Travel time!

Sukhothai, despite how close it looks on the map, horridly takes a whole day to get to. But the next morning we head to the lush green grounds of the palace ruins and temples, the layout and names of which seem to mirror those of the Palace temples and streets in Bangkok. Capital during the 13th and 14th centuries the ruins are weathered buddhas and shrines set amongst pillars, pretty ponds and connecting islands. Later we head out to Si Satchanalai which I love even more because this countryside is even more wild, less pruned and the sights require a little climbing.

Next day we take another long, long bus journey to Ayuttaya. Here, we try to find our guesthouse by following directions from the guidebook which indicate the guesthouse is just by the bus station. An hour later we discover that we got off at the wrong bus station - one outside of Ayuttaya. A forty minute taxi ride later we are on the right roads. It is dinner and bed. As the ruins in Ayutthaya are more spread out, we hire bicycles. It is so exciting hunting down the ruins amongst the grassy parkland or coming across a huge reclining Buddha along a dusty road.

After just one day, we take a boat (across the river) to the train station and for a train to Bangkok. I leave the boys in my apartment, pick up my visa from the Indian Embassy and fly to Mumbai.

I am meeting Lisa in Mumbai. Lisa from home – from Newcastle-under-Lyme, my dancing friend, my Fat Cat’s bar mojhitos drinking buddy, my sit by the fire with wine and good food friend. I cannot wait. My flight gets in earlier than Lisa’s and before I know it I’m outside Mumbai airport trying to second guess which arrivals door she might appear from. With a bottle of water and a Samosa in hand for Lisa’s arrival, I spend a little time at each of the arrival exits. After an hour (now I’ve wrapped the Samosa in tissue to keep it from drying out) I find her as I have instructed, armed with bottles of Rioja and duty free perfume. I have found a nice taxi driver who has been waiting for ages to take us to Colaba and told me where he would wait only he’s not in his cab but the cab is open so we get in and wait. He appears 10 minutes later and with the windows down (because it is boiling) we drive for an hour past purple spotted cows, slums, the sea, children selling books at the window, people begging at the window, people disappearing into little holes in walls.

We opt for a double room at the Salvation Army because we can’t get a decent hotel room for under 25 quid. The Salvation Army isn’t actually the type of hostel it is in the UK, it’s like a B&B – honest. The room is 8 pounds and this includes free breakfast and lunch but the sheets have not been changed and there are piles of long hair on the floor which the fan has swept into certain corners of the room. I ask a member of staff if the room has been cleaned (knowing full well it hasn’t) and she hands me clean bedding. I collect the hair, change the bedding, drape my sarongs across all the grotty bits of furniture and put candles around the room. (I had proposed to Lisa in a conversation a couple of weeks before that we should have a cozy room in Mumbai for a couple of days before beach hutting it in Goa). Coming from England, Lisa is jet lagged and desperately needs to nap. As I am bright eyed and bushy tailed from Bangkok, while she sleeps I head down to the canteen for lunch. It is pasta in a tomatoe sauce and bananas for afters. I take two plates, one for me and one for Lisa. Embarrassed that it’s not Indian and Lisa has not come all the way to India to eat pasta, yet not wanting to waste it, I offer Lisa’s lunch to a hungry traveler staying in the dorm beds (where lunch not included). He appreciates this and so I rush to wake Lisa and tell her it was pasta for lunch but not to worry as I gave her lunch away and now we can go and eat some real Indian food. Lisa has had no end of Indian food in Newcastle. Pasta would have been fine….

We knew it was hot season but somehow in the planning stages we convinced each other we could handle it. In our hostel room we are dripping sweat. I shower and Lisa tries to wake up. Then whilst I’m waiting outside the hostel where there is the teeniest breeze (and Lisa’s still coming to), I meet Imran, a casting agent for Bollywood films. He’s looking for extras for a film to be shot this evening but he wants white people. I say I have a white friend that might be interested and Lisa is interested but she’s just been here an hour and she only wants to do it if I can too. We find a film for the pair of us. I will play a Thai woman. Lisa will play a Westerner. Pick up is tomorrow at 7am. Delighted with the action about to unfold we practically skip out to lunch. Over Kingfisher beers, lamb Rogan josh and Aloo Paratha naan bread we catch up and I think I’m in heaven.

Free breakfast is hard boiled white shelled eggs which they assure me are chicken eggs (I can’t stand duck eggs), white bread, bananas and a cup of tea.

Imran greets us excitedly at 7am opening the door to his People Carrier which has aircon and white toweling seat covers. As I climb in I suspect we should not be doing this - but how exciting. We pick up more extras along the way and a couple of hours later we are on the set. First, all you can eat Indian buffet lunch. Yes, this is heaven. After lunch it’s time for costumes. Sitting on chests of clothes are three trendy young Indian women. One we gather is the assistant Director, the others, assistants. Behind the treasure chests of costumes, are two trucks of costumes. The women look at us all individually and begin shouting for costumes. Scruffy Indian men plough through the chests and trucks pulling out all sorts of bizarre (bridesmaid like) dresses, jumpers and terrible skimpy numbers. The women scowl shaking their heads until the most hideous and smallest costumes are found and these they like. (Oh no, not that). I am suddenly very nervous. I am wondering what on earth we are doing and I wish I hadn’t eaten so much lunch. We are given a hotel room (the set is a hotel resort) and we change in the bathroom whilst quickly sharing our fears. My costume is a tight black vest, tight brown cropped trousers and a pair of silver high heels tied to my ankles with thin silver laces. I cannot walk. For make up we are directed to sit on the end of the bed and a young Indian man sprays a water can at our faces and then wipes off the water with a piece of Muslin cloth – most refreshing. Foundation, lipstick, blusher, eye shadow and mascara later, I am ready for hair. This is wet, combed and put in exactly the same style I arrived with so that I look even sweatier than I did before. When we’re all done, we head downstairs and we’re given our directions. These are walk on parts across the set. I am playing a Thai woman who is friends with a Westerner (played by Nina from England). We are outside the main gates. As the lead actor walks past the first extras, Lisa and her Thai boyfriend are to walk across the gardens chatting. As the lead actor walks past Lisa and towards us, Nina and I walk in front of the lead actor, chatting like we’re on holiday. We practice this many times without the lead actor. The assistant Director watches. She directs us to be alert. I think Lisa missed her cue (because the guy with her, who looks petrified didn’t move). Nina and I can’t actually see our cue as there are lots of hedges and trees and we’re supposed to be out of view. Um, this is tricky. We try again and are directed to laugh, we are having fun, we are to imagine we are talking about the day we went the Planetarium and remember how much fun it was. (I was seven when I went to Jodrell Bank which is the closest thing I know to the Planetarium – nothing funny about it). Right, let’s try again. Through the railings I can see Lisa and the Assistant Director are having words. Oh dear. Nina and I are perfect – apparently. We are delighted. We go again. Um, not quite right. More words between Lisa and the Assistant Director. We try again and again. Then we come off set and wait hours for our shot. This is unbearable. Finally, the lead actor arrives, we shoot the scene twice. It’s a wrap. Hooray! On the drive back, Imran proposes we stop off and he will treat us to some food. We stop by the water’s edge – a romantic spot lined with couples perched on motorbikes looking out at the high rises and their lights. We eat delicious battered curried prawns and battered fish morsels and we each have a beer and it has been such an exciting and lovely lovely day that Lisa & I decline to accept our wages for the day.

Next morning we check out of the Salvation Army and try to get a train south to Goa, but only a set number of seats are allocated for foreigners and these are all sold out. So, we plonk ourselves in an internet café and book planes. At the airport we have fancy coffee and foot massages and plan an extraordinary route across Goa. We will laze on the beaches of Arambol, shop at Anjuna market, see the Portugese architecture of Panaji, wander the mansion in Chandor and visit the cathedrals of Old Goa.

First stop is Goa’s most northern beach, Arambol in order that we can work our way back to the airport over the next two weeks. Taxi! Our taxi drops us off at the top of a winding street - lined with shops teeming with clothes, jewellery, rugs, throws, ayurvedic medicine. And at the end of this is the beach (it looks soooo good). As directed by the guidebook we head right to where the beach ends, climbing steps to follow the trail to Om Ganesh Guest House. With the help of young guy named Happy, we are booked into a double room with a bathroom and a spare room which we designate the walk in wardrobe.

In Om Ganesh cafe we drink lassis to the sound of the waves crashing up against the rocks. For a week we feast, swim and shop. Our biggest achievement is making it to the mud bath and lake around the corner. We abandon the plan (Cathedrals, markets, mansions) and share a taxi with two local boys to Colva beach. We walk beaches full of Indians swimming fully clothed, we try to walk across desolate beaches (too hot), we eat one curry after another and shop like there is no tomorrow.

Having missed out on the train from Mumbai to Goa, we booked our return tickets as soon as we arrived in Goa – from Arambol. So, between Margao and Arambol we are in the Ladies only third class carriage. Once we get back to Arambol, we can move to our second class sleeper carriage. As there is no door connecting third class to second, we are sat by the door with our bags ready to run along the platform and into 2nd class once we know we’re in Arambol. We arrive as its getting dark and for some reason our third class carriage doesn’t reach the platform. A local demonstrates for us to jump down onto the tracks and run. Afraid I will hit the floor with too much force I begin taking off my back pack but the clock is ticking. We really don’t want to miss the train because of course our flights home are tomorrow. The nice guy is passing our stuff down to us and we’re already trying to run and I’m shouting run Lisa , run and it sounds like the train is about to leave and it feels like 2nd class is 100 yards away, keep running, clamber up onto the platform and just in time we are somewhere in 2nd class. There are six beds to each room and a long corridor along which train staff are selling curries and my new favourite, Aloo Paratha (potato stuffed naan bread) with Yogurt and pickle. Yes please! Sharing our room is an Indian gentleman. He makes his bed properly. Lisa and I just about manage to throw a sheet across the mattress. He gets changed into his PJs. Lisa and I sleep in the same clothes we have been wearing for what looks like a while. And, he cleans his teeth and has a wash before getting into bed. I expect we appear like the great unwashed to this Mumbai Banker who talks with such pride about his two grown up girls.

From the train station in Mumbai we head back to the airport for Lisa’s flight. I want her to come back to Bangkok with me but of course she flies home. Too exhausted to go back into the city, I sit in the airport for a twelve hour wait for my flight. I call friends in Bangkok to check it’s safe to return. (I overheard travelers in Goa talking of riots in Bangkok). From my phone investigations I gather: a State of emergency has been declared in Bangkok (What does this mean?). There are anti government demonstrations by the red shirts (a movement formed from the UDD (United Front for Democracy Against Dictatorship) and DAAD (Democratic Alliance Against Dictatorship). The red shirts are apparently throwing rocks and burning vehicles and there have been clashes with the blue-shirts. (The blue shirts - who are the blue-shirts?) But no, it’s fine to come back.

After three hours I decide I can’t bear the airport any longer and so take a cab for lunch at the nearest (Juhu) beach. I am tailed by young children begging and intrigued by the YMCA Centre for Street Children building – a small place right on the beach. I have always had a policy of not giving money directly to beggars. In Hong Kong, beggars with amputations would contort themselves into the most painful positions and lie in the heat for hours motionless. In Bangkok, women sit in the gutter with their babies or leave small children to beg alone and in Mumbai I see street children crying all day as they go up to the tourists and in the evening they are rewarded with a lolly and they’re happy. Whilst I can’t bring myself to encourage this as a lifestyle (and for me giving money really does this), my policy falls on its face where there is no ‘job seeker’s allowance’, ‘child support’ or ‘housing benefit’. Before too long the groups of begging children are getting to me and when a young girl pinches my arm hard after I don’t give her any money the third time she asks, I decide I would rather be in the airport.

As I get off the plane I’m rattling my brain to remember which country I’m in. It shouldn’t be this hard given that I’ve only been to India for a coupla weeks but I am really thrown by this jetting about. When I first arrived in Thailand I kept going to speak Cantonese to Thai people and in India I kept responding in Thai (amazing considering how bad my Thai is.) What’s that about?

With still a couple of weeks to spare before I start back at school, I am invited by Krungthai to join a Rocket festival in his hometown in Isan. (That doesn’t sound that interesting.) I arrive to the entire village drunk. Each house we pass invites us to drink with them and have a bowl of noodles and every house is making their own rocket. (The rockets turn out to be bamboo-rockets, long pieces of bamboo with a blue drain pipe packed with explosives attached.) The big firing day everyone is dancing through the streets to get to the temple (where the rocket firing competition takes place). I quickly gather that walking to the temple is not allowed as the procession demonstrates how I must dance along. People are throwing each other around in the mud and rockets are disappearing into the sky all day. (What happens to them? Do they just blow up and come down as ashes or does that drain pipe land somewhere?)

In Bangkok again, I am on a budget. So I spend the rest of my days at the Condo pool. Upon seeing me for the first time Dragon Features (this is the pool security guard), looks at me aghast and wais me. I think I’m going to fall over. She is so delighted to see me she then throws her arms around me and kisses my cheek. (Has she forgotten who I am?) Turns out because she hadn’t seen me for so long, she thought I’d left. She can’t get over how good my Thai is (it’s bad I just never spoke to her since the last time she shouted at me).

Now, I can’t wait for school to start back.

written by  Yee Ling Tang on April 22, 2009 from Bangkok, Thailand
from the travel blog: the break
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