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. 

Mingalabar : Myanmar's thriving nightlife

                             

Night life is Myanmar is essentially non-existent: ten days into our trip and aside from falling down drains nothing exciting had happened to us after dark. Please don't get me wrong it is a beautiful country, one of the best places I've ever visited, but if you're looking for a wild time (or even a mildly thrilling one) don't come here.

The one exception to this was an evening spent at Inle Lake.

Me and my two travel buddies headed out to a restaurant for dinner, a little local place above a clothing shop. We ascended the staircase, dimly aware of some commotion above us, and no sooner had we emerged than we were invited to join a group of - predominantly Irish - guys already several bottles deep.

It turns out that bottles of whiskey (served by the restaurant!) were about 90p a pop : to put that in perspective that is roughly the same as two cans of coke.

Needless to say the evening became very exciting very quickly, and our plans for a meal rapidly dilapidated into a liquid dinner. The lads invited everyone who appeared to join the table and before long we were a huge group: Spaniards, French, Americans, Scandinavians: very continental!

We were having an extremely jolly time, things beginning to get a wee bit messy (and it was only 8pm) … when suddenly, from nowhere, some club bangers start playing.

We were shocked: Could this be nightlife in Myanmar?

No. Well not the nightlife that we expected anyway. It turned out that the music was coming from the roller disco across the road.

Immediately the lads were well up for it.

OK, I said, I'm game.

Now I have never roller bladed in my life, no thats not quite true, once when I was about six years old I got given a pair of plastic roller blades, fell over instantly and never used them again.

But I was being bold and adventurous … and all the fellas were doing it ...

                             

I laced myself in, stood up, and the fear was immediate: I can't stand in these: why did I think I would be able to stand in these? Why did I think that this was a good idea? Have I even met me? 

Of course I couldn't stay on my feet for more than seven seconds, much to the hilarity of the throng of local onlookers that ringed the side of the rink. The crowd pressed thick around the edges, we were the only westerners on skates, me the only western woman. They cheered me on, laughing – I will only assume with me, not at me – as I gracelessly tumbled around the rink, like a baby giraffe …. on roller blades.

I was down far more than I was up, but I had the best time, it was hilarious and the whiskey definitely helped to mask any bruises, till tomorrow at least. I was however confused: why was no one else was falling as much as me?

It was only afterwards that I found out that the lads all had previous roller blade experience.

'I haven't roller bladed for a good year now …'

'I used to go every weekend'

I mean what on earth! No one told me I was the only novice! I was lured into this.

Even so it was still a great night in Myanmar soaking in the local culture, soaked in the local spirit… 

                             

                             

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.