You know what really grinds my gears? Other travellers. They talk utter pish, they really do. Having crossed the northern Cambodian border into Laos, Wee Mo and I checked into a ludicrously priced riverside bungalow (at $2.50 a night, how these people get by I do not know) on the island of Don Det. “Bungalow” may be a generous, though not strictly untrue description for this shack on stilts – like claiming to have “some money” then turning out your pockets to reveal a few dull coppers. But located in the middle of Si Phan Don, or the 4000 Islands, it made a happy home for a couple of days.
That was until the 2cm wooden walls failed to protect us from the diabolical conversation of an Irish couple staying next door. Speaking to an affable Pole named Lukas, they felt the need to adopt the British trait of talking slower (sensible) and inexplicably A BIT LOUDER. Thus we were forced to listen to a fawning eulogy about Kerrygold and endless complaints that Laos – like so many other places – is too touristy.
Too touristy. Let that wash over you for a second. Now this pair aren't the first to make this complaint, but since I first heard it back in Hong Kong it struck me as utter nonsense.
What the hell do people expect when they leave home? Dumbfounded peasants adopting them as some kind of fantastic demi-god? Do they expect to show a villager a mobile phone and have them faint in disbelief? Do they think they are Joseph Rock? Roald Amundsun? Erik the fucking Red? Do they know what bastardin' year it is?
All travelling in the world has been done. Think of the most exotic, remote place on Earth – guess what, someone's been there already. Tough shit. Do you want to know what it's like to go and live with the locals? Do you want to time travel back to a less civilised time? Good. Get your things and bugger off to a faceless province in China. Let me know how that works out for you, please. What's that? Oh no one understands a word you're saying, people take intrusive pictures of you, the weather's gash, the food is shit, you're no longer a novelty, people just ignore you, and you've come to detest the thing you sought? Nae luck, son.
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
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| Photo: Wee Mo |
“Yah, so I'm going to do another week here, I think. But I've already done Cambodia, so won't be doing it again. Already did Borneo too, so that's done. Think I might do a few months in South America next year.”
What I didn't say back was: “I know what you can do. You can get some rope, tie it round your neck, strap that to the bridge and hurl yourself off the fucking side. Me and the local kids will laugh and throw stones and your twitching corpse. That'll just about do you.”
Hearing people say that they've “done” a country or that they intend to “do” a continent inspires in me an irritation something akin to a mosquito bite. You want to ignore it and you know that by focussing on it, you'll only make it worse. And yet there's no getting away from how unbelievably annoying it is.
What, pray tell, constitutes “doing” a country? Surely these preening wankers didn't mean passing through in a fortnight like a sluggish shite down a pipe? That's not “doing” anything – that's going on holiday. Could you ever regard a country as done? Given that everywhere – from shining shitholes like Dubai, to manky metropolises like Kathmandu – is constantly evolving, even if you burned through two years of your shite life there, you'd have done nothing other than irritate anyone who had the misfortune of listening to your utter drivel.
Of course, that kind of nonsense is about as harmless as it gets, but even a cursory glance online will quickly show you that it's often a great deal more sinister. And just because it involves willies doesn't mean that basic economics apply. What I mean is: there's a market for this filth, else it wouldn't exist. If people could make more money selling the dust on the road, they would.
Anyway, walking around Bangkok offers a garish glimpse of the roaring sex trade in the Orient. Your average sex tourist is looks like the Before picture on a miracle weight-loss program and has a face like Admiral Akbar on ecstasy.
One night, trudging around the especially depressing Patpong area (during which we spent most of our time trying to come up with answers to the proposition: “Ping-pong show?” Two of our better responses were: “No, I prefer badminton” and “Do you have anything with basketballs?” It wasn't a patch on the brilliant Chris Morris, but it made us smile) we saw a hideously maimed young man, obviously on the prowl for a woman. Him, I did feel sorry for. Ugly is one thing, but no one is likely to charm their way around having no face. So in his instance alone, the buying and selling of body parts is quite acceptable.
Were they all like him... Instead, it's hard to hold down your green curry when you see the hand of a lascivious old motherfucker disappearing up the skirt of an eager nightwalker barely old enough to be his granddaughter.
Honestly, what happened to good old fashioned wanking? The whole place is too touristy, I tell you.