Bangkok to Butterworth

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Much as any self-respecting traveller would, we headed straight for Khaosan Road on arrival in Bangkok.

We finally got out of the airport at around 5pm so we had all the joys of the rush hour to behold (or gridlock as it should be called).

The multi lane highway from the airport gives a poor introduction to the city, lined as it is with heaving tenements and industrial blocks.

Three hours after getting off the plane we were in Banglampu attempting to locate our guesthouse.

Fortunately we had prebooked as accommodation was in short supply.

Unfortunately our guesthouse looked nothing like as appealing as on its web-site, but at least it was clean and the air-con wasn't too clunky.

We found a few more appealing places to stay over the next couple of days but they were always fully booked.


Khaosan Road is a vibrant area where wandering and people-watching are the order of the day (or more usually, night). Cheap eats can be found every few steps and are uniformly delicious.

The place had a bit more of a raw edge when I was here for New Year 1991, but now the prostitutes and ladyboys have been displaced to the extent that I didn't notice any. It has now evolved into a tourist ghetto, and is none the worse for it.

On this occasion our visit to the city was more administrative than touristic. I wanted to get a visa for Burma and change the flight date on our air tickets.

We found the Burmese embassy without much trouble, filled in the forms and stood in a queue for a couple of hours whilst it gradually dawned on us how much dedication was required if you actually wanted to get a tourist visa for yourself.

They have a system which probably serves the officials very well. They handle a fixed number of applicants each day and at 9am they issue tokens on a first come first served basis and then deal with them numerically.

In practice this means that applicants must start queueing from around 5.30am to get a chance of a token. Entrepreneurial Thais can therefore set up a nice little business by getting up early and being professional queuers on behalf of visa-supplying travel agents.

I suppose that this is simple capitalism and I can't really complain but there were about 10 of us saps taking up space in the embassy, trying to work out why we couldn't get any service.

Actually, the visa-supplying travel agents only charge a couple of quid extra for their service which is excellent given the tightness of the market but in my own capricious way I thought sod 'em (the Burmese bureaucrats that is, not the travel agents), we'll go to Malaysia instead.


Finding the EVA Airways office was a bit more complicated. I got the address from a helpful travel agent.

"It's a long way" she said, running her finger off the edge of my city map.

Getting there involved the best of the city's public transportation network.
First I took the Chao Phraya river express about 15 stops to where it intersects with the skytrain.
Then I took the skytrain to where it intersects with the metro.
Then I took the metro to where it intersects with the edge of my map.
Then I sat on the back of a moped with a bloke who recognised the address.
Then I found the office but they'd all gone home, even though it was only 3.30.

I reversed the journey back to our lodgings and then repeated the whole operation the next morning with more success, changing the ticket dates smoothly and with no fee (I always buy that type of ticket), but not complete success as Linda pointed out on my return that I'd actually changed the ticket to the right day in the wrong month - Doh.

Having a day to spare we decided to take the Khlong taxi towards the city centre.

The khlong is a narrow canal passing through residential areas so I thought there might be some interesting sights.

The khlong taxi is like a speedboat with benches, racing along the canal. It has a special lowering canopy for squeezing under the numerous cross-pipes and bridges, and all the staff wear crash helmets in case they forget to duck.

The views were fleeting as passengers pull up a tarpaulin to protect themselves from splashes and the sun as soon as the boat gets moving.

Once in the city centre we went to see Jim Thompsons House,a cultural attraction preserving his collection of historical artifacts. Jim Thompson inexplicably disappeared in 1969, perhaps he was as bored as we were.

Just up the road is the MK shopping centre, which is far bigger than any other shopping centre - or mall to be swish - that I have ever ventured into. A Wembley Stadium simile is required here.

Linda bought some of those socks you can't see above the edge of the shoe. I see this as a minor victory in our ongoing argument about whether socks should be worn with trainers. However many times I explain the wicking effect that enables the sweat to evaporate, she remains unconvinced, despite the whiffy evidence in my support. I just hope she wears them.

We booked berths on an overnight train to Butterworth in Malaysia.

The couple across the isle decide to become our new best friends and shared their food with us and made numerous pots of filter coffee.

They were the type of people who will tell you anything about themselves that you care to ask, only you don't have to ask as they tell you anyway.

She was a doctor working for the UN, administering to a handful of UN employees spread throughout SE Asia.

She was of indeterminate age, having a grown up son working in America and also a two year old by her new husband (him). He was in his mid to late sixties, a portly but suave olive skinned figure with dancing eyes.

"She's a princess, a real one" he said as she nodded, and it unfolded that she had turned her back on a wealthy and privileged upbringing in a prominent family to administer healthcare to wealthy and privileged people.

She had even been a personal physician to our own Queen Mum, who begged her not to leave after a two month stint despite ignoring her advice to cut out the daily bottle of gin.

When it was revealed that he was a Palestinian I could have kicked myself for not having guessed. Those sparkling eyes could have been transplanted directly from Yasser Arafat.

His family were dispossessed of their farm by the Israelis and he went on to have a probably much more lucrative life as an accountant in Germany.

Neither could speak the native tongue of the other so they conversed in halting English.

Everything was going swimmingly until she used the word pussy when mentioning female genitalia. Unfortunately I cannot recall why she was discussing female genitalia with a stranger in a second class carriage but it seemed perfectly reasonable in the context of the conversation at the time. Now, I'm not a medical man but i feel sure that pussy is not the type of phraseology the passes muster in doctors common rooms (not that I've watched that many episodes of Casualty), it's just too indistinct. There are certainly enough precise alternatives available for use.

At that point my conversational sixth sense was aroused but in the end I gave her the benefit of the doubt, partly due to her insistence on sharing only the finest coffee.

Every time I have been on an overnight train the form always seems to be that everybody settles down at 9pm and rises at 6am. This one was no exception. Fortunately we were looked after by an excellent porter who came along and made up the beds with impressive efficiency.

I partook of the on-board catering for both dinner and breakfast, despite the naysaying of both our neighbours and the guidebook and thought the food was fine.

When finally we alighted from the AC comfort of the train we were hit by the Force 10 tropical climate.

I needed 32p to take the ferry across to Penang.
"Where is there an ATM?" I asked a porter.
He pointed to a skyscraper about half a mile away across a couple of 4 lane highways. I could just make out the words Standard Chartered on the top. Great.

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