Travel Book for May 2009
The Backpacker by John Harris
SIR RICK ‐ ONE
Paddy‐fields, paddy‐fields and more bloody paddy‐fields: that’s all I could see as I cleared the Bay of Bengal on the way to Bangkok. Flooded land that reflected the early evening sky beautifully; each waterlogged paddy a mirror separated from the next by a thin embankment, so that from the air it looked like one huge stained‐glass window.
When I touched down in Bangkok I pondered the difference between air and land travel. Having seen those paddy‐fields from the air and expected a city of bamboo houses built along picturesque canals, I thought I’d stepped out of the airport into some kind of time warp. Concrete, concrete and more bloody concrete.
After numerous cups of coffee and a packet of cigarettes in the tiny airport café, I plucked up the courage to venture out into the now dark, humid car park, and stood at the bus stop. I closed my eyes and imagined I was waiting for a canal‐boat taxi to ferry me into town.
‘You going downtown, man?’
I snapped my eyes open and turned around, for some reason shocked to hear English being spoken. A young man with a backpack and an acoustic guitar strapped on top was standing inches away from me. ‘Yeah,’ I said, stepping back.
He turned around, gave an ear‐splitting whistle, and then cupped both hands around his mouth to shout. ‘Hey, Sooze, over here! It’s this bus stop, babe!’
A girl came jogging over, finishing in a little two‐footed jump to land beside us. The man did one loud clap and turned back to me. ‘This here’s Suzy‐Sue. Hey, you British?’
‘English,’ I said, wondering why Americans always refer to the nation and not the country, ‘yeah.’
‘There you go, Sooze, one o’ your lot. Told you we’d find someone who knew this place.’
Knew the place! I’d only just stepped off the plane and they thought I was someone they could trust! Before I could explain, he pulled out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to me, along with his hand to shake: cigarettes first, then hand. ‘Dave,’ he said.
‘John,’ I took a cigarette. ‘Thanks.’
‘Hey, John, what’s up? You look a leetle glum.’
‘Do I?’ I was genuinely surprise d to hear it at first, but then remembered that I wasn’t waiting for a canal taxi. ‘Yeah, I suppose I do really. Just came from India and‐’
‘India? Whoo‐ee!’ He did a three‐sixty degree spin and came to a stop, his cigarette poised in one hand, zippo in the other. He lit up and said, ‘India? That’s fuckin’ Wild West country over there. I had a friend once, went to India,’ he moved close to me, shaking his head, ‘never returned!’ He looked over his shoulder quickly as though about to spill a secret. ‘They found him two years later living in a fuckin’ cave! Living off snakes and rats and shit. Man, I tell ya,’ he lit the zippo and held it above his head like the Statue of Liberty, ‘count me outta that crap. Yes siree.’ Suzy was standing behind him making a clap‐trap movement with her hand, indicating that he talked too much.
The bus pulled up a few minutes later, sparing me from further lectures, and when we boarded it was so crowded that we were unable to sit near each other. Throughout the whole journey, however, I could still hear Dave’s American ‘whoops’ and ‘damns’ like he was riding a horse in a rodeo. Suzy seemed to have nodded off but he just kept talking all the same, going from one subject to another without any common thread to join them together, or any real point to what he was saying.
‘Hey, John!
I flicked my head to him and his hand shot up as if I needed visual help to locate his position on an otherwise silent bus.
‘Where you headed?’ Suzy an me, we’re going to‐’ he ducked down, apparently checking something, and after a second his head reappeared, ‘Khao San Road. How about yourself?’
I checked a piece of paper I’d scribbled an address on and looked up. ‘Banglamphu.’
Dave’s neck extended above the headrest in surprise before it shot back down to check the name I’d given him. A moment later he raised a hand, giving an OK sign.
The bus journey took hours. What I’d taken to be a thirty‐minute ride was turning into an epic, and after an hour and a half of traffic snarl‐ups the bus broke down. It seemed like India all over again. For some reason the radiator cap on Bangkok buses is on the inside so when they overheat, as ours did, and the driver unscrewed it, Mount Vesuvius erupted sending a cloud of steam down the aisle. Panic‐stricken, the entire occupants of the bus bolted for the door causing a bottleneck of frantic, writhing bodies that eventually spilled out on to the pavement.
‘Not a good start, huh?’ I said, sitting on my bag at the side of the road.
The Backpacker by John Harris is published by Summersdale (paperback; £7.99). It is available for pre‐order through amazon.co.uk and is due to be published in August.
