Stamp Collectors

Stamp Collectors

Thanks to Debbie for all her patience

and understanding

©2006 Alan Rossney

Contents

Thailand

Laos

Thailand – Part Deux

Vietnam

Cambodia

Thailand Once Again

Malaysia

Singa-where

Indonesia

Australia

Bugged out in the USA

Peru

Bolivia

Return to Peru

Final lasting impressions

Thailand

Bangkok: Sukhumvit

Our first impressions of Bangkok were sleepy ones. As the motorway crested over a hill the city skyline came into view. The early morning sun managed to illuminate every particle of pollutant in the air. On booking our flights we had, as many do, opted for two nights in a hotel before we dived into the depths of Bangkok. Depths that some never quite manage to surface from. The hotel only cost about $20 per night. The place was like a palace. Bellboys collected our haversacks with the same reverence as a Samsonite case. We were shown to our rooms with the same courtesy as any. However when we found that a cup of tea cost three dollars we were soon out onto the streets in search of some cheaper tucker.

The jet lag was more overwhelming than we imagined. We rose late the first day and decided to get some food in a local restaurant. Neither of us could really stomach a full dinner. Our bodies had not adapted to the time lag, partly because the malaria tablets were playing havoc with our metabolisms.

Near the hotel rows of bored and Japanese looking women lined the entrances to Go-Go bars. These bars were draped with Japanese advertisements and were frequented almost exclusively by male Japanese tourists. After a walk round sub humid Sukhumvit that evening the reason for some people’s visit here became apparent.

We finally ventured away from our hotel and its area close to the embassy and hotel district. Our first trip to Koh San road was on a canal taxi. This was confusing. As with many experiences in a new city, where you cannot speak the language, we had no idea of which side of the canal to be on or indeed which boat to get. We asked around without really feeling we had reached any understanding. Eventually, however, the right boat moored and we were encouraged onto the boat with shouts, nods and waves. As we pulled away our hesitancy left Deborah straddled between the boat and the jetty. Thankfully the conductor pulled her on-board at just the right moment. As we chugged down the grey canal we were privy to the underbelly of Bangkok. The rear of houses backed onto the canal. Bamboo and wooden balconies hung precariously over the water. On the balconies women cooked meals on charcoal fires, their shelter from the sun, corrugated iron roofs, their security from theft, chicken wire. Children splashed in the water. Men lathered themselves with soap in the murky quagmire, while rats ran along the shoreline. Despite the unhealthy conditions I was awe struck by the difference in their way of life. Our panic rose again when we came to a fork in the canal and the boat started to turn the wrong way. Panic subsided as we turned about and moored at another jetty, Phanfa pier. This left us at the golden mount. We checked the map and wandered towards the backpacker area of Banglamphu to find a guesthouse for the next few days while we arranged visas for south East Asia. The wander along the main thoroughfare gave us our first glimpse of the hectic pace of life here in Bangkok. Small busses were jammed with people. Scooters whizzed round corners with three or more people on board, sometimes an entire family. Tuk-Tuk drivers crawled the curb beside us asking where you go today? This became a familiar question with time. To avoid a drawn out refusal the best approach was to confuse. Answers like; the moon! or hell and back! delayed a response but the retort was always yes I take you there! One guy told us sure, I fly you to the moon. I have rocket! Where you from? I felt like breaking into a Perry Como number.

Despite the chaos on the roads, there was a constant flow. No gridlock here just lots of lane changing. It seemed that the car horn is not used in the same way as it is at home. It is rarely used to denote aggression or irritation. It is more like audio signalling. It can mean, I’m coming through! I have just pulled in behind! or I want to overtake!"

When we came adjacent to the backpacker area of Banglamphu and Koh San road it was time to confront the mayhem. We made a few attempts to cross this four-lane road. Our hesitancy was compounded when we saw a European tourist attempt to run for it and slip in front of the deluge of oncoming traffic. She survived unscathed, but shook. We eventually mustered the courage to cross. The experience had a draining effect and we were beginning to feel the heat.

We passed down a narrow canopied pavement, a relief from the sun, but the price, an assault of friendly shopkeepers selling their wares. The first glimpse of Koh san road was disappointingly grey, crowded and dank. Signs leered out from the shop fronts like menacing giants. This sight was more dizzying at night. My fears that this was more a tourist trap than most were confirmed. We found a back street behind a temple at the end of Koh san road, which was a little more peaceful. Here we would stay for our first few days in Bangkok. Back at the hotel that night Deborah was sick and I couldn’t sleep all night. Bangkok and the plane trip were still playing havoc with our systems.

Next morning we sat by a café in Banglamphu, waiting for our room to become free. The café, an open and cheery place, was made out of wood and bamboo. We were both soaking up the atmosphere and cooling down with a juice when Deborah leaped from the chair with a scream. Our anxiety subsided, only to be replaced by embarrassment, when we realized it was a gecko. It took a little explaining to assure her that this was not a dangerous species and the lizard type creature was to be found all over South East Asia. The illustration on the front of our guidebook was proof of the pudding. She did seem anxious about the prospect of being bugged out, but we were early into the trip for the trauma to have reached a pinnacle. The experience reminded us, however, we were in the tropics and a healthy dose of mosquito repellent was a necessity. So we doused ourselves and wandered on into the haze of the Thai capital to look round.

Teachers and gem scams

By that after noon we had made our way to a pontoon on the river where we could catch a ferry downriver to the Golden palace. The view down the winding river was that of royal grandeur against a cosmopolitan background of high-rise hotels. Green lily leaves washed against the pontoons in the grey water as frogs croaked amongst the flotsam. The ferry seemed to be a cheaper option to the tour boats that departed from a pontoon upriver. On nearing the palace it towered in splendour from the waters’ edge. Golden spires rose from behind the large walls of the palace. But alas by the time we waded through the gauntlet of tour stalls in the dead heat the palace was closed to visitors. We would never get to see the palace after this. What had we missed? Answers on a postcard please! In fact, the answer was on postcards, beautiful, magnificent and closed. While standing at one corner of the palace walls we were approached by a Thai woman in her thirties. She introduced herself as a teacher and proceeded with a polite but probing conversation. How long you been in Bangkok This question I never answered truthfully to a local for fear of being scammed. The fact that the question was only asked by taxi and Tuk-Tuk drivers had raised my suspicions. I thought however that this teacher seemed helpful and pleasant. The scam proceeded. Have you a map? I show you good places to go, she continued. Before I knew it she was fervently circling areas on our map where there were festivals and gem factories. Surprise! Surprise! The festival was only on today and the gem factory was free to visit. In fact the woman was free at the moment and could take us there right now. By all accounts it was important to go now as the festival was today only! Once she offered to bring us across town herself my suspicions were raised. Indeed, she also promised a boat trip down the river run by locals, not tour operators, which would be cheap. The key words throughout this conversation were gem and factory. We were told we could see how the gems were cut with no obligation to buy. It became glaring obvious that we were privy to one of Bangkok’s famous gem scams.

An English tourist had told us of a similar experience he had with a Tuk-Tuk driver who offered him a day tour of Bangkok’s sights for an unfeasibly low charge. At each landmark he visited there was another local who approached insisting that he come with him. As he was passed from guide to guide he eventually came upon a gem factory. A quick tour of the facilities ensued. What followed was a lengthy sales pitch in an office above the factory floor. The proprietor explained that gems could be bought from the factory at Thai prices and resold to an agent in England at retail English prices. The resulting profit margins would be very good. A folder was produced of successful purchase receipts from tourists returned to England. The tourist recognized the scam and politely, if not insistently, declined. He said that what disgusted him was the fact that this folder contained more than forty transaction receipts of English nationals whose average spend was $1500. This tidy loss would be enough to ruin my holiday. The only hope is that these people could afford to lose the money. There are after all enough people in the world with more money than sense. It came to our attention that aside from the money hungry Tuk-Tuk drivers the next scam artists would introduce themselves as teachers or university students. On our visits to Thailand’s temples over the coming weeks we were to meet many students hanging round with Tuk-Tuk drivers.

The bustle of the Bangkok grew on me during those first few days. Three story narrow buildings lined crowded streets. Paint was used sparsely. Or was the humidity too much for the paint to hang round for. With this I could sympathize. The drab facades were more than balanced by the splendour of the red, green and gold temples. Each temple was guarded by large serpents along their steps and monkey warriors at their gates. Shop fronts for the most part were open, their wares spilling out onto the streets for all to peruse over. Hawkers lined the tourist areas stoking small charcoal fires selling everything from Pad Thai noodles to barbequed corn on the cob. It took a day or two to take the risk of eating from these stalls. Eventually my curiosity overwhelmed me and I took the plunge, never to look back. How could something so good be so cheap and so fast to make. My only precaution was to eat from popular stalls where the food was cooked in front of you.

Bus trips North West from phantom stations

While waiting for our Vietnamese visas we decided that a trip out of town would be in order. Kanchanburi 130Km to the northwest seemed like an ideal spot. We made our way to the bus terminal on the west of the city, which was across the river. To confuse the issue, it was called the northern bus terminal. We tried to work out what boat ferry would get us to our stop along the river. No success! The ferry drifted right past our stop and proceeded to return to our original side of the river 1km downstream. We jumped aboard another ferry and made it to our destination. What followed was a long and wet ordeal to find the phantom northern bus station. We were five minutes into our walk to the apparently nearby station when the heavens opened. This intense downpour is common in South East Asia, particularly approaching the monsoon season. Thankfully they are short lived. However, with backpack in tow and no idea of where we were going the rain was a little hard to bear. We decided to ask a local for directions. Yes, Yes not far, this way! was the answer. Up the road and round the corner we went. The rain was still pouring down. What first was relief from the humidity now was becoming an added frustration. After wandering past the spot marked northern bus station on our newly purchased map we were seriously starting to doubt our sense of direction. We heard a voice from a motorcycle repair shop. Where you want to go today?. My automatic, but defensive, assumption was a Tuk-Tuk driver wanted to take our bewildered fare. Easy money considering we were probably just around the corner. Mai Cap was the thought passing through my mind. My defences were becoming automatic at this stage.

I was beginning to recognize this thing called culture shock. It seems to first manifest itself as a slight stress that becomes unmanageable after the smallest of misfortunes or misunderstandings. In a place so different from home it was easy to stumble across these mishaps. The immediate reaction is to become defensive and untrusting. How would we overcome this, if we were really to enjoy ourselves in this new culture?

But why would a mechanic be looking for a fare? He looked busy crouched behind an upturned motor in his open workshop. On closer inspection he looked like the candidate to help us out. The explanation took a minute or two to sink in. The northern bus station had moved. In fact it had moved to the north of the city, which, although logical was bewildering. The station was clearly marked on my map that I had just bought from the guesthouse that day. But, thanks to this mechanic we were soon on a city bus making our way across Bangkok to the northern bus station.

Apart from a little doubt as to where we were, we eventually made it onto our bus through the thronged bus station. We were on our way out of Bangkok, slightly bewildered and wet, but jubilant all the same. As we set out on the short trip it came to me that we had spent 6 hours trying to get the bus. The lesson learnt double-check with the guesthouse how to get where you are going before you set out.

We arrived in Kanchanaburi much later than planned. Once again there was a gauntlet of taxi and Tuk-Tuk drivers to wade through on dismounting the bus. I was beginning to get used to this barrage. Truth be told, I was beginning to enjoy the banter. We had picked a guesthouse during the bus trip and just needed to find our way there. We stopped at a small eatery for some food, not having eaten since breakfast. We had no Idea what to eat and this restaurant didn’t have any tourist menus. The friendly staff brought us to a glass cabinet so we could pick the ingredients ourselves. Fish ball soup it would be then. We left feeling happier and ready to face the excessive demands of the Tuk-Tuk drivers. We ventured in a direction that would take us out of town and towards the river where most of the guesthouses were scattered. When we got there a small-emaciated man on a cyclo wanted to take us there. This bicycle with a pram in tow at the rear seemed unlikely to get us to our destination particularly if pulled by this small man. His fee started unfeasibly high, as normal, but I genuinely felt this guy would have problems pulling our bags and two large couch potatoes 2 or 3 kilometres to our guesthouse. We decided to walk on and look for a taxi. The poor man followed us down the road offering us an even lower and lower price. The guy was obviously desperate and I felt bad walking away, but I was not sure of what to do. We finally made it to the guesthouse along the banks of what is now called The River Kwai. Beautiful gardens sloped down to the river with wooden cabins scattered throughout. The chorus of frog calls from round small ponds filled the air.

We got settled in our hut and then ventured across the gardens to the canopied restaurant to hang and meet a few late night stragglers. While listening to others’ stories there was evident the faint thump of dance music drifting across the night. The other guests figured it was one of the livelier guesthouses nearby, or the famous kitsch party boat that floats up and down the river. As the restaurant bar was closed we made a quick sortie to a late night shop down the road for some beer. Back at the restaurant, we continued our chats while the ominous thumping grew louder, like the approach of a warring tribe. Finally from behind the tree line a neon monstrosity appeared on the river. The thumping music drowned the conversation for five minutes as it passed. Not surprisingly, the boat was totally empty. It made me wonder how such a wayward enterprise could sustain itself. I guess all you need is a boat and some disco lights and the enterprise is yours to run into the ground.

Next day we took a walk up the dusty road towards the Kwai Bridge. The rural scenery washed over our senses. Palm groves lined the road interspersed with patches of jungle. Small stilted wooden houses were scattered in the trees. We eventually came to the main tourist attraction here, a big black bridge. Prisoners of war built the bridge for the Japanese during WWII. The place was made famous by the film Bridge over the river Kwai Apparently the director preferred the name of a subsidiary river called Kwai. The name is so famous now that the Thai authorities changed the name of the main river to match the title of the film. Not surprisingly, there were Japanese tourists clambering along the narrow bridge like ants. They seemed somewhat possessive about the structure. Maybe they still believed it belonged to them. Either way I was forced to give them right of way whenever we came face to face on this unfortunate structure. The circus attraction ended for me when I overheard an old man say, I built that section there! I cannot imagine what it must have been like to be kept in a P.O.W camp on such meagre rations, your custodians’ irreverent and dispassionate simply because you allowed yourself to surrender.

We signed up for a day trip round the area to see further remains of this Japanese railway to Burma. This was to be our first experience of tropical jungle. Thankfully it was a brief introduction. We walked through a national park for thirty minutes to see a waterfall. I was still not quite comfortable with the wildlife as yet and was watching for big bright bugs, or long reptiles that might cause harm. Later our guide would give us sticks to repel snakes. This did not help my anxiety. The part of the trip that had the biggest impact was the hell fire pass. This particular part of Burmese railway line had to be carved out of solid rock. The drill holes could still be seen in the facade. Because this particular stretch took longer to lay prisoners were worked through the night in shifts. Paraffin torches lit the gorge at night. This along with the hellish conditions gave the pass its name. How people endured 17-hour shifts of hacking rock with little food or water is beyond my imagination. It did not matter if you were ill with dysentery, cholera, malaria or diphtheria you worked regardless. Twenty minutes in the midday heat was enough for me to endure. A brief tour round a museum told the story in more garish detail. One part of the story that struck a chord for me was that despite the terrible festering conditions, the hard labour and the high death of P.O.W’s 120,000 locals died in the construction of the railway line. Prisoners still found ways to resist despite the conditions. Sabotage was rife. The railway line collapsed numerous times during its construction. This thought ran through my mind during the last part of our trip, which was to be a train ride back along the line. We clambered aboard the tourist train and huddled by window seats to take in the view that would unfold as the train passed through the gorge channelling the river through the hills. The line seemed precariously balanced on the hills. The surface of the murky river shimmered against the rich green backdrop of the valley. Before we came to our final destination we had to cross over the big black bridge we visited previous day. It was funny to watch the masses of tourists clamber to the sides of the bridge as the train crawled through the middle of the crowd. How someone did not topple from the bridge I do not know.

From the bridge we took a boat ride down river to the back of our guesthouse whose garden led down to the water. As we rowed in silence we passed boathouses on stilts. Single engine boats moored at the boathouses pitched and rolled. Lilies stretched from the water’s edge and round the wooden structures. As the sun set it pulled purple and orange sheets of colour across the sky behind the dark bridge. The trip was short but enjoyable. Once dusk descended so too did the mosquitoes. Once again we had reached that time of day when we washed off the sun cream only to douse ourselves in another cream.

Next morning we took a ride towards the bus station on the backs of motorcycle taxis. It’s a great feeling to have the wind billowing round your face. A few hours later we were back in Bangkok, back to the bustle of Banglamphu for a night to await the collection of our Vietnamese visas. The bustle seemed a little more cloister-phobic haven basked in the tranquillity of Kanchanaburi for a few days.

Canadians and Ping-Pong

We ate in one of our haunts behind the temple at the end of Koh San. A few beers later, along with a lengthy discussion about the art of socializing, we introduced ourselves to a few Canadians at the next table. More beers went down until the restaurant closed. The suggestion was made to go to the famous red-light district, Patpong. A Tuk-Tuk driver volunteered his services for an unreasonable price. We squeezed into the oversized tricycle and chugged off into the Bangkok night. Our drunk found us excitable and rowdy which was lucky as the motor made it difficult to talk. As a distraction we hung out of the Tuk-Tuk yelping into the oncoming wind. We eventually got to the red light district which I named Ping-Pong, for obvious reasons to anyone who has seen Pricilla queen of the desert. Our rowdiness subsided when faced with this long dingy street. Bouncers crowded the small doorways to loud strip clubs. Girls raced round the street literally pulling people into the clubs. Hawkers lined the opposite side of the street selling any trinkets they could lay their hands on. A recent monsoon shower had left everything dripping wet. We decided against the clubs, as, despite the free admission, drink prices were renowned for being extortionate. The bouncers had a reputation for excellence in extracting this extortion. Our scruples left us unsure as to whether we would be supporting an unscrupulous sex trade of abuse or a legitimate business. One American anthropologist who lived with the dancers and prostitutes for a year or more wrote that there was an ironic twist to this seedy industry. Some of the women are seen as heroic breadwinners in the mountain villages where their families remain. This point aside, I was more than aware of the abusive cycle prostitutes can find themselves in, along with accusations that children are also forced to work in this industry. Bright lights, beautiful women and loud music cannot distract from this miserable reality. Our collective id brought us to a restaurant across the road from the clubs where we downed a few more cold ones. Upon leaving Patpong, myself and the other male among us were set upon by two prostitutes. Hello sexy one said, Where you go now? Take me with you! She seemed undisturbed when I told her that my girlfriend was right behind us and she would kill her. We escaped Patpong unscathed, if not a little poorer and only slightly mauled.

Ayutthaya: Tie-die and Sandals.

We collected our visas we made our way to the train station. After an argument with a Tuk-Tuk driver over his fare, we were off to the platform and onto the train north to Chang Mai. Once out of the city the plains of central Thailand unfurled around us. Vibrant green rice paddies shimmered in the midday sun. Fields of crops spread into the distance interrupted by small towns along the train line. We stopped off at Ayutthaya no more than seventy Kilometres from Bangkok. Once out of the train station we were greeted by the familiar and friendly call of where you go today? You want guesthouse? I know good guest house! We dodged the furore and headed for a small ferryboat to take us across the river that was once the supply route to Thailand’s old capital.

After settling into our room we took a walk down to the market, figuring it would be cheaper to buy here than Bangkok. Amongst the crowded stalls there was a wealth of foods. Vegetables of all colours were displayed. It was difficult to recognize any of the produce. It looked Same, same but different from at home. The smell was sometimes uplifting sometimes overwhelming. Dried rolled fish hung from stalls equipped with flattening rollers. Live fish lay stunned in small basins on the ground. Small open drains ran down the middle of the walkways between stalls. Stalls offered tourists one size fits all clothes equipped with drawstring.

I would buy my first pair of sandals at this bustling market. Their lifespan and that of their successors would become a running joke over the coming weeks. It was an ordeal for me to buy sandals. I always thought they looked ridiculous, particularly if your feet are as large and mutated as mine. There was, however, no avoiding the issue. The choice in this climate was clear, sandals or the putrid stench of decay. After testing out just how putrid this stench of decay from my plates would be, I chose the sandal. It was the practical solution, the tried and tested footwear from the time of Jesus to the Jesus look-alikes of the swinging sixties. Now I would become one of them. The self-loathing was overwhelming. How could a punk rocker have lowered himself to such an association? My only reassurance was I hadn’t gone the whole hog. I was a little way from tie die vests, Thai fisherman pants and canvas shoulder bags. But I was closer than I ever imagined I would be. Another reassurance surfaced. If the ethos of punk was to rebel against the uniform conformity of fashion and wear what you liked, I was going to wear sandals. Were the Mohawks, painted leather jackets and tartan drainpipes not just another uniform choice?

The clothes on sale at the market made me wonder again, as I had on Koh San road, who decided that tourists would wear clothes such as these in Thailand? Had Asha beat the rest of the clothing industry to Bangkok and convinced stall owners that this was what the people wanted? I must have missed that meeting. It was obvious, however, that I was alone in my absence. Everywhere I looked