The squits, the runs, the trots, Delhi belly, Bombay bum or, in this neck of the woods, the Ho Chi Minh two-step.
Whatever you call it and wherever you are, having the wildies is never fun.
So after five days of dashing, cheeks-clenched, to the loo after every meal, I found myself under a Phnom Penh doctor.
Dr Scott was the sort of straight-talking, old-fashioned English gent I thought only existed in novels about colonial India.
While I was waiting to be seen, he came to the phone to loudly disclose the results of an HIV test (negative) and tell a man he should be screened for colon cancer "because once they find symptoms, you're dead".
I didn't expect a sympathetic hearing.
However, aside from when he palpated my abdomen and I feared soiling his examination table, it was a relatively painless experience.
I left with some antibiotics which should clear things up in a day or two. The culprit, he reckons, was some sort of shellfish.
I'm just glad he didn't ask me for a detailed run-down of my recent diet.
Yesterday, I snacked on rat.
We spotted dozens of them being cooked on a huge barbecue at the side of the road during a tour of the villages around Battambang and they looked and smelled delicious.
These aren't your sewer-dwelling city types but the bumpkins of the rodent world, feeding all day on country-grown rice. Or at least that's what they told us. They even left the long teeth in place by way of proof.
Either way, it tasted as good as it looked, smoky from the charcoal and with a wildfowl-type flavour.
If that's making you feel queasy, it wasn't the most outlandish meal to have entered my system in the last few days - only to exit all too rapidly.
Feeling peckish after a few beers one night, I took a fancy to some hard-boiled eggs for sale on a street stall.
"These are baby eggs," the vendor warned.
I had heard about the Cambodian delicacy of fertilised duck egg but never before seen them for sale.
Emboldened by drink, I cracked one open. Inside was something not dissimilar to a duckling - and a pretty ugly, grey, embryonic one at that.
Nevertheless, I dipped in my spoon. The taste was like any other hard-boiled egg but the look and texture still haunts me as I write.
I'm sure I crunched through a few downy feathers on my way to the yolk sac at the bottom.
The One With The Common Sense was not going near this one - though she was happy to gnaw on a rat's hind leg.
More squeamish readers will be glad to know a far more conventional meal was on the menu when we took a Khmer cooking lesson in Battambang.
Cook Madame Nary took us to the packed local market to buy the ingredients. There, innumerable types of herbs and veg were laid out alongside fresh fish flipping about in bowls of water on the floor.
Despite speaking little English, she talked us through making the national dish of Amoc - fish with various herbs and a dried red pepper sauce.
It is steamed in a folded banana leaf along with coconut milk that The One With The Common Sense made by kneading dessicated coconut in a muslin bag in hot water.
We also made spring rolls and another Khmer favourite, lok-lak - a kind of beef stir fry in a pepper and lime sauce, served with fried egg and salad.
We departed with a recipe book, so our visitors can expect recreations in future.
The best part - apart from eating the fruits of our labour - was quietly working in the kitchen while the family carried out their chores around us and chatting to Madame Nary's nephews.
It was nice to see a slice of life we'd otherwise miss.
Being a bit of a public transport saddo, The One With The Common Sense chose the perfect birthday gift for me in a trip on Battambang's "Bamboo train".
It got its name because in earlier times a simple flatbed was pushed along the track by men using bamboo poles.
Nowadays they are still simple flatbeds, about two metres long, but powered by 6HP engines. Their wheels were salvaged from old Soviet tanks from past conflicts.
Sitting at the front on a mat on the wooden slats, it rattled over the gaps in rails, sending judders up my spine. The sensation - and the noise - reminded me of the slow train from Manchester to Liverpool that's always full of drunks from Patricroft after gigs.
Mind, this was probably less prone to delay and there was no chance of it being stopped by cabling problems.
Indeed, the most likely obstacle was another bamboo train travelling in the opposite direction along the single track.
Thanks to its ingenious construction, this is easily solved by passengers from whichever is least full "carriage" disembarking as the two drivers lift off the flatbed and move the wheels around the fuller one to reassemble the vehicle on the other side.
It was great fun, made even more so by some of the characters you meet on the line. On one train, a bald Dutchmen - wearing orange, obviously - sat in the middle of two saffron-clad monks, looking quite at home.
The One With The Common Sense suggested he might have found a new calling in life, sending one of the elderly monks into hysterics.
Monday 24 January 2011
Thursday 20 January 2011
... cycling up a Cambodian motorway
After getting fed up of rump-deadening bus journeys, we adopted the humble pushbike as our new favourite mode of transport.
Which is why we had no qualms about setting off on a 20-mile round-trip to see some ancient temples. Getting to the site involved taking the main road from Siem Reap towards Phnom Penh - national route 6.
That's probably the equivalent of cycling up Britain's M6, only without cones or Spaghetti Junction and instead with countless tuk-tuks, farm vehicles and, indeed, bicycles. Oh, yes, and instead of Keele services we passed probably the busiest market I've ever seen, with traffic criss-crossing in all directions.
At this point, The One With The Common Sense wishes me to point out to any fretting parents that it's not really as dangerous as a motorway. (Although at one point I did turn around to see her overtaking two girls on bikes as a coach roared past, horn blaring, what seemed like inches from her left shoulder.)
Cycling in Cambodia is proving to be surprisingly easy.
The procedure at busy junctions is to pick a line, stick to it and - in the event of someone driving head-on towards you - just grin. Chances are the bloke on the moped will give way with a laugh. The worst thing you can do is stop, which brings everyone around you to a halt and risks not so much a pile-up as a mass falling off.
It's been nice to get some exercise after an energy-sapping day-long bus ride from Kampot to Siem Reap. That said, my rear end is now twice as numb and I have symptoms of the miners' illness vibration white finger from trying to control the juddering handlebars on these ancient-looking contraptions.
The highlight of our bus journey was when a middle-aged local lady became apoplectic with the driver about something (possibly trying to drive off when she was still in the loo) and continued to argue with him at full volume from her seat at the back for a good 20 minutes.
Another local woman sitting next to us thought the whole thing was hilarious.
We gained a friend for life when we both burst into fits of giggles as the angry woman got so enraged she spat a big bit of flob onto her chin in mid-rant.
Siem Reap is a must-see because of its amazing temples at Angkor, former kingdom of the Khmers - who ruled most of the area we're travelling through between about 800 and 1400ad.
According to my guide book, its crowning glory - Angkor Wat - is the eighth wonder of the world.
If you were thinking there should only be seven, it's fair to say those lists are a bit like the "Best 50 pop singles ever" features. They vary according to the magazine's criteria but the usual suspects keep popping up.
I guess this makes Angkor Wat a bit like Bohemian Rhapsody. The largest religious structure in the world - even bigger than Liverpool's Anglican Cathedral - it is fabulously constructed and few could fail to be impressed by its mighty towers in the form of closed lotus flowers.
But perhaps it's just a bit too popular, making it hard to be special to the individual.
I was more taken with the lesser lights. Ta Prohm, a monastery crumbling under the slow march of the jungle, has the roots of huge silk cotton trees and strangler figs prising apart its stone walls.
It's reassuring to note all mighty regimes eventually succumb to the forces of nature (which is why football fans can look forward to Man Utd's downfall).
It was just possible to stand in silent awe, listening to the birdsong around you, for a few moments before the next busload of Japanese tourists crashed around the corner to take photos of themselves in front of every fallen rock.
The form of another temple, Bakong, is similar to Angkor Wat in replicating the mythical home of the Hindu gods, Mount Meru, but was completed around 300 years earlier, in 881.
Wandering around this quieter, but still imposing, site was all the more atmospheric for the traditional music drifting up a band of landmine victims playing in the grounds below. It was well worth that 20-mile round trip.
Meanwhile, our culinary adventures have continued - pineapple smeared with chilli and salt is a surprisingly good combination - but the three frogs on a stick are probably the best efforts so far.
It's apparently a bit of local a delicacy to cut off the heads, mince the meat and mix it with herb paste before stuffing the carcasses. Barbecued, they really were delicious.
Disappointingly, though, I can report that the old joke about any unusual food "tasting a bit like chicken" rings true in the case of these frogs at least.
The leg meat was much like the nicest bits you get on a fried chicken wing.
Still, it's more fun when you can suck on a flipper.
Which is why we had no qualms about setting off on a 20-mile round-trip to see some ancient temples. Getting to the site involved taking the main road from Siem Reap towards Phnom Penh - national route 6.
That's probably the equivalent of cycling up Britain's M6, only without cones or Spaghetti Junction and instead with countless tuk-tuks, farm vehicles and, indeed, bicycles. Oh, yes, and instead of Keele services we passed probably the busiest market I've ever seen, with traffic criss-crossing in all directions.
At this point, The One With The Common Sense wishes me to point out to any fretting parents that it's not really as dangerous as a motorway. (Although at one point I did turn around to see her overtaking two girls on bikes as a coach roared past, horn blaring, what seemed like inches from her left shoulder.)
Cycling in Cambodia is proving to be surprisingly easy.
The procedure at busy junctions is to pick a line, stick to it and - in the event of someone driving head-on towards you - just grin. Chances are the bloke on the moped will give way with a laugh. The worst thing you can do is stop, which brings everyone around you to a halt and risks not so much a pile-up as a mass falling off.
It's been nice to get some exercise after an energy-sapping day-long bus ride from Kampot to Siem Reap. That said, my rear end is now twice as numb and I have symptoms of the miners' illness vibration white finger from trying to control the juddering handlebars on these ancient-looking contraptions.
The highlight of our bus journey was when a middle-aged local lady became apoplectic with the driver about something (possibly trying to drive off when she was still in the loo) and continued to argue with him at full volume from her seat at the back for a good 20 minutes.
Another local woman sitting next to us thought the whole thing was hilarious.
We gained a friend for life when we both burst into fits of giggles as the angry woman got so enraged she spat a big bit of flob onto her chin in mid-rant.
Siem Reap is a must-see because of its amazing temples at Angkor, former kingdom of the Khmers - who ruled most of the area we're travelling through between about 800 and 1400ad.
According to my guide book, its crowning glory - Angkor Wat - is the eighth wonder of the world.
If you were thinking there should only be seven, it's fair to say those lists are a bit like the "Best 50 pop singles ever" features. They vary according to the magazine's criteria but the usual suspects keep popping up.
I guess this makes Angkor Wat a bit like Bohemian Rhapsody. The largest religious structure in the world - even bigger than Liverpool's Anglican Cathedral - it is fabulously constructed and few could fail to be impressed by its mighty towers in the form of closed lotus flowers.
But perhaps it's just a bit too popular, making it hard to be special to the individual.
I was more taken with the lesser lights. Ta Prohm, a monastery crumbling under the slow march of the jungle, has the roots of huge silk cotton trees and strangler figs prising apart its stone walls.
It's reassuring to note all mighty regimes eventually succumb to the forces of nature (which is why football fans can look forward to Man Utd's downfall).
It was just possible to stand in silent awe, listening to the birdsong around you, for a few moments before the next busload of Japanese tourists crashed around the corner to take photos of themselves in front of every fallen rock.
The form of another temple, Bakong, is similar to Angkor Wat in replicating the mythical home of the Hindu gods, Mount Meru, but was completed around 300 years earlier, in 881.
Wandering around this quieter, but still imposing, site was all the more atmospheric for the traditional music drifting up a band of landmine victims playing in the grounds below. It was well worth that 20-mile round trip.
Meanwhile, our culinary adventures have continued - pineapple smeared with chilli and salt is a surprisingly good combination - but the three frogs on a stick are probably the best efforts so far.
It's apparently a bit of local a delicacy to cut off the heads, mince the meat and mix it with herb paste before stuffing the carcasses. Barbecued, they really were delicious.
Disappointingly, though, I can report that the old joke about any unusual food "tasting a bit like chicken" rings true in the case of these frogs at least.
The leg meat was much like the nicest bits you get on a fried chicken wing.
Still, it's more fun when you can suck on a flipper.
Monday 17 January 2011
...With things that go bump, scuttle in the night.
We knew it had all being going too smoothly.
It was 4am and I just could not get to sleep - not helped by the music that blurred from our hostel in Sihanoukville, Cambodia, until 2am.
But things went further downhill when I felt something land and start scurrying up my leg.
The force of my volleying the invader across the room woke The One With The Common Sense, who quite reasonably explained that I was tired, and that I had probably just felt the fan blowing against my silk sleeping bag.
Calmed, I lay back down. But when I felt the same sensation again, I was up and the light was on. A quick inspection of the room revealed an inch-and-a-half long cockroach, which promptly disappeared when I went to fetch a broom to sweep it outside.
So, the rest of the night was spent with my fatigued imagination picturing legions of the little bleeders making a beeline up my leg and onto my head.
There are places around here where you can eat deep-fried roach, so I may yet get my revenge.
I guess you know you are becoming accustomed to Asia, when you are no longer surprised to see an entire family of four riding on a moped.
However, it must be a long time before a trip on a Cambodian trunk road becomes anything other than an eye-opener. Highlights so far have been a gaggle of ducks tied to a van roof, a minibus so full of belongings it had half a motorbike sticking out of the back and two blokes riding a moped with, quite literally, a piggy in the middle. I'm guessing it was dead.
One young girl came to our bus door offering a live hen for sale in a bamboo cage, which brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "chicken in a basket".
Our bus journeys have been a lesson in Cambodian driving.
The drivers' main tactic in overtaking the motorbikes that make up the majority of the traffic here seems to be to drive up behind them as quickly as possible, scare the bejaysus out of them with a few loud honks on the horn and then pull off a Schumacher-esque move to force them onto the dirt track at the side of the asphalt. One bus advertised a "Western toilet" as a selling point, by which I think it meant it smelled like the gents in the Melrose Inn at home because the odour permeated the entire bus.
All that said, it's easy to see why Cambodia holds such a special place in the hearts of those who come here.
The people really are lovely, with all the kids shouting "hello" every time we pass. The One With The Common Sense's army of admirers is growing, with one teenage boy shouting "I want your love" as we passed during a cycle ride to the waterfalls near Kampot today. Of course, it being the hot season, the waterfalls were dry (excellent planning on our part) but it was still a very pleasant trip. Not to be outdone by my better half, I too gained a fan in the form of a two-year-old girl, Nisa, who taught me how to count to five in Khmer when we stopped for a Coke and blew me a kiss as we left. I haven't lost it.
The food here is beautiful.
Last night I had crab fried in green peppercorns that Kampot province is famed for. The French influence - from their time as colonial rulers between 1864 and 1953 - can also be seen, not just in the architecture and boules games but in amazing baguettes filled with cheese and salad, but slathered with ginger chutney and chilli. Amazing.
The atmosphere in the smaller towns is great, so relaxed. Kampot has been a real pleasure to stroll around, its river flowing between homes on stilts on one side and colonial buildings on the other. We move on tomorrow. Not decided where to yet.
It was 4am and I just could not get to sleep - not helped by the music that blurred from our hostel in Sihanoukville, Cambodia, until 2am.
But things went further downhill when I felt something land and start scurrying up my leg.
The force of my volleying the invader across the room woke The One With The Common Sense, who quite reasonably explained that I was tired, and that I had probably just felt the fan blowing against my silk sleeping bag.
Calmed, I lay back down. But when I felt the same sensation again, I was up and the light was on. A quick inspection of the room revealed an inch-and-a-half long cockroach, which promptly disappeared when I went to fetch a broom to sweep it outside.
So, the rest of the night was spent with my fatigued imagination picturing legions of the little bleeders making a beeline up my leg and onto my head.
There are places around here where you can eat deep-fried roach, so I may yet get my revenge.
I guess you know you are becoming accustomed to Asia, when you are no longer surprised to see an entire family of four riding on a moped.
However, it must be a long time before a trip on a Cambodian trunk road becomes anything other than an eye-opener. Highlights so far have been a gaggle of ducks tied to a van roof, a minibus so full of belongings it had half a motorbike sticking out of the back and two blokes riding a moped with, quite literally, a piggy in the middle. I'm guessing it was dead.
One young girl came to our bus door offering a live hen for sale in a bamboo cage, which brings a whole new meaning to the phrase "chicken in a basket".
Our bus journeys have been a lesson in Cambodian driving.
The drivers' main tactic in overtaking the motorbikes that make up the majority of the traffic here seems to be to drive up behind them as quickly as possible, scare the bejaysus out of them with a few loud honks on the horn and then pull off a Schumacher-esque move to force them onto the dirt track at the side of the asphalt. One bus advertised a "Western toilet" as a selling point, by which I think it meant it smelled like the gents in the Melrose Inn at home because the odour permeated the entire bus.
All that said, it's easy to see why Cambodia holds such a special place in the hearts of those who come here.
The people really are lovely, with all the kids shouting "hello" every time we pass. The One With The Common Sense's army of admirers is growing, with one teenage boy shouting "I want your love" as we passed during a cycle ride to the waterfalls near Kampot today. Of course, it being the hot season, the waterfalls were dry (excellent planning on our part) but it was still a very pleasant trip. Not to be outdone by my better half, I too gained a fan in the form of a two-year-old girl, Nisa, who taught me how to count to five in Khmer when we stopped for a Coke and blew me a kiss as we left. I haven't lost it.
The food here is beautiful.
Last night I had crab fried in green peppercorns that Kampot province is famed for. The French influence - from their time as colonial rulers between 1864 and 1953 - can also be seen, not just in the architecture and boules games but in amazing baguettes filled with cheese and salad, but slathered with ginger chutney and chilli. Amazing.
The atmosphere in the smaller towns is great, so relaxed. Kampot has been a real pleasure to stroll around, its river flowing between homes on stilts on one side and colonial buildings on the other. We move on tomorrow. Not decided where to yet.
Saturday 15 January 2011
...Across our first border
Crossing borders is always a little nerve-wracking but our journey from Thailand was pretty gentle, the process appearing to be managed by taxi drivers.
The border guards pointed us towards a "quarantine" table, where a guy greeted us with "lovely jubbly" and took our temperatures for 20 baht (about 50p), which we think may have been one of the little border scams the guide books always warn about. We weren't going to quibble under the gaze of heavily-armed guards.
The taxi men then shepherded us to the visa point, then to their cabs and on to get our passports stamped, ensuring minimal contact with officialdom at all times.
Our bus journey to the border had proven more stressful when instead of taking us to Trat, near the border, it had dropped us at a ferry port. The driver tried to make out we had been sold the wrong ticket. It was a tricky situation but having been warned that making anyone here "lose face" with a public row was a big no-no, we calmly insisted that we were right and should be taken to Trat. In the end the driver paid for us to take a taxi and there was no problem. Now we just need to learn to be that calm with each other.
Our previous destination of Koh Samet, in Thailand's eastern gulf, had been a bit disappointing.
Famed for its sugar-like sand, the island is a national park and we anticipated a quiet-ish haven for wildlife. However, the beach where we stayed was almost entirely set up for Westerners - mainly Scandinavians - and, as such, could have been any resort anywhere.
We did manage to get away from it all by walking the 7km to the southern tip of the island, which revealed some lovely bays and beautiful butterflies - including huge black ones - among the trees.
Along the way we caught the attention of a dog. We've been giving them a wide berth because we don't fancy the rush to hospital for yet another rabies jab but it's difficult because they're everywhere.
This little fellow, however, was not leaving us alone and appeared to start guiding us - Littlest Hobo-style - around a headland.
He would bound up every little rocky slope or every tricky corner and wait until we caught up. Our hopes that he was leading us to the next bay were shattered, however, when he disappeared through a locked gate and we were left standing in a woody area, surrounded by spiders webs and where I got bitten twice by mosquitos.
It wouldn't have been so bad only a French couple who had been following, presumably thinking we knew the way, also ended up lost. I may get my revenge when I see dog on a menu somewhere.
After a nice stop across the Cambodian border in Koh Kong, where the fishing boats looked beautiful as the sun set over the river, we headed to Sihanoukville.
A bit of a party town, it was nevertheless nice to spend some time relaxing on the beach and having the odd beer.
Vendors balancing wares on their heads, or two heavy-looking metal pans hanging from huge sticks slung over their shoulders, often approach.
One came over to me and said what I thought was: "Your girlfriend is very pale."
As people seem fascinated that two creatures can be so impossible pasty-looking, I agreed. The woman then went on to offer The One With The Common Sense something "very cheap".
I wasn't entirely sure what was going on but it turned out she had actually asked whether I thought my better half was "very hairy" and, having gained my consent, gone on to offer whole-leg hair removal by threading.
I think The One With The Common Sense was justifiably miffed at the suggestion. The language barrier, eh?
The border guards pointed us towards a "quarantine" table, where a guy greeted us with "lovely jubbly" and took our temperatures for 20 baht (about 50p), which we think may have been one of the little border scams the guide books always warn about. We weren't going to quibble under the gaze of heavily-armed guards.
The taxi men then shepherded us to the visa point, then to their cabs and on to get our passports stamped, ensuring minimal contact with officialdom at all times.
Our bus journey to the border had proven more stressful when instead of taking us to Trat, near the border, it had dropped us at a ferry port. The driver tried to make out we had been sold the wrong ticket. It was a tricky situation but having been warned that making anyone here "lose face" with a public row was a big no-no, we calmly insisted that we were right and should be taken to Trat. In the end the driver paid for us to take a taxi and there was no problem. Now we just need to learn to be that calm with each other.
Our previous destination of Koh Samet, in Thailand's eastern gulf, had been a bit disappointing.
Famed for its sugar-like sand, the island is a national park and we anticipated a quiet-ish haven for wildlife. However, the beach where we stayed was almost entirely set up for Westerners - mainly Scandinavians - and, as such, could have been any resort anywhere.
We did manage to get away from it all by walking the 7km to the southern tip of the island, which revealed some lovely bays and beautiful butterflies - including huge black ones - among the trees.
Along the way we caught the attention of a dog. We've been giving them a wide berth because we don't fancy the rush to hospital for yet another rabies jab but it's difficult because they're everywhere.
This little fellow, however, was not leaving us alone and appeared to start guiding us - Littlest Hobo-style - around a headland.
He would bound up every little rocky slope or every tricky corner and wait until we caught up. Our hopes that he was leading us to the next bay were shattered, however, when he disappeared through a locked gate and we were left standing in a woody area, surrounded by spiders webs and where I got bitten twice by mosquitos.
It wouldn't have been so bad only a French couple who had been following, presumably thinking we knew the way, also ended up lost. I may get my revenge when I see dog on a menu somewhere.
After a nice stop across the Cambodian border in Koh Kong, where the fishing boats looked beautiful as the sun set over the river, we headed to Sihanoukville.
A bit of a party town, it was nevertheless nice to spend some time relaxing on the beach and having the odd beer.
Vendors balancing wares on their heads, or two heavy-looking metal pans hanging from huge sticks slung over their shoulders, often approach.
One came over to me and said what I thought was: "Your girlfriend is very pale."
As people seem fascinated that two creatures can be so impossible pasty-looking, I agreed. The woman then went on to offer The One With The Common Sense something "very cheap".
I wasn't entirely sure what was going on but it turned out she had actually asked whether I thought my better half was "very hairy" and, having gained my consent, gone on to offer whole-leg hair removal by threading.
I think The One With The Common Sense was justifiably miffed at the suggestion. The language barrier, eh?
Tuesday 11 January 2011
...In Scunthorpe
Well, not quite. But when I turned on the TV in our Bangkok hotel room in the hope I might see Everton's FA Cup third round tie at Scunthorpe United, I wasn't really expecting to be able to watch it.
Not only was it on live, it even had English commentary. I might not actually have been at Scunthorpe but I was able to bellow along with the 1,500-or-so travelling fans. Brilliant.
Even more unexpected than being able to watch the game was Everton managing to score five goals - in the same game.
The first time it truly sank in that I was abroad was when I looked bleary-eyed from the bus window to see roughly 17 kids riding on the back of a pick-up truck.
Don't get the wrong impression, it wasn't some ancient flatbed on a dusty track. It was a snazzy Hi-Lux effort hurtling down a four-lane motorway into the city centre.
Bangkok seems to be a city of bizarre juxtapositions. All around, skyscrapers tower over tumbledown homes, flashy arcades sit a block along from the markets flogging cheap designer copies and modern bright pink taxis jostle for space with even more colourful tuk-tuks - while trying to overtake men pushing carts. (The traffic makes London look about as busy as, well, Scunthorpe on a wet Sunday evening).
We stayed the first few days in a hotel to ease ourselves into Asian life.
I've taken advantage of the buffet breakfast to keep me going until teatime: Bacon and omelettes, followed by rice porridge with minced pork and chilli, a Chinese curry and topped off with a bowl of fruit.
By common consensus, however, the street food is far better than anything you get in a restaurant. And it's much cheaper. Stalls are dotted on every street and they smell fantastic. We usually have no idea what we're getting. The process seems to be to point at something vaguely recognisable, smile and hope you get that delicious-looking thing the bloke on the next table is eating. For 30 baht (about 50p) last night I had a beautiful pork and Chinese leaf stir fry, which came with a liberal sprinkling of whole garlic cloves and chillies.
One night in Bangkok "makes the tough guys tumble", apparently.
But I have to say I would find the average small English town (Scunthorpe, perhaps?) a lot more threatening.
Our arrival at the hotel was preceded by a wander down a side street next to the main railway station - usually the hairiest part of town - which threw up nothing more dangerous than a sheer drop through an open manhole cover. Although one man did offer us a taxi while leaning on something with a striking resemblance to an AK47. I think it was a child's toy and we didn't get in his cab, so I reckon it's okay. Even a stroll around the red light district of Patpong revealed nothing more worrying than the occasional girl - at least I think that's what they were - trying to drag us into clubs to watch ping-pong which, for some reason, I don't think had much to do with table tennis.
Being blonde(ish), The One With The Common Sense is getting quite a lot of attention from the locals.
In the main, however, it seems to be good-humoured. One bloke shouted "lucky man" at me yesterday. He wouldn't have been saying that if he'd seen her passport photo, which makes her look like "a big feckin' minger".
Her words, not mine, I hasten to add.
Not only was it on live, it even had English commentary. I might not actually have been at Scunthorpe but I was able to bellow along with the 1,500-or-so travelling fans. Brilliant.
Even more unexpected than being able to watch the game was Everton managing to score five goals - in the same game.
The first time it truly sank in that I was abroad was when I looked bleary-eyed from the bus window to see roughly 17 kids riding on the back of a pick-up truck.
Don't get the wrong impression, it wasn't some ancient flatbed on a dusty track. It was a snazzy Hi-Lux effort hurtling down a four-lane motorway into the city centre.
Bangkok seems to be a city of bizarre juxtapositions. All around, skyscrapers tower over tumbledown homes, flashy arcades sit a block along from the markets flogging cheap designer copies and modern bright pink taxis jostle for space with even more colourful tuk-tuks - while trying to overtake men pushing carts. (The traffic makes London look about as busy as, well, Scunthorpe on a wet Sunday evening).
We stayed the first few days in a hotel to ease ourselves into Asian life.
I've taken advantage of the buffet breakfast to keep me going until teatime: Bacon and omelettes, followed by rice porridge with minced pork and chilli, a Chinese curry and topped off with a bowl of fruit.
By common consensus, however, the street food is far better than anything you get in a restaurant. And it's much cheaper. Stalls are dotted on every street and they smell fantastic. We usually have no idea what we're getting. The process seems to be to point at something vaguely recognisable, smile and hope you get that delicious-looking thing the bloke on the next table is eating. For 30 baht (about 50p) last night I had a beautiful pork and Chinese leaf stir fry, which came with a liberal sprinkling of whole garlic cloves and chillies.
One night in Bangkok "makes the tough guys tumble", apparently.
But I have to say I would find the average small English town (Scunthorpe, perhaps?) a lot more threatening.
Our arrival at the hotel was preceded by a wander down a side street next to the main railway station - usually the hairiest part of town - which threw up nothing more dangerous than a sheer drop through an open manhole cover. Although one man did offer us a taxi while leaning on something with a striking resemblance to an AK47. I think it was a child's toy and we didn't get in his cab, so I reckon it's okay. Even a stroll around the red light district of Patpong revealed nothing more worrying than the occasional girl - at least I think that's what they were - trying to drag us into clubs to watch ping-pong which, for some reason, I don't think had much to do with table tennis.
Being blonde(ish), The One With The Common Sense is getting quite a lot of attention from the locals.
In the main, however, it seems to be good-humoured. One bloke shouted "lucky man" at me yesterday. He wouldn't have been saying that if he'd seen her passport photo, which makes her look like "a big feckin' minger".
Her words, not mine, I hasten to add.
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