Rosie in the Sky with Strangers.

                                                                      Sleepy city.

I snapped awake on a sweltering Saturday night to find I was lying in a pool of my own sweat (and not some hobo’s, again). Ben and I threw our slim, floral, slightly diseased guest mattresses from the 1970s (we like visitors to enjoy unique bedding) downstairs to the cooler lounge, where my suffering was echoed by the alarm clock’s slaughterhouse bleating at 3:45am.

I was due in the city at 5am on Sunday (standing ovation!) to meet for a graceful mode of flight I had long hoped to try. Family and friends made my dream a reality with a hot air balloon voucher for my 30^th birthday. They may have been obligated by the blatant request on my invitation, which was covered in balloon pics (as well as the bucket at my party marked to, “Insert life savings”), but they were generous all the same. An early morning zombie experience was not a part of this dream, but as my voucher included breakfast, I held off on eating brains.

Arriving at the recommended parking area at a delightful 4:30am, I pulled up a short distance from a van on the otherwise deserted Lansdowne street. I became aware of a tall man with long, shaggy hair brushing his teeth outside the van as I hastened to the ticket machine which naturally wouldn’t accept my payment. The man watched a little too closely as I ran to the next machine to face more rejection and an instruction to check the signs. But, I’d already “checked the signs and now I’m gonna be late! I better not miss my ride after getting up this early on a.. Sunday. Ohh, parking’s free, today.” I left the would-be rapist to find several more attackers guarding the park down Treasury Place. The shadowy figures were eerily still, which made a lot more sense when I discovered they were statues. Aside from this crazed, early-morning paranoia, it was pretty cool to see the city free of crowds and traffic.

I avoided human contact at the Sofitel Hotel, more so for the safety of others. With my no-sleep induced mental fuzz, I could only answer in grunts and a vacant stare when a pilot checked my details. My fellow ballooners and I were split into 3 groups and I followed Peter the pilot and his crew woman, Mika, down to their white mini-van. With Mika behind the wheel, I finally considered her tall, boyish figure and shaggy blonde hair and realised.. She was van guy on Lansdowne! I presume she had parked overnight for her early start and only wanted to tell me not to worry about a ticket. But, you know what they say: Better to kick someone in the non-existent balls and run away screaming than to risk a conversation. 

As we headed out, Peter explained the process of inflating the balloon and climbing aboard. He warned us to keep our distance from the high powered fan as “it’s very difficult to clean out the blood spatters from inside the balloon.” This dad-joke was met with a zealous chorus of tension-breaking chuckles (“He wouldn’t be joking about killing us if ballooning was actually dangerous, right? Hahahaha!”), highlighting the importance of such humour among pilots. Before my tandem skydive several years ago, an instructor demonstrated the safe diving method to his group. His moves, which were carefully mimicked, ended with a rapid flapping of the elbows that is also known as the Chicken Dance. I certainly hope the real demonstration followed, though!

To find the best launch space and again check safety conditions, our assembly of vans pulled over and a big, black helium balloon was released into the wind. This overtly manual test served to remind us of the unpredictable nature of weather and, as it took several minutes, I began to fear a sudden cancellation. Having gotten out of the van to watch and stretch, I realised the high risk of interaction with the other ballooners, who were far too alive at that hour, and scrambled back to my seat to doze. I went unnoticed as a man well into his 60s also returned with his wife (whose facial ‘enhancements’ masked her approximate, similar age), and so had to listened to the pair debate the task at hand. “Couldn’t they have done this before we met this morning?” the woman sniped. “That way, we could’ve slept another 15 minutes!”

“Is it part of the experience?” Her husband hopelessly wondered.
“I’d prefer to be sleeping.”
“I don’t know if they could’ve done this earlier..”
“Well if they could’ve..” This continued until the woman declared with certainty, “It’s part of the experience!” as though her husband had been complaining!

Eventually, it was deemed safe and best to start our flight from an oval around a 20 minute drive away. Mika shut down the engine to release the balloon’s basket from the trailer and, when attempting to drive forward to complete the release, the van’s battery said, “Nup. Don’t feel like it.” (I heard it.) I again started fretting that we wouldn’t touch the sky, that day, but was very impressed by how quickly the crew pulled together to bitch-slap that lazy battery into action. As the staff arranged a jump-start, a tomboy from my group strutted over with a torch and desperately offered, “Do ya need a light?” Stressed and slightly embarrassed, Peter mumbled that they were fine. It was with discomfort then, when I watched the girl return not a minute later to repeat her offer while forcefully shining her light! She was refused more audibly the second time around.

With the van moved and basket lowered, our very large balloon was unfurled. Two volunteers held it open as air was fanned inside, which was then heated by several long bursts of flame. We were told that once the balloon began to ascend, tipping up the basket which was initially laid on its side, we were to quickly climb into our assigned compartments. Mika had tied the basket to the van to prevent anyone being left behind! The basket was divided into three areas; one was for the pilot and gas supply and the remaining 9 of us were told which side to take to ensure equal weight. Bummer if you were the only one in your third, huh? I was the first (but not only!) one into my side and was unfortunately followed by the biggest dickhead on the planet. Probably better that I stood as a buffer between he and Peter, however, so our pilot could focus on what proved a very demanding role. I had read that hats were recommended to block the heat of the flame but had decided to leave my hooded jacket in the van when asked to part with unnecessary weight. It’s a common misconception that it will be cold up in the balloon, but you don’t rise high enough to reach cooler air than that of ground-level. Loser man remarked, “Don’t have a hat? It’s gonna be mighty toasty!” He had already mentioned that this was his second balloon ride and would continue with his know-all commentary as a reminder. Mika loaned me a hat and dork-breath assured me as we fired up for take-off, “This is the longest the flame will run.”

We gracefully rose to a height that made the trees, houses and cars look like a giant Lego scape. We initially drifted slowly as the sun came up, which was lovely and peaceful, but I enjoyed our flight best when we cut through the air with bird-like speed. It was odd sight when a flock of birds passed beneath us. We flew high enough to gain a unique perspective on the city in the distance and low enough to look into people’s backyards. Everything looked surreal, a train on the track below us resembling a model. The dork took photos of absolutely everything and was not afraid to barge into my space with his big, wanky camera. He should’ve been afraid, as I had more than one thought of knocking his prized possession out of his hands. I was using my phone for photography and occasionally held it over the edge with care. I considered it a dig when the wanker asked Peter, “Do many people lose items from the balloon?” and remember thinking with fury, “I’ll risk dropping my own damn phone if I want to!”

Hopeless as ever with geography, I am not entirely sure where we were, but I do know we flew over “Northcote Hall!” as my mate pronounced before taking multiple snaps. He also pointed out a ‘Tiger Moth’, which I believe is a light plane, but I didn’t want to turn around to look and give him the satisfaction! (He annoyed me just a little.)

I was surprised by the work that went into piloting the balloon. Peter constantly had to pick which wind to ride to control, as best he could, our speed and direction, all the while rotating the balloon to alternate our views. He was frequently on the walkie-talkie with Mika and the other pilots, as even the landing space is initially indeterminable, and my best mate added his own responses as though he was part of the conversation.

After around an hour, we began our final descent. We all grew a little uneasy when we dipped below building level without our landing in sight, but Peter furiously ran the flame to manage our height. We glided through the tree tops and Peter challenged us to pick some leaves, noting that ballooning was the only form of flight in which that was possible. He arranged our collection with the crew below, a dialogue my new best friend felt he had to relate back to his wife even though we could all hear it! He even misinterpreted the information, announcing that we’d overshot a park whereas we were simply landing on a different end. When Peter told Mika, “Sorry to make you run, but can you actually meet us down near the other basket?” my mate literally repeated to his wife, “Mika was gonna meet us back there, but now she’ll have to run to the other end.”

The crew member for each group has to grab the basket as it lands and act as ballast to its occupants, who are dragged along a little ways. The basket must be positioned to continue in momentum on only one side to suit the padding and handles in each compartment; The passengers lean back into the padding as the basket tips into a bunny-hop. Our balloon stayed fairly planted, but we did land with a particular thud. I personally found this a fun surprise but Pauline, a lovely lady of 62, hurt her knees on impact.

The pack-up process took as long as the set-up, Mika having to roll that ginormous balloon back into its significantly smaller hay bail sized bag. She had many hands to lighten the load, including those of my know-all friend and the tomboy with the torch, of course. Although help is appreciated and somewhat expected for this very physical task, Mika told of her crewmate’s experience when absolutely no one volunteered! I guess they weren’t in a hurry for breakfast.

 

Back at the hotel, I was first into the elevator as with the basket, and who else but my buddy sidled up to me, again?! I was smarter once we reached our table. His wife sat down first and I almost joined her, as is polite to do, but thought better of it and chose the other end of the table. My mate looked to sit opposite me (loved me, or just loved annoying me?) and I saw the disappointment when he had to join his wife.

After my very moody start, I hadn’t expected to enjoy breakfast with strangers but found myself in lovely company. Peter was once an inspiring actor, and may be yet, and discussed the theatre. He is semi-retired and now ‘only’ has 4 early mornings a week! Mika is from Switzerland and told us about skiing over untouched ‘powder’ snow, which is much more tricky and dangerous than the firm snow of Australia. Pauline is an adrenaline junky and went skydiving to face her fear of heights. Her next rush will be bungy jumping, which is something I’m too scared to try! Another lady in her 60s had recently had a heart attack but was youthful and spritely and hadn’t let it slow her down. Though cliché, Mika and I agreed with her philosophy that you can die any day and you can’t let fear stop you trying something ‘dangerous.’ Although amidst an older crowd, I began to realise that I was the tamest of the bunch.

A buffet breakfast was included with our experience and I took full advantage with my now ferocious appetite. I had bacon, eggs, sausage, tomato, mushroom, toast, a pancake, a danish and some bircher muesli, washing it all down with a glass of champagne.

I highly recommend ballooning for yourself or as a present. My voucher was through Adrenalin and the ballooning company was Picture This, who were very friendly and professional. I can guarantee you’ll feel sky high (ooh, dad-joke. I should be a pilot).

 

Why I Hated Thailand, Part 1: The Missing Undies of Koh Lanta.

I had always been conflicted about taking luxurious holidays in third world countries. I don’t buy the excuse of, “They rely on the tourism!” to take advantage of underpaid services, believing instead that there are less self-serving ways to help if that’s your genuine purpose. When the opportunity arose to meet our Polish buddies Aga and Anatol in Thailand last December, however, my inner-hypocrite cried, “Yes! Cheap massages!” and we went for it. On the final leg of the trip they’d arranged for Aga’s parents (and some other ‘old people’), our friends would meet us a few days into our stay at Koh Lanta.

We learned first-hand the insanity of Thailand’s roads when we arrived at Krabi airport, our resort having sent a driver to collect us. The big-arse ute was constantly beeping as we overtook scooters and tuk tuks on narrow roads, never minding the oncoming traffic around bends and hills. If there was a speed limit, it was not adhered to. I was thankful an unused seatbelt had been fished out for my spot in the back, while Ben held on for dear life with a front seat view, politely listening to our driver’s life-story. When he told us he was ‘studying Islam,’ Ben mistook this religious observance for an official course and asked, “What do you get at the end?”

“I’ll be a better Muslim! I used to party and drink and date women, y’know? But if you don’t do these things, if you are good in this life, then in the next life the rivers will flow with alcohol and you will be covered with untouched women.” Pretty sure the point of abstaining from something shouldn’t be an overload of it afterwards!
He went on, “Did you know that this life is short, but in the next life you live forever?”
Ben, ever the diplomat, responded as though unfamiliar with the concept of afterlife: “Really?.. [followed by a little Homer Simpson style] Hm.”

 We slowed on a rugged, cluttered street without any ‘proper’ shops to turn into our resort, the Thai House Beach Resort. The beach was pretty as implied (particularly at night when, as I joked, you couldn’t see the filth!), but our room was ‘less than fresh.’ The bathroom was my key gripe, with the shower positioned to run over the stained and stinky toilet.

At least we didn’t have to squat, but rinsing our butts with a hose and putting used paper in the bin was also an unusual experience. I must say, although I would not want to be responsible for emptying the toilet bin back home, it did feel like I was polluting by flushing paper when we returned and the hose is certainly a cleaner process. Ben is squeamish about toilet matters in general and when he didn’t want to be interrupted during this foreign process, he’d warn, “Don’t come in! I’m having.. secret toilet time.” The Thai loos were thereby referred to as ‘secret toilet.’

 

Aside from the heat, the filthy roadside we had to walk and the random deposits of stinking garbage, our first few days in Koh Lanta were decent. I was intrigued by the oddities compared to home. Businesses did a little of everything, like a restaurant that hired out scooters, sold gasoline and offered laundry service. The greatest range of groceries was to be found at 7-11 and you had to take your shoes off to enter the pharmacy.

Our resort bar was beachfront, which was a beautiful way to drink and dine. The beach was no more impressive than those at home, but as we braced ourselves for freezing Victorian-style water, I must say that the unexpected warmth was a delight. Aside from the rough sea floor and whatever was giving us little stings (resulting in our frequent yells of, “Argh, rocks! Argh.. ‘stingers’!”) we enjoyed our swims. After seeing my own post-Christmas body in a bikini, I was compelled to try a morning yoga class by the beach. Hot, sticky and harassed by flies in seconds, I questioned my decision while silently willing my rigid pants not to split. I tried to remain focussed but admit to losing my cool when I spotted a bullant on my arm. Children on the beach watched, intrigued, as we ourselves looked like kids at play while attempting headstands. I finished the class at least pleased that I’d achieved one.

 

The stickiness was a way of Thai life and I learned not to compulsively change my clothes when I needed washing done after only 3 days. I left our laundry at the multi-service restaurant (as you do) and was pleased at the $3 price.. Until I noticed my $8 pair of undies were missing. When I asked the restaurateur about it, she vaguely repeated, “White women’s underwear..” then, as I found to be common in the Thai service industry, completely ignored me. Guess I won’t be seeing those knickers, again! Maybe they were rented out with a motorbike.

 

When our friends’ arrival was delayed, I booked a kayaking trip around Talabeng Island for our fourth day. We tried to grab a quick breakfast before collection and were mortified to disturb someone asleep on a mat on the restaurant floor. We were loaded onto two long slat seats on the back of a ute, with only yoghurt (and in Ben’s case, tuna – a poor combination) in our bellies, and I wondered if it would just be the two of us. 10 people and no arse space later, I felt rather mocked for my way-off assumption. Arriving at the water, it was a considerable distance to the longtail boats involving a stretch of flimsy boardwalk and the bridge from an Indiana Jones set. Only half-joking, I warned my very heavy, muscular husband not to fall through. We shared a boat with a quiet, young German couple and a small family from the Czech Republic. 5 y.o. Karen was sitting closest to the weighty kayaks when the poorly secured one on top flew off and hit the water. The family quickly moved away from the kayak missiles as we circled the fallen one for collection. It began to rain and we were saturated with the combination of sea spray. When we reached the gaping cliffs of Talabeng, we were sent out in our kayaks with the unspoken, typical Thai instruction of, “On your way, then. You figure it out.” After 20 minutes of aimless paddling without our promised guide, Ben’s foot began to fall asleep and he was angry as only a Leo stuck in a kayak in the rain can be. We were finally led into an unimpressive little cave with a rope for climbing a 30 metre slope, and I watched in horror as the Czech mother allowed her little daughter to attempt the feat of which I was too afraid! It was actually one of the Thai guides, not famous for their safety methods, who asked that the child come down.

We took lunch at the unspectacular Koh Bubu island and I knew that as Ben looked at the teeny spread with his ferocious appetite, he’d be wondering, “What’s everybody else eating?” As we waited to leave, the Czech parents allowed Karen to fling around a ginormous stick which nearly hit both of them in the eye, and I made a dash for the loo. I was finally faced with a squat toilet and it struck me as strange to know that the two cutely dressed Thai teenagers who were hanging out in the bathroom had happily used it. Well, I now know there’s a right and a wrong way to squat since I’m pretty sure I should’ve been facing the closest wall and not the empty cubicle.

Our final stop was at Tungyeepeng mangrove forest to feed the monkeys. The uncomfortably confident creatures boarded the boat to scour us for food and Karen, the sweet child of strife, reached out to pat one. The monkey bore its teeth and lashed out, so I grabbed Karen while Ben made a move to tackle the monkey! We now know who’s who in our fight or flight responses.

That night was New Years Eve which we spent with Aga and Anatol, who had finally made it into town the previous evening. Apparently, their boat trip took more hours than usual due to unexpected stops for swimming through caves! I can’t see why travellers would need that information. We sat on the beach and watched fire-lit lanterns traverse the water, which was very pretty (nevermind the pollution and potential fires. That’s Thailand!).

 Aga had hired a vehicle for New Years Day to explore the island and although I was nervous to be on the road, I was happy “So long as I’m not driving!” When we were given an auto ute and I was the most experienced auto driver, I found myself in the driver’s seat and the boys in the tray. Nervous as hell, I quickly learned that the biggest vehicles have right of way and my only concern became keeping the boys butts in the back (apparently, I hadn’t taken enough care initially and provided a makeshift rollercoaster). We found a very derelict little village where people still slept outside on their mats and music continued to blast from the evening’s celebrations. We passed tsunami warning signs, took swims, had lunch at a restaurant with an amazing view and explored Old Town, which I actually loved. The only unenjoyable part of our journey was through our desire to find some elephants. The map led us to a single baby elephant attached to a tree by a very short chain. He could hardly move and was literally crying, while the keepers charged tourists to feed him bananas. It was one of the worst sights of my life, made so terrible by the knowledge that it’s clearly acceptable in Thailand to treat animals that way. It was also common to see stray dogs, native birds kept in tiny cages, as well as malnourished and/or pregnant, tiny cats with their tails, for some reason, cut off.

 In typical Westerner fashion, I conveniently forgot the troubles of the world with a massage that evening. I tried my first Thai massage and it was the best I’ve ever had in my life. The little Thai lady must’ve hit all the right pressure points and was also able to give me a deep massage without much pain, which is rare. I walked out of the place like I was floating on a cloud.

 The following day, we went to see some better treated animals at Mr Chien’s snake show. We watched Chien kiss loose cobras on the head, explaining that they were distracted by his knees in their sight range. Chien ran us through the deadliness of each snake, telling us, “This one bite you.. Dead in 2 hr. This one.. Dead in 1 hr.” Not let out of its pen was a very dangerous looking black and white snake which could indeed jump two metres in the air to bite you on the face. It was no comfort to know the snakes were all found locally, but it was quite a show.

 

Our next destination would be Railay Beach, where we spent the remainder of our trip. Stay tuned for more hatey hatred!