit, Drunken Trent mumbles even more quietly now about his crazy friend, in a last ditch attempt to save face.  

I was still completely amused but Josh was getting annoyed.

Josh: "Dude please just shut up, we're trying to sleep".

I don't know whether it was the fact that Josh could smack him harder then his friend or just the realisation of the existence of breathing human life in the hostel room, but he shut up enough for us all to fall into a deep sleep.

I know that violence isn't the best way to deal with things, and in fact it's a downright bad way.  But sometimes, when negotiations fail, the wooden spoon has to come out and grandma has to serve out a beating.

Never Underestimate a Retard

  This is a story about how karma really does kick you hard in the balls.


Not knowing anything about motorcycles, we decide to purchase our bikes off two backpackers who've just done a similar trip ( the reverse route). My guy is a twenty year old dutch guy who looks about twelve. Under normal circumstances he'd look way underage driving around on a motorbike, but in a country where kids start driving at 10, he looks like a seasoned veteran. I inspect the bike thoroughly for a few minutes (or pretend to anyway), attempting to convince him that I'm a mechanic in Australia and to push the price down. "Ohhh that chain looks a bit loose...the ignition sounds a bit dodgy, that's a big job to replace...you're going to need new spark plugs", at which point he looks at me with a confused look and squeaks with his unbroken voice, "That's the fuel cable man". Unsure of what to say I just nod my head and mutter, "Yeh of course it's the reverse in Australia". I hand over the agreed $230 (down from his original request of $300...win!) and wait for him to turn the corner.
 
I look down at my new toy, a black and red paint job with an immaculately polished motor and can't help but laugh at the predicament I've just landed myself in. I've bought a manual motorbike that I don't know how to drive and I'm in a city of 2.5 million motorbikes. Plus, pretty sure travel insurance doesn't cover unlicensed motorbike accidents. 

I sort of feel like a kid from the "Make A Wish Foundation", my last wish being to ride a motorbike. We're both sick a lot of the time, feel like we could die at any minute and dream of better days. The big difference being they've actually got a deadly illness and I've just got a hangover. Plus, they'd probably feel pretty cheated if they're last wish was to sit on a rusty, oil leaking, flat battery, unreliable $230 motorbike (I found this out a few days later). 

Stuck in a daydream about the potential repercussions of this impulse buy, I don't even notice the truck, speeding towards me blasting its horn. It's began. The chaos of Vietnamese roads has been unleashed, and I haven't even started the bike yet.
 
Picturing myself as a tough biker with a blonde bimbo on the back of my bike, I launch the key into the ignition and try to recall the five minute lesson the Dutch guy had just given me. "Let the clutch out slowly and accelerate slowly". I give it a shot. Stalled. Ok, how about letting the clutch out slowly and accelerating quickly? Deafening revving of the engine and a potentially blown engine, then stalled. Alright that didn't work. Let's try letting the clutch out slowly and accelerating quickly. Stalled. I try another three times before I concede defeat in front of a crowd of 30 backpackers. I'm definitely not getting any tonight. With no other way to move the bike I hop onto the bike and begin pushing it down the street like a kid testing out his push scooter on Christmas day at a speed of around 1kmph (and that's being generous). Only 99 kmph slower than I thought I'd be going at that point. The image of the tough biker disappears and reality kicks in. And then a spark of positivity takes light. I'm 50 metres closer to my destination of southern Vietnam. Yes! Then I look at the map and realise I've went in the wrong direction and am 50 metres further away from my endpoint. This isn't a good day.
 
Being too economically sensitive to pay for parking, we opt to park the bikes on the side of the footpath. This is where the Karma begins. Little did I know, that in a few days my balls would be writhing from it's kick.
 
A young mentally disabled guy runs out of the shop waving his arms, and muttering some unintelligible bunch of words. You think Vietnamese is difficult to understand normally, try understanding a guy with one cross eye whose dribbling all over your shoes and spraying torrential spit in your face. Piece of spring roll (they don't have cake in Vietnam). The mentally disabled man looks at us with a lopsided grin and holds four fingers up. Like a good game of charades we attempt to interpret his message. Does he have four children? Unlikely. Is he four years old. Definitely not. Is it 4 o'clock? No it's 6pm. Dylan and myself, despite having played charades with Asians for the past three months are totally stumped thanks to this new added element of difficulty.
 
I'm telling you right now, don't try play charades with a mentally disabled Vietnamese person. It won't go past round 1.
 
On the brink of conceding defeat for the second time in ten minutes, the man tries another hand action in a last ditch attempt to salvage the game. Rubbing his fingers together, we realise he's trying to do the international sign for money. "I think he wants money for the parking", Dylan groans. We look at each other and see we are both thinking the same thing. Are we about to try rip off a mentally disabled person? The moral, ethical, and humanitarian reasons to give him money start pouring through my head. But the tightass leprechaun on my shoulder wins the battle. "We'll pay you in three days when we come back from our boat cruise", knowing perfectly well that he hadn't understood a word.


3 days later...


High on life after a majestic three day boat cruise through Halong Bay, one of the seven natural wonders of the world, we decide to wake up at 3am the following morning to start the epic motorbike trip. With a fraction of the 2.5 million motorbikes on the road and no-one watching, we agree it'd be the perfect time to get some practice in before hitting the stress of peak hour traffic. The mentally disabled man (with his lopsided grin), and our promise to him is the last thing on our mind.
 

3am...
 

We wake up, groggy from lack of sleep and work our way through the returning drunks to our beloved bikes. In the distance we see out sexy beasts ready to be straddled. As we approach, I suddenly remember our promise to the mentally retarded man and feel bad that we won't be able to pay for the parking. In fact I feel ashamed. We've just ripped off a retard. Two seconds pass of guilt pass and and the tight-ass leprechaun on my shoulder takes over. "Yehhhhh budddddy, we're going to save $2 each", I shout to Dylan, excited about the prospect of putting another point on the tourist scoreboard. "Alright let's get out of here", Dylan hits back.
 
We hop on our bikes, testosterone and red bull pumping through our bodies and put the key in the ignition to start up the bike. Nothing. We try the ignition button again. Nothing. "I knew we were going to be bad at riding these things but not this bad", I joke to Dylan. Hopping off the bikes, I quickly check the various cables, looking for nothing in particular but doing so anyway just because that's what they do in the movies. I see a cable blowing around in the smelly Hanoi wind, and notice it's been cut in half. "Arghhhh", I shout. My eyes continue gliding over the bike realising that if one part of the bike has been sabotaged there will be something else. The back tyre comes into view, and its' deflation is immediately evident. "That retard has slashed our tyres", I scream to Dylan. "Which one?", Dylan replies with confusion. "The retarded retard", I answer back with frustration.
 
We look at each other and let out a small laugh. We've underestimated the mentally disabled man and Karma has knocked the tight-ass leprechaun off my shoulder right onto his ass. Although not intentionally trying to be dishonest, we've been served a valuable in lesson to treat your fellow man with respect, even under strange circumstances. This was a lesson that two bratpackers needed.

An Idiots Guide to Borrowing a Towel from a Random Backpacker

Two sweaty white guys limp back to their hostel after a solid session working out. It seemed like running around in 35 degree heat was a good idea at the time, but now, the pungent smell of man sweat mixed with the dirt and grime of an Asian city is all too much. Even the five dogs sleeping across the road (which smell dead at the best of time) scurry away at the stench of us two human garbage bags. It's a sight to be smelt.

We arrive back at the hostel and instantly feel like Moses parting the sea. People step aside as we walk past, turning their heads away, creating a clear and uninterrupted passage through to the dorm room. I give Dylan a smile, "Wow we should smell like shit more often".

Straight away I head to my bag looking for the sacred towel that lies deep within the perilous depths of my 40L bag. Discharging items across the room like a 4 year old throwing a tantrum, I search frantically for the towel that I'm certain must be somewhere between my 4 day old jocks and week old socks. Jocks are launched 5m across the room, t-shirts flung onto bedposts and bottles of toiletries thrown onto neighboring beds. The lid of a moisturiser bottle flies off and goes spraying over the pillow in the bunk next to me. That'll be an interesting one to explain.

For an unaware backpacker entering the room it would appear as if a bear had gone through my bag looking for food. A key difference being however, that a bear would probably smell better than me.

As the bottom of the bag reveals itself, except a few grains of sand, we realize we're towelless. Bummer. In our time of greatest need our towels have deserted us; soldiers fleeing the battlefield.

Contingency planning commences. "We could use a shirt to dry off", "don't worry about it towels are for girls" (not really sure what statistical data Dylan was referring to here), are all possible plans. Out of the corner of our eyes we see our answer. A slightly damp ‘quick dry’ towel hanging over the rails of another backpacker’s bunk bed. We see it as a white flag of sorts, surrendering itself to our needs to be dry in a few minutes, even though it's green.

I begin picturing how were going to explain to the owner of the towel why we have their towel wrapped around us and why there are newly appeared brown smudges. Dylan suggests "just tell them somebody else said we could use it". Unfortunately I don't think that excuse would hold up in the backpackers’ court.

Dylan: we were both exhausted; I remember asking Josh if it was morally acceptable to steal someone else's towel. Immediately in my head I reinforced the fact that we wouldn't even be stealers we would be borrowers. After a brief hesitation, Josh murmured, “Nah I guess we shouldn't”, followed by another even briefer pause, “You know what, who cares we need it.” Operation capture the towel was about to commence but let's rewind 15 minutes prior.

Josh was unhappy with his centimeter thin flimsy mattress. He looked across at the Holy Grail, a perfect mattress in the hostel bed across from his. I didn't even need to ask him when I saw him glance at his mattress and the other one. “Are you really planning on swapping Mattress with someone who has already had that bed?” The answer I knew was yes. Only the strong survive in the backpacker world, well at least in our opinion. 15 seconds later we are tearing off this mattress as quick as we can and swapping it before a bewildered roommate sees the scandal. Josh's crap mattress was on the floor and we have the Holy Grail mattress on his bed, the problem is it’s a foot too big. "Josh the mattress is too big.”

Josh put a hand on his chin looked at it harder. “No it's not”, he argued back. As I agreed we forcefully started trying to squeeze the mattress into a way smaller frame. The final product was like a hammock, with the mattress bursting above the frame on both sides. Josh laid on the contorted on the bed with a confused look on his face as if to say "I wonder if this looks inconspicuous”. It couldn't have been more obvious. Like the pit team of a formula 1 car, we scurried back to re-arrange the mattresses in lightning speed.

Josh: 15 minutes later Dylan is on the lookout in the corridor, letting me know if the coast is clear. I whip the towel off the bunk rail and sprint to the shower, slamming the shower door closed. Phase 1 completed. Detection avoided.

For the next minute we take the most efficient showers of our lives. Even the Germans outside playing cards would have been envious. Dylan starts doing his daily shower singing, but before he's sang even 5 words to "Genie in a bottle I'm quickly telling him to stop. Rule 1 of borrowing a towel: avoid unwanted attention, in particular high pitch singing to Britney Spears.

Dylan: I finish my shower a minute before Josh. The waters off and I'm shivering from the cold water and ask Josh for the towel. "Yeah just a second", he whispers as he slowly finishes up after drying off first. My strategy had failed. I got the wet towel but who really cares.

I left all my clothes in the bag and made a dash for the room, half naked with just the stolen towel wrapped around me. Josh beckons "the roommates are coming.... quickkkk! I've never thrown on a pair of boxers so fast in a rush of terrifies panic. I look across at Josh and he has a massive grin on his face, “Got ya!” he laughs.

Josh: A month back, we developed a strategy in response to a girl’s shock that we occasionally used the same towel. She was disgusted that one of us or both of us were possibly wiping our faces with the same part of the towel for drying our balls. At that moment I felt a pain deep inside my stomach and began dry retching. Maybe those hairs in my mouth after drying off were not from Dylan's head. "There have been wars started over less then this", I thought. Our solution was to use the tagged end as DPW (Designated Parts Wiper).

Needless to say, I followed this newly implemented policy very loosely. I had to get a bit of payback after all.

A month later I'm confronted with a similar situation. Which end do I use to wipe my face? Drawing on previous experience I opt for the 'no tag end', hoping aimlessly that this stranger subscribes to the same sacred methodology as us. Knowing all too well that Dylan will go for the same end, I commit the cardinal sin and swap the DPW for the tagged end. As Dylan dries himself off I snigger, "you'd hate to dry your face with my balls".

Dylan is not impressed. Dylan does not see the funny side. Dylan will attempt payback.

Sitting on our respective beds, we take a deep breath and rejoice in our 'cool blue rush' (not to be confused with thrush) fragrances. Yes, men can also use the word fragrance ladies.

We feel as if we have accomplished something heroic, going behind enemy lines to secure an item required for the future survival of our species (our species being only Dylan and myself). We have demonstrated man's courageous and ingenious ability to adapt to an ever changing environment under terribly sweaty circumstances, whilst using the few resources available to conjure something up practical and useful.

We have succeeded where many have surely fallen before us. We are an example of what you can achieve if you really set your mind to it, and if you're too much of a cheapscape to buy a $4 towel and have no hygienic objection to using someone else's sanitary device.

For a fleeting moment we feel like we are the lovechild of Bear Grylls and Alexander the Great.

But then we look at each other and laugh.  Who are trying to kid? We're just two massive brats!

A Deadly Day in Laos

Yesterday started off like any other day but ended as one of the most eventful of the trip to date due to a mix of stupidity and bad luck.

It all started when we woke up (obviously thats when the day starts derrrr).  Rocking some terrible hangovers and bad breath from the previous nights festivities, we crawled out of our beds and threw on a three day unwashed shirt and pair of skid marked stained underwear, reversed of course.  We mumbled a few sentences to the other people in our dorm in a language that somewhat resembled English and hobbled out of the hostel into the blaring sun outside.  Two bears coming out of hibernation after eating (and drinking) too much during the cold winter.  Except here in Laos its 30 degrees and we're not bears.  Terrible metaphor.  Anyyyyyyyway... we zombied to the nearest convenience store and bought a few bottles of water to get re-hydrated again.  "No drinking today", we say to each other. We both know were kidding ourselves though.  We're in a country where beers are $1 so we're definitely drinking its just a question of when.  It's like a 200kg guy saying he's not going to have deep fried food today when he wakes up, it's going to happen.

So we venture out onto the main road and see a tuk tuk full of young foreigners fly past, people hanging off the back and sitting on the roof.  If travel insurance companies knew what 20 something year olds were doing in Laos at the moment they'd be rolling in their graves and upping their premiums.  Then again it's no surprise that the infamous tubing in Laos was cancelled with the amount of deaths and injuries that occur to foreigners here.  In a country where few regulations exist, Laos is like giving the keys of a pharmacy to a drug addict, shit's gonna get crazy and crazy fast.

We yell out to the intoxicated guy on the roof of the tuk tuk, "Where are you going?".  He looks at us as if to say, have you guys been living under a rock for the last few days before, screaming over the loud exhaust, "Is Justin's birthday at the pool party", in a terrible Spanish accent ala Rafael Nadal.  As the tuk tuk gains momentum, Dylan and I look at each other through blood shot eyes and sense the beginning of something chaotic.  We break into a stride and throw ourselves onto the back railing just as the tuk tuk breaks away.

Outside, the 'pool bar' looks like nothing more than a house in the ghetto.  A dusty road reveals a shockingly painted aqua blue house with a sign saying La Pistoche and 'Justin's birthday'.  Whoever was the exterior decorator for this place should have been shot after finishing the job.  But as we enter through the gate, all memories of the peeling retro paint are forgotten as a crystal turquoise blue pool reveals itself.  An oasis in a sweltering desert.  The sounds of Jack Johnson meet our ears and the splashing and laughing of a group of soaking wet Danish girls playing pool volleyball instantly causes our hearts to skip a beat.  It's like the scene from Top Gun where they're playing volleyball minus the gayness. 

It's around 1pm and there are already some 100 people sitting huddled around the small backyard pool, sunglasses on, tops off and colorful cups in hands.  With piercing headaches and turbulent stomachs we think best to take it easy and drink water, rehydrate for the long hot day.  After a battle of paper, scissors, rock, Dylan as loser goes to get the waters.  As if it was a signal, a large Dutch girl resembling a Teletubby comes paddling over to me in a pool tube.  I give short one word answers to her questions, a hint to cut off the conversation.  She's drunk and she's annoying and she's only making my headache worse.  Just when I'm about to tell her I need to go to the toilet (even though I'd just gone 2 minutes ago), Dylan arrives a night in shining coconut oil with a bottle in each hand.  I sigh a breath of relief as Dylan pushes through the dense crowd, reaching out to give me the bottle...of beer.  "You're kidding!?", I yell at him almost pushing him in the pool and feeling a deep gurgle in my stomach at the view of the foul amber liquid.  Dylan stares back at me with a retarded grin, "They're free man, Justin's put $1500 behind the bar, free drinks all day for everyone!".  Unlike in Australia and Canada, we realise that amount of money will go along way thanks to $1 beers and $2 cocktails.

The annoying Dutch Teletubby

Our hangovers from the previous night evaporate instantly, a new found energy aided by the mellow tunes, cooling water and thought of a day's drinking by the pool.  I take my golden ticket off Dylan ready to enter Willy Wonka's factory.

3 hours later...

After a day poolside, drinking fruit cocktails and expensive top shelf whiskey our spirits are high, judgment poor and confidence in excess.  A small ledge next to the pool catches our eye and we begin discussing the various acrobatic maneuvers we're going to perform.  Double back flips, somersaults and perfectly executed dives are the first things that come to mind and flashbacks of Olympic diving off 10 metre high boards fill our heads.  However after a few minutes it becomes evident that our expectations and confidence have both exceeded our ability to do any of these things.  Even a simple dive suddenly looks like were two mentally disabled people trying to dive for the first time.  Back flips become belly whackers, somersaults become somerfaults and dives become face plants.  We've quickly became the entertainment everyone's been waiting for.  

10 minutes before 'the incident'

Seconds later an American guy is humiliating us by doing an impressive array of careless back flips.  Time to get back some respect for us.

I take a massive run up off the platform and launch myself into a David Hasselhoff dive.  Flying through the air I crash into the water, and quickly penetrate the water, underestimating the depth of the water.  I crash into the concrete bottom of the pool with my skull and rebound back up to the surface with a throbbing head.  "Ouch" I groan, staring around at the staring faces with stars in my eyes.  I spot Dylan next to me and moan, "I think I hit my head", laughing as i hold an already developed bump.  I feel liquid drip into my eyes and taste the bitterness of blood and Dylan looks at me mouth wide open before telling me that I've got blood dripping down my face.


Leaving a trail of blood behind me, I exited the pool and was met by an entourage of concerned onlookers, including the Canadian owner of the pool and a nurse willing to offer her services, stopping the flow of blood from a deep gash.  

Minutes later, I'm in the back of a tuk tuk flying down the road at breakneck speed on the way to the hospital, blood dripping down my chest onto the road behind.  Anyone at the pool wanting to find me would only have to follow the 3km trail of blood on the dusty road leading to the hospital.  

As we arrive at the hospital, a group of white lab coated men lead me into a small room where a local anaesthic is injected into my head.  "Please be a clean needle", I think.  Lying down on a bed I'm explained through a series of hand signs that I'm going to need stitches.  Having heard the reputation of Laos hospitals and poor hygeine/quality care, I'm reluctant to continue but don't exactly have any other choice.  



I know that Dylan is quite capable sewing buttons onto his pants but for the time being a Laos doctor will suffice.  So I'm lying down with a numb head and cloth on my face, awaiting to feel my brain being played with by an ill directed needle.  Next thing I hear the sound of scissors and clumps of hair being cut. Im being given an inverted Mohawk. Great.  He continues by stitching up my split head, directing each stitch with such precision that I feel each one intensely despite the anaesthetic.  I consider asking Dylan to take over with his one pant button of.stitching experience.  

Nearing the end of the patch job, and still feeling quite numb I feel liquid running down my leg. "Ey dude I think you just wet yourself", Dylan starts laughing.  I feel the embarassment on my face piercing through the cloth on me.  I can't believe I just pissed like a 3 year old.  Thoughts of me walking back to the hostel smelling like urine send me into a day dream before I'm bought back to reality by a punch in the arm. "I'm joking man I just poured water on your crutch", Dylan cackles, happy that he's just played a practical joke on a guy with a cracked head, who's high on pain killers and with a cloth on his face.  Dylan doesn't stop there. Next he's putting sunglasses over the cloth on my face. The doctor doesn't find this amusing.

Having a huge bandage around my head gained me instant celebrity status that night in the small city of Luang Prabang.  People came up and expressed their well wishes and admiration of my stupidity, somewhat of a rite of passage for one in Laos.  With six stitches in my head, and a cracking headache that matched the one of the hungover earlier that morning, Dylan and myself both agreed that the day had came to an end that was to be the drama for the night, however the night had just began...

As all the bars close at 11:30pm in Luang Prabang, the congregation of youth converge on the only place that can serve liquor after this time, the local bowling alley.  What better way to entertain young drunks then to give them 7kg balls to hurl down a slippery wooden alley, whilst selling bottles of $8 whiskey.  A recipe for disaster.  Things to be expected under such conditions include someone throwing a ball through the roof after getting a finger stuck in the ball and the roof collapsing over the lanes, an English guy bowling with his pants down (to the horror of the conservative Laos locals) and a girl running down the lane sliding on her stomach and crashing through the pins for a painful strike.  That was her only strike for the game by the way.

We hopped in a tuk tuk and gunned it out of the bowling alley, with the legal capacity of 6 passengers more than doubled as per usual.  

Arriving at our destination we poured out onto the street, all naive enough to believe that someone else had paid.  Up the road we heard an echo of drums and tambourines  as an early morning parade of Buddhist monks curved around the corner and forced us further up the street ala Running of the Bulls in Spain.  Caught up in the crowd we continued dancing with until it had dispersed some 500 meters further down.  At this stage we had lost everyone and it was only Dylan and myself who remained standing alone in the middle of the road.  From behind us we hear a skidding of brakes and turn around just in time to see an enraged tuk tuk driver shouting at us.  "You pay!  You pay!", he shouts turning the now quiet street into a thunderous roar.  Not knowing what to say, I draw on the famous quote of Entourage's Ari Gold 'deny 'til you die'.  "I've already paid you!", I shout back with equaling intimidation, towering over the 5 foot Laos man.  The driver runs back to his tuk tuk and returns a few seconds later.  "You give me 40,000 kip!", he yells in broken English whilst I stand a metre from him with a smile on my face.  "30,000 kip!", I reply with my counteroffer, a normal bargaining practice in South-East Asia.  With a dead serious look, Dylan urges me to "just pay him."  Sensing something is wrong I concede defeat and give in to the tuk tuk driver's demands.

Dylan's perspective:

I know a crazy look in an eye when I see it and this tuk tuk driver was pissed. I mean who wouldn't be pissed if you catered to a group of loud tourists, agreeing on a set price, before they all scatter away indignantly.

 As soon as the driver got out of his tuk tuk, and josh made his first protest, I saw him reach back in and pull out a 6 inch dagger from under his seat and put it behind his back. I still have the image of the blade in my head. It was sharp, curved and looked vicious- almost like a blade he would have sharpened himself. Being on a different angle to Josh, I had a clear view of the rustic weapon. Josh had obvious dulled senses from hitting his head and due to his angle, didn't see the blade. As soon as I saw the knife I slipped off my flip flops, in the event of sudden conflict. I immediately looked at Josh with panic and a dead serious gaze and said calmly but assertively "Josh... Pay him." To my horror Josh made one last protest not knowing a few stitches on his head could be the very least of his worries. As I emptied the money in my pocket, I said "Josh pay him now." Josh made eye contact with me and saw the seriousness in my eyes. Handing what money I had to the tuk tuk driver he rejected it all, except the 20 000 kip we each owed.

I still get flashbacks of the knife, and the fury of the driver. In typical bratpacker fashion, once the driver had left we looked at each other and said "boys will be boys." But for that day, it was fair to say idiots will be idiots.  

Indian Suit Men vs Tuk Tuk Mafia

If you want a suit you go to Bangkok.  Actually no that's not it- if you go to Bangkok you will probably get a suit.  Not because you wanted one before you left home, but because on every street corner of the tourist streets you will find Indian and Nepalese men shouting, "you want suit, you want suit!".  You see it's not even a question asking whether you want one, they're telling you you want one, that you need one and that you need it RIGHT NOW!


Then you have the Tuk Tuk drivers.  Like the Indian Suit Men they also want your business and will go head over heels to get it.  This includes telling you that your hotel 2 minutes walk away is too far for your young 25 year old legs, saying that they need to feed their families (whilst having a state of the art stereo system in their Tuk Tuk!?).  and lastly offering you a 10 cent ride if they can take you to a suit shop (scam much?).  Also like the Indian Suit Men they are telling you that you want and need a tuk tuk, it's out of your control.

What's interesting in the case of these two industries is not how each of them works individually but how they work together, or more so how they work to scam each other.


For the average tourist who passes through Bangkok, little thought would be put to the relationship between the Indian Suit Men and the Tuk Tuk Mafia, however Dylan and myself having spent countless hours in both tuk tuks and suit shops think that we've worked it out


So here it goes....


It all starts when the Tuk Tuk Mafia pick up a day dreaming, meandering tourist and offer to take them to a suit shop so they can buy a suit, "for very good price, and good quality sir".  Like most people would think, we were under the impression that the Tuk Tuk Mafia would get a commission on suit sales.  Meaning the more dumbfounded tourists they can deliver to the Indian Suit Men for a 10 baht (30 cent) fare the more commission they would receive.  However, whilst pressing this question to a tuk tuk driver one day, he explained to us that he gets a gas card from the Indian Suit Men for bringing potential customers whether they buy anything or not.  What's better or worse, depending on your moral compass, is that the tuk tuk driver tells us you don't even have to want to buy a suit, you can just pretend, walk around in the store for a few minutes (enough time for the driver to get his gas card) and then hop back into the tuk tuk where he'll take you to your intended destination for next to nothing.  The Tuk Tuk Mafia win (they've got free gas), you win (you've got a free ride) and the Indian Suit Men lose (wasted time and gas cards).

Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 1 point
You- 1 point


In scenario 2, you can't resist the persuasive and forceful sales tactics of the Indian Suit Men and you end up walking out of the musty store with a suit you hadn't budgeted on.  You are told the suit will make you 'more sexy', 'the girls will love you' and that it 'fits you perfectly sir'.  You think that you are the long lost brother of George Clooney and walk out with a new swagger, until you look down at the suit and realise you already have three similar ones at home. The Indian Suit Men have won and you've lost.

Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point

In scenario 3 the Indian Suit Men think they are exploiting the Tuk Tuk Mafia.  The tuk tuk drivers are bringing load after load of 'customers' to the suit shops where some will pay $700 for a fitted suit that could be bargained down to $100.  The Indian Suit Men are polishing up whilst the Tuk Tuk Mafia are putting away with measly $2 gas cards and waiting for hours for the customers to finish their purchase.  We get the impression that the Indian Suit Men look down on the Tuk Tuk Mafia and think they are exploiting them for peanuts and that the drivers are doing the heavy lifting for them.  The tuk tuk drivers realise this.  Their answer; get as many gas cards as possible by abusing the agreement and bringing uninterested customers by the truck load.  This means more work for the Indian Suit Men and less sales.  It's a vicious relationship built on mistrust and dishonesty.


Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point

Playoffs/Finals Series


After observing this somewhat complicated and bizarre relationship, and the way they undermine each other, the scammed scamming the scammer, we seeked to balance the score and go one step further by exploiting the exploiters.  We're not going to be like the typical tourist and accept mediocre deals, we want to win and win convincingly.


We're on Kao Sanh Road , the tourist mecca, and Dylan has to go get his suit re-fitted that he ordered a month earlier.  We consider walking there but it's a decent walk, especially in the heat and smog of Bangkok.  I suggest a metered taxi, a 60 Baht ($2) fare.  Dylan looks at me and shakes his head, "lets get a tuk tuk" he responds with a cheeky grin.  After hearing horror stories of $30 tuk tuk rides I'm a bit reluctant to get sucked into this tourist trap.  However, before I can put up a fight Dylan shows the business card of the suit shop to the driver.  Knowing that a golden egg awaits him at the other end (a gas card), he winks at us and says, "ok ok...5 baht you, 5 baht you (15 cents)," pointing to each of us.  He senses that we understand the rules of the game and that we can get a free ride to the suit shop from him.


Entering the shop we're immediately swarmed by a gang of Indians equipped with tape measures, chalk pencils, fake Armani belts and ill fitting shirts.  Each one is trying to get our business, offering an array of deals for 'original' Hugo Boss, Armani and Versace suits and '100% Egyptian cotton' shirts.  We are assured the materials are sourced fromItaly and Eqypt in bulk "that's why is so cheap!".  We later speak to a man at another shop who attempts to convince us that it is the raw materials that are sourced and then produced in Thailand.  We believe neither.  Do not trust the Indian Suit Men.


Dylan informs the men that he's already paid for a suit and that he's just coming to get it finished.  A resounding sigh fills the room.  The men have missed the opportunity of getting a healthy new sale.  A skinny Indian parts through the dispersing group recognising Dylan from the previous month, instantly recalling his measurements and suit type.  He's got a big grin on his face.  He'll soon get the remainder of the deposit from Dylan.  Money is hapiness in Bangkok.  We're offered beers which we readily accept without a moments hesitation.

5 beers each later...

Dylan's finally happy with his adjustments after 2 hours, something that would normally take 10 minutes devoid of beer.  Of course he drags it out to get as many free beers as possible.  For the next three days we repeat the same process, getting free tuk tuk rides and drinking about 5 beers whilst making small adjustments to Dylan's suit, an excuse to come back the following day.  We are scamming the Indian Suit Men like there's no tomorrow and it feels great.  After 4 days we've drank over 40 beers.  Not bad considering the suit only cost $100.

In a city where the tourist rarely has the chance to balance the odds, we feel like we've went pretty close.  It's time to put some points on the tourist scoreboard.


Playoff scores:
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Us- 3 points


VICTORY!!!



 

Bangkok Scooter Ride

One thing neither of us anticipated was taking a scooter ride in Bangkok.  Seeing all the wounded foreigners in the Southern Islands of Thailand made us realise how bad Westerners are at handling scooters but also how hazardous the conditions can be.  So naturally Bangkok was crossed off immediately as a place to hop on one of these two wheeled death machines.

However, when you're running later for an overnight bus, compromises have to be made.

We speak to our French friend Guillaume, who we would be meeting at the bus station, and tell him we we're running late.  In his typical French accent and through the speaker of my crackly Thai phone he gasps, "Ohhhh in zat case you must take zee taxi scooter...it will cost 60 Baht ($2)".  We both look at each other, "Here goes nothing".

For anyone who's ever been to Bangkok you would know that peak hour doesn't exist.  It's always peak hour.  Crammed with pollution pumping and driver tooting cars, buses, trucks and scooters it's not a city for the faint hearted.  Or those with asthma.

As we cross the bridge from the metro we look down at the stampede of vehicles and weaving scooters below and wonder whether we will soon be part of this madness.  It's a scene reminiscent of Lion King when Mufasa is in the gorge being trampled by buffallo.  We hope that we won't meet a similar fate.  We meet our drivers.  Mine is in his 60's.  This gives me a brief sigh of relief, "atleast he's still alive after all these years", I think.  However, as we set off into the heart of the stampede my optimisim begins to fade.  I feel more and more like Simba and want nothing more than to escape the immediate chaos.  The driver ducks and weaves through the encroaching traffic, ignoring the fact the has an 80kg white guy on the back with a 20kg back pack.  When there's no gap to be found and a crash seems imminent he crosses three lanes to slide between two semi-trailer trucks.  I look sideways and see Dylan laughing his head off as he videos the ride....crazy Canadians.  I look ahead and see that there's a dead end ahead, 'we've reached then end of the gorge', I think.  But in true Mufasa spirit, my driver jolts the bike left and finds a path only a driver of his experience could, up the footpath*.  With barely a centimetre on each side, but not an ounce of concern, I strangely begin to relax and to feel a paternal like protection from Mufasa.

*footpath= sidewalk

Search for the Iron Fairy (Best Burger in Bangkok)

This is a story from a dirty and smelly city far far away....

There is a myth that exists in Bangkok of a burger so great, that you must wear a collared shirt and closed shirt to eat it (according to www.theironfairies.com website).  The myth also states that the bar in which this burger lurks is incredibly hard to find and annoyingly not accessible by any of Bangkok's public transport system, and that you'll have to walk an hour asking many Thais with little English how to find it.  Even if you have an infected and swollen foot and can barely walk (Dylan), you will dig deep and fight off the pain for this ultimate reward. 
There will be cholera and typhoid infested puddles along the way, in which you'll incidentally step in whilst wearing thongs*, and you will be great full you got those shots before you left overseas.  You will almost walk past the restaurant because the sign is so small, however the incredible smell of the burger wafting down the street will soon put you back on due course.  The smell of this sacred burger is a complete contrast to the pungent odour of fried rice, pork soup, marinated rat and dead dog.  It's a garden of eden and you'll soon be the snake.

The myth continues by stating that you'll step into the quirkiest of bars.  An abandoned factory where the burger's aroma will soon be mixed with whiffs of an oddly rustic scent lurking within its two-story shop-house confines.  The Beef Burger with Bacon will become your choice as you haven't eaten since breakfast, starving yourself for this amazing experience.  'No burger before marriage' is your moral belief but tonight is your honeymoon.  The burger will arrive and the bar will fall silent (because you're the only two people in it and no-body else can probably find it either).  You're heart will begin to beat faster and your pulse quicken and parts of your body may move out of excitement (your stomach and drooling mouth of course).  This burger is like a perfect woman; tender, juicy, hot, big in the right places and doesn't talk.  If God created a burger in his image this would be it.



The myth also states that the burger has a knife buried through the middle of it to stop its enormity from spilling out onto the dusty blacksmith floor.  You take a bite and a feeling of ecstasy takes over you.  You've found the meaning of life, to eat this burger.  You don't talk to your friend for the next ten minutes because your mouth is full.  You don't want any of the burger infused air in your mouth to escape.  Your burps are trapped in your hands and you breath them back in.  You are chroming your burps.  This burger is your drug of choice.


You finish the burger and consider falling asleep on the table right there and then, burger by your side and waking up the next morning.  But then you think, the burger never looks  as good in the morning so you make a sneaky exit.  You want the memory of the burger to be as it is now.  Perfect.

Thongs*= flip flops

108 hours of no shirts: Ko Tao

A question that every man asks himself at some point in his life is how long he can go without wearing a shirt.  Some would argue that being shirtless is a natural progression in dealing with an increment in temperature or that it enforces a sense of masculinity, a return to one's caveman heritage.  Others would argue it is a vain attempt for attention charecterised by insecurity.

For us though it was a challenge and an experiment of sorts (and probably the later reason above) to see how long we could go topless in Ko Tao (a Southen Thai island) without anyone telling us to a shirt on.

24 hours

First day of toplesness completed without incident.  Shirts came off in the morning for the beach and remained off for the day.  No strange looks, after all it is an island paradise.  Few winks from suspicious looking women with strong jaws and unusual bulges in throats.  Note to self; don't go home with one of these flirtatious women.

48 hours

More beach time.  Bulk purchase of sunscreen to protect our milky white bodies after bad morning sunburn.  Walking around the street with a newfound swagger, chests poked out.  This swagger is probably not justifiable.  Eating in a posh restaurant is followed by a roll of eyes from fellow diners.  People may be struggling to swallow their food due to our disgustingly sunburnt corpses.  Young Thai girls get embarassed and blush (we later find out that having no shirt on in Thailand is like being naked...woops must have skipped that section in Lonely Planet).  A night of drinking in bars goes unchallenged by security, however we are still 'those wankers in the bar without shirts on'.

This guy weighed about as much as a 10 year old Thai girl.

72 hours

I have a 6am wake-up for diving and shiver my way to the dock in the back of the ute (pick-up truck).  I'm no longer 'that wanker' but instead 'that idiot who can't tell the temperature'.  People start to question why I have no shirt.  My response; 'my clothes are in the wash'.  Avoids awkward questions.  It does however make me seem like i need my mother here in Thailand to monitor dirty/clean clothes ratio.  Body resembles the Himalayas from previous nights mosquito bites.  However as an injured soldier does we battle on.  Dylan suggests we go gym = topless workouts with much self admiration in mirrors.  3 other guys have no shirts on either.  We feel normal.

96 hours

We both wake up with runny noses from excessive air conditioning in the room overnight.  The casualties are beginning to accumulate.  Our shirts lie on our beds staring at us, asking to be put on.  We resist the temptation.  After 3 nights out we have gained A-grade wanker status and are recognised as the topless guys (named by a drunken Argentinian woman).  We think we are legends.  Others do not.  Photos with giggling girls becomes the norm.  Many guys, especially boyfriends are not seeing the funny side of it.

108 hours

Catching a train to Bangkok.  Get told by the ticket inspector to put our shirts on.  Like an alcoholic, our addiction has started to control us and negatively affect our loved ones (ourselves).  Cold turkey is not an option.  Going straight to putting a shirt on send us into a spiraling depression.  We put our skimpy singlets on, our methadone program.  As we sit sweating in the boiling hot train and craving toplesness, our heads return to a more normal size.  As i stare out the window at the passing landscape, I hear that the inspector has entered the next carriage.  I turn around.  Dylan has relapsed.

Full Moon Party: Ko Phangangam Style

As I got off the boat in Ko Phangan I got the impression I'd just walked into something special. Hundreds...no thousands of 20 year old somethings scurrying for the nearest transport to their chosen place of sleep, or non sleep.  A sea of fluro coloured shorts and singlets extended as far as they eye could see, and the smell of cheap whisky buckets wifts through the air, an intoxicating aroma.  A young Swedish guy provides the music, loud house pounding from the boombox on his shoulder.  The party's began and we haven't even left the ferry pier yet.  Welcome to the notorious Full Moon Party, Ko Phangam, Thailand.

I meet up with Dylan at the hostel and this is where the adventure begins.

The days leading up to the Full Moon Party and the days preceeding it, host an array of parties as big as the full moon itself.  the first night we're there is the jungle Party.  The name says enough.  Speakers hanging off trees like monkeys, throw together bamboo bars, wooden walk bridges over creeks that under normal circumstances would only support a 3 year old child and barely enough lights to reveal the drunken body at your feet.  Is he alive? YEH he'll be right!!

The next day we wake up worse for wear, donning an interesting canvas of fluro coloured body paint from head to toe.  It's started.  And for the next 72 hours this will probably be the best we feel.  Our bodies will be put to the brink, tested physically (for Dylan and hes banged up foot), mentally (when the first drink is downed at 11am) and emotionally.  Emotional you may ask?  Well a man can get quite upset when he's awoken by German tourists putting on their hiking boots in the dorm at 8am.

Hungover as we are, we decide, against all common sense to hire scooters for the day.  What could possibly go wrong?  Well to cut things short, we end up getting lost with no map and no knowledge of the Thai language (except "You are beautiful/cute") and on a dirt road reminiscent of Wolf Creek.  I think it's at this point, flying 110 kmp/h down a pot hole ridden road and hungover, passing villages with poverty stricken Thais that we realise the two different worlds that exist in Ko Phangan.  On one side you have families of 10 living in what could be best described as a lawn mower shed, earning $10 a day, whilst a few kilometres away some 20,000 foreigners party the night (and morning) away blowing $150 (a months salary for a Thai) without a second thought.  But alas, the party must go on.

We meet our host of the hostel Dave.  Dave is a bald 50 something year old Australian man dancing with no shirt on and going through a mid life crisis that's resulted in him buying a hostel on an island where the average toursit age is in the twenties.  Basically a future version of us. After a few drinks and a brief banter, Dave is ushering us behind the bar with a cheeky grin.  We look down to see two perfectly arranged lines of white powder.  Dylan nudges me with a confused look, "is that baby powder?".  I look at him and shake my head, "no this is no ordinary powder baby".  Dave stares at me with an excited smile.  I suppose this is what a grown man in a candy shop looks like.  But for a man who's old enough to be my dad its a weird experience to say the least.  "No thanks Dave", is my response.  Before we can slowly shuffle backwards away, Dave is telling us he can get us anything we want.  "I can get you guys acid, coke, MDMA, speed, ecstasy, weed you name it'.  Before we can tell him again were not interested, he's got a 1000 baht note up his nose, snorting his worries away.  I think Dave's going to be in Ko Phangan for a while.

The night of the Full Moon is upon us, the big white disc in the sky staring down at us as if to say, "you guys don't know what you're getting yourselves into boys.  Yeh we don't know, but we don't care.  This is the party of all parties.  This is where when the going gets tough the tough get going....and then end up washed up on the beach after one too many mushroom shakes and an early morning swim.  We later find out an average of 4 people die every full moon party mostly from drowning or scooter accidents.  Mum and Dad, don't worry we're still alive.

Anyway enough about the morbid stuff, we're 2 young guys and were invincible!!

After choosing our outfits earlier that afternoon, a pink short shorts, fluro green crop top and fluro orange headband/wristband ensemble that would put Queer Eye for the Straight Guy to shame, we descend on Hat Rin, the heart of the action where the chaos and mayhem will take place. We look absolutely fabbbbbulous in our garb and get a neverending chorus of laughs, photo requests and comments from Thais of "ohhh sexy lady boys!".  We love it though, any attention is good attention at Full Moon.

Gotta dress to impress!



We head down to the beach, bucket in hand, fluro clothed and body painted.  We're the typical full mooners (cross dressing excluded).  As we step onto the beach we're met by one of the most amazing scenes of our lives.  As far as the eye can see there is a 2 km ocean of every colour you can imagine.  It's like an acid trip meets licorice all sorts.  Shit metaphor but you get the idea.  For the next 12 hours we don't miss a beat.....literally.   People don't walk at Full Moon they dance.  If you go to get a bucket you dance to go get it Copacabana style.  It's infectious.  Addictive.  And weirdly completly normal.

First bucket

Due to the complete lacko of material on our pink short shorts there are no pockets.  Luckily Dylan has a money belt so he stores his precious Thai baht in his.  me on the other hand have to shove my Baht down my jocks.

A month earlier I'd spoken to a bloke called Gav in a bar in Patong, Phuket.  He'd told me the story of how a guy who had beeen thrown in jail for standing on a note with the King's face on it.  Disrespecting the king is the worst crime in Thailand.

A month later after tyhis conversation and a few drinks later, I was searching through my jocks looking for the Thai Baht i'd sworn was there.  Alas it was resting on my balls.  As I took a note out to give t0o the drink man the look of shock on his face was evident.  at which point I turn to Dylan and say, "what would happen if you had the king's face against your balls?".  Needless to say we grabbed our buckets and danced back to the festivities.

It was at 10:30am, well after the sun had risen, that we decided to make our way back.  One of the most memorable but forgettable nights of our lives had come to an end.  For Dave though, i'm sure his night was just beginning.