Am at the ‘I’m in need of matchsticks to prop open my eyes’ stage of my journey to the sun.
Nick duly despatched me to Heathrow pre rush hour and the 24 hour trek began.
We’ve covered the airport experience before; it hasn’t improved but flying Malaysian Airways was certainly a new experience.
Did you know that they now make planes the same size as double decker bus depots, and it’s not just the ‘turn left’ brigade who get to go upstairs any more?
Well they do, make planes that size, and some obviously ‘disturbed’ child has come up with a cracking new idea to add to the thrills and spills of air travel, thrills and spills that rank one above shopping in my book, and shopping brings me out in hives.
Some juvenile sadist has persuaded the airline to fix a camera onto the double decker bus depot’s tail, enabling us all to savour the take off on our mini screens. Oh what fun! An actual calamity, so much more fun than virtual reality.
Now I don’t claim to know a lot, but I do know that the most dangerous thing about an operation is the anaesthetic, and the most likely time for a plane to crash is the 15 seconds after take off and the 15 seconds before landing, and now an ‘in need of psychiatric help’ freak has come up with a cunning plan that allows us to watch it, in real time, as it happens and the airline think it’s a good idea “Oh look we’re on the main runway! Oh look we’re taking off! Oh look the nose is on fire! Oh goody we can see our death crash!”
The landing in KL is not much better. The amazing cabin crew informs us that the outside temperature is 25 degrees at 7 am. Well that’s as maybe but it is also lashing it down with Noah’s Arc enthusiasm and if I can’t see the runway on my new ‘let’s watch the action live’, mini screen, I’m damned sure the pilot can’t.
Somehow he brought the double decker bus depot in safely. On the extremely plus side I had a whole row of seats to myself as did the young Aussie in front of me.
“Times like this you want to go into first class, wave your ticket and say something like ‘I’ve got a bigger bed than you!’ Don’t you think?” Can’t keep a good Aussie down.
Needless to say I still couldn’t sleep. I skimmed Casino Royale (what is it with aeroplane ear phones?) with the very watchable Mr Craig and was quite enjoying it until I remembered it was all about blowing up large aeroplanes.
Who decided that was a good one to put in the ‘favourites’ list?
Read the Hunger Games – enjoyed – would kind of like those rules to apply to the celebrities in the jungle – and then another far more forgettable film and ate my way through ridiculously large amounts of food that didn’t even taste like airline food, it tasted like, food.
Incredibly, I managed to get across town, without getting lost once, to the ‘no frills’ airport for the next leg. Malaysia was wet, very green and very wet. Huge interior plants climbing ever upwards, doing battle for sky space with the city of high rise. The orderly chaos of the rush hour streaming onto the highways ensuring a half hour journey takes twice as long.
I actually prefer the ‘no frill’s airport. It’s quiet, understated and familiar. More boutique than bling with quiet stylish fast food restaurants and free wifi. Heathrow, take note.
Ah, they’re calling the flight, now that’s a bit lively. The plane’s only just landed. It looks a bit like supermarket sweep. Cleaners rushing on and off, orange umbrellas, orange Wellington boots and sou westers being pressed upon us instead of the usual newspapers. The plane is in orange livery. Only beautiful Asian girls could get away with wearing the orange uniforms. As we are herded out of the departure lounge I suspect this is Malaysia’s answer to Easy Jet; suspicion confirmed when I see the fans on the front of the plane. Upmarket Easy Jet mind you, I don’t remember Stavros handing out umbrellas.
We scramble up the 5 stairs to the doll’s plane. No wide aisles here, no wide seats. Seat belts are barely fastened and we’re off! Spinning down the runway, nay roaring down the runway! How come this tiny baked bean can is five times as noisy as the bus depot? I notice the wing is looming over me and there’s a hole in it at the back. It looks a bit charred. Best ignore.
Samui.
I love Samui airport, more a friendly hotel lobby that forgot to put up the walls than a determined to humiliate border crossing. The humidity hits my sinuses and I can feel my cold receding, my hair curling and sticking to my face and sweat, delicious sweat, running in rivulets down my chest.
“Sawadee Kah”
Why was I nervous? What did I think I had to fear? This is the land of smiles.
There he is, the tousled haired man child that still seems 4 to me. Tanned and pulling on a cigarette; waving nonchalantly to let me know he is here but with a ‘please mum don’t embarrass me’ carelessness.
The ferry crossing is choppy and does wonders for my jet lag and stomach full of airline food, but we meet a lovely Australian couple on their pre wedding honeymoon at a place called ‘The Sanctuary’ “Do I know it?” No, but man child does and by the time the 40 minute journey is completed he has been nominated the unofficial tour guide for the island as newcomer after newcomer bombards him with questions.
“You should set up a business” says the Australian bride to be. One look at the local Thai mafia who are obviously not impressed with his free advice causes me to reply.
‘Perhaps not. I quite like my son being alive.’
Arriving 4 days early is not conducive to resort receptions being accommodating (arriving on the day you are expected is barely). Of course I’m not booked in. Naturally I haven’t paid my 50% deposit and no, I am nowhere on their system.
Now tired and verging on grumpy, I attempt to use their internet facilities with about as much success as Gordon Ramsey would have trying to create a meal using the utensils in my kitchen.
Finally they find me on the system and, once my ‘pass a por’ (turned out to be passport) has verified my reality we are lead in pitch darkness up a path to the hillside bungalows; a path that would kill a goat.
“Mai Dai!”
Man child bellows, seconds before I am about to collapse with the exertion of moving one blister clad foot (yes they’re back) another step upwards.
Debate in Thai follows – I am quite impressed. Slithering back down the hill in fear of shattering a hip, eventually we are taken to a villa that is almost on the beach. I love it! Simple, clean, taps that work, shower that does likewise, western toilet (must remember not to clog with paper), air con, TV, and resident dog on gorgeous balcony.
I can do this.
Strange swimming pool outside my door. Nowhere to sunbathe but that could be good, I could have it all to myself.
I see lights. Man child sees lights. I hear gentle plopping on the shore.
Man child sees bar.
Two Mai Thai’s later, I now have new bezzy mate – Ham, who comes from Laos, thinks that speaking in a cod Scottish accent is the height of ‘cool’ and has more tattoos than a Glastonbury contingent. We have agreed to swap better English for rudimentary Thai.
Having said goodnight to man child who has bartered his way back to his temporary accommodation and a late night pool party, bought a bottle of water from the supermarket on the corner that bears the name 7/11 proudly, I say good night to my new dog and pass out.