Why I Hated Thailand, Part 2: Hand Me My Pants!

Several months have passed since Thailand and I called it quits. Now that your suspense has built and my pain has eased, I'm ready to finish my story.. Actually, I became a little type-shy after a reader's criticism of Part 1 but, as I like to follow-through, my stubbornness prevailed. After all, there are still plenty of people left to offend.

It was a rainy Thursday on January 3^rd when I disappeared into a ridiculous poncho, piled onto the back of an overcrowded ute and waved goodbye to Koh Lanta. The next stage of the journey was by ferry, where we sat behind a row of fat Russians who ate for the entirety of the trip, stuffing their biscuit wrappers into the air vents above. When the very beautiful Railay Beach came into view, we boarded longtail boats to reach the shore. Finally wading through the shallows on foot, I was pleased I’d received Aga’s warning against a wheely suitcase and had borrowed my brother’s backpack. Ain’t no roads in Railay.

Our new holiday spot offered luxury heaped upon eyesores. A ragged construction site led the way to our hotel and the lovely restaurants were bordered by rubbish-strewn pathways and great, stinking burn-offs. The great little strip of shops, bars and eateries made an appealing spot for Thai youth and tourists alike. Our hotel rooms were delightfully deluxe, and we 30-somethings preferred to enjoy our evening drinks in the quiet of the poolside.

The pretty, little beaches were nestled by the cliffs where muscular climbers could be spotted day and night. Sunbathers shamelessly turned their backs to the water, preferring the rock-climbers over the less shapely swimmers. Ben created the game, “Spot the European” as a jibe against the larger, incredibly hairy men who looked like they’d used an all over brylcreem after taking a dip. One poor bastard, who was otherwise attractive, had tattoos down his arms and back that gave the unfortunate appearance of this popular wet hair pattern. Chinese tourists wore their floaties in the shallows while their friends took photos, serving as proof they’d been for a swim; This was a rare sight for us, having come from a beach-bound country where swimming lessons are of the standard curriculum.

At the further, prettier and luckily less known beach, many had paid tribute to a fertility shrine, effectively creating a mountain of wooden phalluses inside a small cave. Joining this beach oddity was the sudden appearance of monkeys at mealtimes. Whilst other tourists delighted at the exotic creatures which they fed and handled, Ben and I found their swaggering confidence off-putting. One monkey who sat on the fence and scratched his anus at eye level particularly ruined the romance; he likely used his stink hand shortly thereafter to climb a child. Further down from the main swimming area, a row of small, fast food boats were banked on the shore. I could only wonder how they met health standards as it was unlikely I’d like the answer, I opted not to try!

Many restaurants in Railay offered similar, large menus of Thai and Western food, as well as a range of bbq options displayed on ice. When Aga complained to a restaurateur that she saw no shark, one evening, he protested, “But, I didn’t catch any!” This put a dampener on the fact we’d been following Aga and Anatol out into the deep water, being that the shark risk is too great in Australia. I figured, “These guys travel a lot. They must know what they’re doing.” Those local Railay sharks better be toothless (and not the hammerheads we saw on a Thai fish chart..).

It’s a tragedy, I know, but the infamous heights of Thai service continued to elude us in Railay. Each restaurant had a spattering of customers and an abundance of staff and yet, we rarely seemed to meet! Had our food not been served at Starvation o’clock, the staff’s remarkable inattention to detail could’ve been enjoyed as a free comedy routine. Splitting a bill between one couple and one group of 4 sometimes took more and never less than 15 minutes, after several versions of calculations. After one such evening of interpretive service, we joined a crowd in front of a bar to await a ‘free’ Thai boxing match. Aga was curtly informed by the bar owner that if we didn’t buy a drink, we had to go. When she complained that the rude tone was unnecessary, the woman went on, “All we ask is that if you can’t afford 100 baht for a drink, please leave.” Well, when you put it that way! Only moments beforehand, Ben and I had been singing the praises of customer service in Australia, warning our friends they’d be drowned in politeness should they come to visit. I was very embarrassed, then, to admit that the lovely lady they’d just met was one of our own! Probably from Sydney though.. Or, Adelaide. Look, maybe even Canberra. In any case, we chose our pride over the supporting the woman’s business and walked away from the boxing match we’d been looking forward to seeing.

I’d learned from my laundry experience in Koh Lanta to keep track of the clothing submitted for cleaning. When I again entrusted our washing to a business in Railay, I first made a list of all our items. As we queued with our washing behind some other stinky travellers, we could hear an episode of violent illness from the lane of cheap accommodation. We laughed to ourselves over the screaming-vomit, assuming it was the aftermath of a jolly good evening. When we collected our washing the following morning, I checked my trusty list and found not one pair of undies was missing, as in Koh Lanta.. All of my underwear was, including an expensive bra! I questioned the storekeeper who, as in the previous instance, suggested, ah.. Absolutely nothing. I took matters into my own hands and rummaged through other tourists’ knickers until I thankfully found my own.
That very evening, I was vomiting with an intensity I’d never known and regretting my amusement at the man down the lane. It started as a niggle in the belly when we were out at dinner, but as I promptly tried to return to my room, I only made it several yards from the table before my body tried to eject whatever poison I’d ingested. The rows of restaurants had prime view of my scream-pukes over the footpath and onto the shoreline. Not sure what to do with my mess, I kicked over some rocks like a cat trying to cover it’s poop. Laying down in our room, if I rolled over, I puked; if I sipped water, I puked; unfurled from foetal position, puked. After a few hours of this, when I began to taste a bile that I suspected was my stomach lining, I ate a banana and felt ok. Praise the miracle fruit!

On Monday, Jan 7^th, Aga and Anatol, our two favourite things in Thailand, departed for the final phase of their journey. My other enjoyment had been the food, but as my recovering stomach now squelched at every foreign smell, I found myself just waiting out our final days. There must be something very odd-shaped about my behind because I can never find trousers to fit, so on our last Tuesday, I decided to have some tailor-made. I was concerned as to whether this could be done before our Thursday departure and grew warier still by the Indian shopkeeper’s “Anything’s possible!” attitude. Though I immediately knew this man for a bullshitter, I was measured for two pairs of pants to his smarmy delight and paid my 1000 baht deposit. For a little insurance, I claimed we’d be leaving at 1pm instead of 4 and was assured my pants would be ready Thursday morning.

This agreeable tone naturally diminished once I’d parted with my deposit and I had to call past 3 times on the Wednesday before I was invited for my first fitting, with only one of the two pairs available. My ‘guaranteed’ second fitting was dismissed altogether and when I arrived for the Thursday collection, the tailor claimed he’d thought I was leaving on Friday. I returned at the newly agreed upon 12pm and waited on his doorstep in the hot, Thai sun for an hour under the pretense of his sign, “Back in 20 minutes.”  In this period of reflection, I realised I had little with which to bargain. I succumbed to deranged, furious visions of throwing his materials out into the mucky, nearby sea if he refused to return my deposit. With ample time left for my rage to subside, I concluded (a little more reasonably) that if my pants were presented, I would simply deduct an amount from the balance normally allotted to ‘customer service.’

The tailor finally came running down the path with my pants but I was deaf to his flurry of excuses.  I silently tried the pants behind the curtain to ensure they fit before making my offer. Having haggled in Thailand before, I was surprised at the man’s outraged reaction. He would not consider less on the price he claimed was “for a product.”
“No,” I resolved, “I’m paying for a product and a service. You lied to me, you made me wait out in the heat and you’ve treated me like an idiot.”
Though the tailor had cost us our imaginary taxi boat, I was confused by his offer to pay for another, which would surely be less cost-effective than reducing my balance. His next suggestion was to prevent me from leaving Railay altogether, so I tried a compromise. “I’m not going to pay the full amount, but tell me a price you think is fair.”
He angrily relented, “I don’t want to fight you - you’re my customer. Be happy,” walking me out the door and slamming it shut. 

Not accustomed to enraging people, I was left feeling low and second-guessing myself. It was only after trying the pants on again in Australia that I was relieved I hadn’t paid in full. One pair proved unflatteringly tight, the other had an iron-on patch to hide a tear and neither had been made to my specifications. I was still unaware of all this, however, when our taxi boat arrived and a mute, bedraggled old Thai man walked us out through the shallows. I felt like a criminal caught when I noticed that his uniform bore the tailor shop’s logo! I could almost taste the mushrooms grown from my Thai prison floor. Our host remained as unimpressed by me, though, as he was by the water slowly pooling inside our dingy vessel, which he calmly scooped back out to the sea.

We shared our boat with a Thai mother and child who I fancied partook in this ‘great escape,’ but were more likely locals, just popping out. I have never been so relieved to reach a pier as I was, that day! A mini-van ride later, we arrived at Krabi airport with a few hours to kill. Unbeguiled by the single, basic café out front, we chose to hold-off on dinner until we’d checked-in. True to our luck, the only food past check-in was sold at an even more basic snack shop, which didn't take eftpos, to boot. As we’d deliberately spent our Thai money to avoid the bother of exchange, this left us with an entire 36 baht for dinner! Although I would normally sacrifice meal size to the maintenance of my beefcake husband, the tiny packet of cream wafer biscuits we bought was divided evenly. I took a cup from an empty water cooler to fill it from another, then noticed that the second cooler was lacking its tank, entirely. We did have a giggle over our cartoon-like situation; we may have even boiled our boots, had there been water. Our ridiculous pre-flight meal led to our ravenous consumption of the bizarre plane food, which included a donut filled with satay.

Rosie’s conclusion: So, What Does This All Mean? 

(Ben suggested this end title as a joke, but I like it).

Of all the things I’ve ingested, nothing has ever tasted as good as that sweet, Melbourne air when we arrived back home. (Mmm, aeroplane fumes..) I was thrilled to see our Polish mates again and the trip certainly had its fun times, but I think it’s safe to say that Thailand and I won’t stay in touch. I clearly hate campin' and should stick to glamping.

       The nice times.

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!

 

60 Reasons to Paaarrrtay!

I don't know which made me feel older - attending my father-in-law's 60th or the fact I dressed the same as my mother-in-law. (The latter made me suspect that Ben's attracted to women who are like his mother, but it's more likely a mere coincidence. I'll only cry "Incest!" upon one more such incident.) After 3 attempts to perfect my nail polish, I was ready to add my finishing silver bracelet when I saw Kerry clipping on a very similar piece.. and, like myself, wearing a black, lace top, jeans and black heels. So, I skipped the bracelet and changed my outfit, managing to pull back my nail polish whilst pulling on my pants. Damn you to hell, coincidence (and your cousin, Murphy's law and.. Taxes [technically a second cousin])!

We had a very nice time celebrating out at the Malvern Hotel, where we were greeted warmly by John's friends, including his long-time buddy from the Polish neighbourhood, Richard. This gentleman who last flattered me with, "You look good. Why don't you always look like that?" this time asked, "Why are these people saying you look gorgeous?" It's all in good fun (I hope!) and Richie personally saw to it that we were entertained among the older crowd, for the evening. He plonked me down beside one perfect stranger, insisting, "Talk to Carol! She used to live in Singapore."
"Ok.."
Carol did have some interesting tales, like how her Filipino maid had to be smuggled out of the country when it was discovered she was having a relationship with a local, an unacceptable coupling in the community.

Ben and I somehow gravitated to the other cat lover in the room, Chris, who showed us pics of his clever feline squatting over the bath tub drain to pee! He said his wife refused to engage in any bedroom action if the cat was present, both regarding it as their baby. Privacy was not the only condition his wife instilled in this area. She would also ask, from the vantage of the bed, "Is that a cobweb in the corner?" so that Chris soon found himself regularly cleaning cobwebs and such around the house to increase his luck. Clever lady!

When Ben and Chris had left me alone, Richard kept me company with the always-fun conversation starter, "When are you having kids?!"
"What are you, her father-in-law?" someone retorted.
He proceeded to explain ("and tell me if I'm wrong..") that every woman's greatest desire is to have children; he also insisted that women are much smarter than men, however, so the generalisations evened out. As we chatted, he casually brushed my hair back from my shoulder (like an actual father tidying his kid) without seeming aware of it, which I thought was pretty funny.

I noticed a waiter apologising to Kerry for putting a dent in our bum. Our talented friend Lisa made an amazing cake which was sculpted into a bottom, on account of John's nickname, Bum (Bee is the less embarrassing abbreviation). As a lad, he was famous for stripping nude, tucking a piece of newspaper into his bum, setting it alight and running down the street. So, yes, the nickname's quite literal. Someone had dropped a bottle on the cake in the cool room, but Kerry reasoned, "Bee's got a scar on his bum, so now it matches."

Throughout the night, I kept failing in my determination to show comradery to the waitress, Georgia, who had to deal with the rowdy Polacks. I'd just taken a big gulp of cider which I followed up with a massive burp when she happened to walk past.
"Did she hear?" I demanded of Ben.
"Yep. She even gave you a look."
So, with the cake cut, I donated a large portion to the staff, which I handed to Georgia. Ben pointed out that giving her a piece of cake in the shape of a bum was like telling her to kiss my arse. D'oh!

Ben and I had enjoyed our night, but just like the oldies leave early at young folk's parties, we younger two were the first to leave the 60th. We looked for Ben's brother Josh as we were heading out, in case he wanted to join us, but saw him talking to Richard at the bar. "Quick!" Ben harried. "If Richard sees us, we'll never get out!" Bloody party animal, that one. We escaped on a tram and collapsed our weary, middle-aged bodies into bed.

Wine on, you crazy diamond.

After insisting at work that I would only be avaiable to work every second Saturday, I worked 5 in a row (I sure showed them!) and intended to use my first free Saturday wisely. With undies and toothbrushes ready (sounds exciting so far), we headed to Jas and Mark's, who live nearby to the Yarra Valley (a.k.a. magical land of wine) for a day of tasting.

Our friends' 2 year old, Zoe, was her usual happy self. When simply helped into her coat by grandma, there to collect her, she erupted into a contagious, giggling joy. Yeah, go coats! Zoe's little sister Gwen didn't escape the winery tour (with her sober mother as driver!) and was less excited to see us, staring at me with horror as I squished in beside her capsule. As with anyone who looks at my face too long, she eventually started to cry, so I made her toy bunny bust out a range of dance moves to little avail. Something else on my hand did catch Gwen's eye, however - my engagement ring.. She need only be given a diamond encrusted rattle and she'll never make a peep. She was also interested in my nails, which I'd luckily painted blue with black crackle (I knew that would come in handy - and they told me it was a waste of time!).


Our first stop was Sticks winery, and after only a couple of sips, I slipped all too easily into my boisterous alter-ego. Our winery host described one drop as having a slight tabacco flavour, "unlike cigarettes, but more like a fine, tasty cigar."
"So," I interjected, "the kind of tabacco that's good for ya, then? Haw, haw, haw!" Yes, Rosie, you
cheap drunk. Hilarious.
When I turned my back for a moment, wine man filled my glass with water to rinse it before the dessert wine. To everyone's amusement, I missed that vital instruction and gagged when I sipped on wine-laced water instead of the sweet drink I'd expected. I thought it looked a bit pale! Drunk Rosie, score 2.


The second winery, which shall remain nameless out of the kindness of my alcohol enlarged heart, was run by an older woman whose disinterest and long, dour face reminded me a crabby, English teacher from high-school that everyone was afraid of! She heard Gwen whimper and, speaking to the mother through the baby, told her, "You don't like being out, do you? Tell Mum you prefer to be at home in your environment. You don't care what she wants!" Now, I work in a cafe that could be mistaken for a daycare, so I understand wanting to shout, after a few hours of mothers' group, "Your kids wanna go home! What other option do they have for entertainment than opening sugar packets, crawling on the floor and pushing buttons on the fridge?!!" Aside from the fact I would never say this, our friends are not those type of parents and Jasmine had sacrificed the tastings to be our driver! Interestingly, the wicked wine lady's hostility quickly dissolved when Mark showed an interest in the art of wine making and drinking. She warmed to us (especially the boys..) like a small-towner who'd finally accepted the newcomers, giving us a lesson in agriculture and wine cellaring. I noticed her chunky rings embedded with crystals, including one on her thumb, and could understand her as a self-protective, soft-centred hippy.
When Gwen took a hold of and broke Jasmine's very special set of pearls (thankfully not earlier when she was told to go home!) our new friend even advised Jasmine on how to repair it herself to a baby-proof standard. Best mates for life! And she made a couple of sales on a quiet, rainy day. Everyone wins.


After an amazing lunch at Oakridge, an Englishman who we decided was from the same region as David Attenborough (giving him quite the sales advantage! Ah, so pure) ran us through the wines. Mark and Jasmine's resolve for the day was not to buy dessert wine, of which they have an untouched abundance. Attenborough took this as a challenge, showing Mark his best dessert wine which he promptly bought. Nature's voice strikes again.

Riverstone was up next. I drank in the beautiful view and took the free advice (which was, basically no one knows how long a certain bottle of wine will keep past a few years! So, may as well drink it now, eh?) but bought nothing. I broke my own resolve of the day, however, (which was, 'be a tightarse, as usual') at the final winery, Pimpernel, buying the most delicious albeit expensive bottle, 'Groucho.'


We sealed our seediness with more wine and some pizza that evening, and when Jasmine asked the next day, "Can I make you some bacon and eggs?" we assured her, "You certainly can!" It was on to rehearsal for me that arvy (bam! Hardcore), but enough fun was had on the Saturday that I am ready to work the next million I got coming. Thanks, kids :)

Freaky Friday at Zumba.

Friday night zumba sessions are something I lamely like to think upon as parties, I love them so. As with most classes we enjoy, this has much to do with my teacher, Sabrina. She may not run as high-intensity a class as some (a criterion for good zumba), but she is incredibly skilled, inventive and friendly, and I always head home feeling I've been a part of something. That's right, when you're out with your mates on a Friday, I'm dancing at a gym where noboby knows my name and the instructor is paid to be nice to me.. Because it makes me feel 'special.'

In any case, I was excited, as usual, to be heading to Zumba, last Friday. I didn't even let it annoy me when a clearly unusual woman impinged upon my dance space to ask, "Is this Zumba?" With her unkempt hair and mismatched clothing, socks pulled over her tracksuits to complete the look, I thought if her dance skills were like her dress sense, she might need the spot in the front row. My good spirits were only shaken when a different instuctor walked through the door. I quickly assessed the newby and though I remained vainly hopeful, the prognosis wasn't good. She wore bright wristbands and a pointy, blue croptop, like a colourful, unco version of 80s Madonna. Her bronzed, perky faced was topped with long, scraggly hair that was pinned at the fringe in such a way, it gave the impression of mullet. Despite a young daughter in tow, she had a fabulous belly, which led me to hope, "She must have mad dance skills to have stayed in shape.. Right?"

Without acknowledging the class, New Teacher fiddled with the sound system for an uncomfortable length of time, her daughter occasionally intervening to give her some pointers. Meanwhile, a second odd gym member arrived and again, despite the vastly vacant dance floor, stood right beside me. The assumption that she was a normal person and simply hadn't noticed me was dispelled when she turned briefly to look at me, then nevertheless held her spot. When she turned a second time and rudely stared, I took the opportunity to warn, "I may ending up whacking you, there," which was indeed the passive-aggressive threat it sounded. By her indiscernable mutter and otherwise stationary response, I was left to presume she would move once the class had begun.

When the class finally did commence, I was able to confirm the third weirdo in the room. New Teacher not only struggled with the choreography, but had very little grasp of the actual moves. The regulars and I were able to elaborate from experience, but I felt sorry for those less familiar to the class. Now, not every dance teacher has creative pizazz, but it is rare for even one student to outdo them for skill and timing. It seemed to me on Friday that not only were most of the students better than the teacher, but she seemed to be looking to us to lead her! I was cruelly amused by the isolated sight of the woman who had taken my place in the front row, when she moved closer to the stage to emulate a particular move; the teacher was reaching out toward the class and Strange Lady reached back toward toward her, so that for a moment it looked like they were the only two weirdos in the room, beckoning to one another. As for my other spot-stealing friend, she turned to me mid-class and asked, "Do you want to move into the front?"
"No thank you! I'm happy here, but there are plenty of other spaces." Honestly.. I fortunately didn't have to tolerate her for the entire class, because even she was unimpressed by our fill-in and left early.


Zumba is a generally sensual dance, but as I watched New Teacher's awkward movement, I tried to pinpoint a good description of her incompatible style. She had a Barbie-like body, but just like a Barbie who had come to life, she was ironically and comically stiff as a board. She also struggled with the sound technology, often referring to her daughter when she needed to change a song. I had also thought she moved a bit like a 6 year old who had made up a dance to show her parents, so this reliance on her daughter gave me another theory - It was Freaky Friday! Perhaps mother and daughter had a classic body switch and now the daughter had to keep her mother's day job, hence the little girl coming along to assist. There you go. Mystery solved.


Now, look, I may have sounded a little harsh, but I do look forward to Zumba and I don't think it's fair to employ teachers who are just so far below a reasonable standard. Had I not been amused by New Teacher's attempts at dancing, I might have left early with Weirdo #2. We could've gone off and sniffed glue together, or whatever it is that causes her to dance right on top of people. That probably would've given me some interesting stories, too, so I was winnin', either way.

Painting the Rosie Red.

It was a beautiful day in South Gippsland, last Sunday. Flowers were at the peak of their bloom and cried, "Pick me, pick me!"; the horsies were neighing, "See those hills? I can take you there, baby"; and the wide, open spaces were just begging for a good frolicking. Ben and I weren't silly, though. We knew the real action was to be found at the beach. There, we would laugh into the sea breeze, sipping on delicious bottled water and shifting uncomfortably in our rag-like clothing which we had specifically worn.. to paint a house. Whaaaaat?

You see, my mum and her brothers recently acquired my late uncle's home which they decided to keep in the family. They've put a lot of work into restoring the house, with a lot more to go, so my sister volunteered herself, Johnny and I to do the weatherproofing. Though happy to contribute, I was immediately anxious that any attempt by me at DIY would somehow lead to setting myself on fire ("Well, the tin says 'flammable', so.. guess I light it?"). Ben wasn't overly keen, either, but our tree-lopping, landscaping, fisherman, man's man brother-in-law Jason reassured us with his experience and the added incentive, "We'll have some beers after."
It was 'a tad disconcerting' then, when Bec called Sunday morning to say that Jason had gone fishing and she didn't have a sitter for my nephew, Clay (who had just woken up, right behind schedule). The painting had essentially been left to an artist (of the soft-handed variety. Sorry, hun. Your gym calluses are hot, though), a baby, a dude with Lupus (that's all you are to me, Johnny!) and two useless girls! (Not to be sexist. But, seriously.. Men should do all the hard work. Then rub my feet.)

Jason's promise to finish any work we left undone avoided the use of his very blood for paint. Bec turned out to have a little experience with painting, at least, and any questions we had left were certainly answered in the hundred page letter sent from England by my uncle, which listed all the things he wanted us to do (the painting at an easy number 1...). His letter was punctuated with the admittance he thought it best to be absent for our working bee, thereby avoiding his usual stigma of 'control freak.' AHHEEMM...

Since agreeing to the painting, I had noticed a growing reference to all the jobs we would be doing for our 'working bee'. Don't get me wrong - though I would abuse men in accordance to traditional gender roles for my own convenience, and it seems that I am so inexperienced in physical labour that I have to blog about it - I am actually not opposed to hard work. I just get a lot more done when I actually know what I'm doing! I had doubts we would even get the painting finished (sparked by my best-friend's comment, "You're not gonna get the painting finished." She also predicted I'd pee all over myself when I had to squat on a camping trip. She doesn't have a lot of faith in my ability to.. live).
All set to disappoint, whatever our accomplishments, we strapped our disheartened spirits to job number one and I was surprised when I found myself actually having fun (a few hours before the paint-sniffing headache set in. I recommend glue, instead - it's a better high).

There some hiccups when we were getting started. Johnny had to gurney a few areas, and when he re-emerged covered in flecks of mud and woodchip, Bec was reminded, "Oh, yeah.. I meant to tell you not to go too hard so you don't get covered in shit." There you go, John! Apply that, past tense.
I had also thought of bringing my good ladder from home (see? I'm handy 'n' shit) but decided we'd already be set with the necessities. Well, there were only two rickety, relatively short ladders and all I could think about was my workmate's husband who'd been severely injured falling from a dodgy ladder. As Ben was the tallest, he got the bullshit job of leaning a dangerous ladder on a dangerous angle and reaching for the highest planks. He soon grew sick of me 'spotting' him and preaching 'safety first!' Also, I criticised his painting technique (just to make him feel at home. "You're doing it wrong! You'll never amount to anything!" You know, typical wife stuff).
There were a few other items that would've been useful to bring. We couldn't find ice cream containers (as recommended in the letter from England), so we used cheap mixing bowls from the house for paint and tea towels for rags, Bec all the while reassuring, "I'll buy new ones." Eventually that attitude became so second-nature, I imagined us just painting over the windows and saying, "Ah, fuck it, we'll buy new ones. Grumble, grumble.." It's a free-for-all!


I had arrived in a singlet and shorts, picturing an easy little montage where we all dabbed paint on each other's faces and got a tan. As I had to prune a lot of branches away from the house to make room for my ladder, however, whatever tan I did achieve was ripped from my skin, inspiring a new vision of showing up to work, where we have to wear tiny shirts, looking like a botched (or successful?) alien experiment. Yeah, you know all the glamour's gone out of your life when you feel a bug go down your shirt, whilst holding a bowl of paint at the top of a ladder, and your only option is to think, "I'm gonna assume that wasn't a spider."
I started to feel that sun after a while, and when I told my sister I needed a 'second coat' of sunscreen (I'm a total painter now. Got the lingo), she began to sing, "We're painting the Rosie red!" as in the original Alice in Wonderland. I don't know if it was all the paint-sniffing, but I found that utterly hilarious (so I'll repeat it here, in case it is).


Little baby Clay was well-behaved throughougt, even taking a nap after his sleep-in. It's a baby's world! Ben's Mum took pity on us when she heard we were a small crew + baby, so she came along to watch the boy for a while. Ben's brother, who is dealing with a custody battle for his own son at the moment, also came for the ride. It was nice to see them getting to know my nephew, but I was sad to know they couldn't enjoy the same freedom with their own son and grandson. It is simply unfair and a terrible waste.

On the way over to the beach, Josh drive Kerry's little black hatch and insisted on staying in front of us, even though we knew the way. When he stopped for fuel, Ben and I took the opportunity to get in front, but were soon overtaken with a finger stuck out the window for effect. Once we hit Foster, I could see Josh was going the long way through town, so I gave Ben a short cut to take back the lead. We rejoined the main road just as a little black hatch was approaching, so we shot out in front and gave them the finger, totally satisfied. That is, until we realised Josh and Kerry were still in the lead and we'd just given the finger to strangers! Oh, well, it would've given them something to wonder about all day (I'm sure they'll be telling future grandchildren).


At the end of the day, our patient little Clay-boy began whining a little and when all the adults joined him in this, we decided to pack it in. We called past Mother's for a hearty meal and the reminder that no matter what we had or hadn't done (including tearing through and leaving her a pile of dirty dishes), we were all perfect angels. Ahhh. But, of course.