In defense of drunk tourists.

I was shocked when my wife was rushed into hospital on Koh Samui recently. Shocked by the state-of-the-art ambulance. Shocked to find four medics inside it. Shocked that all this was for Delhi belly.

The hospital was equally luxurious. We’d come from a beach-hut where a rat lived in the toilet and ate our soap. So clean bedding excited us, AC made us tremble and the five-course meal - I nearly fainted. At least I was in the right place. I struggled to fathom this luxury; it’s hard to concentrate with six nurses arranging your wife. I was forced to stand on the balcony. I watched the nurses leave. And come back. Leave. And come back. Like waves crashing onto the shore, leaving behind some medical or housekeeping jetsam.

The epiphany.
Going for assessment we felt like adventurers in some futuristic space-station. Dials flashed, machines brooded, staff ignored us with quiet efficiency. Just how had this amazing place come about? It was no surprise that Westerners filled each bed: busted heads, broken limbs, twisted ankles. Sorry sights, self inflicted. That’s when it hit me. A beautiful thing was happening.

The drunks of the world had made this amazing facility.

Drunk topless yobs crashing motorbikes. Girls in bikinis falling off tables. Hairy louts with bad tattoos waking in agony, without the faintest clue where they were the night before. It was these people that had made this amazing facility. The drinking classes. That much maligned part of society. Armed only with a complete lack of self awareness, a favourable exchange rate and a travel insurance policy. They made all of it. It seemed the ne’er-do-wells had done well.

Trickledown effect.
And all unsung, unlike your sanctimonious colleague getting you to fund skydives, or celebrities fundraising for starving photo-opportunities. Drunks: quiet heroes, funding amazing hospitals. Hospitals the government is now using to drive growth using health tourism. And the trickledown effect? For your average backpacker, the trickledown effect involves bodily fluid and legs. But there’s more than that. In Koh Tao, every third or fourth shop is a doctor’s surgery. And every surgery’s window promotes the same best selling services:

Wound dressings
Pregnancy tests
Blood checks.

A succinct summary of the backpacker experience - get drunk, fall over, have sex, fall over again - but also of just how much medical training and infrastructure now exists, benefiting average Thais. Drunks have achieved what the G20 couldn’t, what politicians discuss only because Bob Geldof is glowering.

Is this the answer to world development? Take a poor country. Export some drunks. Wait. Wait. Bingo! You’ve got world-class medical facilities, we’ve exported our idiots, everyone’s a winner!

Maybe not. Getting obnoxiously drunk all the time is not cool. But, next time you happen to be walking down the road on some Thai island and have to step over a comatose girl in a bikini, while tonight’s conquest vomits down his shirt, don’t tut. They’re helping make the world a better place. And they don’t even know it.

See this post published here: http://tinyurl.com/l3y9yf

http://www.thailandmusings.com/living-in-thailand/thailand-healthcare/boom-time-for-medical-tourism/

The Koh San Road epiphany

When thinking about my ideal woman I'd always thought being able to drink a lot and being good at pool were pretty good attributes. Imagine my excitement then when I found a bar full of Thai prostitutes drinking gin by the bottle and playing pool in such short skirts, it was a pleasure to lose to them.

Imagine then, as I rounded the corner to say to Carrie "hey, meet my new friends!" finding her sitting surrounded by yet more working girls, gossiping away like old friends. They even shared the text messages they were getting from sad punters. It was good to see Ye Oldest Profession keeping uptodate. They must have been eProstitutes. I Love You Long Time is now the less catchy I Love You for One hour a month, plus 10 free text messages (presumably available only on Ohhhhh2).

Culture Shock
On previous visits to Bangkok I had not made it to the Koh San Rd, the Bangkok mecca for backpackers. I was not ready for it. It was a tidal wave of sunburnt bingo wings, crap tattoos and fake dreadlock extensions. What on earth was happening? I walked further. Bar after bar of beer bellies, mouths full of burgers and worst of all, soft rock. Soft rock?! In 3 months in India we had hardly seen any white people, and those we did were pretending to be monks. This was horrific.

We did the only think we could: we took refuge in Gullivers Bar and got smashed. And with the help of our new gin soaked whore friends, it was as easy as they were.


Transformation
We left Gullivers holding onto each other. I waved goodbye to our new friends, turned to the Koh San Road once more and my jaw dropped. I was like an African who has never seen snow before. Koh San Road was now a magical playground of bars and people and other cool stuff I couldn't really focus on. As I ran down the street like I'd just won the FA cup, each bingo wing seemed to say to me "Hey John, you're back!". The ketchup stains on fat men's T-shirts said "Where you been!!? We missed you!". Each beer belly wobbled "This beer costs fuck all. Fill your boots son!".

These were my people. Fat burger chomping fuckwits. I was back! I missed you guys, I shouted as I ran.

It just goes to prove that old saying: there's nothing like spending 4 hours with a few prostitutes to make you feel differently about things.

Carrie meanwhile fell asleep while having a foot massage.

We were back!

Leaving India is like leaving an orgy.

It leaves you thrilled, exhausted and in need of a good wash. I feel a wistful summary coming on….

Things I loved about India
It’s a cliché, but India is where the past and the present live side-by-side. I agree.

In India, wisdom gained from the past endures. The 70’s porn playing card moustache survives. In fact it’s thriving. Jane Fonda aerobics videos are still shown on TV, in all their leotard, braces and big hair glory. These are traditions sadly dieing out in the West.

But it is also where you can enjoy the fruits of modernity. Big bottles of Kingfisher are 50p each in some states. Bacardi Breezers are 70p. And they’ve got Lychee flavour, which I hadn’t seen before.

Thank heavens for Progress.



Things I loathed
Westerners dressed like Indians. You ain’t Ghandi, get it off. You are a student from Surrey. The Indians are laughing at you. I am laughing at you.

Westerners not dressed like Indians. Just because you went to Hampi and I didn’t, doesn’t mean you can start acting all like superior. Look, I'm not showing any interest in what you are saying and yet you are still talking. You went to the Himalayas did you? So did I. But you went higher? Right. Please stop talking. I cannot bare it.

And while I'm at it, can everybody please stop taking photos of fruit stalls and people cooking?



So yes, leaving India is just like leaving an orgy. The memories, photos and the infections will stay with us for a long long time....



Some day, all banks will have a coffin shaped entrance.

Taj Mahal Trains-vestites

They say nothing prepares you for the Taj Mahal. Well, they got that wrong as I read all about it in the guidebook. Four towers and a Super Mario hat roof. Simple.

It was being harassed by men in saris that I was not prepared for.

Hassle from blokes
I'd travelled on the Udaipur-Agra night train in the lowest class available. Zoo class - caged enclosures with all the realistic sounds and smells. I spent the night lying with my nose inches from the ceiling, drinking green Rajasthan Tequila, listening to country music and dreaming of life as a hobo. Meanwhile, Carrie and Becky (hello Becky), lauded it up in their AC compartment.

I was bleary eyed as we pulled into Agra at 6AM. When a member of a group of large hairy men tapped me on the shoulder and gesticulated I should add to his wad of cash, I was surprised. Surprised at the fact he was wearing a sari.

My surprise quickly turned to elation. This was like seeing a rare animal on safari; something I hadn't dared dream would come true. These were Hijras; eunuchs traditionally considered bad luck by Indians (how exactly can having your genitals chopped off be seen as anything but bad luck I don't know. Except of course if you are Max Mowsley, then perhaps castration would have been a good thing all round).

Hijras use their bad luck image to extort money from everyday Indians; pay me or I'll stay. And I'll stay singing, dancing and caterwauling like only a man in a sari can. So I sat back, folded my arms and waited to be harassed. This was going to be good. Sadly, he/she saw me for a whitey who wouldn't understand and moved on. Gutted, I trudged off to the Taj Mahal.

Then came the Americans
On the way back, compensation for not being harassed by men in saris came in the form of a train full of Americans. The aisles were choked by 15 college students, 30 large bags and innumerable classics like "That was intense. Thank you for being amazing" (help with bags) and "I'm totally sitting here" (the seat she reserved).

I knew this was about to provide great entertainment, as Indians don't board trains until they're moving. It's an unwritten law I have not been able to penetrate, but they stand around showing no interest in the train, until it departs. Then they all run alongside and fight each other to get on. This late surge would hit the procrastinating Americans. I sat back to watch. What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? We were about to find out.

An hour worth of tangle later I had the answer. A strange phenomenon became evident. I noticed the emerging Indians all had branded US style T-shirts and jeans, while the Americans had red dots on their foreheads, henna hands and two were even carrying sitars.

So that's the riddle solved. What happens when the irresistible farce meets the objectionable objects? Everyone comes out looking a bit sad.

Except of course for the English. We all sat there looking smug. Indian platforms tell you exactly where to stand, so you can board in good time with minimal fuss and to sit looking holier than thou at all other passengers. Smug and loving it.

Oh, and the Taj Mahal was all right too.

The Camel and my two humps.

Thor Desert, Jaisalmer, India

The Desert
An English explorer in the 1930s crossed the uninhabitable Rub Al Khali desert in Saudi Arabia. He concluded nothing prepared you for one thing: loneliness. Well let me tell you, nothing prepared me for the testicle crushing agony of camel riding. 30 minutes on board and I thought I'd lost them. Our camel train had set off from the desert's edge at 6AM and would not return until dusk the next day. It was going to be a long long 36 hours for me and my nads.

I thought I would be ok with a long time in the saddle, being right up there with Kylie in terms of pertness. Sadly, this doesn't seem to be the best quality for long distance camel travel.

If I was unprepared for nad-crushing, I was equally unprepared for my first desert toilet stop. This small detail was not mentioned in any preamble. The complexities were not drawn to my attention at any stage and basic training not provided. When Captain Oats left saying "I may be some time", this was a brave, noble gesture. When I said it, I referred to what a complicated manoeuvre this was going to be. Where do you go for a start off? Which dune is the right one? How far away is far away? Then there is hole digging, positioning, the roasting desert heat, sweating, possible nether sun burning, sand blowing everywhere. And the ignominy of everyone in my party knowing exactly where I was and what I was doing, having watched me trudging off silhouetted against the horizon, bog roll flapping by my side.

The highlight of the trip was sleeping in the desert that evening. What can beat sleeping on the dunes, under the stars, listening to the camel herders repeatedly changing their mobile ring tones late into the night?

I did enjoy the camel's company and by day two, we had bonded. OK, they urinate down their own legs - we've all been there. So they shit while they eat, I'd love that. More room for dessert. Camels are dirty, smelly, graceless animals but they do posses a certain charm. I began to understand what Kate Moss saw in Pete Doherty.

Massage
I arranged an Ayurvedic massage the day after our return, to soothe what I rightly thought would be aching limbs. Ayurveda being an Indian massage and healing system, peddled everywhere tourists go and Jaisalmer is no exception.

Sadly, it was not the relaxing antidote to camel rides I had hoped for. Carrie and I were separated by a curtain, but I quickly felt very alone with my masseur. Firstly, I was butt naked. My man - a large rough handed gentlemen - then started with full length body strokes. A few testicle brushes, but nothing I couldn't handle. One willy slap that sent the old man spinning like an airplane propeller, but an accident I was sure.

Onto the front, please sir. I began to drift off. This was better. Down my right leg his hands went. Up my right leg his hands went. Hello! That went a bit far up the old bum crack! Oh well. Down my right leg. Up my right leg. Again! That is a bit famili - again!

What is going on? His hand is going right up where it shouldn't be. I had to do something, shut up shop. But how? How do you clench your bum cheeks, slowly, so as not to cause offence? This is something more than going to a friend's house you don't want to, just for an hour, so as not to cause offence. I mean, what if I trapped his hand? Get the timing wrong and suddenly we're in a very strange place. Me and a fat Indian man, in a dark room, down a small alley, inside the walls of Jaisalmer fort.

That explorer was right. I began to feel very lonely. Nothing had prepared me for this.

First time in Jodpurs

Jodphur, Rajasthan.
Rajasthan is full of forts because until the British came, everybody couldn't stop arguing with each other. The best fort we have seen is in Jodphur. I liked it for three reasons:


Sati
At the gates there are hand prints made by royal wives, princesses and concubines before they threw themselves on their husband's funeral pyres. This last happened in 1843 in Jodphur, but still goes on in India illegally today.

This is obviously terrible. I mean, if your wife throws herself on the funeral pyre, who cleans up the mess? No wonder there are still hand prints on the walls.

Not so much 'out of the frying pan into the fire' as 'put down the frying pan, into the fire'. Fortunately, it's not a concept I can see British women signing up to as they get married. "I pronounce you man and kindling" - just isn't going to work. "I'd like to propose some toast, I mean a toast". It just isn't going to catch on.

The curse
When the fort was built, a hermit had to be removed. He cursed the fort, saying it would always be short of water. Personally, as it's in the middle of the desert, I would have been relaxed about this, but management decided that for building to proceed, a human sacrifice was needed and a builder was buried alive in the foundations.

This makes today's planning regulations look relatively straightforward. All new developments are to include some affordable homes, low energy light bulbs oh and don't forget to bury one of the builders. I can see that advert in the Situations Vacant now. Sacrifice: No prior experience necessary. Ability to lie still for long periods preferred. Generous benefits, including free accommodation.

Opium
They give soldiers opium before fighting. They use it to celebrate births, deaths and marriages. They used it to celebrate ending feuds. Basically any excuse.

As this old man - complete with a gap in his beard for his opium pipe - told me this, I began to see how those involved in sati and sacrifice burying were persuaded (and have been introducing it to Carrie's chapatis ever since).

CSI Chennai

India v South Africa, Chepauk Cricket Stadium, Chennai.
The start of the match was brilliant. The noise was deafening: the crowd armed with a natural ability to shout, whistles and trumpets that sound like a duck if you kick it. Their stamina for making unintelligible noise is impressive - no wonder they took to call centres so well.

In the capacity crowd, there were no South African's at all. A reason to go again.

We were having a great time. Sehwag scored a record 319, Dravid passed 10,000 career runs and they were selling spicy stuff under the stand. Then: shit, where's my wallet? I had been pick pocketed.

I remember when it happened. A well organised trap at the gates, involving a spotter, 2 blockers and a pick pocket at least. Armed with this information, but more interested in an Insurance number, we left for the police station at lunch, eager to see how Indian crime solving would interpret my information and keep crime off Chennai's streets.

At the station
They sat me down, gave me a pen & paper and...dictated me a letter! I was to write to the District Superintendent and ask him to help look at my case. Awesome. It's not like we expected the sarge to thump the table, shout 'not on my manor!' and run down the road with his gun out, but write a letter? Brilliant. No need for a quick get away here then. Have you planned the get away? Yeah, I thought we'd watch a bit of the match, then go for a nice lunch somewhere...they've got some nice stuff in Top Shop I thought we could look at...

When I had finished copying the letter, the sarge drew himself up, looked me in the eye and I thought, ok here we go. The letter was just a starter.

"In your country", he asked, now leaning forward "how much is 1kg of cooking oil?" Where the fuck is this going? I dunno. 100 Rupees. He nodded sagely.

"In your country, do you eat tomato's?"
Yes.

"In your country, how much is 1kg of tomatoes?" You'll be wanting to know what Nectar points you get next,will you? 200 Rupees.

"Right" replied the Sergeant. Stamp stamp stamp with his rubber stamp on the letter and that was it, case closed. We were free to go!

It was like being in CSI Miami. Amazing. Sherlock Holmes eat your heart out. Mrs Marple, stand down. You're not needed for this one.