Permit me, if you will, to regale you with a story from my past.

Blog 23

Australia, Darwin airport. 199?
So there we were, kicking back, people watching, ordering yet another beer in the lounge bar. 'What have you been doing? we've been calling your names for the last twenty minutes' I was, at the time, cruising with a really cool guy from Argentina or Chile or somewhere. Funnily enough, I can't remember his name. 

Wow, after re-reading this, I remembered his name. Guillermo. 'Here, getting pissed' I replied, 

Thinking they would find it funny. The even stroppier one butted in saying 'Go now, otherwise it's leaving without you'. 

'What, can't we even finish our beer?'. 'NOW!'..... Bloody hell! These girls were serious, potential Ryan Air staff, apart from they were pretty and one wasn't a gay bloke.

That was the only time that I've ever been escorted on to a plane by the staff. I felt like fxxking royalty! I could tell by the passengers faces that they were sick with envy. 

They had such a 'you lucky bastards' look on their faces. At least that's what I read it as, when they saw us swagger on with that dumb grin that only a drunk can pull of to perfection. 

Lighten up, I thought. You're on holiday. Look at me, I'm enjoying myself.
I had to get out of my seat to take a piss during take off, which went down like a turd from a high iron diet. 

The looks I got from the trolley dollies was, well, in my reddened, glassy eyes, less than professional. 

Upon exiting the toilet I considered trying to order a sneaky beer but thought better of it.
After a few days of rummaging around Timor I thought I would get a boat over to Flores. The boats in Indonesia need scuttling. 

In fact they all would have been, except for the fact that Indonesia buys all Germany's redundant boats and sails them until they sink, which they, inevitably do. I was on one that was sinking once........................but that's another story. 

Anyway, I got in a local bus to take me the dock. A small 24 seater thing, and there I was, I had a bit of a shine on and all was feeling groovy. We bounced down the typical bumpy island road. Until, the army decided to step out into the middle of it. Just like SANTANDER BANK, how inconsiderate. 

Around that time Timor was a bit unsettled, to put it mildly, and even though I was in a relatively safe area I did dribble, just a little bit. The driver stopped but refused to open the doors. He looked around at me, almost apologetically. I dribbled a little bit more but with good reason, because, apart from the driver, I was the only person on the bus. The soldiers of which their where about ten of, started shouting at the driver. One of them, going by his aggressive authority, was probably the leader, He started banging on the door demanding to be let on. 

The driver looked back at me again. I was getting quite damp now. The leader continued banging and started pointing at me. Yep, now I would, personally, call that wet. Obviously the other soldiers are now joining in working their way down the bus, banging on the windows now, pointing at me. 

The driver looks at me, for all I know for the last time as he opens the door. Oh dear, It's a dark patch about the size of a ten pence piece. Hopefully my t shirt will cover it.
The army leader storms on the bus with his comrades jostling behind him to get on the bus first so as not to miss any of the excitement or possibly to join in. 

He starts pointing in the face of the driver and shouting at him, then pointing at me and shouting at him. I haven't got much dribble left now. When someone uses the word recoil, as in 'recoil with fear', then the bus driver fxxking recoiled. Not as much as my mind, but enough.
The leader then comes storming up to me with his comrades seriously starting to jostle for position now. 

He gets in my face. He sticks his fist out. Sticks his thumb out of his fist and points at the driver with it. 'Did you see that. He wasn't going to let us on. I had to force him to open the door. 

I kept saying you've got another passenger, look, look. He obviously doesn't like army. 

Would you like cigarette, can I speak English with you. His comrades touched my leg, in almost reverence. I pissed myself with relief................

SAD PIZZA: 'Happy pizza, ple..' ' No, you no eat here no more. Last time you fall in my plants and break, you need pay'.......'F@*k, I'd better pay for this'.
Speechless.

It's the little things That really sets the scene

Blog 22

Even though my face is glazed with snot and my nose constantly dribbles, my throat hurts and my ears keep popping and then whatever popped in my ear immediately comes dribbling out my nose, again. Even though my bones feel like someone's stolen all my cartilidge and one of my eyeballs has fallen out, I'm still here for you, my beloved viewers. All two of you. 

This isn't what they call man flu due to the fact that no man could survive this. It's was even touch and go with me last night. I sneezed three times in a row. Anyway, enough of that, let's talk about me.

There are some breath taking sights scattered thickly throughout South East Asia. So many that it seems slightly over indulgent. But they are only a part of the S.E.A experience. 

It's the little things that really set the scene. It's the little old lady slowly making her way down the street, bent over, head facing down, eyes looking up. She has a length of bamboo balanced across one shoulder. It's about a metre long and on either end hang rattan style woven baskets.  one of these baskets has a small collection of jars. Someone stops her and she sits down on the kerb, places her 'tools of the trade' next to her, opens it all up. 

She gets some rice out of one basket and magics up a dark green, flat broad banana leaf. The rice is spooned on it followed by herbs and spices.... Culinary alchemy. everything is neatly wrapped in the leaf....Culinary origami. Money is exchanged. The alchemy set is packed away.

 She is obscured from view by a passing moped carrying a trailer the size of a small touring caravan. It has a roof as well and stacks of little red plastic chairs, enough to give a Spaniard a twitch in he trousers, hang of the side. Next to them are..... Well the list goes on but believe me there is more plastic hanging from it than could be produced by the Canadian tar sands. A wonderful spicy curry smell wafts past followed by the smell of warm open sewers. I could go on and at some point I will but at the moment my face is leaking. 
Speechless.