0
0
There’s a saying about travelers: ‘your brain starts working the moment you are born, and stops the day you land in Thailand’. Not gonna lie, its kind of true. But you could substitute Thailand for any South East Asian nation. Indonesia, Cambodia, Myanmar. I’ve made some stupid decisions in my travels. Some have been really dumb, and others just brain farts. I choose to see them as learning experiences – it either worked, or it didn’t and I won’t do it again. It’s part of the experience of travel, and life to be honest.
So here’s every stupid decision I’ve made during my travels. Sorry Mum!
Riding off on a motorbike. With no helmet. And no idea where I was.
We got lost in Bali once. Staying in Padang Bai, we went searching for a virtually untouched stretch of sand – a secret white sand beach. We walked south out of town, through lush green tropical forest… for too long. While we were consulting our map, a friendly local pulled up on a white two-stroke scooter.
“Where you go, brother?” He asked.
We told him we were lost, and looking for the white sand beach.
“The secret beach! I know it! I will take you!” He motioned for us to get on the scooter. Two fat foreigners and a skinny Balinese fella aboard a tiny two-stroke… what a sight that would have been!
Husbando sent me first. Without thinking, I jumped on the back of the scooter.
“I come back for you brother!” The driver hollered as we zipped off.
The ride was exhilarating. I’m sure we did nothing over 20km/hr, but it felt 80km/hr! The wind whizzing past my ears, and my hair streaming out behind me. It wasn’t until we had rounded two corners that my Western woman brain took control.
I had no helmet on. No idea where I was, no idea if I was actually going to the secret beach and no way of contacting Husbando. What the hell was I thinking?!
The driver came to a stop in a car park, surrounded by grey brick walls. A row of scooters was lined up near a gate. I could hear the surf.
“Wait here, I will get the man!” My driver shouted, as he wheeled the scooter around and puttered back down the hill.
Left on my own, the adrenaline took full hold. I couldn’t hear the surf anymore, thanks to the pounding of my own heartbeat in my ears. The scooter ride was fun, but where on Gods green earth was I?
I heard the angry mosquito buzz of a scooter, and our friend was back with Husbando on board. Thank your preferred deity. Husbando handed over a few IDR notes as a thank you and Mr Scooter flashed us a huge smile.
“Through the gate, down the hill you will find secret beach! To go home, follow the path with the buffalo,” he beamed.
“I hope you will enjoy my country!”
And in a puff of scooter exhaust and dust, he was gone.
Flouting a military curfew.
Accidentally. We did this accidentally… we didn’t know a military curfew was in effect!
In 2013, up to date information about the situation in Myanmar was hard to come across. We’d been relying on the occasional media report and sporadic forum posts from travelers on the ground. While we knew there was some civil unrest north of Yangon, the city was bustling, the people were friendly and we felt pretty safe.
We followed a crowd of longyi-wearing locals to Chinatown, and found it was the place to be at night. Beer was served ice cold in tall bottles, food was barbequed over open flames and the seats were all of questionable structural integrity. By 8.30pm, the street started to empty. We weren’t even aware of this until the owner of the restaurant we’d sat down at was beside us, wringing his hands.
“Sirs.. miss… you must go home”, he said.
We protested; it was our first night in town and we were thirsty! What followed was the longest game of charades involving the owner, ourselves and two waiters. Finally we struck a word I recognised – curfew.
Assuming it was just a noise curfew, we paid our bill and started to make our way home. Safely ensconced in our hotel the next morning, we discussed the incident with one of the staff, who explained a military curfew was in place. The civil unrest had gotten worse, and the Tatmadaw was taking extraordinary measures.
Christ on a wheel. A military curfew. We’d been out waltzing around after the curfew took effect. That night, we were sure to be back at the hotel with plenty of time to spare.
As we left Chinatown that night, I noticed that although the streets had cleared, the parties continued behind closed door. Beer glasses clinked and men argued in hushed tones as the lights were dimmed. As we passed a window, I saw a man looking out. He grinned, and pulled the curtain closed.
Curfew, indeed..
Riding a cycle-shaw into oncoming traffic.
I don’t know why I do stupid shit while I travel. That’s a lie, we all know why I do stupid shit. And you all seem to love reading about it.
We decided one night in Yangon, Myanmar, the best way to get home would be cycle-rickshaw. When in Rome, or Yangon as it were, do as they do. One cycle-rickshaw rider drew the short straw; his passenger was a heavy-set Western woman who could only just squeeze her backside into the tiny side car. I swear he started sweating before I even sat down.
With a few heave-hos, my rider set off. We were last to leave, and he pedaled hard to catch up to Husbando and our friend Mrs Chan. In the distance, they were stopped at the Sule Paya roundabout – sensibly waiting for the traffic to stop. My rider wasn’t about to stop for traffic – do you know how hard he worked to get us going to begin with?! We zipped right past Husbando and Mrs Chan, and into the traffic.
I didn’t see much. I closed my eyes. There was the sound of traffic, brakes and the flash of headlights. I prayed to Buddha or Shiva or whatever deity to save me from a bloody death on a Yangon road. When I opened my eyes, I saw my rider expertly steering the cycle-rickshaw with one hand and giving the universal signal for ‘slow down’ with the other. I was so relieved, I laughed out loud.
“They will not hit a foreigner!” he laughed too, rounding the Sule Paya and heading up the street.
We arrived to the hotel first, my rider puffing and sweating like he’d ridden a marathon (with a 100kg weight). Husbando and Mrs Chan arrived shortly after, looking relieved that I wasn’t smeared on the road somewhere. I paid far more Burmese kyat than my rider quoted; he deserved it.
“For the fastest cycle-rickshaw rider in all of Myanmar!”
Riding a bicycle half-cut in the dark.
Right now, I’m realising a lot of these decisions are a result of beer. Pump me up with some liquid courage and I’ll try just about anything. That at least sounds nicer than ‘idiot tourist with a fondness for happy hour’.
On the tiny Indonesian island of Gili Trawangan, there are no motorbikes, scooters or cars. Everything moves a little slower; you walk, you cycle or you hitch a ride on a horse and cart. Travelers ride leisurely around the island, searching for the perfect sunset viewing spot. Extra points if it’s a beachside bar.
Enter: The Exile. A beachside shack serving icy cold beers and cheap cocktails to sun drenched travelers, sprawled out on the various rough-cut seats, hammocks and bean bags. Think Castaway meets Cocktail. We sat facing the sun, watching it sink ever lower behind Mount Agung on the island of Bali. There was a steady trickle of people taking photos at the sunset swing, set half way into the water.
It was happy hour, it was peaceful, it was glorious. The hours slipped by, and so did the Bintangs. Eventually, it was time to make our way back to Pink Coco and this would prove to be quite the mission. The track home was rough, pot holed and home the occasional death-defying goat. Add in a few pedestrians, sporadic power failures across the island, and the number of beers we’d consumed, and this had turned into the Hunger Games of trips home. May the odds be ever in our favour, I guess!
Astride my valiant pink steed, I set off for home. A few little wobbles as I shook the beer fuzz out of my head, but I was off. Building speed, I zig zagged through pedestrians easily. Until the lights went out. The whole of Gili Trawangan lost power and the path lights faded to black. Ohcrapohcrapohcrap.
“Excuse me! Coming through!” I yelled, pedaling on blindly. Looking back, I should have just gotten off the bike and walked it. Never mind. Very slowly the moon emerged from behind a slither of cloud and I could make out the faint outlines of people walking along the path. The bike was missing a bell, however with my loud grunting, squealing and shouting, people peeled off to the side for safety.
A few more hair raising minutes – round the sharp corner, dodge three more pot holes, past the family of goats and down the straight. As long as no-one got in my way, I was home and hosed. The hotel staff at Pink Coco were even waving us in with torches! Out of control, slightly drunk bike riders land here!
Squealing to a halt, I leapt off the bike and high-fived Husbando. Probably should have gone with the horse and cart.
Putting ice in my drink.
You read it everywhere. One of the sure fire ways to get sick in Asia is put ice in your drink.
I made this apparently fatal mistake my first trip to Asia, when I forgot to ask for my first drink without ice. To be honest, I didn’t even consider that the ice might make me sick. I was hot, the drink was cold, I slammed it down. Oops.
But there was no tummy trouble. No dreaded Dehli Belly. I sauntered off into that good night, fit as you like. I’ve continued to order drinks with ice since then, even dabbling in the cheap, roadside stall variety of icy shakes. I can even order two bottles of beer and a bucket of ice in Burmese (I think – the waiter could have been teaching me profanities for all I know).
Call it good luck, or maybe it was just my cast iron gut. Hell, maybe the ice was filtered water. My advice to avoid the ice could have been out of date. Or I could be about to feel the effects of some ice-related karma on my next trip.
Who knows! Cold beer is worth it, is what I know.
Eating street food.
People are terrified of street food. I get it. We all come from the West with our shiny clean kitchens and food safety standards, where we feel safe. Meats sitting out on a street cart makes us squeamish.
But let me tell you, eating street food is the best stupid decision I’ve ever made. Some of the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten has come off street food carts or out of questionable restaurants. Noodles taste better when you’re sitting in the gutter on Khao San Road at 3am. The best barbeque in Asia can be found in 19th Street, Yangon. I’ll fight a man for a plate of Hainanese chicken rice from a hawker centre in Singapore. The best breakfast in Bangkok can be found at Jatujak Market, in a tiny stall run by a lady wielding a wok bigger than her head.
It’s not just the food itself, its the atmosphere and the culture that surrounds it. Sitting on low plastic stools, metal tables and shared spaces. The melamine plates are well loved, and drinks are served in retro style glass bottles. It’s the noise of sitting that close to the road, and the roar of the gas fired woks. The knowledge that you’re either about to eat the best food you’ve ever tasted, or you’re a little too far outside of your comfort zone.
Eat all the food!
Going to the football in Myanmar.
Good lord this trip to Myanmar was hectic, now that I think about it.
When you’re visiting a country that is still partially under the control of the military, and experiencing its own social upheaval, the thing to do is go to the football. Of course.
We had enlisted the help of our driver for the day to get the tickets, and lined up with the locals in front of what looked like a shop front. There was no looming concrete structure, no visible security gates, no ticket scanners. Were we even at the stadium, or had we managed to line up for pig’s intestines noodles?
Thankfully the line was not for pig intestines. We were met at the door by a tiny Burmese lady, her face smeared with thanaka paste. She was flanked by two stern looking, albeit skinny, Burmese soldiers holding ancient looking rifles. Gulp. The lady grinned at us in amusement, tore a tiny corner off our tickets, and waved us through the door.
We weren’t expecting a large concrete stadium to grow from the back of the shophouses, like a mushroom grows from a tree. No seats, only concrete steps. We weren’t expecting the local monk community to attend either; turned out they had their own grandstand, painted yellow with a roof. They filed in through their own door, sweeping their maroon robes along with them, and fanning themselves with palm frond fans.
Something else we didn’t expect was for the crowd to be made up mostly of soldiers. And not just soldiers in uniform. Soldiers armed with old AK-47s, no less! They filled both sides of the stadium, choosing to sit on their helmets so as not to get their trousers dirty. Some sat behind us, balancing their firearms in their laps and staring at the three foreigners in the crowd. To be honest, this was one of the only times I have been terrified while traveling. The soldiers were not behaving in a threatening manner, they were perfectly friendly and very curious. They shared jokes amongst themselves, and chewed sunflower seeds. I chalk my uneasiness up to the fact I’d never been that close to actual firearms before.
The game was highly entertaining, including a player copping a karate kick to the face and hurried (and unnecessary) CPR. Very dramatic, and I have never seen another like it since. The crowd was animated and vocal, screeching and hollering in their native tongue. It was an experience.
Once the game was over, the soldiers hurried out to start directing traffic and herding the crowd. Back outside the shophouse/stadium, chaos reigned. Cars ignored soldier directions, and paid little mind to the pedestrians pouring on to the street. While we shuffled along with the crush, and were suddenly startled by an outburst of yelling. Within minutes, roadblocks had been set up and barbed wire was rolled across streets. These soldiers were less friendly, and barked orders in Burmese rapid-fire. No translator in sight, but we got the general gist of it: get the hell out of Dodge.
We made a speedy getaway, and retreated to the safety of a restaurant a couple of blocks away. We needed a couple of beers and a dosa to process all that we’d witnessed. It was both fascinating and slightly terrifying… but what a story!
Going to the football in Thailand.
Sport is our thing okay? We go to a lot of sport.
This was a less intense experience at the football than Myanmar. We trekked an hour or more to the outside of Bangkok, to Nonthaburi. A stadium known as SGC Stadium. Muangthong United were set to take on Bangkok Glass FC in a Thai Premier League clash. We didn’t realise the match was a sell out, and Husbando in particular was crestfallen. The atmosphere was electric! We were desperate to see the Thai football league in action.
We pleaded with the lady in the box office, were there any tickets anywhere we could buy. She looked at us for a while, and took pity on us. A quick word to a friend of hers, and suddenly we had two ticket stubs off the floor and were ushered through the gate past the ticket checkers. She wasn’t wrong – the place was absolutely packed. Uncomfortable packed, almost. We followed the lead of the locals, and sat in the aisle on the stairs. Skinnier people wedged themselves into a tiny spaces on the simple grandstand. I was overwhelmed by the noise, the scent of barbeque meat, the number of people.
The game was fast paced and entertaining, but the crowd was a show in itself. Each side of the grandstand took turns in chanting, singing loudly and beating the seats as drums. There was more flags, banners and scarves than you could count. The noise was deafening.
It was amazing, and Husbando and I were instant fans.
Putting milk in my tea at breakfast.
Ahh. True stupidity on my behalf struck here.
I drink coffee and tea. White, two sugars. Thanks. Except in Asia, I really shouldn’t. Milk is risky business in Asia. It’s not always homogenised or pasteurised to the same standards of Australia, or it may not be kept at an optimal temperature. This was more than likely the case in Mandalay, where electricity was patchy and unreliable. Most of the city ran on huge diesel-powered generators.
So I drank my tea. Shortly after, my body decided this was the worst decision I’d ever made and hit the evacuate alarm. I was struck by the dreaded Dodgy-Guts of Travel. It was awful.
Thankfully, our driver that day took me to the pharmacy and translated for me. I got some of the most kick-ass gastro-stop tablets in existence. Praise be!
Needless to say, I drink black tea and coffee now while I travel. I am not keen on a repeat performance.
Believing a “tourist police officer” outside the Grand Palace
Scam artists abound outside the Grand Palace in Bangkok. You read about them a lot, and you think you’re going to be able to spot them from a mile away… but when you’re talking to one, it’s harder than you think!
On our first visit to Bangkok, we were confused and lost trying to find the entry gate to the Grand Palace. We were easy prey for the scammers, who lurk around on the street watching for confused or unsure tourists. They talk fast, they speak excellent English, and the one that pinned us down even flashed a fake tourist place badge.
The Palace was closed, he said. Not to worry, there were plenty of places we could go instead. He circled madly on our map, signalled a tuk tuk and ushered us in. It all happened in approximately 90 seconds, and it wasn’t until we were speeding away from the Palace that we realised what happened. We visited a few temples – whether they were legitimate or not is another thing, and continued on to a gem shop. We politely looked in the shop, but refused to purchase.
Before moving on to the next place, Husbando negotiated with the tuk tuk driver how much it would cost to buy our way out of this scam. The driver admitted it was about 2000 baht, which we paid happily to be taken back to Khao San Road. It was an expensive to learn. I still think racing through the traffic on the famous Bangkok tuk tuk was kinda worth it!
So…
I’ve made a few stupid decisions in my travels. Thankfully none have resulted in serious injury or an international incident. Some of them have even turned out to be the best decisions I’ve made, and I’ve had amazing experiences to boot. It pays to step outside of your comfort zone and do things a little differently. So here’s to stupid decisions. Just be safe. Wear a helmet. And don’t drink the milk!
What stupid decisions have you made while traveling?
