THE LOLA BOYS ABROAD !

The trails and tribulations of a dodgy duo!

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Paul is one half of ‘The Lola Boys’ – an international an almost acclaimed cabaret. Paul writes about ‘The Lola Boys’ experiences whilst working and travelling around the globe – joined by his partner, Andrew, both front of house and way backstage! Sometimes voyaging first class. Yet most often not ! But always going in style! The Lola Boys’ Blog follows the trails and tribulations of a dodgy double act!
  • Back To School!

    Back To School!

    It was just the day before Paul and Andrew were due to bid their farewells to the bijou town of Chiang Khan and it’s enchanting Mekong setting that Paul realised he had slightly buggered up the loose itinerary he had planned. It now seemed there was no way of getting to their next port of call without a hugely complicated journey, involving  three tuk-tuks, two cattle trucks and a marathon hike carrying rucksacks!

    Not to mention the possibility of something going wrong and them missing one of the connections.

    Or worse, one of the bus drivers not liking the look of the incongruous pair lounging on the roadside and stepping his flip flop down hard on the gas.

    It had happened before!

    Travel in rural Thailand was always a challenge.

    Paul thought he’d keep the journey details secret from his partner until he had done some more research. Surely there was an easier route, he thought.

    Or rather, hoped.

    Or dinner that night could be chicken foot for one!

    It was invariably Paul that got the boys into the odd predicament whence on their adventures, but then again, it was usually him that extricated them from such difficulties too. Especially as Andrew normally didn’t have a clue where they were. Paul assumed his usually very intelligent husband had smoked heavily through nearly every geography class of his youth, puffing hazily behind the proverbial bike sheds.

    His partner still insisted that Switzerland was in Scandinavia, this  despite Paul explaining that he would upset a lot of Swedes with that attitude. Actually, there had been one particular Swedish lesbian whom Andrew had seriously pissed off, on a very remote island in the Indian Ocean, with this geographical misplacement. Not to mention the odd misplaced pussy gag!

    To be fair, they had both been paralytic, unfortunately the mashed Swede was more tasteful! With a lack of humour that was deeply rooted.

    But it was a Paul who once got them stranded on the summit of a jungle clad mountain in the Cameron Highlands in Malaysia, mid-thunder storm. The boys were entirely ill prepared for the precarious descent, wearing the wrong footwear, carrying only half a bottle of vodka, a carton of cigarettes, a lighter, and an out of date copy of ‘The Lonely Planet’.

    At least we can make a fire if we get lost, Paul had maintained. His partner had not been impressed.

    Paul had also known deep down that he was clutching at damp twigs!

    It was also Paul who had persuaded a reticent Andrew to go on a snorkelling trip off of the Gili Islands in darkest Indonesia. It was only when they were mid-ocean, sans life jackets, they both realised their guide was none other than the man from bloody Atlantis!

    They  had front-crawled after him blindly, their faces scouring the deep ocean floor for turtles, surfacing only to discover their small craft was now an even tinier speck in the distance. The current had taken them what seemed like miles away from their safety vessel and Paul could feel himself start to panic. He scoured the horizon for Andrew, who was hardly Esther Williams in the water, and saw him flippering away in the distance after the little merman.

    Paul turned back towards the boat, he knew he could make it if he quickly learnt how to breathe again.

    This fishy tale obviously ended happily, (for some),  yet not without further drama.

    When Andrew spotted his partner floundering, like a dying haddock half a mile back, he too got into a flap. He came about, and using his best doggie paddle set out to rescue his partner in brine.

    Suffice to say that as Andrew eventually came alongside, dangerously exhausted, it was Paul who had to swim out to do the lifesaving. Andrew’s flippers, mask and dignity sinking to a watery grave.

    And it was Paul who, this time, had got them stranded in the middle of nowhere!

    So it was really up to him to save the day – or rather, find the way.

    He was most relieved when their wonderfully eccentric landlady, Lem, said she could recommend an alternate route. Alternative it proved to be, though in an altogether different sense.

    They had been booked onto the local school bus.

    The following day the boys made their way to the Chiang Khan High School to join the pupils on their way home from class. As they arrived at the gates, Paul noticed a couple of scruffy buses parked up on the kerb, he assumed one of these was to be their mode of transportation along the Mekong road to the village of Pak Chom. But in the east, he had learnt to expect the unexpected, and then, expect something a little more unexpected after that.

    The boys did their deal with the driver standing next to the big bus. They then attempted to climb aboard with their luggage but were stopped immediately with some indeterminate Thai from their driver. He made a gesture towards the front of his vehicle and bade them follow, which they did. It was then they met their ride for the day. A small lorry, open-sided, and full of chattering teenage ladies. Some of them taking up quite a bit more room than one would expect from a pupil in year nine on an oriental diet.

    Paul knew at once this was not to be the most comfortable of journeys.

    He climbed onto the truck and as he did so the schoolgirls scattered in every direction, fleeing the ‘bus’ like brats from a sinking ship.

    When it was almost time to depart, the gaggle of girls returned to join the braver boys who had now also boarded. There was much laughter and hilarity as the rickety vehicle rolled out of town along a dusty track, smothering it’s occupants in a cloudful of rusty clay.

    The word ‘ farang, farang’ was repeatedly shouted, followed by shrieking amusement, which made it quite clear to Andrew and Paul just what the subject of conversation was.

    ‘Farang’ was a word ubiquitous in Thailand.

    On first visiting the country many Eastern moons ago,  Paul had considered it to be vaguely offensive. It’s standard definition was ‘foreigner’ he’d learnt, although it specifically meant a Caucasian. Someone hailing from Japan or China would never be labeled in the same way.  Yet Paul had discovered over time that it wasn’t really a racial slur. It was the manner in which the term was used that counted most.

    ‘It ain’t what you say it’s the way that you say it as it and that’s what makes insults’,

    as Bananarama may have sung in the 80s – could they have sung!

    These chirpy kids on their ride home were almost certainly not being insulting. They were having fun – the kind of fun only children can have before the responsible malaise that is adulthood has set in.

    It was great fun bumping along with this gang of energetic youth as the wheels of the bus went round and round. Andrew and Paul could almost taste their own salad days, even though they were cooler than the coolest of cucumbers as the open sides of the truck allowed the winds from the Mongolian plains aboard to plane their faces.

    Andrew managed to get the entire bus load of kids over excited by sharing out a tube of ‘Skittles’.  It wasn’t an altogether fair roll of the bowling ball though, as inevitably the chubbier of the group managed to score a complete strike by downing twelve of the sweets all at once. Much to the sweet-toothed chagrin of those who went without!

    A bright young chap named ‘Boom’, obviously one of the top stream, sat adjacent to Paul for their journey downstream. His English was better than any Paul had heard from a Thai lad his age and Boom was most eager to practice his linguistic skills, proudly engaging the slightly queer ‘farang’ in conversation.

    Boom was seventeen years old and had been taught English by an American Cambodian. He wanted to train to be a teacher and was desperate to visit London and one day to work in that great city.  Paul listened intently to the intelligent boy’s dreams. He considered such aspiration a great quality and only hoped his native country would be forward thinking enough to open up such opportunities for such gifted ‘Farang.’ Surely talent and skill should be the prerequisite for a geographical work placement – not just arbitrary lines drawn on a map of mankind’s making.

    But should that be ‘Peoplekind’ as recently espoused by the handsome Canadian Premier, Justin Trudeau?

    Really!

    What a great butt though!

    Boom introduced Paul and Andrew to his sister, who was equally as charming but with a name that was totally unpronounceable. Although Andrew was still having trouble with her older brother’s nomenclature, frequently  getting his boom mixed up with his bang.

    At one point Paul thought his partner was shouting the lyrics to Lulu’s only other hit, and could quite happily have given him a ‘Boom-Bang-A-Bang’ right in the gob.

    But young Boom didn’t seem to notice – or care.

    In fact he and his little sis stayed on the bus with them, way past their home village, in order to explain to the driver exactly where to find the boys ‘out of the way’ resort.

    The journey was beautiful. The river snaked mesmerisingly alongside, dotted with grassy islets as she accompanied them on their wending way.

    When they arrived the friendly siblings also accompanied Paul and Andrew along the driveway, giggling all the way, to make sure they had brought them to the right place. When they knew their task was complete they coyly asked if the boys would pose for a photo with them both. Andrew and Paul were more than happy to oblige, and a short photo session ensued, with the usual ‘v’ signs, the Thais seem to love, being the pose of the day.

    Paul thought perhaps the teenagers, who had taken a good couple of hours out of their free time to help these two Johnny foreigners, might like a tip for their trouble. But the youngsters would not hear of it, it was enough that they had got a couple of pictures and been able to practice their English.

    It was a heartwarming reminder, to his cynical self, that not all the youth of today were tarnished with the same Instagram filter.

    These fresh-faced folk, he noticed, could interact with something other than a keypad. And with something from another generation!

    Although he had to admit, Boom had used an app on his mobile to get the boys to their digs.

    So he was reminded that not everything in the modern world was entirely black and white.

    Just like ‘farang’ Paul thought, as he watched the sun set blissfully over the Mekong.

    The colours of the world were miraculously complex.

    And all the better for it, he mused.

    He was so pleased he’d managed to bugger up their itinerary.

    The road less planned was so much more interesting.

     

     

     

  • What Lies Beneath.

    What Lies Beneath.

    Paul woke at 5am and clattered clumsily across the blindingly black room in the ‘See View’ guest house. He fell heavily over a ruck-sack and into something incredibly noisy before accidentally hitting the light switch. A harsh fluorescence flooded the cell like space and for a moment he thought he was in prison. He tried to remember what crime he’d perpetrated, but then saw his life sentence laying unstirred on the concrete based thing the hotel called a bed. Oh yes, that was it, he and Andrew had checked in the previous night.

    The name of their lodgings was a puzzlement to them both. It was quite usual for the Thais to misspell relatively ordinary English words with an unabashed oriental enthusiasm, but surely even they were aware that Chiang Khan, on the banks of the yogic Mekong, was nowhere near the sea.

    It was a complete mystery.

    Until Paul, at that most unnatural of hours, clattered up the three iron staircases to the rooftop and realised there was certainly a view to see.

    The boarding house had been most aptly named.

    Marching majestically into the distance were the Luang Prabang mountains of Laos. Highly imposing on a precious metal dawn. Jagged with eastern mysticism.

    At their forest-slippered feet rolled the mighty Mekong, appearing deep and murky, unwilling to reveal her inner depths. Who knew what lay lurking beneath her somnolent surface?

    As he shivered amongst this mysterious  beauty, Paul remembered the tales he’d heard of the giant Naga who reputedly called these waters  home. As the haunting geography enveloped him he believed every one of those shaggy serpent stories.

    He found the moment beautifully chilling.

    And a more than a little chilly!

    He and his husband had not expected this part of the world to be so bloody cold. This was probably the reason Andrew, who was normally and early riser in every way, was still nestled beneath his two quilts in block ‘H’! This, despite Paul having woken the rest of the institution with his pre-dawn fumbling.

    He was not a natural morning person. A yawner rather than a dawner!

    Andrew was the lark, in voice as well as habit. Paul was more of your wise old owl, with a little less of the old and lacking most of the wisdom. Although, this particular daybreak, he had been clever enough to get up to witness the sun doing the same. And when that eastern star eventually peeped glaringly over the searing summit in the distance, Paul understood, for one wondrous moment, just why those stupid people who rose with the sun did it.

    He sat on the roof for sometime, joined only by birdsong and the harmony of Laotian Buddhist monks, whose chants wafted piously across the enchanted serpent’s waterway.

    A deep gong was struck three times somewhere in the depths of the dark woods, creating a cloud of sound that was quite simply divine, in every meaning of that overused word.

    Moments like this were incredibly rare, especially for Paul, whose usual life was a heady concoction of an altogether different type of music along with some very high heels. The only queen standing tall this morning was Mother Nature herself, and she was resplendent.

    A tear of pure joy made it’s lacrimose journey onto Paul’s cheek. He was most moved. And he’d not even been drinking!

    Morning had broken him.

    Cat Stevens would have been thrilled!

    Later that day, after a mystifying meal of three-way pork noodle soup and a bottle of ‘Chang’ lager, Paul and Andrew foolishly hit the motorway on bicycles and hit reality at the same time.

    Andrew’s bike quite clearly had a not so slow puncture and Paul seemed to be using a set of wheels which had once belonged to a toddler. Each time he tried to make a rotation he bashed his knee painfully on the inoperative gear lever, forcing him to cycle with just one leg. A feat he’d never tried with one foot before!

    In time the boys fortunately found a small lane which took them away from the highway and onto a quiet path running alongside the Mekong. They rode for sometime in silence apart from the appalling mechanical noises emanating from their ill-chosen transport. Rabbits, birds and even people fled into the distance as they heard the clanking metallic machinations of the ‘falang’ heading their way. It made for a clear bicycle lane if nothing else.

    As Paul was nearly decapitated by two electrical wires, strung at a diminutive eastern level, Andrew shouted over to him.

    ‘Paul. Look!’

    Paul found it difficult as he was still mid-duck, negotiating the garrotting chords, and his wheels were now skidding across the dry red dust most precariously. He came to an unglamorous and painful shudder to where Andrew had stopped.

    Before either of them could speak a booming voice came out of nowhere.

    ‘Welcome, welcome’, screeched the highly amplified vocal, ‘you want make a donation? Thank you for coming.’

    The boys realised independently they had stumbled, or rather, skidded into the grounds of a wat; a Thai temple. The voice which was calling them on was not that of The Buddha, but belonged to a tiny woman who was sat behind a tacky knick-knack stacked counter under a corrugated plastic roof.

    Paul was going to cycle cynically onward, bypassing the small woman and her kitsch religious ware. He’d been stung on many an occasion during one of their eastern odysseys, and often returned to the west with a backpack stuffed with neon Buddha pencil sharpeners and the like, much to Andrew’s dislike.

    To Paul’s surprise his partner immediately made his way over to the stall of naffness, which he now saw was adjacent to a small shrine containing a large seated golden icon. He was confused, perhaps Andrew, normally the darker of the two of them, had actually seen the light.

    Paul wheeled his machine over to watch this most unexpected moment of enlightenment.

    Andrew placed a note into the donation box and was presented with three incense sticks and a small piece of gold leaf by the small woman with the big mic.

    ‘Put on Buddha’ she instructed.

    She then turned to Paul tapping the box for offerings,

    ‘And you?’ She asked.

    Paul knew he was ‘Bahtless’ having let Andrew play the role of cashier for that day. He always knew having a wad of something gave his partner pleasure, and he was more than happy to be unsullied with dirty cash.

    ‘I have no money’ Paul replied pathetically, tapping his empty pockets to demonstrate his temporary poverty, ‘I’m with him.’

    The little woman smiled a large smile. But only with her mouth! Her eyes said ‘fuck you!’

    Paul watched as Andrew removed his shoes and entered the makeshift shrine. He attempted to light the joss sticks, but then paused,

    ‘Video me’ he said, passing the mobile phone over to his partner.

    Paul realised that Andrew was not actually on the path to enlightenment, more ‘The Road To Rio’, and did as he was told.

    It was camera, lights, inaction, as Andrew bumbled around with the paraphernalia he’d been given. Once his sticks were alight Andrew tore a fragment from his golden sheet and pressed it against the Buddha.

    ‘Don’t push too hard’ shrieked their guide.

    ‘That’s what I always tell him’ Paul cheekily responded.

    ‘Yes. Yes’ she said. Not quite reading from the same chant sheet!

    As they bade their ‘Kon Khun Kraps’ and took their leave, Paul asked Andrew why he’d decided to participate in the mini ritual. It was most unusual he  thought, it was difficult enough to get his partner to Christmas midnight mass, and that was half-cut!

    ‘I found it on the floor’ Andrew explained, ‘the twenty note. That’s why I shouted to you, but as soon as I picked it up she called me over.’

    ‘She probably saw you’.

    ‘No she didn’t it was much too far away. She’d never have seen. It was synchronicity. It was meant to be’.

    ‘Wow’ said Paul, ‘maybe.’

    Both of them believed sometimes things were meant to be. They had no idea why!

    He was reminded of that we’ll known Thai adage,

    ‘Find some Baht and pick it up,

    All day long you have good luck,

    Give the Baht to sour old bitch,

    Buddha make you very rich!’

    Or something along those lines.

    They cycled onwards, and upwards, onto the road and headed back towards the motorway.

    ‘Did you keep the rest of the gold?’ Asked Paul. Superstitiously hoping  his partner would give him a slither for good fortune.

    ‘Yeah’ said Andrew, ‘it’s in my wall….’ He suddenly stopped short. ‘Shit! I’ve left my wallet back there.’

    It seemed Andrew had made a much larger donation than intended.

    He whizzed around, as nifty as a teenage BMX champion,and peddled  furiously back to the little lady with the big Buddha and even bigger attitude. Of course, his belongings were still where he’d left them.

    That was usually the case, in northern Thailand at least.

    The Boys continued on along the main road until they hit the pretty town centre of Chiang Khan. Old style Thai wooden houses were cobbled together along a planked promenade adjacent to the river. It seemed as if each and every one had been turned into a guest house and each was as full as a travellers’ flop house on Bangkok’s infamous Khao San Road.

    The night market was similarly crowded. It’s stalls awash with riverine creatures pulled from the Mekong, some entirely unknown to Andrew and Paul. Monsters which they’d only seen before on ‘Dr Who’.

    There were crabs as small as pennies and rats as big as ponies.

    It seemed as though anything that moved was ripe for the barbie. And amongst this exotic epicurean crematorium there were people.

    Hundreds of them.

    Milling, meandering and munching their way through the millipedes
    and mudlarks.

    It was a colourful site – almost too much so.

    For alongside the stalls of inscrutable insects and tenebrous tendons stood row after row of gift shop each selling cuddly versions of the very things that had been cremated alongside.

    One could cuddle a cute chicken and chomp on a coddled cock simultaneously. Not something even Andrew was guilty of thought Paul. He paused for thought. Then reconsidered!

    The following day the entire town had emptied. The shops were shuttered and the sellers had wheeled away their carts. It was practically a ghost town. A studio set which was waiting for the cast to return from an extended lunch. Only they wouldn’t – not until the following week-end.

    It was most eerie.

    The Boys found themselves in the dark on a silent rooftop at 9pm. There was absolutely nothing to do. The distant rippling of the Mekong was the only soundtrack, pierced occasionally by the insolent barking of a stray hound.

    Once or twice Paul thought he heard the enigmatic splash of something unfathomable surfacing and then diving beneath the ink-black water. It was slightly unnerving, perhaps that was why everyone had disappeared so quickly. Maybe they knew something he didn’t. But then how could they? This serpentine river flowed with such deep impenetrability that no-one could know for sure what secrets really slithered beneath her slumberous surface.

    Paul hoped that it stayed that way. The world, after all, was now so much less surprising than it once was. Wouldn’t it be a good thing if some things remained inexplicable?

    He joined Andrew in their uncomfortable room, comforted by the fact that sometimes the unknown is just as pleasing as the known. It brings with it magic and mystery and pure imagination.

    He planned to wake early the next day to once again watch the sun rise from her mountainous mattress. That was a certainty, but he drifted off content in the knowledge that not everything was. Some hidden depths remained just that.

    But maybe, if he looked hard enough he may catch just a glimpse of the Naga serpent as she disappeared elegantly into the unfathomable deep, just as the sun’s golden noise woke the shallow world.

    The mysteries of life were so appealing here in the east. For once, he didn’t need to know everything. That, he knew.

    It was all very deep.

    Just like the mighty, mysterious Mekong.

    As Paul lay in that dreamy state between wakefulness and sleep, he thought he heard a great splash in the soporific water outside.

    He was far too languorous to investigate.

    Instead he simply believed.

    Splash! Splash ……

     

     

     

  • Miss Loei.

    Miss Loei.

    Loei is a small town in Isaan the region that butts up against the serpentine Mekong in the northeast of Thailand. It is the poorest part of the country and the least visited. Less than one percent of overseas visitors make it here.

    It is mostly flat and dry by nature, yet it’s people are most certainly not. It is probably our favourite place in Thailand. It remains untouched by the outside world.

    It is real! At first sight some of the province can seem rather dull and ordinary. Were Isaan a beauty queen she may not be crowned Miss World, but she’d be a scream on a night out!

    We arrived at our small guest house on the outskirts of the slightly scruffy city of Loei having taken four and a half hours on the bus learning to pronounce it properly. Far too many vowels strewn together for an ignorant westerner.  Eventually I worked it out. Think lurgie without the ‘g’ I told Andrew.  He still hasn’t got it! The place itself, however, has proven to be far less virulent. Yet very contagious. We were almost immediately charmed. In no small part due to Pat, the owner of  ‘Sugar Guesthouse’ our meagre lodgings, who welcomed us like old friends. She was appropriately incredibly sweet.

    She showed us to our tiny, yet perfectly formed bedroom, with a smile as wide as Alice’s Cheshire Cat, yet unlike that most fickle of felines, she did not disappear. Instead she hung around to give us all the gen we required on the ‘village’, as she purred on about her home town. She was most obliging, and in contrast to the majority of the proprietors of the smaller establishments in Thailand, her English was exemplary.

    She informed us we had arrived on a rather special night, as the inhabitants of Loei were to celebrate the opening of one of their biggest annual events the following day, The famous ‘Cotton Blossom Festival’.

    I must have looked blank!

    “Or Dok Fai Ban ? ” she added in vain, as if I might somehow cotton on. Sadly I didn’t. I wasn’t even aware Cotton even blossomed, let alone that there was a festival somewhere in the world to celebrate it doing so.

    What I do know is that Andrew and I seem to possess  a marvellous ability to roll up to a strange and unknown city when there’s a party going on. It has happened to us on a many an occasion.

    In Vientiane, the capital of Laos, we just happened to turn up when the annual food fair was cooking with gas.

    In Saigon we once hit the city just in time for ‘Tet’,  the riotous Vietnamese New Year celebration.

    And there was one time when we stayed in Vienna when there was a hell of a bash in a gay sauna already in full swing, or should I say full sling. But we shan’t go into that.

    Suffice to say, we swung.

    We know how to party!

    So, of course, we were thrilled that we’d arrived in Loei just in time for the start of proceedings.

    We thanked Pat for all her helpful information and headed off to buy a couple of beers from the local ‘Tesco Lotus’ we had spotted on the ‘main road’.

    ‘You want beer?’ Pat had read our minds. Or noticed our bellies. “Don’t go to ‘Tesco’.  Beer is cheaper in shop on the corner.’

    So we strolled down the narrow lane, passing snarling yellow dogs with false confidence to fool them into submission, and came to a wooden shack stocked with essential supplies. We piled a few things we didn’t need, along with our booze onto the counter and, like ‘Mr Benn’ waited for the shopkeeper to appear. Suddenly she popped up from behind the counter to serve us – to our surprise it was Pat.

    ‘No wonder she told us it was cheaper than Tesco’ I said to Andrew, rather cynically,  on the short walk home.

    ‘They’re exactly the same price’ said Andrew, equally as ungenerous.

    I wouldn’t have known, but Andrew has the unhelpful knack of remembering the price of absolutely everything. It’s a shame he never went on that dreadful show ‘Supermarket Sweep’. The lovely Dale Winton would have been amazed at his ability to price up the total bill for three tins of baked beans, a Stanley knife and a packet of liquorice condoms in under three seconds.

    Supping our ale under a small pergola tangled with exotic blossom, we both laughed at the friendly Pat’s double life. Why not recommend your own shop when in hotelier guise ?  The Thais are nothing if not entrepreneurial. Lord Sugar would certainly approve of our Lady Sugar.

    Oriental music plucked and twanged from the small compound adjacent to ours, and when we glanced over we saw a giggle of twenty or so middle-aged woman performing a traditional dance. Each one stopping now and then in a fit of laughter when she had become unsynchronised with the rest of the troupe.

    Every now and then we could hear a sharp instruction from the teacher at the front, correcting each member for an errant toe or a misplaced finger. It was an unforgiving routine, and some of the girls were quite obviously not up to scratch.

    Having had many an impatient choreographer ourselves in the past, we were both eager to see the strict dance mistress who was taking the class.

    Moving over to peer across the lattice fence we were fascinated to get a glimpse of her. Lo and behold – it was none other than Pat!

    Yet another string to her bow.

    It seemed as though our landlady did everything in this town. No doubt were there a fire she’d whack her helmet on and whip her hose out. She was a remarkably adept woman.

    There was room for only two other guests in the tiny ‘hotel’. Bob, a rather taciturn elderly Glaswegian, who wore thick spectacles which made his blue eyes look like Wedgewood dinner plates. And Heinz, a more talkative German from Munich, who quite frankly didn’t let anyone else get a word in edgeways! Andrew went for a ‘quick shower’ and left me with the latter in the garden for far too long.

    Before Andrew returned, cleaner than he’d ever bloody been, Heinz had managed to give me a dissertation on 57 varieties of motorbike he had ridden.

    Including the top speed, cylinder capacity, colour make and model of each one.

    ‘On your bike Heinz’ sprang to mind, or ‘can it Heinz!’ but I was far to English too say it, and he was far too revved up to have heard.

    His uncondensed  tales of engines and exhausts had me quite exhausted. I made it a point to keep out of his bike lane for the rest of our stay.

    The next day Andrew and I headed down to join in the festivities amongst the cotton blossom. We had no idea what to expect. Pat had told us, now in tour guide mode, that there would be seven thousand dancers from all across the province dancing a traditional form. I had no idea what cotton workers danced, I knew the inimitable Tina Turner had once picked cotton as Annie Mae Bullock, but I had a good hunch the girls wouldn’t be bopping to ‘Proud Mary’!

    We came to the banks of the Loei river, a tributary to the mighty Mekong, and were suddenly drowned in a sea of blue, or rather an ocean.

    We had assumed Pat had confused her zeros, even with her admirable linguistic skills, and that the real number of performers would be nearer to seven hundred rather than the thousands she had promised. But we were wrong to doubt her, as the streets and sois, were awash with a turquoise stream of glammed up ladies as far as the eye could see.

    And as far as my eyes could see not all of them were ladies!

    In fact, a sizeable proportion of the cast of this carnival were, shall we say, rather sizeable.

    And not what one would call conventionally feminine. In fact some of them looked like they’d just jumped out of the wrestling ring.

    The more masculine they were the more slap they’d caked on. It was a dead giveaway. Heavy rouge on a heavy jaw is always a no no. I should know – I too am guilty of it occasionally.

    Only for cash I might add.

    This was a certainly a pageant like no other and it was no drag. It was brilliant.

    Every shape, size, age and gender under the timid sun shone out with pride. All dressed in identical costumes. A fetching ensemble consisting of a white blouse, long dark skirt and a fetching sash sky blue. Each one dancing to the same beat, with an audience of excited spectators cheering them on.

    Mothers, fathers, grandmothers, grandfathers, daughters, sons and lovers. Not an ounce of judgment, only pure joy and pride.

    It was most moving.

    Absolute acceptance without the need to accept, because it just came naturally to these people.

    I know, or try not to,  some blinkered folk back home who wouldn’t have approved – but the crowd who celebrated in the streets that day wouldn’t have given those ignorami  a goddamn cottonpicin minute of their time. In fact, I’m sure they would have been bemused by such a Neanderthal attitude. It doesn’t seem to exist here.

    Thailand certainly has it’s fare share of doctrine and regulation, but not in Loei; not when it comes to expressing one’s true self.

    What a town! Friendly, unspoilt and with a sense of humour that would put Bette Midler to shame. Perhaps the distinct lack of foreigners is one of the reasons for this.

    It appears that Andrew, Bob, Heinz and myself are the only westerners in town.

    Although we have been welcomed everywhere with prayer shaped palms and authentic smiles.

    Actually,  I haven’t spotted our fellow ‘Sugar House’ guests since the end of the opening ceremony. Although I did hear Heinz through the sugar paper walls of our guesthouse in the early hours of our final morning. He seemed to be watching a film involving a pig and a fraulein. I can only guess it was an instructional video on animal husbandry. But taking a leaf out of the book of the delightful residents of Loei, I make no judgment.

    And the pig seemed to be enjoying it!

    On our final morning I sit, sweater-clad and shivering in the almost frosty garden, in the coldest, yet surely one of the warmest towns in Thailand. Pat exits quietly from the front door of sweet home,

    “It’s so cold” she says, “on days like these I wish I could go back to my warm bed for another hour”.

    “Why don’t you” I suggest.

    It is only 7am.

    “No, no”, she laughs, “I must go now and do the banking for the village. I am the only one who can do it here. Not all of the people can use a real bank so we have a savings scheme which I run.”

    We both laugh at her ability to wear so many hats. She tells me she has to go and direct a piece for the festival later in the day.

    “Wow!” I exclaim, “You’re amazing Pat. They’re lucky to have you here. You’re so confident”.

    “Or just crazy” she quips.

    We guffaw again. And off she goes to be the banker. ‘Miss Loei’ herself.

    Pat. Hotelier,grocer,guide,choreographer,director & banker

    What a wonderful world.

    We leave the city with a slightly sweetened nature but with heavy hearts, as the crowning of the real ‘Miss Loei’ is due to take place at the end of the festival in nine days time and we shall miss the ceremony.

    Some may think it sexist, but with so many of the contestants being of the opposite sex, and some slightly in between, I don’t really think that’s a fair critique.

    It seems as though ‘Miss Loei’ is open to all.

    And why not?

    Miss Loei?

    We already do!

  • Buddha Nature.

    Andrew and I set off at an ungodly hour, after an equally unholy breakfast for the bus station in Phitsanulok on Thailand’s northern plains. I say ‘in’ Phitsanulok yet Thailand’s bus stations have an annoying habit of placing themselves away from the towns they represent. Sometimes by miles. It’s akin to Victoria Coach Station being situated in Watford ! One invariably needs a long tuk-tuk ride from the terminus to get to the city one was looking for in the first place. Perhaps this is quite intended. A kind of trade union. The drivers of the larger vehicles passing their passengers on to the smaller ones in order to share the wealth. Very socialist. Incredibly ‘Buddha’. Also, incredibly irritating for the selfish traveller!

    After shelling out another tuk-tuk fare and being set down in the dirty place, we were informed that our bus heading west, to the ancient city of Sukothai, was ready to depart. We hurriedly bought our tickets and struggled onto the tiny vehicle which was actually not much bigger than ‘The Mystery Machine’ in Scooby Doo.

    Some of the passengers were equally as mystifying, and that was excluding Andrew and I !

    We did as we were told by the driver and placed our rucksacks at the front of the dodgy vehicle on a purple velveteen bench near to the driver. An incredibly officious woman, at least, I think she was a woman, clambered onboard making full use of her grandiose grey  uniform and screamed at us to move our luggage. Of course, Andrew and I, whose Thai is shamefully limited to ordering beer and saying thank you, had no idea what the woman was saying, and she continued to rant until a helpful English teacher seated at the back translated for us. Mama Morton wanted us to shift our stuff.

    So I then struggled to lift all the bags through to the back of the bus and placed them in a pile as instructed. When the uniformed harridan had made her exit, the bus driver immediately asked if I would move the bags again. This time back to the front of the bus.

    I sighed, inwardly, as it is never a good idea to show displeasure in this country, not without risk of physical attack, and then lugged our belongings back to where I had initially placed them. Already in a harried sweat, I perched with one buttock on the only remaining seat in the van, next to a small elderly man with a terribly wide gait and a sour demeanour.

    Two minutes later Eva Braun was back, this time screaming at the driver, who then screamed at me to move the offending baggage back to where it had whence came. I held my composure and awkwardly lifted the heavy backpacks once more to the rear of the aisle. By this time I was perspiring like a Grand National outsider, what with the heat and the heavy furnishings inside the bus.

    I was exhausted and we hadn’t even moved anywhere yet!

    I retook my seat, only with even less buttock, as now the little peasant man had managed to take up even more space and had grown even moodier. I looked towards Andrew, who had found himself a comfortable seat at the front with extra leg-room just behind the driver. I wanted to throw him a disconcerted look but he wouldn’t have understood,  just as those bastards in club class never do.

    We then lurched backwards, performed a seven point turn, and began our journey back in time to Sukothai, the original capital of Siam. It is from this city that what we now know as Thailand, her architecture, the intricacy of her culture, the piety of her people first blossomed. It is in Sukothai that the teachings of Prince Siddhartha, or The Buddha, became cemented into Thai life. Sukothai provided the mud in which the lotus of religions grew strong. But I digress from my meditation on our bus journey, and in true Buddhist style, that would never do.

    So after several terrifying heavy braking incidents, when most of the passengers were flung forward violently in polite silence, we were on our way. I edged myself slowly onto the seat for which I’d paid, closing the scruffy pensioner’s legs with a little more force. (Surely such a small man can’t have such enormous testicles I was thinking).  I pushed a little harder with my knee, it was then I noticed his crutch, the kind one walks with, wedged between himself and the window. A large metal affair, and worn with heavy use. Shame swept over me and I immediately struggled to pull myself away from him to allow him room for his complaint. I turned to him with condescension and smiled apologetically, as only an ignorant foreigner can. He beamed back – I felt even more terrible. I opened my packet of chewing gum, this time checking they were not nicotine flavoured, and offered him one. I assumed he would refuse due to his age and superior culture, but to my surprise he accepted my patronising offer and popped one in his gob – most pleased.

    I was glad. We had made friends, and as the spearmint released it’s vapour I felt relaxed for the first time since climbing aboard. If, a tad uncomfortable.

    I began to drift off for a moment, but was suddenly disturbed by a dreadful choking noise from my fellow passenger with whom I’d been chewing the fat. He coughed alarmingly and began to snort in a porcine fashion. I turned to face him but he was facing downwards, his whole body rattling with the obvious attempt to dispel the gum he had inadvertently swallowed. No one else on the bus seemed to be alarmed.

    I have noticed before on transport in the east, that one could be sacrificing a goat on the back seat and nobody would bat an eyelid!

    I wondered if I should bash him on the back, or call the driver. As we both began to panic the shrivelled man-made a terrific whistling wheeze and wallop, the gum shot out of his mouth with such explosive force that it bounced audibly against the back of the neck of the woman in front. She didn’t flinch. Nor did the gentleman who’d emitted the missile I’d proferred. They both remained upright, heads aloft and facing straight ahead.

    I believe this is in the Buddhist nature, as the head is considered a very sacred part of the body and should never me touched.

    I was also rigid, only with fear. It had been a narrow escape. I’d briefly imagined myself having a lengthy stay at the ‘Bangkok Hilton’ for manslaughter using a spearmint gum!

    Eventually I drifted off into an almost contemplative state, not before removing my own chewy so as not to suffer a similar fate. I was again woken suddenly, this time by the sound of my head hitting the metal bar on the seat in front, as our driver came to another sharp halt. I looked hazily through the windows, expecting to see a dog, or worse, lying on the highway, but there was nothing. The way was clear.

    Our driver jumped out from his door and made his way nimbly across four lanes of traffic, negotiating the central reservation like an Olympic hurdler he made his way into some far scrub land. Minutes later he returned waving a large scimitar, climbed back into the driving seat and restarted the engine. Again, nobody batted an eyelid.

    Andrew turned to me from Club Class and raised an eyebrow, I stared back expressionless. The driver could see me in his rear view mirror and I was afraid if I showed any disrespect it might be me on the end of his sword.

    Eventually we hit Sukothai bus station, which unsurprisingly happened to be at least ten miles from our final destination. We, or rather, Andrew, had a protracted row with a charabanc driver who wanted to charge us ten times the usual fare to take us to our guest house, until my other half skilfully spotted a local Song-thaw, whose chauffeur did it it for less than a pound.

    The charming man even drove us to the door.

    Although it happened to be the wrong door!

    When the smiling hotelier of the wrong hotel explained this mistake he made us get back into his vehicle and drove us to where we were meant to be.

    And with a smile that gleamed like silver – no weaponry in sight.

    The next day we hired what were described as bicycles and hit the old city.

    Fourteenth century and crumbling.

    Our wheels probably hailed from the same era, only the decrepit UNESCO site was in better nick. But at least they had smoother brakes than the bus the previous day.

    There was certainly an atmosphere in the park. Amongst the giant serene Buddhas and the huge moats studded pink with lotus flowers, gargantuan trees spread their emerald limbs providing welcome shade of which we partook readily.

    The noonday sun searing our occidental skin like a laser beam, we were more than happy to pedal out of sight of the ever present pedlars and into the relative cool of the wood’s peaceful boughs.

    A gorgeous mix of Buddha and nature.

    It was most relaxing.

    Timeless.

    I would mention old Siam and ‘The King And I’ at this point, only I have discovered that Thais generally loathe the book and the musical. The idea of their beloved monarch, be it way in the past, cavorting with a ‘falang’ in such an undignified manner is most unappealing to them.

    Should Deborah Kerr have ever made it to the real Siam I think she may have been hung drawn and clawtered!

    The following day we climbed onto our torturous wheels again and made for some of the more outlying ruins of this truly magical place.

    We came across a stunning standing Buddha, majestically perched on a hill which was over three hundred metres. We climbed, what was described in our guidebook as a shady stone walkway to the summit. We arrived with near sunstroke – the only thing shady about the ascent had been the guidebook’s description.

    After a brief moment of contemplative perspiration we took the much easier route down and continued on our bikes through sunlit paddy fields, thankfully most of it downhill.

    Andrew then stopped for a crafty smoke next to another ancient temple and I alighted from my saddle to take the weight off my perineum. I’m quite sure the machines we had hired were invented for eunuchs. I felt as if I’d completed the Tour de France in record time, minus the ubiquitous dope the pros use. It was then I heard a familiar sentence.

    “Shit” Andrew exclaimed, “I’ve lost my sunglasses!”

    “Where” I growled softly, wishing I’d borrowed the sword from the bus driver the previous day.

    “ I  don’t know, back at the first place – never mind, they were only twenty quid”.

    “ I got you those for Christmas” I said indignantly, “they’re originals, and they were much more than twenty quid”.

    “Were they?” Andrew asked soulfully.

    “Yes” I maintained.

    They were actually twenty-five quid from TK Maxx but now wasn’t the time to quibble. My innate Buddha nature told me that.

    “We’ll have to go back for them” I said, with the enthusiasm of one of ‘The Famous Five’. Probably Anne. Sadly!

    With that we were back in the saddle and pedalling furiously, retracing our tracks until we came to the giant Prince Siddhartha, still standing still on his hill. Unfortunately most of our route back had been uphill – we were now dripping.

    We searched for a few minutes around the area and nothing. I was beginning to think we would need to re-climb the mini mountain in the midday heat to see if Andrew had mistakenly left them as an offering at the Buddha’s feet. Where was that scimitar?

    Before we could begin our ascent, a group of park workers, who had seen us scouring the undergrowth called us over. And after a brief conversation, incomprehensible to all of us, one of them, with an oriental flourish of the hand, presented us with two pairs of spectacles. The sunglasses and the reading lenses Andrew had obviously dropped there.

    We were both thrilled.

    The honesty of the moment was truly touching, and Andrew was, I knew, secretly delighted that he’d held on to a pair of new shades for at least a week, and so felt compelled to tip. So did I,

    “Don’t put them on your head next time – they always slip off!”

    With that we were on our way again, cycling through the enchanted forest with optical protection and feeling optimistic about mankind.

    We both knew it wouldn’t last.

    Humans are not, after all, infallible – even when they believe in Karma. But for a moment,  we were calmer, and we revelled in the knowledge that good people roam this great globe of ours too.

    And in Thailand, one seems to bump into a lot of them.

    So be kind. Look behind the obvious. Be Buddha.

    Just don’t offer them a chewing gum!

     

     

  • Masticating In The Shower!

    After having spent seven hours in a dust storm known as third class on Thai Railways we arrived in the northern city of Phitsanalouk. My body felt as if I’d done ‘Cats’ without a warm up. The show, not the animal, and believe me I know what it’s like to do that show without a warm up.

    Andrew was also struggling – which is a euphemism for he could hardly put one foot in front of the other.  But it had been an incredibly amiable journey. I often find one meets a better class of person on lower class travel.

    I had several conversations with the tiny man sat across from me, although neither of us could understand what the other was saying. But there is a universal language one can adopt when amongst foreigners, and there was lots of it spoken in carriage ten. A little openness can go a long way. If only President Trump would learn the technique the world might be a friendlier place. But let’s take a lesson out of his book and not get too political.

    We fell out of the train with our rucksacks, (which have doubled in weight since we stupidly filled them with fake Ralph Lauren in Bangkok), into a coal-black night. As scorching as that fossil fuel too.

    On first impressions the place seemed fairly uninspiring.

    On second – quite the same.

    Although the inhabitants are friendly enough and apparently there’s an important Buddha somewhere. We nearly made it to the temple today to visit the old boy, however, after having imbibed a tad too much Thai ‘rum’ in coach ten to ameliorate the journey, these old boys didn’t quite reach the Buddhahood! Plus I was on a slight come down having chewed remorselessly on one of Andrew’s powerful nicotine chewing gums for an hour, thinking it was a stale breath freshener. I did wonder when I got into the shower why I felt so energetic and ready to party. I’m not usually a morning person so I should have been suspicious of my new found vitality, instead I masticated even harder to try and get some flavour. It was only when my throat felt like old sandpaper and I was doing ‘The Hustle’ that I twigged.

    I only have myself to blame, after all, I do realise one should never masticate in the shower.

    Quite unsavoury.

    I don’t know how Andrew manages to do it, no wonder he’s always searched at airport security. He always looks like an edgy coke dealer. Now I know why.

    Along with the heady dose of nicotine I was also recovering from our supper of chicken feet the previous evening. Clucking ‘orrible! And there was a rather mean orange dog blocking our path so it was an easy decision. We knew The Buddha would understand – and there is always tomorrow, when I should feel a little karma.

    Instead we opted for another dodgy bowl of something to do with pig and a soda water, then retired to our room for some more mastication, only minus the gum!

    We are currently staying on the ninth floor of a hotel which is straight out of ‘The Shining’.

    To make things even spookier we are in room 911.

    As my husband said, Thank God we’re not flying tomorrow! And I shan’t go into detail about the carpet, oh, and the ceiling! But at under a tenner a night one really can’t complain.

    And we do have a refrigerator in which to store our Chang lager. Highly useful, as I’m still struggling with the residual taste of the poultry’s ‘plates of meat’ plus the fag replacement is also lingering stubbornly on the palate.

    When night-time arrived all at once, as it often does here in the tropics, we headed to the other side of the tracks. Literally.

    Crossing a precarious railway bridge, ducking to avoid power lines, we came to the somewhat less salubrious part of town. A Street that wouldn’t even feature on the Monopoly board, even though some optimistic entrepreneur had stuck a couple of hotels on it.

    We ate a mediocre, yet this time, recognisable meal and then made our way to a bar I’d read of in ‘The Lonely Planet’. A publication I am slowly losing faith in. Too often we have headed for somewhere the travel tome described as  gay only to find a Klu Klux Klan rally in progress. I do exaggerate – but really! Tonight  we ended up in a place that was meant to be full of ‘hipsters’  but was actually an alcoholic kindergarten. A bevy of underage smokers with their bevvies making us feel quite superannuated.

    Not good for the confidence.

    Luckily as we made our way back to room 911 a plump prostitute on the street corner beckoned me to join her.

    ‘Here, here’ she called out.

    ‘Here,here’ I thought.

    Ego restored I smiled and politely declined. She wasn’t my type.

    I’d rather have another bowl of chicken ankles.

    Or masticate in the shower!

  • Bangkok Bound – Yet Not Gagged.

    Well, The Lola Boys have hit Bangkok, and after no sleep and a hideous incident involving two Chavs and a disgruntled pensioner in row twenty-three on our Boeing out, we feel like doing the same!  We were belted in by the  Captain far too frequently, when it was quite obvious the only turbulence was onboard!

    Perhaps that was the point.

    Our gorgeous stewardess was no doubt wishing all of the idiots would make a quick exit via the emergency door.  What one would call a very hard Brexit at thirty-six thousand feet.  Yet oh so effective!

    It never used to be like this on British Airways!

    Therefore we’ve arrived in Thailand buggered! We only hope we don’t leave in the same manner.

    But we know it takes time to adapt to this most steamy of conurbations. Bangkok, oriental city where the nights ain’t pretty etc. etc. etc….. as Yul Brynner once said.

    And they certainly weren’t last night!

    I shan’t go into full detail, suffice to say that the expensive probiotics  I purchased for us prior to departure have not yet kicked in. Last night’s dinner was what is known as fast food – and that was on the way out! At least that’s what Andrew told me.

    Four hours later I have awoken in a malarial sweat in a ‘queen size’ bed. I can only imagine ‘Her Majesty’ must have been a dwarf as the thing can hardly contain us!

    We are staying in a less than salubrious part of the city in a hotel full of less than polite Chinese. They really possess no charm, although they do have volume. And I don’t mean follicularly!

    To make matters worse, I look like the love child of the late Joan Rivers and the even later Liberace, and Andrew is rocking the Yoko Oh No look! We really should attempt to dilute our airborne Bloody Marys with something less sanguineous next time – perhaps the odd G & T.

    Air rage and lymphatic drainage simply do not mix.

    Added to this unglamorous start it’s bloody pissing it down here!

    So my hair can’t even disguise the B.A. look with which I landed.  Bloody awful. Needless to say, there will be no selfies quite yet. Not of the photographic kind.

    Still, we ain’t here to cabaret, only to ‘cabaret’, so who cares?

    Far too often I have been spotted in ‘Mercadona’ post-show, usually by someone who’s never bothered to see it, and told how rough I look.  I usually blame it on the Andalusian lighting and laugh it off instead of issuing a swift fuck off as I would like. Here, in this eclectic city there is no need for such fake civility, as round every corner there’s a rogue or vagabond colouring the pavement, so I simply blend in.

    Well – almost!

    So still feeling somewhat jaded we head into one of the inclement city sois and sit beneath a scruffy tarpaulin to feast on a fabulous lunch. Incendiary as well as impressive.  Especially at less than two quid for both of us.

    Our spirits lifted we then stop off for a back, neck and shoulder massage, which inevitably includes more body parts than described. Although my masseuse was only two foot six she had the strength and attitude of Mike Tyson. I have left both battered and relaxed. Much like a dead cod!

    And now I lounge by the overcast pool, sinking a cheeky ‘Chang’, and trying to hear myself think and Blog,  as the over sixties synchronised swimming team of Shanghai scream and splash noisily just feet away.

    How can such little women make such a large sound? And displace so much water! I’m soaked. Truly extraordinary.

    But I’m beginning to feel comfortable. Refreshed even. Maybe it’s the beer, or perhaps the massage. The soaking I’ve just had from Madame Mao could have helped. Yet I have a strange inkling it maybe The Orient beginning to work her eastern magic. That or someone has slipped something naughty into my drink.

    As daylight switches off and the moon waxes into sight I suddenly feel grounded but excited too. More than ready to don my rucksack and head for the hills.

    I do hope Andrew Hill feels the same. Hopefully the probiotics have kicked in. Or it could be a long night in a very small bed.

    And not for the first time!

     

     

     

  • It’s Been A Long Haul!

    Well – we’re off! And not before time. Andrew and I have spent the last nine days painting and decorating! We are, what’s the technical term, oh yeah, knackered ! We are both in need of extensive renovation. We have muscles aching we never knew existed. Who had any idea of the wrist action required whilst undercoating ? And we both have an impressive wrist action! Thank Michelangelo we had our lovely family along at times to help with the ceilings – I doubt even he could have made a better job ! But we shall gloss over all that (forgive me), as we have travelling to be getting on with.

    We are currently at Terminal 5, and I am in terminal trouble, after having left our iPhone in the Uber cab. Needless to say it has not yet materialised. With my head full of vinyl silk and soaked in emulsion, I forgot that I’d given it to the driver to charge. At the end of our journey last night, he then charged off with it. So instead of brushing on eggshell, I am currently walking on it!

    Still, onwards and upwards – literally.

    We hit the western skies at 1500 hrs, heading due East. I have a real adventure planned, although I may be a solo traveller if the bloody phone doesn’t re-appear, or if ‘im indoors’ discovers how many overnight buses and dodgy trains I’ve got lined up.

    We are heading back to The Mekong, that oh so mystic river, but this time to places we haven,t visited, and rarely does anyone else. It’s gonna be fun, and strange. I do hope you come along for the ride. It won’t all be plain sailing – but it’ll be one hell of a voyage. So wish us a ‘Bonne’ one of those as we set off to celebrate our twenty-six years of bedded bliss together somewhere exotic and slightly frightening.

    But first, where is that sodding phone? Hardly what one would call an Uber service!

    Perhaps we should both just get plastered!

  • Migrating With A ‘Grey Goose’.

    Migrating With A ‘Grey Goose’.

    Paul lounged back onto the faux leopard settee and stared intently at the stone grey sea. He lifted a glass of ‘Grey Goose’ to his lips, a tad too quickly, and clumsily clinked his front tooth.

    He winced.

    As nature’s horizon started to sulk in her winter coat, he departed her company and began to imagine an altogether different sky. A celestial ocean of the arcane, exotic and sometimes plain bloody odd that Paul and Andrew knew had the uncanny ability to propel them to that most elusive of destinations – the present. Whenever they had donned their backpacks and hit tropical climes before they’d both been struck by the same notion, that through the unknown, the unknown known can become known.

    Or something like that!

    Paul suffered from a penchant to write too deep at times, he knew ‘a change is as good as a rest’ would have sufficed. Well, almost.

    The familiar, however comforting, can always become, over-familiar.

    Often, thought Paul, it is better to be blown along on an unknown current of peaks and troughs, gliding the occasional thermal if lucky. Soaring like an eagle. Rather than fermenting in the familiar like a flightless DoDo – going nowhere – we all know what happened to them!

    And that would never dodo!

    As of yet, he knew not where – only when they would be going.

    The past year had continued to gather interest since Paul and Andrew had returned from their great adventure in India in May. Andrew had given up smoking,  so most of this interesting period had been conducted in the manner of the cult classic ‘Whatever Happened To Baby Jane?’.

    Paul playing the part of the long-suffering Blanche Darnell far too well, revelling, ‘Crawfordesque’ in his highly theatrical martyrdom.

    Whilst Andrew, reeled dramatically from ‘Kitchen Sink’ to drink, stealing the show with his smoke-free performance of the role played by the splendidly deranged Bette Davis!

    Jane Hudson had nothing on Baby Jane Kennedy sans Marlboro!

    It was during this unsympathetic, cinematic state of affairs that the ‘The Lola Boys’ made a professional jaunt to Ireland and to Norway.

    The Irish, of course, took it all in their stride. Taking the ‘Burton and Taylor’ style to be part of the craic! Paul and Andrew adored them. They’d discovered a second home on ‘The Emerald Isle’. A place where even the woman in ‘Boots – The Chemist’ came straight out of James Joyce. Everywhere was poetry. And everybody drank. Or at least knew someone who did!

    The boys then took their ‘B Movie’ to Oslo! And the Norwegians? Well, they ploughed on like true vikings -literally! Too blind drunk to notice that Paul and Andrew were spitting crossbows at one another! Yet equally charming in a more Norsey kinda way. Paul considered them a marvellous race of ravers. Party hard – then clean up your own vomit!

    The next day there was not a sign of the ‘rape and pillage’ that had occurred the previous night.

    Truly impressive.

    The same couldn’t be said for one particular morning following a ‘Lola Boys’ performance on the Isle Of Man, where the evidence of the naughty, the night before, was still well and truly evident. The result of one over zealous middle-aged woman dropping to her knees and attempting to felate Paul through his leatherette whilst singing the number ’I Will Survive’!

    Paul was singing the number, the kneeling woman was mouthing an altogether different figure!

    Paul swore he could still see molar marks along his ‘mic stand’ the following day.

    But he survived.

    And always did.

    Indeed, he thought about the many times when he and Andrew both got groped before, after and during a ‘Lola Boys’ show.

    At times it seemed that Harvey Weinstein was one of the few people who didn’t have his hands all over their talent!

    Being ‘woman handled’ was no less unappealing.

    Paul had known early on, from the serious teachings of Ms Mae West, that it was always better to be looked over than overlooked. He just wasn’t sure over-grabbed was part of the bargain! Worryingly, he knew he’d never complain! After all – he held the real power – really. Didn’t he? Not like the poor showfolk who were forced to succumb to Harvey’s despicable ploys.

    Paul considered Mr Weinstein to be a prick of the first order, though doubted that particular part of the ex-producer’s anatomy would also get the same accolade. He was well aware any alcoholic-fuelled, over-enthusiastic mauling that went on during ‘The Lola Boys’ experience was just that. Not something sinister.

    But it was still bloody painful!

    It reminded him of an experience he ‘d had in Phuket, whilst playing ‘Connect Four’ with a lady boy in a shady bar in Patpong. Chancing her luck, the tricksy temptress had moved her hand into his lap during a particularly close round and had then squeezed his left testicle very firmly thinking she’d made a connection. Paul had explained very firmly, through watering eyes, that was certainly not what he had come in to connect for !

    Cheek!

    Paul bashes his tooth again with the same glass of vodka, bringing him out of his ribald reverie and back to his daydreaming on the fake leopard.

    He notices the sky has now shed her winter clothes and there is brilliant sunshine glinting from a cerulean sea.

    Frailty thy name is weather! He thinks pretentiously.

    T’was the inclement state after all that had sent him into his thoughts of Bangkok and Hanoi, of Jakarta and Saigon. Of Pyongyang !

    Although he knew he would never convince Andrew of the latter.

    Not without a rocket up his arse! Then again…

    For now, Paul thinks it is good just to bask in the late Andalusian sun. A true bonus for an Englishman in November.

    Andrew lights up a cigarette as Paul turns his face skyward to feel the warm orange glow, the tobacco smoke taking him back to a dodgy alley in Dehli mid – March!

    His mind begins to drift imperceptibly, broadening his own inner horizons once again.

    He picks up his oversized ‘Times Atlas Of The World’ and flicks the pages randomly. The giant book falls over onto plate 19, that of North East Asia.

    Bathed in a tangerine sunlight Andrew looks over and smiles. Paul thinks his partner looks particularly handsome this evening. Youthful. Energetic. Just ripe for a rucksack.

    Pyongyang it is then, he smiles back at Andrew mischievously……

  • What A Pallava!

    Your name sir?’

    ‘Paul’

    ‘I am Kumar. Your hair very good – very nice.’

    ‘Thank you Kumar’.

    ‘Very handsome man’.

    ‘How kind’.

    ‘I am stone carver. I carve stone for famous Buddha temple in Exeter.’

    ‘I had no idea there was a Buddhist temple in Exeter.’

    ‘It new one! You want see my stones? First we go temple – you don’t pay – I don’t do for money, but I see you are nice guy. I know special way. Come. Come….’

    And so it began.

    My ego up, my guard down, and I’d enlisted Andrew and I on another south Asian magical mystery tour. This time, chasing the young stonemason, at rocking speed, around the seventh century rock temples of Mamallupuram.

    We staggered precariously along ancient steps, ingeniously cut from a titanic piece of granite, recklessly attempting to keep up with the young Kumar, who was practically Simian. We learnt later that this acrobatic detour was in order to circumvent the normal gated entrance, thus avoiding the need to purchase a ticket.

    An artful piece of dodgery from our new found mate – though we both suspected the relationship may get rockier as the daytime heat began to rocket.

    ‘How the fuck do we get rid of him now?’ Andrew asked me far too loudly.

    ‘Oh just chill out a bit – we’re getting a free tour, and free entry’ I countered.  Knowing deep down that we’d be paying for both of those benefits at some point.

    I knew Andrew thought the same. But Kumar was roguishly charming, if alarmingly pungent, and he certainly knew his way around the ancient temples of the ‘Pallava’ kingdom.

    It was easy to see why UNESCO had labelled the place a ‘World Heritage Site’. The stone carvings absolutely rocked.

    Along with the mad dogs it was, of course, just The Englishmen that struggled unnecessarily through the blistering midday heat. Our whistle stop tour may have been unplanned, but the location was so atmospheric, a veritable concert of rock, that we both continued on, allowing Kumar to lead the way.

    The mischievous Gods and Goddesses danced out of the rock face, revealing the face of a society which had partied hard for over six hundred years.
    And neither of us had ever heard of them.

    The Pallavas!?!

    Of course, the real Pallava occurred when we finished with the final meditation temple, and were lead conveniently through a gate directly into a small shack, in order to meditate on Kumar’s wares. His stonewares to be precise!

    Suddenly the tour guide became the salesman, and we were both made to sit through an uneasy psychic energy session, as Kumar theatrically discovered our healing stones.

    And then introduced them to us!

    Each at a starting price more worthy of ‘The Star Of India’!

    Immediately, we were transported back to the dodgy jewellery dealer we’d met in the suburbs of Jaipur, where we’d come across another absolute gem of a scam! These invariably Kashmiri Shopkeepers are sly, smart and deftly apt at the art of deceit. But they always possess a ‘tell’ – a giveaway – and Kumar’s came with his dreadful impression of an Indian mystic. He threw himself onto his own bed of nails as he launched into a dreadful mix of Derren Brown and Noel Coward’s ‘Madame Arcati’!

    Hanging himself  with his own ropey trick!

    The drama in his performance was nearly as exaggerated as his prices. Perhaps these blyth spirits think all Westerners completely off their rockers. We may give that impression!

    But Kumar soon realised Andrew and I were not quite stoned enough to invest in his.

    Then, as Andrew, playing bad cop, audibly hissed that we couldn’t afford the stoneware, and that I wouldn’t be able to eat for the remainder of our stay if we purchased the five items that had inexplicably found their way into our basket, Kumar tried to carve out one last deal.

    ‘This Ganesh. Good for good friend who is now without husband’.

    We knew the trick. Kumar had obviously picked up on something we’d said earlier. The ploy was cheap but still impressive. Unlike the Ganesh we were practically sledgehammered into buying.

    As Kumar realised ‘The Lola Boys’ were not the diamond mine he’d hoped for, his mood darkened. The glittering smile became a leering snarl and he barked in throaty Tamil to a colleague who was bashing away in the workshop next door. The workman, who looked straight out of the Stone Age, burst through the shop doorway, with a Neanderthal grunt and a wave of his heavy tool.

    The one that cut the rock!

    ‘He not happy’ Kumar said firmly. The treacle having now dripped away from his voice.

    ‘Why he not happy?’ Asked Andrew, equally as authoritative, yet in an Indian accent.

    ‘Because he make this. Not happy with price’.

    There was something mildly threatening in Kumar’s tone. Not least because we were surrounded by a weighty array of potential stone weaponry. Fred and Barney had disappeared and the whole drama had grown much darker – more ‘Game Of Stones’!

    We’d definitely left ‘Bedrock’!

    We stood in the dark for what seemed an age!

    I was having visions of the billiard room in Cluedo. Professor Kumar had clubbed Andrew to death with the lead carving. It was time to stop this little game!

    I stood. Sighed dramatically, and piped up that I was in need of air and beer. Not necessarily in that order!  That I had grown weary of the unexpected auction this jaunt had now become. And perhaps we would be forced to leave the rockery empty handed after all.

    Kumar wasn’t the only actor in the room!

    I then tried to appear as nonchalant as possible as I trembled past the giant with the ferocious chisel.

    ‘Ok’ said Kumar. ‘Ok’. He then instructed Boris Karloff to pack the elephant we’d agreed on earlier.

    ‘Thank you’, I said, as icily as a good pint of lager, ‘we’d love to buy more. But as you heard Andrew say, we shan’t be able to eat if we do’!

    Kumar stared at me stonily.

    I was caught for an agonising moment between a rock and a hard face.

    Andrew grabbed the packet from Boris and we legged it.

    Before we knew it he had led us into an entirely unfamiliar part of town and we stood sweating, legs leaden, attempting to get our bearings.

    ‘I knew this wasn’t the bloody way’ I gasped.

    ‘I just wanted to get away from him. That selling! Jesus!’, Andrew complained. ‘I was losing it!’

    I had to agree. The hard sell was akin to being whacked across the head several times with a large lump of marble. These salesmen sculpt such a convoluted life story, that before one realises, one is lost in their retail maze, as they attempt to chisel away at one’s sanity. Mining skilfully  until they strike a precious seam in one’s wallet!

    It was both wondrous and enlightening to clamber amongst the boulders into an entirely different strata of history – one we were both entirely igneous of !!!

    But sadly our relationship with the pushy Kashmiri Kumar ended somewhat, on the rocks.

    Sting! Stoned! Stung!

    What a pallava!

    *********************************************************************

    That evening we were both laid out motionless on our beds, after too many hours spent negotiating the debilitating heat.

    It was our last night in India, and we had mixed emotions.

    Feeling burnt in every way possible, her beauty and her beasts managing  to sear themselves onto our collective consciousness.

    The sweet stuff here clings to the imagination like the gooey Indian confectionary, found on every street corner, sticks to the teeth. One cannot simply brush it away. India’s beauty is both ephemeral and eternal.

    And the indisputable ugliness? Well that just seems to disappear after a while. Down the pan quicker than a dodgy biryani!

    I’m almost certain we shall be back to sample her wares once again. She is too much of a good saleswoman to give up on us completely, and her shelves too well stacked to resist.

    Her people are infuriatingly charming. The geography sometimes unfortunately alarming, and the holy spirit, which undoubtedly resides here, utterly disarming.

    Love ‘Mother India’ or loathe her, she won’t be ignored.

    She certainly won’t go quietly!

    As we pack our rucksacks ready for the long hike back to reality, I can hear her already whispering to me on the tropical breeze. Her hot breath invading my senses.

    ‘Namaste’ she purrs into the black panther night.

    ‘Namaste’ x

    ‘

  • Escape From Horrorville!

    As I attempted to clamber into the tiny rickshaw I winced in agony. My spine complained painfully at what I was asking of it, each vertebrae sulking from carrying the burden of two weighty rucksacks down an uneven colonial staircase. As I struggled into the diminutive cab, Andrew looked on unsympathetically. A damn cheek I thought, seeing as it was him that had dragged me into the massage parlour that had caused the said lumbar damage.

    The previous day, on one of our sweaty promenades through Pondicherry, the fierce temperature had proved to much to bare for my husband, who, like the sun, was also fighting with a hot temper. The remainder of his nicotine habit leaching from his body in poisonous rivulets. We dived into the welcome air conditioning of a very ‘local’ establishment in order to partake of a foot massage. However, once Andrew’s balls were being tickled, I was informed that there was no-one available to play with mine, and therefore would I like to plump for an Indian Head Massage instead? I agreed, and joined Mr Kennedy in a small room, where I was prepared for my therapy, as he groaned in satisfaction whilst already undergoing his.

    A friendly young Tamil chap proceeded to rub thick scented oil into my scalp, whilst pulling roughly at my curls. When he came to a knot, he yanked a little harder until the hair came apart, and then parted company with my scalp. After ten minutes he’d pulled at least three handfuls out, and deposited each clump on the small plastic table beside me.

    Alarmed, I gave a slight yelp. Andrew chuckled beside me.

    I’ve never enjoyed the hairdressers, but this was akin to a cat fight in Holloway Prison, and certainly not the calming experience for which I’d been hoping.

    After relieving me of at least a third of my follicular activity, the little git punched me all over the head, taking in my temples, ears, and jawline. I thought I might cry.

    He then slapped me repeatedly, a la ‘The Benny Hill Show’, so hard upon my crown that I felt my spine contract under the pressure.

    It was one of the most hair-raising experiences of my life.

    To cap it all, little Vidal then shampooed  me five times with an acidic herbal concoction, and applied intense heat whilst he dragged a plastic comb through my unconditioned barnet.

    When we hit the pavement again I looked like Phylis Diller!


    ‘Never again’ I said ashen faced to Andrew.
    ‘Mine was great’ he said, with smug satisfaction.

    .
    Oh just have a cigarette I thought, but didn’t say it.

    He is,after all, doing so well.

    And so, with my aching back, and Andrew squashed beneath a pile of already far too heavy hand-luggage, we rattled away from the sophistication of ‘Pondy’ towards the hippy utopia known as ‘Auroville’.

    We bumped painfully over speed humps and swerved to miss the wildlife, as we left the town and skidded across red dirt roads into the forest of the 1960s township.

    ‘Auroville’!

    An ideal pioneered by a Frenchwoman known as ‘The Mother’ during the age of flower power.

    A city where all citizens of the world, despite their creed or nationality could come and live and work together, searching for the universal truth. No religion, no politics and no cash.

    ‘Eight hundred rupees’ our driver informed us, when we eventually found our guest house.

    ‘We were told three to four hundred’ I objected.

    ‘It’s far in Auroville’ he countered, ‘very far!’

    ‘We’re not paying you that’, Andrew said, his patience light without a Marlboro Light, and knowing the journey was well overpriced. ‘I’ll give you five hundred.’

    The driver accepted the amount readily, and drove off rapidly, leaving us to squeeze around the locked gates of the ‘Joy Community Guest House’, throwing our luggage before us onto the rusty dusty ground.

    There was not a soul to meet us.

    As we headed further into the steamy compound, several scruffy dogs suddenly came at us howling in a most unfriendly fashion. Andrew and I, having a moody mutt of of own, and being quite aware of these canine tricks took no notice. The hounds realised they were barking up the wrong rucksacks and backed off.  We eventually came to a seating area and dropped our heavy baggage on the floor both perspiring heavily, with my spine still complaining. A glum faced Indian asked us if we had a booking and I answered in the affirmative.

    ‘Someone comes soon’ he snarled.

    ‘Thanks’ I smiled. He glared back.

    So far this place had a distinct lack of joy, and there was certainly no community. At least, not one in which I wanted to commune!

    After a sweaty quarter of an hour, a young, attractive Tamil woman arrived and asked us to follow her. We struggled across the gravel behind her, laden with bags, and came to a small shack like affair, which she then informed us was named ‘Progress’! Perhaps this was because it didn’t look as though it had finished being built, but I said nothing, and asked Andrew to do the same. When the lady eventually found the correct key she let us in to our home for the next few nights, and then immediately asked one of us to accompany her to the office with our passports.

    ‘Oh. You go babe’, whined Mr Kennedy, ‘I’m not having a good day!’

    I followed our hostess into a small room which contained nothing more than a desk, two seats on either side, and some books stacked in an untidy pile near an archaic looking router.

    ‘Passport’, she said, without a smile.

    I gave the passports and then had to complete the most inordinate amount of paperwork. When I’d finished, she asked me to fetch Andrew to come and do the same. I duly did this, he was not best pleased.

    After the formalities were over I asked if we could meet ‘Sara’ the girl with whom I had made the booking.

    ‘No. Sara only here in morning’ she replied. ‘But you pay me now. In full.’

    I did as I’d been told and then asked if there happened to be a shop nearby at which to grab some essentials. Our landlady replied in the affirmative and gave Andrew and I directions to the ‘Ganesh Bakery’,  a ‘ten minute walk’ away.

    After three quarters of an hour trudging through scorching red earth, in and out of the sticky forest canopy, there was still no sign of any retail business. Only thick woods, unpleasant geriatric hippies on motorbikes and signs directing us to places called, ‘Certitude’, ‘Aspiration’, ‘Sincerity’ and ”Fulfilment’. Overheating and beginning to dehydrate, I was sincerely losing all aspiration and sure that if we didn’t get any liquid fulfilment soon, one of us would certainly be certified!

    Finally we arrived at the the ‘Plaza’, a scruffy corner consisting of a bakery and a grocers. After imbibing two flat lime sodas and a couple of vegan samosas at the former, we made our way into the ‘minimart’ to get supplies.

    No-one was very friendly. The other ‘Aurovillians’ went about their business in the most uptight of manners. Disconnected and disgusted that any visitor should have the affront to be sharing their sacred space. I threw some manky organic veg into the basket , a bag of rice, and a little sack of spice, Andrew added a packet of Nescafé and a lump of cheese. The most bad tempered Indian we’d yet come across, weighed every pepper, potato and pea-pod individually and then gave us a bill that would have raised eyebrows in the food hall at ‘Harrods’. We were both shocked. So far the only thing spiritual about this place was the fact we were both getting crucified!

    That night I made us a strange curry in the communal kitchen which we shared with a charming set of Brazilian twins, definitely the friendliest guys we had come across yet in this most closed of ungated communities. They possessed much more of the spirit of peace, love, harmony and understanding we were expecting of the place.

    ‘Auroville’, was to have been an inspirational city where those who wanted to live outside the bounds of ego, status and greed could come and join together in an egalitarian unity.

    A large piece of barren earth was purchased on the scorched south-east Indian plain and idealistic volunteers from across the world proceeded to create a green and pleasant land on what was once an eroded and infertile desert. Millions of trees were planted, innovative architecture built and the people began to come. There was to be free schooling and free healthcare for all. But not quite as many residents as expected made the move to ‘Auroville’. In a city that was designed for a population of fifty thousand people, only two and a half thousand residents now reside in the town.

    The next morning, Andrew and I rose early. Mainly due to the fact that we had spent the night in a tandoori oven. Our tiny room, for which we were paying three times as much as anywhere else in India,( a significant contribution going to the ‘Auroville’ community), had been built out of brick,  in a manner of which ‘The Three Little Pigs’ would have highly approved. The temperature must have hit ‘cremate’ at one point and I awoke to find Andrew almost ‘Tikka’d’!

    We fled into the cooler forty odd degrees of the wooded grounds outside in an attempt to look for the elusive ‘Sara’. She was still non-existent. A Holy Ghost, as it were! I managed to get what information I could muster from the Indian help, and was advised that we should head to The Visitors’Centre if we wanted to explore the new age town. This we did, as we were keen to get into the vibe of the place.

    Feel the energy man. We were both especially excited about visiting ‘The Matrimandir’, a gigantic golden globe at the centre of the sprawling community, which purported to be the spiritual heart of the conurbation.

    On reaching The Visitors’ Centre we were both dripping, the forest was more than hot, and the lack of air conditioning and cold water in our shack of a room had taken it’s toll.

    I approached a terribly genteel sareed westerner to purchase tickets to enter the spiritual dome.

    ‘I can give you a pass to the viewing site’ she intoned softly, ‘but if you want to go inside ‘The Matrimandir’ you will need to go upstairs and speak to someone else’.
    I thanked her, pocketed our entry passes for the viewing site, and made my way up to another incredibly modern building in order to gain entry to the giant meditation capsule, which was now becoming more intriguing than ever.

    I was beckoned forward and asked to complete a yellow card in order that I may enter the special sphere. I was told that if Andrew wanted to do the same he would have to come and apply in person himself, it was the same rule for everyone. A kind of vetting process. I suppose, if they didn’t like the look of you, they could bar you from the ball. Luckily we fooled them, and were both granted entry. Just like the ugly sisters!

    However, we were told we could only view ‘The Matrimandir’ first and then return the following day at 8.45am so that we may be escorted into it’s inner chamber.

    That afternoon we made our way through the immaculately manicured grounds towards ‘The Matrimandir’.  A place where all people can go to raise their consciousness and get in touch with their higher selves – apparently. This used to be a club in South London, but since ‘The Mother’ had her vision, the place for such communion was now here in southern India.

    We learnt that, late in her life, she had dreamt of a round building which contained a twelve sided meditation chamber. She had described it as having a white interior and being surrounded by twelve rooms, each a different colour pertaining to a unique quality on which to meditate. ‘Creativity’, ‘Peace’ etc.

    As ‘The Mother’ wished, so the meditation centre was built, with the help of thousands of people and millions of pounds. Began in the early seventies the building was only completed in 2008.

    And there is still more to do.

    On first sighting the glowing orb, I was reminded of a huge metal ball that had fallen from the sky after a galactic round of golf. It looked unnatural, unappealing and most unwanted.

    Groups of Indian day trippers were having their pictures taken in front of the spherical monstrosity as if it were ‘Stonehenge’ or ‘The Pyramids Of Giza’. I felt perplexed. Confused. It appeared nothing more to me than something one might find at ‘Disney World’ or ‘The Epcot Centre’. But I reserved judgment – I hadn’t been inside yet!

    That was to come!

    After ‘viewing’ ‘The Matrimandir’, Andrew and I managed to fumble our way through steaming fields and land at an organic farm, where we were served a wonderfully fresh vegan thali, consisting of mysteriously coloured vegetables.

    (more…)