When a ski season goes wrong

Down a little alleyway off the Kao San Road, we found a little guesthouse, that, while a bit gloomy, and less than sanitary, was ok to have a drink in the evening to escape the hustle and bustle of the hippies and their stupid hacky sacks hitting you in the face.

One of the redeeming features was a cute notice board filled with pictures of past guests. If nothing else, it suggested a nice community atmosphere.

That is, until one evening, when I started to look properly. Suddenly, under the fizz of the struggling lightbulb, this board took on a sinister air. Beyond those whose faces were so faded they had become ghosts, I noticed how actually, most of the people weren't even really backpackers, there were even some suits in there. And apart from the four drunk blokes in the middle (part of a cunning rouse if you ask me), no one was really smiling. At all.

You know the creepy board has got you when you double click on the image, not to investigate what I mean, but to scan the faces for people you used to know...

Now, let's set the record straight once and for all. I don't hate hippies. When Peter Fonda was explaining to Dennis Hopper about how all those poor folks out in the desert were going to die of starvation, it touched my heart. I didn't want to know them or anything, but I felt for them.

No, who I hate is the lying hippy fakers. You know who, their flat in Chiswick has an IKEA beanbag instead of an IKEA sofa, so they think they live in a squat.

I am here today to expose their lies.

We have just spent the last couple of days on the Kao San Road in Bankok, which is like a Mecca for these people. Let me give you an example. If a holiday destination is even vaguely tropical, it will have a bunch of women offering to make you look stupid by braiding your hair and putting beads on the end. On the Kao San Road, those women offer fake dreadlocks. Not fake as in a bit 'teased out', fake as in actual fake, stick on dreadlocks. Like hair extentions, but shit.

So the next time somebody comes back from Asia, all holier than thou because they just spent the last four weeks going to the loo over a hole in the ground, which was in the village chicken coup, this is where they actually were:

Not long ago, when I was eighteen, I went on a school- leaving celebration holiday with three of my best friends. Happy days, were they. The only things of importance to us were where the cheapest ouzo was, and the big group of tasty scottish lads who were supplying it.

Cut to Zoe and Bruno at our picturesque island retreat.
'Ah! don't you just love that sound!, all the children laughing and playing!'
'Yeah, don't you think the lovely family atmosphere is really special?'
'And that little Issy! What a personality he is!!'
'Yeah! What a little heartbreaker!'
Chuckles all round.

Later, we head on out to the beach bar to meet up with the crazy gang for a cold beer (or two!!!!).
'So, what's the Thai school system like then?'

Thank god, we are now on our way to Bankok, heading straight for young hedonistic backpacker world once again.

Check it out! Check it out! Here is our fabulous bohemian bungalow on the beach of Ko Lanta.

'Yeah, but ha ha! it's just a hut! You must be sweltering!' I hear your say. Actually I think you'll find that our giant electric fan cools us to just the right temperature. And if that doesn't work, we can always cool down in our shower surrounded by tropical plants, and formed out of bamboo to make a cascading fountain. 'Yeah, but ha ha! You're using your mosquito net! You're getting eaten alive! ha ha!' Actually I think you'll find that the whole place seems to have been sprayed, but the mosquito net adds that romantic air, so we put it up anyway. Who's laughing now? Go on, turn that central heating up a notch.

I all fairness, I have a terrible confession to make. Yesterday, to lay on at the beach, we bought two lengths of fabric with a distinctly tie dyed look about them. I know. All I can say is that they were cheap and we are going to dispose of them before we get back. I promise, no hippy stuff is crossing the threshold of my stylish flat! Until then, I wear it like a shackle around my soul.

I put this photo on partly as a symbol of my shame, and partly to make you even more jealous of the giant beach.

Considering that bruno has mostly been brought up on food made by family Bruno's own hard working hands, I have been very impressed with his openness to new 'food experiences', as the posh chefs would say. I think now though, that a pandora's box may have been opened.

Together with a couple from Devon, we went to dinner yesterday to celebrate escaping a not so great guesthouse (and finding one minutes later with air conditioning). As we scan the food stalls around us, the next thing we know Bruno has jumped up and asked the nearest stall holder for 'A mix of everything you've got, up to 10RM'. (Firstly, you must realise that ten ringitts worth of food could feed an army).

Having waited patiently for an amuse bouche of malay delicacies laid out nicely on a large platter, we found out the cook had understood 'mix', slightly differently. Think crab (with shell), think seafood sausage of some sort, add a touch of tofu, and then think of mashing it all up together with a mallet, adding some unrecognisable meat, and pouring satay sauce all over it. Bat your eyelids at that, Nigella.

But not to worry, because dessert was still to come! We soon discovered that there was only one dessert on offer, but it was pretty good actually, chunks of fruit on sticks in a chocolate sauce. Mmm. Except it wasn't chocolate sauce, it was some kind of wierdy BBQ sauce with peanut butter powder ground over the top. If that wasn't enough to ruin the fruits, it turned out it wasn't fruit at all.

It was RADISH.

Yesterday saw us on a jungle walk with Yen, the guide who knows everything. Along the way, he told us all of the fruits and stuff we could eat, and those we couldn't. Apparently, he aquired this knowledge because every time he sees a possible food stuff in the jungle, he tries it. How he has managed to designate some of them as 'inedible', I'm still not sure.

The walk itself was supposed to be the really easy one. 'Very easy!' says Yen. 'Just downhill!' Downhill for four hours on a near vertical slope, that is. I was very proud of myself, and didn't lose my footing once. Until that is, Yen tells us to watch our step as there is a giant bees' nest to our right. And where does my hand fly out to stop my fall? From the peturbed buzzing, these were no rose garden bumble bees, but I didn't stick around to find out. I covered the next bit of the path with considerably more dexterity.

For Bruno however, this was just some kind of warm up, and he has headed off with Yen again today, this time for the walk reserved for 'hardcore hikers'. Yen says he never gets any participants for this walk. Contrary to my usual hankering after outdoor adventure, I opted out of this one. So as Bruno made for the summit of the second highest mountain here, I went to a traditional English cottage straight out of Beatrix Potter, and had a devonshire cream tea.

I've heard it said that couples can often go on a trip like this together, and yet each has a totally different experience. Funny that.

Like the whirlwind jetsetters that we are, we've already moved on to the Cameron Highlands. This also meant our first four hour bus journey, which I was not looking forward to, as me and travel sickness are old chums. This wasn't helped by having just taken a methotrexate dose, which wonder drug that it is, comes with a bonus 24 hours nausea. My concern melted away, however, as Bruno and I came up with a cunning plan. This plan basically involved Bruno taking control of the bags, leaving me free to make a dash onto the coach, therefore securing the front two seats. It worked like a charm, and I was sitting down even before all the departing passengers had left. Yes.

Only then did we find out the reason for the walkie talkies at the bus station, which means that the bus doesn't leave until it's full. I would have had more than half an hour to bag the seats.

Up here in the Cameron Highlands it is cold and damp, which we were expecting. Well, we were expecting it until we went on the BBC Bastard Weather Site before we left, which promised us 31 degrees and unblemished skies. So thrilled were we, that at the last minute, we jetisoned nearly all the warm clothes that we'd packed for this very purpose. Good one, BBC.

Don't get me wrong though, it is stunningly beautiful here, whatever the weather. Just to prove it, here are some photos for your viewing pleasure. But more to make my Dad jealous, because he appreciates these things.

So we've made it. Second day in Kuala Lumpur. Actually our third, but on arrival day, we stayed awake just long enough for our heads to hit the pillow.

Staying in a hotel directly above the main bus station. Amazingly, it's really calm and quiet (although the look of the girls coming up in the lift with us last night suggested that you don't have to have a quiet room, if you know what I mean). Anyway, you go down in the lift, and then on the ground floor BAM! It's like being in the middle of the stock exchange. There's all these crazy men with walkie talkies going 'boriboriboribori' and 'lugga lugga lugga lugga'. I haven't worked out why yet. Maybe they're just over heated. They should pop upstairs for an hour.

Being very good at doing the touristy thing so far (butterfly park, television tower). Single drift off the beaten path was into the local fish and meat market. Bruno blanched as terrified chickens cowered under the raised hatchet of the stall holder. I felt very superior as I took it all in my stride, until Bruno reminded me that they have Bird Flu here.

Well, today's the day. Actually tomorrow is the day, but our flight is at such a godforsaken hour that even the first train from Luzern is too late, so we're staying with my mate Laura in Zürich.

Apart from cleaning the flat (remember, this is Switzerland), things aren't looking too shabby. Did the packing yesterday, which was a bit of a strange feeling, because then you know it's real. Actually led to a few realisations, the first being, that describing my back pack as 'miniscule' was a grave, grave error. This is however, dwarfed by the realisation that we are actually backpackers. With huge back packs and hippy lifestyles. I am not at all happy. I mean, let's be honest here - a big reason for me nearly buying the bigger bag was that it was blue instead of red, and so would go better with my clothes.

But I have a contingency plan! And you people are it! Basically, if at any point you read one of the following entries on this blog, get on a plane and come and get me. Immediately.
1. "They're like, really poor, but in so may ways, yeah, they're like, richer than us." (especially if we are in either of the two countries that are amongst the richest in Asia).
2. Any sentence involving the words "batik" and "bought".
3. News that I have been arrested for possession of illegal amounts of codeine, and that Herr Doktor's certificate is not being recognised.

In case of no. 3, I'd probably save the airfare from coming to get me, and use it to send a barrister instead. Feel free to send Colin Firth. If no. 3 states that we've been arrested because "a really nice bloke we met asked us to bring a package to his brother, and gave us a lot of money for our trouble", just leave us there.

With only a few days to go before we leave, there is a flurry of activity going on. We seem to have the administrative stuff pretty much down (of which in Switzerland there is a lot), and now we're just left with trying to fit the giant pile of stuff on our living room floor into our bags.

While I am resisting the obvious truth that my glamorous 1940s-stockings-with-the-stylish-line-up-the-back probably aren't strictly necessary, Bruno's packing seems to come mostly from clothes given to him by the Swiss military. Now, I do understand that army issue is probably not a bad option for variable weather conditions and ease of carrying. However, combined with the crazy bandana headband thing that my mum gave him for Christmas, I just can't stop Deer Hunter images flooding my mind.

Meanwhile, at Bruno's family farm today, we are catching up on Christmas. This year, one of Bruno's presents to me was REGA Schutz. This is a sort of insurance where they come and helicopter you off mountains and stuff. I was thrilled with the romantic idea of him looking out for my safety like that. But then...
"Oh what a good gift!" says Bruno's mum.
"Yeah" says Bruno, "My brother has it for his cows".
Family Bruno exchange approving smiles.
"What, like a REGA Schutz for cows?" I foolishly ask.
"No, just REGA Schutz. It's exactly the same."
"Oh."

Luzern knows how to make it difficult to leave...

Then again...