The Sacred and the Profane

Uluru, or Ayers Rock as it used to be known, is one of those sights that loom large in a travelling consciousness, an inevitable as well as desirable destination. I've always wanted to see it ever since I saw Picnic at Hanging Rock, a film directed by Peter Weir, when I was 11. Although it features a rock in Victoria not the Northern Territory, it certainly evokes a similar landscape of eerie mystery. The real thing doesn't disappoint.

There are only two options in terms of accommodation: Alice Springs (500 hundred kilometres and five hours' drive away) or Yulara, the Ayers Rock Resort. I chose the former, mainly because as the name might suggest the Resort is out of my, and many people's price range, and also because to reach it alone would have cost more in energy and money than I could muster. So I went on a daytrip, which left at 6am and returned at 1am. It's probably the longest such trip in the world; but there is plenty of time to sleep on the bus...

If you want to know what the earth looked like at the time of the dinosaurs, as our guide pointed out, this is probably the closest you can get. The cayenne-pepper-red of the soil is relentless, exhausting and very fond of white socks. Empty landscape stretches out indefinitely, interrupted only by dried-up river beds, desert oaks (narrow spindly trees that are a good indicator of where to find water), and cattle skeletons. Oh and cattle hides that look like they have been flattened by a cartoon rollercoaster. Apparently after being hit by a car the body practically evaporates. Though I'm sure a few scavengers have something to do with it.

We arrived at Kata-Tjuta first, a sort of bumpy version of Uluru. Of course every Lonely Planeter I met thought it was FAR more interesting, but then The Book had told them so and LP is law in some people's eyes. After this we went, as is the nature of all tours, to the Resort so that we could be parted from our money for half an hour before being taken to where we had paid to go.

In the supermarket,I watched two young white cashiers making faces over the head of an Aborigine woman. Neither of them made any attempt to hide their disgust. In the ticket office John, an American on our tour, asked whether they advised tourists to climb Uluru. This had been the subject of much debate between us on the bus. I had no plans to climb, partly because of the heat, partly because of the danger but mostly because for the Aborigines (who own the land now, after it was given back to them about twenty years ago) Uluru is sacred. Climbing Uluru is a bit like walking over the Turin Shroud, slapping the Pope or standing during prayers in a mosque. The woman at the desk seemed surprised by the question and had no opinion. If anything she seemed unaware of any reason why tourists shouldn't climb.

When we finally reached the monolith, several members of our group got out to climb the incredibly steep slope that stretched up into nowhere. A tiny climbing rope, like one thread of a spider's web, pathetically showed the way. The rest of us walked around the base, listening to the guide's explanation of the history and meaning of Uluru in Aboriginal legend. It was about 40 degrees and, as I looked up at the small figures pulling themselves across the unforgiving red stone, I wondered how they could justify their action.

However, my self-satisfaction was shortlived. As we went round the base, Jack the guide explained how the landowners had stopped climbs for a month out of respect for a tribe elder who had died. The immediate effect was that the Japanese, so the guide told us, stopped coming. Uluru lost 8 million Australian dollars (about 3.2 million pounds; 1.6 million dollars) in four days. 25% of the receipts goes to the landowners and, after the initial losses, the Aborigines reopened the climb. Just for the Japanese. I looked up again at the climbers and back at the wall, depicting holy images from Aborigine creation stories and realised that this culture wasn't so different. Ultimately everyone has their price. After all, what could be more sacred than money?

A Town Called Malice

Australia is a very very big country. The guidebooks and postcards describe it as the biggest island in the world and the only island that is a continent. In order to try and experience exactly how big, I booked myself onto two of the longest train journeys in the country, if not the world. First I went from Sydney to Adelaide on the Indian Pacific (so named because it links those two oceans) then, after a stopover in that elegant, leafy city, I caught the Ghan (shortened from Afghan, the name of the camel train that used to link the red centre of the continent to the sea) to Alice Springs.

I left Sydney at 3pm on Wednesday and arrived at my destination just over 24 hours later. Such a train journey in Europe would take you from Edinburgh to Sicily (or, in some cases, from London to Brighton but let's not be bitter...). The second trip was, at 19 hours, slightly shorter but it's still the equivalent of London to Morocco or thereabouts. In Australia I expected to see different landscapes as I would in Europe but I imagined the culture to be relatively homogeneous. In fact the reverse was the case.

Leaving Sydney we journeyed through the Blue Mountains, their name derived from the haze of blue oil emanating from the eucalyptus trees that cover the slopes. It was a perfect Spring evening and, with the train rocking me backwards and forwards, I tried to capture the wonderful colour combinations as the sun set, resulting in a collection of interesting blurs. Heading west, we quickly left light behind and I woke around five to a completely other place. A flat featureless landscape extended away from us in all directions. This was exactly how I'd imagined it: scrubby bushes covering an endless beach that somehow never reaches the shore. But this particular beach had some rather unusual inhabitants. Dotted amongst the bushes were first red then silver kangaroos, bouncing quickly away from the train. Later a flock of emus waggled their feathery backsides at us, like coy cancan dancers. I was rapt. The fact that it was only 6.30am and the only life visible for the next nine hours would be other passengers and the odd horse still couldn't dispel my excitement.

As we approached Adelaide the train cut through less and less yellow and more and more green. Suddenly we were back on the edge, where desert gives way to market garden, vineyards and mountains. The long long train pulled through suburbs and past sidings, finally emptying out the fifteen carriages in two 'detrainings' (the 'red' kangaroo seats in second place, behind the 'gold' ones). The minibus journey into the city revealed a grid of wide boulevards, lined with wild-west-style saloons and houses (long balconies on the second floor; pillars holding them up; big sash windows and gabled rooves), grand monumental museums as well as the odd high-rise. The grid includes several squares and from the main one, Victoria Square, there is an old Victorian tram that runs to the beach. In 24 minutes I reached Glenelg, the most accessible of many resorts. Seaside in every respect, from the sale of silly hats to fish and chips, it is still, like the beaches in Sydney a peerless example of what Australia seems to excel at: enjoying its beauty without, it seems to me, destroying it in the process. The beach and jetty were beautiful, spotless and not marred by endless development (not yet; there were several new hotels or apartment buildings half-built on one side but most of the existing shops and bars are contained in the street leading away from the beach). Though seagulls pestered for chips, their desperation was evident. The next day I toured museums, one containing the largest collection of Aboriginal artefacts in the world and one detailing the process of migration to Australia. Both respectfully considered how the Aboriginal tribes had been damaged by the arrival of thousands of European settlers and pointed out the ways in which the Australian government had sought to recompense lands lost and recover obliterated histories. They were good museums, earnest, determined and, yes, ashamed.

The next day I caught the train north, towards the centre and Alice Springs, the town that is considered to be the geographical heart of the country and continent. Again the journey was one of moving from green to yellow to red, as the fertile southern beach resort gave way to raw cattle farms. By mid-morning we were surrounded by swathes of red mountains and, despite the fact that we all knew Uluru (once known as Ayers Rock) was a five-hour drive from our destination, we still wondered privately if we could spot it.

As another minibus took me to another hostel, it was evident that Alice Springs was, like Adelaide, on a grid. But there the comparisons end. Small, dwarfed by so much natural beauty that it barely tries to rise above the level of a suburban shopping mall, it squats unhappily in the middle of the continent, thousands of miles from the south in both looks and lifestyle. I went for a walk, having been rather unnerved by a notice in the hostel about a woman getting beaten up late at night as she walked home but inwardly wondering how dangerous can it be? As dangerous as Camden? As Bangkok? Of course not.

It might not be dangerous, at least not for a white woman who is sensible enough to avoid wandering around drunk at 3am, but it's certainly scary. Reminiscent of British new towns, with a few streets huddled around a pedestrianised square, the main difference is that whereas the British version usually sells something useful for residents, here only tourists are well-served, with souvenirs, tours and bars on offer; locals must make do with the supermarkets further out on the grid and a bottleshop (off licence). And whereas in Britain the square and benches would be occupied by disaffected teenagers, here it is the Aborigines who occupy the role of personae non grata . In the space of ten minutes I watched three fights take place: one woman was pushed flat to the ground, another pushed into the middle of the road and outside a church a large group shouted and screamed at each other. I suddenly understood why there were so few people about. Though I knew nothing about the disputes, I was still anxious. Here was a whole other culture, one that exists alongside and yet thousands of miles away, figuratively and literally, from the edges of the country. This was the first time I had seen any Aborigines in Australia, in their country, and I realised that rather than an integrated multicultural society, the ne plus ultra of so many western countries, Australia is in fact relatively segregated. Sydney and Adelaide are gorgeous, wonderful, rich and very white cities. Alice Springs is uninspiring and a large portion of its population, Aborigine, poor and discontented, seems to exist either in conflict with the town or at least beyond its reach. The museum in Adelaide seemed a long way away from a street brawl where an adult woman and man could throw beer crates at each other whilst everyone white moved away.

I have travelled to the middle of a continent and whereas life's a beautiful beach on the edge, full of exhibits detailing past atrocities committed by white emigrants, here in the desert good intentions about Aboriginal ancestors and renaming monuments don't seem much use to their desperate descendants. It's the same earth from Adelaide to Alice, but they're on different planets.

Sydney Monopoly (dedicated to Joseph Greenwood)

Year after year I promise my nephew that we will play 'live' Monopoly in London. This summer, having finally worked out how to make it into a game, we were simply waiting for the school holidays to start before setting a date. However, after Thursday 7th July, the prospect of running around London on various forms of public transport with three children rather palled so, once again, we postponed it, perhaps forever. I was saddened by this, saddened that a promise made had not been realised, saddened that, London-lover that I am, I was wary of its most basic infrastructure, saddened that, finally, I had started to change my life because of events beyond my, or anyone's control. Today, on the other side of the world, I found an alternative location for our game, though perhaps not the most practical.

I caught a bus from Hyde Park along Oxford Street then walked around Paddington, a beautiful area filled with trees and Victorian properties, which, depending on your origins are either terraces or rowhouses. From Windsor Lane I walked to Norfolk Street and Suffolk Lane (side by side of course), via Cascade Street (so named because a cascade of water was dammed to build it). I then managed to miss Cambridge Street entirely, probably because I was heading for Liverpool Street and, in this country, one is not linked to the other. From Liverpool Street I turned right into Victoria Street, on my way to Kings Cross station. As a writer I am frustrated by the lack of Roads, since it results in such repetition but, for some reason, the good burghers of Victorian Sydney obviously thought that St was less infra dig, or more appropriate than Rd. I wonder why.

The terraced houses are also very familiar. Iron filigree balconies upstairs remind me of Charleston, South Carolina whereas the downstairs railings separating patio from pavement suggest Hampstead. But, once again, the width of the streets, the immensity of the trees and the silence despite the proximity to a major thoroughfare seem purely Sydney. The names may have come from England but there the resemblance ends. Of course, at least one exception always manages to prove the rule. Kings Cross station, confusingly situated on Victoria Street, is surrounded by the sort of bars, 'live shows' and seedy nightlife that makes its English namesake so unattractive, except to developers. It almost made me homesick for Euston Road. I said almost...

Another World

I have arrived in Sydney. Apart from the complete joy of seeing friends and being offered the luxury of staying in a home rather than a hotel, with all its attendant joys (toast and peanut butter!; staying in to eat; sitting around reading the newspaper on a Saturday morning) I am very aware of how different a world this is, different from Thailand but also from Europe. Here I can clean my teeth without rinsing the brush, or my mouth, with bottled purified water, I no longer have to search for that little, open bin in the toilet that, in tropical heat, collects the paper and when I walk along the street none of the many forms of transport beeps me looking for custom. My colour and race no longer define me as rich or a tourist and suddenly, wonderfully, I am once again invisible. How I have missed that. There are those who complain of the lack of social interaction in the affluent West, of Tube passengers in London pointedly continuing to read rather than smile or chat but, right now, I am revelling in the quiet, the anonymity, the ability to talk, take a photograph or simply put one foot in front of the other without a bombardment of voices demanding my attention. It is something I usually take for granted; I hope that I remember not to when I return.

And Sydney is very different from any other big city that I have visited. It reminds me a little of Boston: a brick house with Georgian windows nestling under a central business district; the endless variety of bays; the repurposed colonial buildings that were once homes to prisoners or settlers. But so far (all of 24 hours so forgive my presumption) it far exceeds the qualities of any city that I have visited, whether reminiscent of it or not, for one very simple reason: its population.

I stood at the cross-street that took me from the Botanic Gardens to Macquarie Street, a very central location, and waited to see if it was safe to cross. Looking north, onto the tarmac of the expressway that leads to the Harbour Bridge, I suddenly wanted to stop, not walk, and take a photograph. For a good few seconds, in the middle of a Saturday afternoon, every lane of the expressway and its exits was completely empty. It didn't last, but even when the traffic reappeared there wasn't the sort of crush that I would expect at that time of the day, in such a location. I've been in traffic jams by Hyde Park (the London one) at 1.30am on a Sunday morning whereas here, as I crossed the road to Sydney's own Hyde Park (which is, like London's, next to some prime retail) at 5pm on a beautiful Spring day there was not one car to be seen. This isn't to say there isn't traffic: anti-shake devices for digital cameras were obviously made for anyone trying to take a picture of the Harbour Bridge as vehicles rumble past. But, evidently, since the population of Australia (which is the size of the US or most of Western Europe) is less, I think, than the whole of Greater London there isn't anywhere near as much. It was the same story on the easy, direct and cheap service from the airport to the city: in morning rush hour I had a seat and someone not only offered to carry my bag but also proferred useful tips on where to sit to get the best views. Somehow I can't see that happening on the Piccadilly line. I've been told that traffic lanes are extraordinarily narrow and dangerous here so all is not perfect; however, coming from London via Thailand, places where every form of transport seems chaotic, unsafe and crowded, Sydney is, so far, a dream of civilisation.

Language Lessons

Bangkok airport, where I am currently sitting, is starting to feel very familiar. I've now been here six times and this, bar an hour's wait on the return from Australia will be the last. Like every international airport it's heaving, full of duty-free stuff that, in most cases, would have been a lot cheaper if you'd bought it in the country proper but, unlike the rest of the Kingdom, it offers singularly uninspiring food. Whereas in every small town train and bus station you can buy, at the very least, some fresh fruit, bottled water and if you're lucky some grilled pork and noodles, airside at the airport offers almost nothing. In a country in which I have never seen sliced bread except in international hotels, I can buy crust-trimmed white bread sandwiches with flattened fillings, sushi that is so orange I'm sure it's been rolled in breadcrumbs, KFC and cakes. I did see a sign to a snack bar upstairs but that very name puts me off: when was the last time you heard of, let alone ate in one? There is a very grand looking Thai Airways restaurant and a pub but even those can't remove the distinct impression that BKK is more Gatwick than Heathrow.

I have two hours to wait and so, having walked the length and breadth of the concourse looking for something if not authentic at least edible, I decided to try and reflect on the last five or so weeks. Thailand is stunningly beautiful, architecturally rich and a foodie paradise but I think I've realised that in order to engage with a country, at least off the very beaten track that is tourism here, I need to have some chance of communicating with its residents and Thai, well, it's just beyond me.

Despite this, my favourite moments have still all involved talking to people, whether stumbling around in a pidgin of Thai and English or simply in English. Annan drove me around Koh Samui for a day to see the various waterfalls and viewpoints not accessible on foot (the island has so many motorcycle accidents that it is the only place in Thailand that can boast a particular head scanner, so there was no way I was riding one) and though the scenery was memorable our conversation was more so. Inbetween stops and starts, he taught me how to count, how to say 'I'm going' and 'how much', the days of the week and the words for mother and father. I don't know who was more amused, him listening to my accent or me playing the equivalent of 'I Spy', pointing at things and asking for their translations. On buses I talked to May, a psychology student who, despite being obsessed with asking me how much she could earn in different countries, was still very interesting and Tee, who worked for an NGO. He was a rarity in Thailand, as far as I was concerned, because he was the only person (out of those I could talk to) who didn't ask me about money (not for it, just how much people had in the UK). Mr Whee, he of Kashmiri commission fame, made me laugh out loud when discussing different religions. As a Buddhist he thinks he should respect all of them. However, he did say that he would find it difficult to follow any faith that stopped him eating a particular food. 'Not eat pork,' he said shaking his head in disbelief at the prospect, 'this is not a happy life.'

My least favourite moments were also caused by communication, or a lack of it. The express laundry that wasn't, threatening to make me miss my train. The songthaew that dumped me in the road because he hadn't understood where I wanted to go. Being misdirected onto the non-express bus, the one that took five hours instead of two and whose route seemed to be the equivalent of driving underneath the motorway, so that every time we stopped (about once every ten minutes) I could look up and rue the moment I got on.

Writing this, I have suddenly realised that if I'd been better equipped in Thai I would have missed some of my best moments as well as some of my worst. I'm not sure what that means, if anything, but sitting here surrounded by every nationality, deafened by the 'Pros Ka' of the tannoy, it suggests to me, thirty minutes before boarding, that language is evidently a fantastic help, but communication is possible with or without it.

On that note I shall bid you au revoir from South-East Asia and I look forward to wishing you G'day from Australia.

Cash Cow

I am now in Chiang Mai, Thailand's second city and so far my favourite place. It's still full of people like me, travelling around a cheap country, trying to see as much as possible but it also feels like it has a centre too, a Thai centre that is. The old moated city is so full of temples that after three or four I decided to do something else and hired a driver to take me out of town to see elephants, botanic gardens and yes, well, another temple. That might sound rather grand but since every taxi and tuktuk driver in town offers such a tour it was a bit like catching a bus, though one without a smelly toilet or polyester curtains. His real name was Sanam but he told me to call him Mr Kee (which unfortunately sounded like Mr Whee when pronounced in Thai).


I almost always regret involving someone or something 'official' in my travels because I end up being shepherded in a predictable direction. Sadly it is quite difficult to avoid this in Thailand. The language is one problem but the fact that thousands and millions of other farangs (foreigners) like me have carved out a path leads everyone to believe you want to follow it. And, hopefully, pay as much as possible since, after all, you are white, Western and therefore, as Michel Houellebecq put it a 'wallet on legs'.

The day started badly. As we set out I broke out into a feverish sweat, my first such experience. For some reason I didn't recognise the symptoms of very little sleep and no breakfast and thought 'oh my god I've got malaria!' (ever the optimist me). We were driving past the local hospital, and since it looked positively Dickensian, I scanned my brain to try and remember where the British consulate was on the map. So, for the first hour or two I didn't hear much of what Mr Whee said and concentrated on the question of whether I was more likely to reach a Bangkok hospital than Sydney airport. An iced coffee and a walk later I felt, of course, much better... Once I'd recovered, I asked Mr Whee if, after the main sights, we could drive into the countryside simply to see it since, unless I risked my life on the road, I was unable to do so. I was hoping to get some pictures of the paddy fields, which I had glimpsed in all their luminous green glory in Cambodia. Where did he take me? To a buffalo 'camp' where I could see demonstrations of how Thais work in a rice field. I had pointed to the road north on the map; he had seen the picture of a buffalo.

I gave up trying to see anything different at this point and said where next? 'Ah, handicraft village' he said. Most guidebooks and reliable maps cite these as quite interesting so I thought 'oh well, why not'. However, after about five minutes we stopped next to a very plain looking building. 'Can you just go in here for me?' 'What for?' I asked, suspicious. 'Just look, five minutes.' I'm not sure why but I followed his instructions. Of course, inside I was offered several pashminas at only hundred or so pounds by a very determined Kashmiri gentleman and I said 'no thanks', despite being offered such fabulous discounts and left. Now I liked Mr Whee (despite his rather odd beard) and was more amused than cross. 'So, how much is your cut' I asked, not thinking he would tell me. 'Fifty baht for my gasoline' he said, without embarrassment. 'Two shops only pay.' 'Even if your customer doesn't buy anything?' 'Just look, advertising. Bus driver get 2000 baht. Car, gasoline cost 350 baht a day so this my tip.' I advised him to put his prices up if he wasn't charging enough to earn an income. 'Not speak English well, tourists want better.' I was just about to argue that tourists would much rather avoid the hard sell when he said cheerily 'One more?' 'How much is this one?' 'Fifty baht.' 'Okay, well I want a cut this time.' He laughed but I don't think he understood. The experience was exactly the same, albeit with higher prices, though that was probably because a security guard opened the door for me and saluted. I decided to ask this salesperson, also from Kashmir, about how he he and his family had been affected by the earthquake. He seemed perplexed that I should be interested and said 'My family is well, thank you.'

'Handicraft village?' I asked as I got back in the car. 'Yes, yes, no more.' The 'village' was more of a strip mall, selling wood carvings, silk ties, handmade bamboo umbrellas and all sorts of things that no one actually needs or, in most cases, wants. In the silk warehouse I was told that I could browse as much as I liked 'to start with' and then the salesperson followed me round, only stopping when I used their bathrooms. I'd had enough. We had planned a trip round a few guesthouses and hotels later that afternoon (being serenaded by a group of German teenagers had rather put me off my previous choice) and I suggested we go there first then to the temple for sunset. 'Okay, okay.' But instead of heading back into town he drove straight across the road into a large white building, with tinted windows. 'Why is he taking me to the bank?', I thought then I spotted the man in a white suit and peaked cap. Now I was annoyed. It's amazing how rude you can be to a complete stranger. 'You said no more?' 'This one a hundred.' So much for being able to count to two. I sighed and got out; he wasn't going anywhere till I did.

This was the poshest of them all. Walls hung with beautiful carpets greeted me and the man offered to explain how they were made. At least we weren't straight into the pashminas. Fascinating as the warp and weft was, I was mortified to see that the assistant was busy throwing beautiful and very expensive carpets onto the wooden floor for my examination. It was a big big floor. There I was in my cheap Vietnamese trousers and t-shirt, with my backpack and hat, a bit sweaty and obviously (at least to me) not in the market for a handwoven silk rug but somehow the colour of my skin and the language I speak is enough to remove all the other visual clues. 'Which size would you like?' The assumptive close is the speciality of such places. I tried to explain that I wasn't going to buy one but he asked again. I pointed at the smallest, the one that wasn't four times the size of my living room. 'This one is only 800 pounds and we can ship it anywhere you like.' There went my travelling excuse. The only way out was to repeat over and over that I wasn't interested. 'You must come and look at my handicrafts then.' I felt like I was on a conveyor belt and he was just waiting for me to fall off.

He threw several down onto a table. 'These beautiful Kashmiri ones only 15 pounds or two for 28. You will support the people who make them.' I was starting to feel a bit guilty now - his country has just suffered one of the worst earthquakes in history - and since neither money nor travels had any effect I tried something a little, or so I thought, more persuasive. 'They're beautiful but I don't need them. I'm sure it would be more useful if I sent money to your country for the relief effort.' Like the previous salesman, he looked at me bemused and then smiled like the Child-Catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. 'Ah yes but they were only Pakistani Kashmiris.' I looked at him for a minute, unable to believe what he had just said then turned and left. Mr Whee was standing by his white Toyota and he waved his flask at me. Suddenly his attempts to make a bit more money out of someone, frankly, richer than he will ever be seemed completely justified and worthwhile and I wished we could simply drive in and out of the car park all day long, so that he could make as much as possible out of this odious man as well.

A Visual Interlude (NB large file warning!)

Many many blogs ago, I mentioned the small inconvenience of forgetting my VEC (Very Expensive Camera) charger. UPS kindly supplied it to me on Koh Samui but, sadly, the size of the photo files seemed to defeat the computers there and since. Now, in Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand I have finally found somewhere that seems capable of handling the VEC's output and, since I've had a gruelling see-everything-from-baby-elephants-to-chanting-Buddhists day I thought I'd offer you a mini-show rather than try and summarise so much. Be aware that these files are very large and the subsequent system crash may therefore have an adverse effect on any important documents that you have running in the background...

Going back in time, here's one of my favourite pictures...Kate Moss's fans mourn her passing at the Burberry shrine.




And Koh Samui demonstrates that it can be rather gorgeous. Sometimes...



Oh all right, a few times...


















Quickly switching countries, before the computer crashes on me, here is a mini-mini-selection of photos from Angkor Wat, Cambodia. It may give you Temple Leg (just look at those stairs...) but oh is it worth it.






Last ones! It takes too long! Back to words tomorrow.

Let Me Entertain You

It started with a fruit trolley. When the road turned into a muddy river, during yet another torrential Bangkok rainstorm, I could no longer reach the Skytrain stop and went into the closest dry space, the Thai equivalent of Wagamama. The noodles were fine, the beer finer but the spectacle outside the restaurant was much more interesting. A fruit vendor had parked his wares on the pavement and I had a ringside seat on his work and the various transactions made. Separate compartments in his trolley contained watermelon, mango, papaya, pineapple and grape-like berries. I watched the comings and goings, trying to determine what went with what but he was just as fascinating. Every so often he took out a whole watermelon from the bottom shelf, wiped it free of dust then placed it carefully on the glass of his cart. Taking a huge knife he sliced it sharply into eight equal longitudinal wedges, the sort of shape that most Brits have only seen in American cartoons. He then picked up each slice and, like a sharpshooter peering through the sights of a rifle, he looked along each one and carefully smoothed over the cut sides, removing any loose pips. He then placed all eight in neat alignment in the end compartment, wiped the glass clean and dry and sat back to await a customer.

It was obviously a busy night since the watermelon disappeared very quickly. For each customer the man would select a piece, slip his knife between the soft flesh and the thick skin, slice it into mouthfuls then - my favourite part - snap open a clear cellophane bag and tip the fruit into it whilst simultaneously removing the skin. A wooden stick, used as a fork, was added at the end. He never let anything slip, not even a pip. The surface and knife were wiped, ten baht changed hands (no, my eyesight is not that good; I bought some along with everybody else on the street) and the man sat down again.

Emboldened by my first attempt at ordering something beyond the confines of a restaurant, the next night I set out for the Suan Lum Night Market. A cross between a bazaar and a beer garden, it offers everything from puppet shows to Paulaner in a huge cavernous space, with food stalls along one side and beer and cocktails on the other. Money is exchanged for coupons which in my case were then exchanged for beer (35 TB), noodles (30 TB), spiced papaya salad (30TB) and grilled pork (45TB). Having negotiated this, I was very proud of myself. Most other countries would be proud too, proud to offer great, cheap food and drink outdoors because, in this climate and in this city, it is a rare treat. Even the periodical soakings from the sprinklers, a half-hearted attempt to offer air-conditioning to the punters, seem appropriate.

But no; in Thailand this isn't enough. Entertainment is de rigueur. Long-distance buses show films, Skytrain platforms show adverts and, to my eternal irritation, internet cafes seem to think that the punters who are paying per minute to read and write on one screen will also appreciate another at full volume...even headphones can't drown out soap screams. At the night market there is something for everyone: in front of a huge screen showing ESPN football games a parade of young Thai bands sing covers, mostly American rock songs, some Thai and occasionally some British ones. My personal favourite so far, and the one that intrigues me the most is My Sharona...by The Knack. This was sung twice in quick succession, first by a girl band who did a rather authentic rendition accompanied by dance moves worthy of the Spice Girls, then by a boy band who had obviously spent more time perfecting their microphone stand acrobatics than their chords. But, all of this is neither here nor there: it's My Sharona that fascinates me. This is a song that came out years ago, when the singers were all minus ten if not twenty, a song that is rarely played on British radio let alone here. What possessed them to choose it? I fear this is one dilemma that will go unresolved. The only clue to its use, and to some of the other choices, are the small booths huddled behind the stage: having been inspired by the young superstars, any budding vocalist need not waste a minute since s/he can practise their skills on the abundant Papa karaoke machines. Indeed, despite the double whammy of sport-pop on offer, the booths were all packed.

The final, and in Thailand rather inevitable, addition is the method of selling beer. Young girls and boys (and I use those words deliberately) plough up and down the aisles clutching picture menus advertising their wares. Each one is attached to, and dressed by, one particular brand. So the Tiger girls wear blue and orange dresses, usually with a big cat head imprinted somewhere on their backside; Erdinger girls wear white pleated gym slips and red halternecks, with the name of the beer sparkling on their chests; Asahi boys wear plain grey polo shirts and Paulaner, the only brand to employ both sexes, shows how far equality has to go in this country: turquoise tops all round but boys can wear trousers whereas the girls, once again, are in something short. Gold Star girls, in cocktail dresses with red piping win the prize for least offensive outfit but the prize for the worst goes to the Heineken sellers who are obliged to wear ugly Astroturf-green dresses, shorter than short,with the name emblazoned down their ribcage. The idea, obviously, is to pull in the punters with an alluring outfit and smile (pity, once again, the poor Heineken girls) and then sell them as much expensive foreign beer as is humanly possible.

Or rather, that is the idea for the male customer. If you're female, you'll be walking to the stall yourself. On my first visit, I watched as eight (yes eight, I counted) different staff huddled like mosquitos round an English leg as an American man and his compadres spent ages deliberating over the different menus. Meanwhile, I was halfway through my food, rather parched but evidently invisible. Funnily enough, in male company two nights later I was suddenly a bright spot on their radar.

Whether on a street corner or near a stage, entertainment is abundant and easy to find in this country. But it helps if you're a man. Preferably foreign.

Missing

There I was, in easily the best hotel in Bangkok, wondering what would be the greatest pleasure. A swim in the large open-air pool? A drink on the veranda? Or my feet up on the bed listening to the best of the Archers' most recent scandals, brought to me on CD by Paul? The pool and the drink had to wait: the demise of Hazel and the thought of Susan Carter's social embarrassment were far more enticing.

It's funny what you miss. At the moment, sitting typing in yet another internet 'cafe' (this time it's a camera shop with a few computers on one side), I long for the comfort of my own laptop. One which won't switch to Thai if I make an accidental keystroke (there are at least three characters per key and trying to decipher which one is to blame would be more than my sanity could bear). Last week, whilst staying a few kilometres from Angkor Wat, justifiably one of the wonders of the world, the thought of the shrink-wrapped, only one-day-old Saturday Guardian was almost as thrilling as the idea of those 2000 year-old temples.

I knew that I'd miss those I love. I knew that I'd miss my home. I knew that I'd miss the repetitious daily tasks that I usually take for granted. But I didn't know I'd miss, well, some rather odd things.

Water. From a tap. London water, with its tangy, metallic taste. Here, no one drinks the tap water and every place you stay and shop sells both branded mineral water (usually Evian and very expensive: 66B for a litre as opposed to 15 or so for water from Nestle, Singha or, guess who, Coca-Cola... so that's where it all went) and the more ubiquitous 'drinking water'. I have a bottle beside me now and it tastes, well, soft, as if it's been squeezed out of cotton wool. My resistance to Evian has just this minute dissipated: I need something that resembles the water I know and love. Something drinkable.

Fixed prices. On the bus. On a motorbike taxi. When buying any kind of souvenir or item of clothing. It's the done thing to haggle, to bargain. Most of the time I don't but when the advertised price in big black letters on the songthaew (an interesting cross between a pick-up truck and a bus) is 30TB and I am quoted 100, I start to get irritated about being taken for more than one ride.

Yogurt. Only one hotel has offered this at breakfast and that seems a long time ago. In most instances there is the classic 'American' (some variation of eggs, bacon, sausages), cereal or toast or fruit, but never yogurt. There is usually also an Asian breakfast but I am still a long way away from eating sweet vegetable soup or rice porridge in the morning.

Dinner. Bar the odd drink or bag of fruit I rarely eat much more after breakfast. This is for lots of reasons: I have read that Thais consider those eating alone as oddities and since I have been asked every single time that I have sat at a table on my own if it will be 'just one' I'm starting to realise that this is true. So I don't feel comfortable in 'proper' restaurants. However, in Thailand, there are more street-markets and food stalls than there are bags of rice. Technically, I should therefore be fine. But I don't know where to start. There are satay sticks, balls of indistinguishable meats tinted pink and yellow, grilled chicken and duck wings, plastic bags full of sauces stuffed full of lime leaves, peppers, chillies, bags of cooked and raw noodles, bags of rice, sticky and steamed, bags of green mango sold with dried chilli and sugar sprinkled over the top, miniscule crepes cooked to order and filled with something sweet, small squares of jelly. All of this produced and sold on trolleys no bigger, in most instances, than the ones used by British posties.

The most amazing, and intimidating, are the noodle stalls. There is a glass box full of different types of raw noodles, bowl after bowl of greens (spring onions, basil, lettuce and many I've never seen), tubs of dried shrimps, sacks of crushed peanuts, raw shredded chicken (to be avoided at the moment...), piles of livers, a colander full of beansprouts and a heap of lime wedges. From this tiny space, with one wok, one burner and a jug of water, a myriad of dishes appear. Some are served on the street, the customer sitting at a table on the edge of the pavement a few feet from the continuous traffic, some are taken away, all the different components, from rice, to sauce, to limes dispensed in tiny plastic bags, knotted at the top. I have no idea how to ask for one thing, let alone the kaleidoscope carried away by most hurried commuters and eaten on the run. So, until I marshall my courage, I am left with a bag of crisps and, sometimes, a bottle of beer to finish off my day. Strangely, I don't seem to be losing any weight!

I realise, having read this to myself, that food, drink and reading matter seem to be the most felt absences on my travels. But that isn't quite true. Paul met me last week and it was the first time since I left that I had someone to talk to at any length. Or ate properly. He also brought the Archers and Guardian so I could pretend, in some ways, that I was almost home. I felt like myself again, instead of a taciturn, hungry person, watching the world around her. Hence the lack of blogs: all my talking was taking place in person, instead of on the screen and the evenings spent in front of a screen were now spent eating dinner. But, funnily enough, I sometimes found myself missing the shaping of experience on the page. On this first night alone again, typing away, I suddenly realise that my travels have given me something to replace what I've left behind and that I shouldn't take my current situation for granted either. However, I still plan to buy that Evian...