And then she was Yan-gone!

After nearly three months travelling solo two of my bestest girlfriends arrived to join me in Yangon, Myanmar.

As you can imagine there were high levels of excitement, and we wanted to celebrate our reunion in a bar drinking beer and playing cards (not a particularly demanding request …. or so it would seem).

The kind of bars that have lounge-style seating and draft beer are few and far between in Yangon. However, after much searching online, we pick a place and head out.

It's a good 45 minute walk but we are enjoying ourselves, nattering away, taking in the new sites, reflecting on the area's ambience of colonial decay, dodging traffic on the busy roads, glancing at the various dishes, knick-knacks, fabrics and pretty dresses on the street-side stalls.

About half way it begins to pour with rain. A real deluge.

We are getting a weary of the walk, ready for a cold drink, when my friend excitedly exclaims, pointing, 'There! I think that's it, that sign -'

But before she could finish her sentence: Whumpf! She was gone. Disappeared entirely, swallowed by the pavement.

Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, her head popped up, and as she hauled herself towards us, she was simultaneously reprimanding us 'Help me up then!'.

Bemusedly we grabbed her, only then realising what had happened. She had fallen into a five foot deep drain, that had been completely hidden by the lack of street lamps.

Now, in what happens next I cannot stress enough my gratitude for the kindness of strangers.

Three incredible ladies from a nearby stall rushed to our aid.

I told my unfallen friend to look after our friend, whilst I (gallantly) said I'd get her handbag from the drain. They both stared at me, 'It's fine I'll sort it', I delegated. I was shocked and needed us to have a game plan.

As they sat whilst these women washed her legs, cleaned her wounds and bandaged her up (they really were saints), I stood at the side of the canyon with my torch in hand thinking why did I offer to do this?

The bottom was filled with sludgy water so I couldn't very well get in and if I did, how on earth would I get out? My friend's rapid escape from its depths was explainable only by adrenaline...

But I was too embarrassed to go back empty handed, I wanted to help. Uselessly I looked for a stick, nothing. Could I use a ladle from the food stall? I thought wildly: no that would never reach .... and who would let me dip a cooking utensil into that?

I was getting desperate when out of nowhere a man (or perhaps some sort of super hero) appears, he does not speak, he gets his torch out and I point out the bag I am feebly attempting to reach. Without a word, I mean it, not a word, he lowers himself down (into the murky waters), gets the bag out and gives it to me, then he turns around and leaves, whilst I am dumb-foundedly thanking him.

People are truly wonderful.

My friend was surprisingly OK in the end, just a few scrapes and bruises, although we never did make it to the bar. We came back to the hostel and had imitation Pringles for dinner and played cards: not quite what we were expecting, but I was grateful for a calm ending to what was undoubtedly the most dramatic day of my trip ... so far (I've only been with these two for a few hours).

One good thing to come out of this experience, dear readers, is that it makes good fodder for my blogging, and I am sure that I will have many posts to follow this one, if our first day together is indicative of the rest of our trip.

And one thing I can say for certain about my friend is that she, most certainly, travels further than any other tourist. 

7 hours

The seven hour train journey from Surabaya to Yogyakarta was, quite frankly, a test of endurance that I was ill-prepared for. I had turned up for a marathon without even owning a pair of running shoes : actually not unlike how I would turn up to run a marathon, but at least then I'd have a sense of the horror I was in for.

I got on the train and it was rammed. My seat was as the back, I squeezed along, vaguely aware that I was whacking fellow passengers with my backpack's many straps. Squeeze, squeeze, squeezing along. At one point I dropped my bottle of water loudly and had to bend most inelegantly to pick it up. Generally I was just making a bit of a scene.

I finally found my seat but there was nowhere to put my bag. Shit. More squeezing as I pushed together other people's luggage and harrumphed my bag onto the rack above us. Phew.

Now I can relax I thought. Little did I know the ordeal was only just beginning.

The 'seats' were arranged in groups of 6, I say 'seats' because they were actually small padded benches, very small for six people. Very very small. I was sitting with a family of a four and a young woman on her phone: me between the young woman and the smallest child.

I settled in as best possible, which was not easy as these trains are clearly designed with osteopathic torture in mind. The seats lean forward ever so slightly, so that your upper back is thrust in front of your hips, and there is literally nowhere to put your arms.

Even worse than this (yes, it gets worse) the chairs are so thin that whenever the person behind you moves to adjust themselves they inadvertently push against you and so you must move to adjust yourself, starting a silent war. I soon found myself genuinely hating the man behind me.

Finally, it was just oh so very cold: the aircon cranked up so ridiculously high that I was shivering in my small summer dress.

I got my book out, but before I could finish the first sentence the mother opposite me was forcibly coaxing a palpably embarrassed child to pose for photographs pretending to be asleep on my arm. 

Then, immediately as this ended, the one other white person on the train: an old Australian man, came over to formally introduce himself to me – because I too am white. Amazingly this racial identification was not indicative of common interests, and eventually I was allowed to settle somewhat awkwardly into my book : elbows tucked firmly into my sides.

This relative peace did not last long: soon the child started being very audibly sick into a thin (perilously thin) plastic bag. We were travelling backwards, and was suddenly struck with the horrific thought that I might too be sick: I stared at the page no longer able to concentrate on the words, a carton of chocolate milk swirling around within me ....

This was the first half an hour of a seven hour journey.

Thankfully somehow I was not sick and the children soon fell asleep: something that proved impossible for me.

All in all, when I emerged from the train, some seven hours later, icicles forming in my hair, back stooped and stiff, like some sort of deformed snow man, it is safe to say I've never been happier to leave anywhere in my entire life.

The pestilential pup

Myself, my bestest gal pal and her man, were sitting on the fabled paradisical white sandy beach of Koh Samui, Thailand.

However this was not the picture-postcard setting that we had anticipated on our sun-soaked boat ride over from the mainland, as the salty sea-breeze had lightly stirred through our hair, cooling our faces, whilst we hungrily devoured the surrounding scenery.

Our actual experience was more akin to an out of season trip to Grimsby, although perhaps somewhat warmer.

We hit up the beach as soon as we'd checked into our hostel, but now the sky was a blanket of grey cloud hanging oppressively low, the sea a reflection of the above. Grey. Grey. Grey. We shared a dishevelled sarong, far too small for three, watching the waves crash before us with heavy handed force.

As we sat here, sipping lukewarm beers, contemplating our next move, the dog arrived.

We were the only people on the beach, unsurprising considering the conditions, so this raggedy, bald-patched, frankly pestilential-looking pup made a beeline straight for us.

My bestest gal pal was terrified, she hates dogs, even clean, well-kept, pooches fresh from a visit to the vet.

'Don't look it in the eye, if you ignore it, it will go away' was her man's sage advice as the dog sauntered up. So this is what we did. With the dog all of a foot away from us, searching our faces, we strenuously avoided eye contact.

We looked up, we looked down, to the left, to the right, anywhere and everywhere except at the mutt. This lasted, honestly about 15 minutes, 'its not working' my pal trembled. Yet we continued. Feeling increasingly ridiculous as the time passed.

This dog remained, well dogged, in its persistence. Another 15 minutes passed.

In the end my pal's man shooed the dog away and it scarpered instantly, leaving us in the the blessed peace of our greyscale slice of paradise, after what was perhaps the most awkward half an hour of my life.

Boat to Gili Air

At the crack of dawn I gingerly descend from my bunk bed, change, cram my remaining belongings into my backpack, hoist it over my shoulder and leave. Bound for the neighbouring island feeling excited and nervous: new place, new people, new experiences await me.

After about fifteen minutes my ride arrives and a two hour journey dozing in the back of a minivan ensues. Pretty uneventful.

I am then dropped at the port, alone, my driver (after reminding him that my fare included the boat ticket) buys said ticket, hands it to me and leaves without so much as a backward glance.

Ok. I can do this.

This port is small but busy. Mostly trade: people packing bananas, pineapples, crates of cola onto small boats. I pluck up the courage and ask a trader where I should be, he gestures to some boats but tells me I have to wait a bit.

A bit passes, then a while. I grab a coffee and a chocolate. I'm milling around and decide to ask someone how much longer I must wait - she cuts me off 'that's your boat there, you have to run'

Oh god. I hate running at the best of times and this certainly wasn't the best of times. Sunglasses perched perilously on my head, scolding full cup of coffee in hand, backpack on back, rucksack on front, I run ... People begin shouting all around me 'hurry hurry' : I am I was thinking.

Now these boats don't actually come all the way to the shore ... So I had wade (in trainers and socks because no time to remove them) mid-shin deep to get to it.

Then I couldn't get up. Shit. Wet, heavy and now bright pink and panting. I handed a man my coffee. I still couldn't get up. I offered up my hand and he pulled me on board. Phew - I made it.

I faced a boat full of staring faces, 95% of which belonged local traders and families, watching this red-faced overladen woman struggle to seat herself.

I perched on a box with an old lady - she didn't seem pleased to share but I had to sit. So sit I did.

The journey was maybe half an hour but it felt like years. Where I sat the side of the boat came barely above my ankles and I swayed dangerously with every wave, envisioning myself falling overboard and then sinking beneath the weight of my bags, pulled down like a drowning beetle.

Needless to say this did not happen. I made it. And the destination made the journey worthwhile : although this may not have been the case if I had fallen overboard ....

My Oscillating Pod

I have never been known for my elegance. Some people are graceful: everything they do is a fluid motion of class and sophistication. Others (like me) can't even perform the simplest task without resembling a great lumbering bovine creature in human clothes. I'd wager that you've never seen anything less elegant then me attempting to get into a bed suspended from the ceiling.

When I arrived at my hostel my first reaction was extreme excitement: the dormitory room consisted of eleven beds with bamboo frames, suspended about a foot and a half above the floor by thick ropes, on each corner net hangings were artfully bundled and tied together with little bows. Adorable. I could not wait to get in.

However, this was my first day on the island and having much to see and do I resisted the urge and went exploring.

When I returned it was past dark. I realised at once that I should have tested the bed out in the daylight, but I hadn't so I had to make the best of it.

Wary of waking my bedroom buddies I gingerly clambered onto the bed. Immediately it began to swing violently beneath me, oh god, I thought I was going to crash into one of my neighbours: back and forth, side to side, I was being buffeted to and fro. Meanwhile, incomprehensibly, everyone else's bed was completely motionless....

I then struggled, with my eternally fumbling fingers, to undo the hangings and clip them together, to thus seal myself within my oscillating pod. This took ages and still I was swaying dangerously, when I eventually lay down I was feeling sea-sick: waves of nausea rushed over me echoing the waves of my hanging bed.

It was only then that I noticed the fan. Great, I initially thought, but the cord was so high up.... I would have to stand.

Getting to my feet like a new-born giraffe, knees shaking with the tension, legs spread like some sort of ill-prepared surfer, I rode the waves, turned the fan on, almost toppled over onto my neighbour, mercifully managed to keep my balance, and return to a seated position with a bump.

Then I was lying back down, still swinging as wildly as a 1970s suburban house party, feeling sicker and sicker. Eventually the motion calmed and I was rocked peacefully asleep, glad that it was at least too dark for anyone to have seen what a scene I created.