18 hours in silence : from Mui Ne to Suratthani

It began with emotional goodbyes, leaving my little crew and striking out on my own. It really felt as if I were flying the nest, which is weird because I only met these guys a few weeks ago and I left home a few years ago ... nevertheless bravely I board my bus. 

I felt fine, quite sad, but physically fine, and yet after my short bus ride into the city I woke in agony. My throat felt as though it had been home to a pair of feral weasels who didn't get along very well, and it hadn't so it was very odd.

After an uneventful first flight, I find myself pondering how many days of my life I have now spent in Bangkok airport, as I lug my backpack to the closest restaurant, waiting for checkin to open. 

I sit down and oh my god they have mushroom soup and it's cheap too! I order it and an exorbitantly expensive orange juice. Warm fluids and vitamins: just what I need.

Shortly I am presented with a thimble full of mushroom soup and a vast goblet of orange juice: it's quite comical really.

After checkin I spot a sushi restaurant, why not? And oh my god they have mushroom soup too! My soup thirst not quite quenched, I cannot resist. However what arrives is (incredibly) even smaller than my first portion. I shot my soup and leave.

Next I spy a pharmacy. Now this is what I need.

I buy some Strepsils, in the most ridiculous packaging I have ever encountered. I've ranted about this to many people and they all believe me to be belligerent but I will leave that for you to decide.

The Strepsils came in a small non-resealable foil wrapper.

Who the hell eats a packet of Strepsils in one???  In fact you're specifically advised not to. Although, admittedly, in this case you might have to because they melted in the heat and become one gigantic Strepsil: ridiculous! I mean really who designed this packaging?

Somehow I survive this disappointment and eventually arrive in Suratthani, but my problems were far from over. I had already paid for my bus with my airline, but where to get the ticket? 

When every sound you make is barely audible, not even a whisper, just a faint rasping punctuated by intermittent squeaks, communicating with people with limited English is very difficult. 

Eventually, with a lot of gesturing, I get by, and18 hours after I set off I find myself hoarsely screeching in delight (not unlike a baby owl with a broken voice box) as I spot my friends. 

I then proceed to drink until dawn and head off to the infamous full moon party ... so I'm sure I'll be right as rain very soon .... 

Alcohol Poisoning on a Plane

After weeks spent in the serenity of Indonesia's small islands and Myanmar's quiet towns our arrival in Hanoi's downtown was overwhelming. An area reminiscent of the Greek party islands, populated entirely by places offering cheap drinks and playing thumping dance music.

You know the kind of places you need to drink to enjoy, lest you notice all the sweaty drunk people dancing to the same three songs on repeat, asking each the same three questions over and over again.

Now I know I've painted a pretty picture here but having not partied in the best part of three months imaginably I got pretty overexcited. At our hostel they were offering FREE drinks. FREE. How could I say no?

I won’t bore you with the details but suffice it to say the night quickly got messy….

       

Cut to the next morning: I am violently awoken by my friends, essentially rolling me out of bed. The storm has passed, flights are running, we need to leave NOW.

Oh my god. In a flurry fuelled by adrenaline I stuff my things into my backpack, shoving it all down, no sense, no order, just pushing and shoving. As I clip it up I realise something is missing.

Where is my phone?

Where the fuck is my phone?

My phone with my bank card and ID inside it…. Shit. Shit. Shit.

I don’t know, I don’t understand and we have to leave.

I get surprisingly calming hug from a giant Canadian, and then we’re off.

Here begins the worst trip of my entire life.

        

It felt as though my head was trying to give birth to my brain. In the taxi, having the kind of existential crisis that can only be triggered by an intense hangover, I start to feel nauseous.

My stomach appears to have been replaced with the drum of a washing machine. A top loader that could eject items at any moment : don't worry I'll spare you the grisly details but suffice it to say I was in a bad bad way.

Thankfully my friend is prepared and thrusts a plastic bag into my hands….I sit in the back of the car feeling very sorry for myself.

Somehow we get to the airport. At check in the woman looks me up and down and asks my friends if I am ill: I clearly don’t look fit to fly - I didn’t feel fit to fly to be honest - but I put on my best smile and (amazingly) she gives us the all clear.

I spend the remainder of our time in the airport tooing and froing from the bathroom, questioning what life choices I have made to leave me in this position.

The answer is not good ones …

On the shuttle bus I curl up on the floor trying to soothe myself, unsuccessfully. On the plane I am much the same until blessed sleep relieves me briefly, I wake as we touch down.

       

Thankfully this story has a happy ending : we arrive at our beach front hostel, I wolf down a plate of cannelloni (with real mozzarella) and fall asleep in a hammock.

And it gets even better!

I wake up to a message saying that my belongings have been found by a beautiful human who returned them to me a week later.

So really alls well that ends well, although there is a moral to this story : 50p mojitos are definitely a false economy. 

Nineteen hours

The journey from Hoi An to Da Lat was always going to be a big one, but I had no idea quite what I was letting myself in for when I set off.

It began with myself and a handful of young British travellers standing in line for the bus and being, fairly almost violently, queue-jumped by a large group of old Croatian holiday-makers.

“fairly almost violently queue-jumped” : I doubt anyone has ever said anything so quintessentially British before.

Few seats remained when we eventually boarded: whisperingly lamenting our British conduct, because of course we did not want to create any tension by complaining audibly.

I had the final free seat, or rather bed (this was a sleeper bus): which was one in a set of three conjoining bunks, two of which were already occupied by an Asian couple.

I climbed up, inelegantly (of course), and resigned myself to being the big spoon in the weirdest cuddle puddle that I've ever being involved in.

I settle in as best I can and decide to watch 'The Godfather'. I have never seen this before (I know, shock, horror) and so I feel that this is as a good a time as any.

It was not: I could not follow the plot at all.

It was not a great copy of the movie and Marlon Brando's mumbles were all but entirely drowned out by the bus's engine. I struggled through, but I did not enjoy it as much as I'd hoped.

I only found out afterwards that the sections that are in Italian are supposed to have English subtitles: who knew?

This was not some quirky mysterious director's decision, which seems quite obvious now...

There was a brief interlude in my struggle: I was in the seat next to the toilet and a small queue had formed, whilst a man was waiting (patiently I am pleased to note) he began to lean on what I can only assume he thought was a pole.

It was in fact my leg.

I sat there, not wanting to say anything, slowly feeling my leg go numb, suffering full moments of pain to avoid two milliseconds of awkwardness: the longer it lasted, of course the more intensely I could not say anything...

We arrived in Nha Trang at 6am for a quick healthy breakfast of Pringles and coffee. Then our second bus arrived: only this time we were picked up by a small van, the very image of one my grandfather used to drive many moons ago.

This changeover was a baffling affair, with very little English spoken on the driver's side, and my Vietnamese being so, well, non-existent. We got in the van and hoped for the best.

I was convinced this van was taking us to a bigger bus, a sleeper bus. It was only when we hit the mountain roads, leaving the city behind us, that I was forced out of my denial.

When will I learn that even when you are so so sure, you really never know what your next 'bus' will be.

We sat in this van for the best part of 6 hours.

We arrived in Da Lat some nineteen hours after our original departure.

They say you learn a lot about yourself when you're travelling. I feel that this is certainly true of this journey: I found myself: I am an awkward over-polite Brit: funny how I had to come all the way to Vietnam to discover this.