Milkyway Tears and other stuff

Milkyway tears

Its night time and you are watching the Milkyway from the comfort of your veranda. There’s a moment; a beautiful moment: sublime and poetic, when for just an instant you are poked violently with a realisation of your insignificance in the grand scheme of things. There is infinity swirling above you and here you are; a nothing, a weasly-measly speck of dust called Wasim, whilst above you swarm Gods and aliens and Galactic empires. The thought leaves you wiping away tears. You wish you were somebody else. You wish you were some place else. As your tears dry something scuttles in the corner of your veranda. You peer into the darkness; parting away nights curtain, to see what it is. At first it appears as an opaque black mass against a slate grey background. Is it a chicken? No, it's not moving a la chicken style - chickens have that abrupt pecking motion. This featureless shadow appears more sullen and morose in its habits. You peer closer. Suddenly it springs and jumps onto the veranda wall, exposing its profile against a velvety sky. You can make out the outline of its whiskers, a stubby nose and a furry back. Oh, it's only a rat. What were you thinking? There was nothing to be afraid of after all!

****

Operation bed-time

The thing is Muang Gnoi Neau (MGN) is in the heart of the Laos jungle. And since you're in MGN you too are; ipso facto, in the jungle. So what does that mean? It means that the only way in or out is via the river; twice daily a river boat ply's between Nong Khiaw (the nearest settlement with a road link) and MGN; shuttling people and essential cargo. The river is the artery here that giveth life. MGN has a population of 700 souls and you've since realised that they must breed amongst themselves – for there's no other way in as the village is surrounded by mountains. There is no electricity in MGN. There is no entertainment. There is nothing. Nothing to do after 7pm 'cept go to bed and ponder why you are here. But preparing for bed is a military operation in itself. The bed has no mosquito nets you see, so you have to cover yourself totally in a blanket; ensuring that there are no routes of entry; no paths of invasion for anything that goes bump or buzz in the night.

As you ponder inside your blanket, wrapped up tight and mummified, you can hear the pesky mosquito buzzing on the other side. It can sense you. It knows you’re there and it struggles to find a way in. You know it can’t get in because you’ve cut off all entry points. You raise a smile at your success and with a look of contentment (that nobody can see) you doze off to the maniacal buzzing outside.

Next morning you wake up, look in the mirror and receive a nasty shock. Your face has become an anagram of raised splodges and bumps. There's not a patch of skin that has not been prodded by that blasted mosquito. It must have found a weakness in your defences and got in! Damn it! You sulk off to breakfast, grinding your feet, wishing you were some place else. You ask the proprietor of the Guest House, whether she has a mosquito net. She looks at you as if you’ve made a request for a Hamburger and Fries with extra mayo.

****

Jungle Economics

One of the most remarkable things (and this is something one only appreciates when one is here), is the sheer amount of life in evidence here. Every cubic centimetre of the jungle has something growing on it, something burrowing in the soil or scavenging off the surface. When you spy the tree line from the vantage point of the muddy river bank you are astounded by the sheer amount of living matter. It's a scramble for light: trees and plants twisting and curling over one another; some strangling each other with vines, all trying to outpace and outgrow one another; so that they may absorb the energy of the sun that is necessary for photosynthesis.

[Science Lesson] Photosynthesis is the process by which living things on our planet harness the energy of the sun - the energy is then passed downstream via the food chains.

And in the jungle it is a struggle; a veritable riot in fact, to harness this energy - for all life depends on it. And life has found many means, many professions you might say, of obtaining this energy. Some organisms eat dead things. Some eat living things. And some even suck the blood of living things...

****

Ignominies of a Mosquito Life

When you’re stuck in bed under the canvass of your sheet you have plenty of time to think. I think if I was a mosquito I'd be ashamed of myself. Oh yes, I'd be ashamed. Isn’t there something ignominious and cowardly about sucking the blood of another being?:

Oh yeah, let others do all the hard work, let them struggle to find food and water, and we'll just wait, and when they’re not watching, we'll just jump on their skin, insert our syringe and suck out what we need.

Shameful! As a human I say we make a stand! I say my blood is mine! It belongs to me and me only (unless I donate it of course). My blood is not a free for all blood bank. Nor is it something I’ve acquired for free. I’ve spent money, hard earned money, on good food and drink so that blood may flow in my veins. For a mosquito to come along and siphon it off amounts to pure theft! It's like going around a street with a spout and canister in your hand siphoning off petrol from parked cars. It’s just not on! And what do you get in return for your blood? A ‘Thank You’ note? No. I’ll tell you what you get. Malaria!

And which idiot was it that said there is no such thing as a free lunch? There is if you're a mosquito.

In the jungle. No one can hear you scream

Vientianne to Luang Prabang
Luang Prabang to Nong Khiaw
Nong Khiaw to Muang Gnoi Neau

As you hop from one place to another (like stepping stones in a raging river) you are slowly but surely heading into deepest darkest Indochina - the 'Heart of Darkness'

Here in Nong Khiaw life has a pace of its own. People sleep when it gets dark and wake up when it gets light - their diurnal rhythm determined solely by natures moods. Nong Khiaw squats precariously beside the sluggish muddy Nam Ou river. It's a small village community back-dropped by towering limestone mountains coddled every morning by a blanket of light mist. The soundtrack during the day is that of crooning Cuckoos, shrieking children splashing in the river and the splutter of fishing-boat engines. All these are carried to your ears as you dawdle in the hammock strung out on your balcony.

At night the bleating of the cicadas, the rustlings of the immense jungle, the heaviness of the night and the thickness of the air oppress you and you lock your doors and cower into your room - into your bedsheets. It is your only shelter from the savagery of the jungle outside. But you have your laptop! And you have mobile-phone internet access! And you send this report from under the cover of your bedsheets. You tap away on the keys; your eyes clouded by the sweat on your brow as the mosquitoes buzz around you in sorties. There's a strange scratching sound outside your door. The scratching gets quicker. Shriller. The cicadas get bolder. Louder. The spiders crawl out of their holes and you can see their red eyes watching you. And it's only 7pm and the night is young. You await whatever faith has in store...

Next morning you wake up refreshed! Next stop Muang Gnoi Neau, an even remoter village accessible by boat only. This is the real Laos experience.

Be afraid....Be very afraid.

Luang Prabang, Laos

Sweetshops! Sweetshops! Sweetshops!

The cottage stood at the foot of a hill many miles from the nearest town. The peasant farmer that lived there worked long and hard cultivating the poor soil around it; furrowing it, digging it up, and planting things to grow on it so he could feed his family. He had six mouths to feed: a wife and five children; four boys and a girl. The girl was the eldest at 12 years old and the youngest was only 3 with the others in between. The family lived on the farm on a diet of soup, potatoes and fresh air. During the day the youngest of the lot played and shrieked from morn till night. He’d run amok at the front and back of the farmstead terrorising the geese that roamed around freely. The older children helped around the farm; gathering the geese, milking the cows, feeding the hens and helping Ma in the kitchen.

At seven in the morning, at noon and again at six in the evening, Ma would stand at the entrance to the kitchen door, and at the top of her lungs, would shout out to her brood to feed them. The children would storm in, in varying degrees of filth and disorder, and seat themselves according to age at the wooden table which was burnished with wear. Ma would then clip them all around the ears for not washing their hands first; except the little one who never got clipped. The mouth of the littlest one scarcely came up to the top of the kitchen table and all you could see were his beady little eyes poking above the table tops like flies. Pa would finally come in and wash his hands under the tap and then once seated Ma would lay the food on the table. They’d be boiled potatoes, stale-hard bread softened in the water used to boil the potatoes, half a cabbage and three onions which they would all devour and fill there bellies with, till they were full and content. Ma would feed the youngest herself pushing the food into his mouth. On Sundays, a small piece of meat in a stew was a treat for one and all. Pa especially enjoyed Sundays. The children always behaved themselves on the table, but as soon as Pa left, they’d be kicking under the table and a ruckus of blame games would ensue always culminating in a scrum and tears of some sort or other.

So this is how time flew on the farm and it was the same every day and the family ploughed through it stoically; not complaining and thanking the dear Lord for good health and everything else besides. Pa was too poor to send his children for schooling and all, but the Pastor from the nearby church would come by once a fortnight, and give lessons in reading, writing and the words of the Lord Jesus Christ. It wasn’t much but Ma appreciated him coming round nonetheless, and would on that day bake a cake especially for the Pastor, to repay his kindness - for he refused to accept charity. At first the children hated the Pastor with an evil-eye that only children can muster, because his lessons got in the way of their playing and all, but as soon as Ma made a habit of baking a cake in his honour, they’d warmed to him instantly - for they always got pieces in the end. The littlest of all, who was too little for reading and writing, would nonetheless come in with pencil and paper ready at hand, sit diligently besides his brothers and sisters who were busy writing, his chin barely above the table, and watching them he would copy their motions; pretending. He’d watch them with one corner of the eye and with the other corner he’d be watching the cake.

Pa worked hard in the fields and in the evenings, with the days work over and the sun set behind the hills, he’d gather his children around him; and with Ma knitting away and the littlest one on his lap, he would start the 'evening’s entertainment'. Pa had been to the city once and entertainment was him recounting the wonderful story of that long ago visit. The children loved hearing his story and he would repeat it over and over again, changing it now and again to give it variety, occasionally adding flourishes to keep it fresh, and sometimes he’d ‘remember’ a detail that he had forgotten about, and they would sit around him listening and enraptured. And It was the best story ever too and longer then Homers Odyssey - sometimes it even felt like a family heirloom; something to pass down generations; there being nothing else to pass down and all. Pa would describe the buildings in the city as ‘high as clouds’ the roads choking with cars like ‘columns of marching ants’. He’d talk about wonderful places called: ‘restaurants’ where you sat down and chose what you wanted to eat from something called the ‘menu’, and then a lovely lady would come by with the plates of food you had asked for, just like Ma did on the kitchen table, but unlike Ma she didn’t do it cos of love and they’d be more meat’ (and at this he’d wink at Ma).

Then there were the stories about the sweetshops – the children loved hearing about the sweetshops where ‘laid in front of you were rows and rows of towers and towers of sweets that stretched and stretched for ever like the corn fields’ .There were so many varieties too: chocolates, gum-buddies, fudge-doodles, jaw-breakers, sherbets, tongue-lashers, cola-bottles, bubble-gums. The littlest one especially loved the sweetshop stories. He’d be sat on Pa’s lap and as soon as Pa talked about the sweetshops the little one would look up at Pa, his little mouth dribbling away, as if sweets were pouring out of Pa’s mouth! At this sight the whole family, Ma included, would burst out laughing at the little one – but he never knew what they were laughing for cos he was too little and would continue dribbling. ‘Sweetshops!’ he would say sweetly. And he would climb down Pa’s lap and run around screaming ‘Sweetshops!’ ‘Sweetshops!’ He’d chase the chickens shrieking ‘Sweetshops!’ ‘Sweetshops!’.

The children loved Pa. Pa knew so much about things and he'd been to the city too. Ma hadn’t been to the city so she didn't know as much, and she didn’t know half as many stories as Pa but they were less afraid of Ma. Pa could get angry and then he would bellow like thunderclaps and the whole house would shake – but that was only when they were naughty though. And he didn’t get angry often.

So like this the days passed, the seasons skimmed across the farm, the cows gave birth to little Suckling’s, and the wheat in the fields grew tall and sturdy.

One day in winter the littlest one got ill. He’d come up with a sudden fever. Ma cradled him all day, his little chest wheezing and puffing weakly. He didn’t know what was happening to him and he clung on to Ma all day and all night long. They called the doctor around and he shook his head and gave some medicines. What he suggested was for Pa to take him to the hospital in the city but Pa couldn’t half afford the trip. The other children continued to play and work. Occasionally they’d pop their heads in to see what there little brother was up to, but seeing that he couldn’t play and was still lying in Ma’s lap, they’d go back out again and resume their games. The geese no longer had anyone to terrorize them with sticks and so they were enjoying their new freedom; perhaps they even missed him. The goats too no longer had anyone to throw missiles at them and as a result became quite brazen and would sometimes poke their heads into the kitchen – I’m sure they didn’t miss him.

Then one day, the littlest one’s breathing stopped, his eyes closed for the last time, and he died, with the final words ‘Sweetshops’ etched on his tongue. He was buried in a little grave round the back of the farm. Ma and Pa we’re sad and all. Everyone from surrounding villages, who the children had never seen before, came round and everyone prayed. The grave was small with a little headstone. Everybody missed him; especially at dinner times when there was nobody dangling their legs from the chair and Ma had nobody to feed. Pa’s stories were somehow different and he never mentioned the sweetshops again. Lessons with the Pastor were quieter and there were more slices of the cake to go around. But slowly, as the seasons went by, as winter moved over to summer, as the cows fattened, as the birds sang their love ditties, they missed him less and less. The only reminder was the little grave out back, with it's tufts of weeds sprouting at the edges. Whenever they passed that way, on there way some place, they'd always look at the mound of earth, the hillock, under which there little brother was buried, and they would walk pass it silently always looking down at the ground. But as soon as they had moved farther on, there gait would straighten, their heads would rise, and they would continue cheerily on, as if suddenly they had been unburdened of some sad memory.

And then one day, many years later, when memories were foggy, old and frail, they no longer stopped to even look at the grave. Only Ma did. And she never failed to lay fresh flowers on it, to look after it, keep it tidy and tend it, and keep it free of weeds.

When I was young I used to wonder why Ma loved my little brother so much and whether she loved me as much and whether she would do the same at my grave. Deep down I think I knew she would and because of this I never got jealous of my dead little brother.

Now, though I am older, whenever I pass a Sweetshop I always pop in and buy two. One for me, and one for my little brother.

Part VII - The continuing adventures of Superfly 3D Sonic

Continuation of television interview with the nautch girl Rani


Interviewer: [escorts the nautch girl back into the interview]: Look I'm sorry about the misunderstanding. Please, I have a few more questions. You will be adequately compensated. I promise. We like to look after our guests
Rani: [sighs and sits grumpily back down]
Interviewer: so you mentioned something about Superflys nipple. Please elaborate?
Rani: I already said. He had none. He had no nipples. Not even one. First time I'd seen it too. Shocked me an all! Though I only saw this after we had fuc...er made love
Interviewer: well, this is rather strange I admit. But please do continue. What happened after?
Rani: wot after we had made love the second time?
Interviewer: you did it twice?
Rani: Yes. Why you got a problem with that mister? At least some can keep their pecker up [giggles]
Interviewer: [shifts uncomfortably in his seat] yes, ok. what did you do after you had had sex the second time around?
Rani: well we washed. Scrubbed each other down. I washed and dried him, and then I blew him off
Interviewer: blew him off?
Rani: [Giggles] yes, blew him off. You know fellatio?
Interviewer: fellatio? isn't that that Admiral Nelson fellow?
Rani: who? what are you talking about?! I know nothing about admiral people and things. Look, I put his cock in my mouth and sucked him off
Interviewer: [eyes about to pop out his head, he shifts uncomfortably in his chair and crosses his legs]
Rani: [Giggles] wots UP mister? my filthy talk given you a hard one?!
Interviewer: [ignoring her] So what happened after?
Rani: well, not much. He said something funny though. He said, and i'm trying to remember his words but they were like: "Honey you are the best bang since the big one. A better blow then [Rani ad hocs] some Blow-Whale from some planet Felanteen" or something stupid like that
Interviewer: [muses] and then what happened?
Rani: I think he was drunk because then he asked me, looking straight into my eyes, whether I wanted to go with him on some intergalactic cruise?
Interviewer: [arches his eyebrows]
Rani: He was obviously off his head, but because he was looking at me so seriously, I didn't make fun. I just giggled and smiled back
Interviewer: so you didn't say anything?
Rani: what was there to say? The guy was obviously loopy. But [Rani reminiscing] he was sweet. Loopy but sweet!
Interviewer: and then?
Rani: he just paid me. Then grabbed his clothes, put em on, and left. And that was it. Didn't see him again. Well, actually before he left he said: 'see you in another life honey'
Interviewer: ok, so from the whole experience. If there was one thing that stands out what would it be? What do you remember most vividly?
Rani: [ponders] Vividly? That's a big word ain't it [giggles]. Well apart from the business with the nipples and all, there is one thing that sticks out when I look back
Interviewer: Yes?
Rani: Well, to be honest I feel not sure talking about it because it is kinda personal you know. Something me and Superfly shared together and not for others to know
Interviewer: look you will be adequately compensated for whatever information you divulge
Rani: [playing with her fingers] Divulge? you do like using big words don't you mister! [giggles]. Ok, well if there's one thing that sticks out, you know what I remember most then it's that...
Interviewer: Yes?
Rani: he had
Interviewer: Yes!
Rani: a big one [giggles]

[Pause]

Interviewer: [crosses his legs again] you certainly know how to make men feel inadequate don't you?

*****[Interview over]*****

Part VI - The adventures of Super-fly 3D Sonic (sexually explicit content)

Her dance was deliberately provocative. It had been passed down, by the hands of Mother Nautch, from nautch girl to nautch girl and its secrets lay not in its visuals but in its use of psychology - to delicious affect.

In the lurid semi-darkness of the bed chamber there was shadow play at work. The curtains were drawn and swift movements afoot. Wedges of her body seemed to melt into the shadows and then reappear just as suddenly. Flash of thigh, glimpse of navel, dash of arm, glint of teeth–all curiously strobe like in the hung darkness. She flung her hips from one end of the room to the other like a lasso. She leapt from one corner to another; her shawls dicing, her arms slicing, her flesh inviting. With hands on waist, chin up, she appeared curiously defiant–I'm not that easy. The dimpled flesh on her neck and shoulders was exposed and beads of sweat had formed and were trickling down the groove of her back and into the cleft of her arse. This turned him on; the damp patches under her armpits, the dribbles between her breasts, the rivulets flowing down her ankles.

She was undoing her brassiere now, watching him as she un-hinged the strap and deftly removed the cups, exposing her breasts. Then grabbing the straps of her bra she wound them twice around her neck and tightened the grip like a noose - pretending to asphyxiate herself with the bra. All the while she kept watching him for a reaction and bent her knees; moving up and down on her haunches, simulating the moment of entry. He went for her. And this time she obliged his weakness. He grabbed the bra strap and tightened it further round her neck and she looked up at him expectantly. He could have strangled the bitch right there and then and she would have let him–control, the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Her eyes were lingering all over him waiting for him to do something. He kissed her full on the lips and squeezed one of her breasts, fingering the coarse nipple with his thumb; feeling it harden and erupt. She bit him cruelly on the lips - a metallic taste on his tongue. Her sexual proclivities turned him on. He shoved her against the wall and loosened his trousers; they fell to the floor. She grabbed his cock and began stroking him with her red fingernails. Grabbing her from the waist he flung her violently on to the bed. The force surprised her but she was turned on by his strength and his desire not to be taken advantage of. He grabbed her legs and yanked her towards him. She wasn't going anywhere. She didn't resist. He pulled off her remaining clothes and then there she was - naked. And then he fucked her. She clawed pleasurably at the bed sheets, snatched at his thighs and scratched his arse raw with her fingers. Sometimes she'd snap out of her frenzy and look straight at him; look straight through him, as he fucked her. Looking for that moment of truth. Once when he glanced up he saw that cherubic tot smiling back at him from the top of the bed rest; he laughed and almost lost it. But her hand yanked him down for a kiss and he was saved. He felt her passion. He felt her want. He felt her muscles tighten their grip from inside.

They lapped against the shore like a wooden boat; the crests rising and rising, until finally in a jangled crescendo they crashed against the rocks and the waves flooded over them- flowing calmly back out to sea. The tempest over, they collapsed like a heap. He kissed her forehead wiping the sweaty beads that had accumulated in her furrows with his palm. Her eyes were closed and she was already falling into a deep sleep. He closed his eyes too, and forgot the world for a while. The flesh satiated for now.

An hour later they made love again. But this time it was not as rapacious and selfish as before. They took there time and they took turns, responding to each other; to each others needs. He entered her from behind, watching the ripples in her arse spread to the flabby folds in her waist. She turned her head around and watched him screw her, and then she whimpered in his ear, requesting that he fuck her harder. He had liked that: The polite request.

Later they washed together in the bath; sponging each other down, tipping tepid water from a jug, and then she dried him with a towel as he sat on the rim. She giggled as she dried his back, his legs and then his crotch as if he were a baby. Then she bent double on her knees and sucked him off. He felt as if he was going to be lifted off his feet. She liked pleasing him that way and she had told him so, and those words were precious because they hadn't made him feel guilty.

And then she noticed his nipples...

Current location: Vientiane, Laos

After having crossed the border into Laos via the Thai-Lao Friendship Bridge, I now find myself soaking in 'Vientiane' (pronounced: Viang Chan), the Frenchified capital city of Laos. Yes, I say Frenchified because it's all Rue avenues, French style pavement cafes, sedate traffic, lots of scooters, bakeries selling French breads and even a French wine shop. The colonial buildings are in the French Socialist style and there's also a replica Arc de Triomphe. The only thing that's not French here is the Language - Thank God!

Capital cities are supposed to be sprawling megawatt affairs of mega malls and mega bucks. Not Vientiane. With a population of roughly 200,000 it feels more like a provincial French town. It took me 4 hours to walk down every single street in Central Vientiane and that's it! But it's pretty chilled out though. You know, sip a coffee whilst reading and people watching kinda chilled. I'll be heading north into the countryside shortly where I'm hoping they'll be less of a colonial vibe. But first I need to pop into the Indian Embassy in Vientiane and see whether they'll be kind enough to give me a visa for my planned foray into India later. Let's hope they don't notice the er Pakistani visa stamped in my passport ;-)

The adventures of Superfly 3D Sonic - Part V

The bed chamber was dark, dank and moist. A solitary fan whirred from the ceiling but it did nothing but spread the heat everywhere. In between the fan blades you could hear the patter of the street and the honk of the cars. The two creatures lay sprawled naked on the bed-sheets; from a distance they looked like a single mass of folds and ripples; a sort of grotesque artwork of skin and hair grafts. The lamp sat in the corner strumming weakly, humming away, not daring to encroach on the night. Rani was fast asleep; her naked breasts rising and falling with each breath. But Superfly was wide-awake and buried in thought. They had had sex and this moment of respite, when feelings were at their most raw, was a time to gather one's thoughts and clarify things. The inside of his mouth was filmy and he still had the taste of her cunt on his tongue. His head was swarming with thoughts like flies trapped in a bell jar. There was no question about it – she had been very good. He lay back on the pillow and enjoyed the pleasures of memory: he had followed her, her conniving hips guiding him, slowly but carefully into her chamber. As they had walked along the dark corridor, doors would creak furtively ajar; and a weak slab of light from inside the rooms, would light the way along. The side rooms were occupied by lone females. Superfly felt the weight of their eyes as they rapaciously sized him up, their fingers clawing on the door frames, their breathing heavy like the sultry air.

The room they entered was grubby and austere. It was cheaply decorated and smelt of mould and unwashed bed-sheets. The walls were flaking on one side and on the other; the part that was exposed to the outside, they had the texture and colour of dough. The ceiling was charred black from some calamity that had befallen it in the past. There was a silver piss-pot in the corner. The room faced the street through a single window set in the wall to the far right. A picture frame of a chubby cherubic tot (those cheap baby prints you find everywhere) was pinned to the space above the bed rest at an angle. Bad taste he had thought.

The squalor of the room and the infected bed-sheets and the cheapness added to the feeling of debauchery. Paying for sex was considered a dirty business on earth, and it showed in the conditions in which it took place. 'Legitimate' sex between married couples would never have happened in a room like this - unless the couple were poor. But it wasn’t always so. In the days of the Moguls, Superfly had read, the art of the sex girls or ‘nautch’ girls as they were known, was a high art-form and an esteemed one at that. Professional nautch girls were highly prized and highly skilled too in delivering pleasure and ensuring it lasted – for as long as possible. The key was not the moment of elation itself but the build up.

'Master the play of the pleasure game ladies, and you shall him in your pockets' the most famous nautch girl of all had once told her students

The most popular girls were booked way in advance, and their reputations travelled far and wide on the backs of their legendary escapades in Mogul Courts and in the richly decorated bedrooms of seedy dissolute Princes. And there was nothing they wouldn't do: sodomy, swinging, swapping, dogging - it was all on the menu. And the more amoral the act the greater the price. But how the mighty art has fallen! To this! Guilty sex in some claptrap dinghy hovel! The squalor of the room seemed to stoke Superfly’s desires. The mould and the damp seemed to consume him and his mind reeled like a ship foundering upon a tempest. Here was this beautiful creature before him, in this dinghy-dirty room, and the scene was complete. It called for an action. He leapt to grab Rani at the waist but she was quick and managed to allude him; skipping away playfully. From the other side of the bed she teased him; unbuttoning her brassiere, watching him as she did so, and then beckoning him over with her fingers. He went to her like a circus lap dog.

‘Not yet. You sit, I will dance’ she had said seating him on the bed

She had an attractive figure. Slender, well-spaced hips, a nice arse, narrow waist that tapered to a pair of perfectly moulded breasts that were packed tightly inside a tight-fitting chemise. Packed tightly like Andromedan Ripe-Fruit he had thought. Her neck was slender and the skin olive-brown and the whole package was finished off with a head of sensual lips, and dark-dark eyes – deeper then anything he had seen and gate-keepers to who knows what delights. Layers and layers of mystery were waiting to be uncovered…

Dispatches from my world

Coffee cups and bleary-eyes

It’s 6 o’clock in the morning. The sun is struggling to come up and with one final push it manages to rise. The coffee cup sitting vaguely in front of me has written on it in large friendly letters: “coffee is best served hot just like love – a German proverb”. Ah the Germans. Trust the Germans to come up with something so infantile and meaningless. The ‘Laos Airlines’ reception desk opposite me with it's bright yellow facade is scratching my eyes. It has written above it the motto of the airline: 'You are safe with us'. I blink and take a sip of the coffee. 'You are safe with us?'. Surely being safe is the first thing you’d expect from an airline? Nobody chooses an airline because it says it is safe to fly with them! Do they? Nobody says : 'I am paying double to fly with this airline because they are safe'. You pay double because you prefer the food, the service, the leg-room, or because the air hostesses are pretty and wink at you. You select airlines because they are ‘great people to fly with’ [PIA] or as ‘smooth as silk’ [Thai] or are the ‘worlds favourite airline’ [BA]. For me when an airline says you are safe with us they have something to hide. So that's it I'm not flying to Laos. I'm taking the train to the north and crossing the border by road. You are safe with us - whatever!

****

Departure lounges

Departure lounges are strange beasts and I love talking about them. This particular one is in 'Chiang Mai’s' International Airport. Security is so good that I managed to bring aboard a cigarette lighter in my pocket – by mistake. Security here only serves to reassure passengers - a public relations exercise; cosmetic. Like most departure lounges passengers tend to congregate into groups. So all the Western tourists tend to hang about in the same area by means of some gravitational field that acts between tourists pulling them together. Why go to the ends of the earth only to hang out with tourists? Beats me. The Thai’s are in another clotted bunch, and then there’s me: Albert Camus’s ‘The Outsider’ or ‘The Rebel’ sitting in a corner away from everybody else. They must think I have airs or something. No, I’m just a misanthrope and a contented one at that, so leave me the f**k alone!

The departure lounge has (true to Thai style) a massage parlour. I wonder if this is a euphemism for?...No I don’t think so. Having a Whore House in an airport departure lounge is probably too much to stomach. But who would visit a massage parlour in an airport departure lounge anyway? What kind of person would patronize it? Somebody with severe foot pains? Someone hoping to de-stress, or someone thinking the parlour is a masque for something seedy?

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Benazir Bhutto International Airport

As were on the subject of departure lounges one of the more memorable one's I’ve had the honour and displeasure of visiting has to be the one located in the newly renamed Benazir Bhutto International Airport in Islamabad, Pakistan. The airport authorities may try as hard as they like to keep out those primitive village folk; but it's hard to keep out someone with a valid passport and ticket! Even if they are from a village. The specimen sitting next to me, I recall, was smoking in a non-smoking area, was screaming down his phone, staring at the Western women sitting opposite, and asking me stupid questions in Punjabi. As If I can speak that uncivil tongue! For have you ever heard someone speak Punjabi? I trust you haven't so let me tell you: Punjabi, unlike Urdu which was the refined tongue of the Mogul Court in the days of Jahangir, is the language of commoners. It's a filthy tongue without charm. Let me give you an example: Telling a women you "love her" should be a beautiful phrase in any language; it should flow sonorously from the tongue and be pleasant to the ears and to the heart. Well not in Punjabi. In Punjabi telling a women you "love her" sounds like a threat that you're going to shag her brains out behind the wheat-fields. The creature sitting next to me was still badgering me so I told him that I don't speak any languages that he knows. "English?" he asked. "No, No English, Espaniola" I said. He looked at me slightly askance. I could see where his mind was headed. "Which country?" he asked perplexed. "Guatemala" I replied. He left me alone after that. But he still kept snatching the odd occasional glance in my direction.

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Nong Khai

Nong Khai lies at the north-eastern tip of Thailand at the border with Laos, which is where I am sitting now. I took the 'overnight 1st class sleeper' up from Bangkok yesterday evening. It cost me 1,310 Baht to travel in superior style and comfort - and worth it too. I'm not usually good at sleeping on trains and aeroplanes. If my head is not horizontal I struggle and therefore it confounds me how anybody could possibly doze away on those uncomfortable seats. The train left Bangkok at 8pm yesterday and arrived in Nong Khai at 10am this morning. I slept all night. The bumping of the train lulled me away to a stupor. It's nice to wake up in the morning refreshed, to pull back the curtains, and then to enjoy breakfast and coffee served in your carriage, whilst marvelling at the bucolic country view outside of rice paddies and kneading buffaloes.

As I write this I am sitting in a Guest House on the banks of the muddy Mekong River in Nong Khai. I can see Laos from here. It's on the other side of the river! What does it look like? Any different? I don't know about you but I always expect the landscape to change suddenly when crossing borders. We'll have to see how different it is. Next stop Laos!

Postcards from the Thai-Burma death Railway & Kanchanaburi

Zoo Station

Time is a train

Makes the future the past

Leaves you standing in the station

Your face pressed up against the glass

Just down the line...Zoo Station

Gotta make it on time...Zoo Station

(Bono)

Coming soon...The Bridge on the River Kwai!

The Bridge over the River Kwai (French: Le Point De La Riviere Kwai) is a novel published by Pierre Boulle in 1952. The story is fictional but uses the construction of the Burma Railway, in 1942-43 as its historical context. The novel deals with the plight of Allied POW's who were forced, by the Japanese, to build the 258 mile railway to link Thailand with Burma, so that they could mount an invasion of British India. Approx 120,000 people died on the railway project (infamously known as the Burma-Siam 'Death Railway') many of whom were conscripted from Southeast Asia.

The bridge itself lies 5km from the Thai town of Kachanburi, which is where I'll be heading tomorrow, but first I have to fly down to Bangkok to catch the clickety-clacking wooden train westwards. Oh yeah, and apparently the fair costs about a quid...I promise not to complain!