Team Thailand part III

Birthday chez Bangkok

The next day dawned upon 14th May, Miss Custard's twenty second birthday, and despite a late and disturbed Bangkok night's sleep, Misses G and D were up and ready to join the birthday girl for a morning swim. An overcast Bangkok sky provided a grey canopy above; despite this some classy fellow Brits were polka-dot bikini clad, armed with cans of Heineken and optimistically laid out on loungers. Very willing to ruin the sophistication which we were attempting to assume, we sought to ignore the intricacies of their conversation, and as Kate pleaded, "Sam, be sophisticated, we're in the rooftop pool," perhaps she was speaking to more people than one!

Back chez us, we donned birthday suits and hastily wrapped our makeshift presents and cards before we all assembled downstairs and piled into more technicolour taxis. Crepes and Co was our destination. Having been recce'd par Chloe, we knew this was a surefire bet for a brilliant brunch; but nothing could have prepared us for the quality and quantity of breakfast foods that we were to consume that morning. Over pancakes, tea, eggs, toast, croissants, juice, bagels and more, we heard travelling tales from taxis in India to waterskiing in Sri Lanka, Taj Mahal adventures and hostel horrors. "When we were in..." became a tagline - but far from tiring us with anecdotal evidence, these stories only increased our thirst for travelling and keenness to get down to the islands where we hoped our pseudo-trav times would increase in authenticity and adventure.

Suitably replete, we felt more indulgence was in order. Three of our party piled through a bright and breezy doorway, and were encouraged into a bliss of relaxation from some expert Thai massaging hands. Birthday Girl and I crossed the street past some chic interiors stores and scrumptious treat street sellers and into a softly lit haven, complete with candles, lilies and pure white-clad therapists. Our feet were those most deserving of attention after a Spring of too early flip-flops on the tube, and attention they got. Tootsies suitably preened, we tiptoed back to our buddies and then taxied back to Buddy. Some decamped to True, as Madam M and I had a catch-up in a dimly lit hotel room, gossiping as we watched the rain thunder outside.

Finally we admitted defeat and realised we would have to brave the bad Bangkok weather if we were ever to enjoy a coffee and cake at everyone's favourite internet café. Watching the sheets of water from a doorway of safety, we spied travs and tourists in various stages of being drenched and spent ten minutes or so critiquing the fashions of aforementioned people-watched people. Same Same ... But Different t-shirts are clearly in this traveller season and while flip-flops are standard issue, they are treacherous wear in thunderous conditions, as many Kho San dweller found as they squishily sashayed down the soggy street. Eventually we gathered up our courage, and swiftly skipped through the tropical shower to the warmth, dryness and beauty of True - a king amongst internet cafés. While sipping coffee and making contact with the UK, a plan was concocted for that evening. Lonely Planet raved about a little joint named The Pickle Factory, which sounded simply perfect for some birthday jollity, so we settled on that, Kate rather relishing (pun intended) the prospect.

After glamming up to a suitable degree we, once again, assume tried and tested taxi teams and pile into the vibrant vehicles. Determined not to experience SupperclubGate II, we come armed with maps and have a Soi in mind - but a wild goose chase seems to be unavoidable in this town of lost taxis. We loop around again and again, up and down streets and sois, never managing to happen upon this, presumably mythical, restaurant. Finally we decide to pay up and hop out, giving up on this pickle place - a riverside meal is the plan B that we settle for. Softly lit, with a waterside aspect, our chosen place is full of Thais and choc a bloc with shabby chic furniture, but as time ticks on I cannot help but think of our early start and that bad other girl kicks in, complete with indiscriminate sulks and tired tetchiness, possibly only alleviated by the swanky Del-boy-esque drink Sam is served ["I'm never drinking orange juice any other way"]. Companions, consider this an apology...

Team Thailand - part II

Sunday night, and rather than holy we go hippie - to the Hippie Bar, Khao San, for dinner and cocktails. We are herded upstairs, through the bohemian hideaway that is Hippie, decorated with an array of retro artefacts, filled with hip Thais and prettily lit. Heaving a vintage fridge out of the way a young gentleman named Toy (as in Toy Story, not as in Toy boy, we are informed) pushes a few mosaic’d tables together and our crew of eight settle down to menus and toast our mojitos - it’s Kate’s birthday eve, and we’re wishing her a happy one.

We gobble up our food, giggle at the sign on the toilet door [who has the picture?] and get ready to depart - but not before the return of Toy, who is rather worse for whiskey and eager for introductions. We go round the table - the Sam doppelgangers produce slight confusion, but Toy has no worries with one name. Ben sticks out his hand,
“Ben,” he smiles – Toy’s eyes light up,
“Ahhh, Benjammin Marten!” he exclaims. Ben’s face is the picture of confusion and suspicion, but it’s not a set-up - this seven is innocent. It’s a popular name, Toy insists, and we leave in a mix of bemusement and hilarity.

Armed with a semi sort of idea as to which Soi we need to head towards, we begin to psyche ourselves up for Bed Supperclub. Squeezing our number in to a couple of cabs we speed through Bangkok, leaving tuk-tuks languishing in our wake, one hot pink car racing against another painted green and custard yellow. Up and down the streets of the city we drive, swinging a few u-eys and trying more than a few different streets.

Eventually our taxi arrives at Bed - a remarkable shaped building, polar white with the glow of neon and the faint throb of some hardcore sounds leaking through the walls. We hop around on the forecourt wondering where our counterparts can be. Just when we think we might have to seek out a pay phone, the car pulls up, and several of our stressed buddies tumble out; Ben is arguing with the driver about the fare, and eventually gets out without leaving too much of Kitty behind. STA Travel describes Bed in glowing terms: “a unique combination of upscale restaurant, club, art gallery, theatre and stage merged into one.” With these words ringing in our ears we troop up to the besuited bouncers, all but ready to party. But not so fast - STA neglect to mention that travs ain’t welcome here and our flip flops exclude us from the action.

We can’t quite believe the bad luck but refuse to give up on the night, so we hit a joint nearby. Up on the mezzanine (seemingly our storey of choice) we survey the scene - more staff than customers, the red and white clad dancers-come-barmaids displaying acres of childlike flesh and attempting to gyrate Beyonce-style – despite the fact there is no booty in sight. Not that I’m jealous of these scarlet sirens! Post Supperclub-gate we head to a Khao San venue, dance a little, drink a lot. *And I'm on tonight / You know my hips don't lie / And I'm starting to feel it's right / All the attraction, the tension / Don't you see baby, this is perfection... * Thank you Khao San, and goodnight.

Team Thailand - part I

Buddying up in BKK

Arriving in Thailand I expected to have a little shock - a more than tiny jolt as I landed slap bang in Asia. But the West has come East: the plush marble and sleek surroundings of BKK’s newest airport heralded our arrival and proved to be a precursor to the Western elements which pervade most of this city. It would be easy to jump in a silver Mercedes, speed into the city centre, stay at a Mandarin Oriental and never have to take a break from your daily skinny caramel macchiato – but this is probably a way of exploring that is better best left to the business class bunch.


Venturing away from these pricey looking automobiles we lugged our backpacks downstairs and grabbed a hot pink taxi, beautifully adorned with photos and ornaments. As the Tiger Balm ads whizzed past the window and we weaved in and out of vehicles and lanes, a text came through to my mobile; our flashpacking pals were installed at a lusher-than-travellers-deserve hotel on Kao San and were eagerly awaiting our arrival. Despite the hot and sticky leather seat, I wriggled with excitement in between Kate and Sam, and clapped my hands with glee - less than 30 minutes and our crew of 8 would be assembled.

Crazy taxi driver number one soon turned into Kao San, and after almost mowing down several travs and a small Thai child, we were soon within 400 yards of Boots and the sign which signalled the route to a well earned shower - the divine Buddy Lodge. Trudging past a giant model of Ronald Mcdonald, [palms together Thai style] we attempted to check-in - but the staff don’t get on so well with our European names, and so we put in a call to our Buddy-wise buddies. My announcement of our arrival was greeted by a screech - “Sophieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee” - and very soon Megan appeared, tanned and gorgeous, with a big smile spread across her face. Charlie followed, and after a while, Chloe; later, Ben - all tanned and be-flipflopped, glowing from the heat and brimming with stories we were yet to hear.

We got a taster of their travels so far, that evening. Fighting past the braids, fakes and drunks, Chloe led the way off Kao San (phew) and down a couple of winding streets to a tiny and gorgeous family run Thai restaurant. Eight Singhas were ordered, and a stunning starter was served. Tea leaves were filled with roasted coconut, lime, green chilli, peanuts, ginger, red onion and dried shrimp, then dipped in a gloriously hot sauce. The food tasted better with friends, and the stories were funnier with Singhas. I drunk up the tales, from Chloe’s dream of India, to the travelling triumvirate’s Ko Pang Gnan mare, as we giggled and gasped our way through to the early hours, and finally, thankfully, sunk into white linen framed sleep.

The next day we all (excepting Ben, whose Thai tummy prevented such adventure) piled onto a Chloe-chartered longtail and explored the backwaters of the city. Fighting off enormous grey fish, tourist-money hungry Thai ladies, not to mention a commodo dragon, we managed to take a few snaps, drink up the culture and clamber out, bespattered with river water and tummys rumbling. Ricky’s Coffee beckoned; capps and omelettes were ordered and we watched the cooking unfold from above, as three women performed an almost choreographed dance around the kitchen, producing culinary perfection with not a hiccup, and then balancing a tray and climbing up the ladder-like staircase with gymnastic skill.

Another taxi and our first tourist attraction - the Grand Palace. We had worn the wrong attire for this - our shorts shocked and our shoulders provoked. After a visit to a small shack like building we emerged looking rather sexy - but suitably dressed to view an array of golden buddhas and an even more varied bunch of beautiful looking tourists - gentleman in purple skin-tight pants anyone?

After a little culture came a little shopping. Megan, Charlie and Ben weren’t able to stay away from Star Movies for too long, and so they trooped back to Buddy and we Skytrained it over to Chatuchak market. A map almost as large as Chloe charted the vast area over which the market was spread. Colour coded in fabulous fluorescent shades, we were forced to limit ourselves to just one area - funnily enough, we chose fashion. We purchased accessory after accessory and sighed as we realised the child-sized shorts were unlikely to even come close to our English-sized hips. The Sams dragged their heels and mused over some cheap tees - and then after some ice teas and shakes, we grabbed a cab, 5 in a bed style, and lay all over one another on the long trip home.

[Images: Sam Battams and Kate Coman, 2007]

Maybe it's Maybelline

Have you noticed them around? They’re everywhere. They’re underground, undiscussed abusers, and they need help.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that the more layers of mascara you apply, the more womanly you are, and the more likely you are to bag a man in want of a wife (and hopefully in possession of a good fortune). My acerbic Austenism is intentional, of course... Mascara abusers are a special breed – in general, their eyes already pop (as Tyra Banks would say) and their lashes possess natural god-given flutter. And yet, they still feel the need to apply tubes full of mascara, coating each tiny hair with lashings of the gloop, top and bottom, corner to corner, until each blink is like opthalmic weight-lifting.

Spiderly lashes are one thing, bestowed on the wearer by matt black tubes of MAC Zoom Lash, and accompanied by a nude, matt lip and designer outfit. But this is the tarantula look, and it is a definite no-no. If you’re an offender/addict/beauty-junkie gone wrong (you know who you are – your other addictions probably include pink and st tropez) then please – step away from the Maybelline, and allow the young man with his pockets full of good fortune to gaze into morning fresh eyes, and not drag-act-ready make up encrusted peepers.

Going commuter crazy - a rant

As a recent graduate and newbie nine to fiver, commuting is a new entry in my top ten things to complain about. In fact, it is awarded the top spot, going straight in at number one. Until some eminent scientists somewhere figure out a way of teleporting me to work, and until I snag a multi-million pound city-style bonus and bag a chauffeur (both about as likely as each other) I must stick to public transport methods of trekking across London.

My bed is in East London and my desk is in the West; so I must make my daily pilgrimage and do so with as much patience and piety as I can muster. Both are difficult to find within one’s soul at 8am on a windy Wednesday, when all District line trains are cancelled and there are no seats left on the bus (a bus that may not even be headed in the right direction as far as you can tell.) There are many tests of faith along the way. A 7.52 train which may as well be renamed the 7.56; the cityworker and his crappy earphones that are leaking the tinny tune of his dubious music choice throughout the carriage; the two old women squawking in your ear about the state of the nation (all this fuss about the environment is a storm in a teacup, apparently) ; the bobble-hatted man who curtly asks you to move down the train and then almost knocks you over before you can pick up your handbag; not to mention the stifling heat that envelops you in its artificial warmth and makes you want to rip off your cashmere sweater and throw it out of the window onto the tracks, regardless of how many weeks of torture you had to endure to pay for it.

All of these trials and tribulations are there to try your patience: but the test is not whether you get internally agitated – that is a given, and even complaining is a required activity. The real benchmark is whether you can hold in all that aggression and remain remarkably restrained and collected, in that beautiful, essentially British way. Commuting is a test of endurance – forget half an hour on the treadmill pretending not to be out of breath in front of all those toned and honed gym bunnies; the real stamina test is whether you can keep yourself from hitting the lady who sits on your coat and won’t budge, or the guy who leaps on to the train at the last moment, jams the doors and leaves delayed devastation in his wake. If you flip, you’re the crazy lady who can’t cope. If you smirk, you’re just plain crazy. The only thing you can do is keep it all inside, stick your nose in your book, and giggle, writhe, seethe and laugh, completely unknown to your fellow rat-racers.

There’s one up side to the nightmare journey of course; compared to those waking horrors, when you finally get to work, bum on seat, eyes to the screen – by comparison it’ll all seem like a dream.