Tag Archives: travel anecdotes

A Shitty Thing to Write About

6 Jun


It was a bus shelter empanada that made me break that bathroom in Cartagena.

Three hours before consuming it, I was in a seedy cantina with my new friend, Atlanta: an ex-army medic and survivor of the Fort Hood massacre. Atlanta’s PTSD had pushed him to the north east of Colombia where he volunteered at an isolated jungle hostel, periodically returning to civilisation to replenish his stocks of rum and cocaine. It was on one of these trips that we met, striking up a conversation as he urinated on a police car—the sort of introduction you can only have in Cartagena. After an evening of mayhem and laughter, he decided to smuggle me back to the Sierra Nevada, too.

We found a bus shelter hidden in a laneway that, for reasons unknown, was still selling tickets in the middle of the night. We asked the emaciated Morlock behind the counter for two on the early bird bus to Buritaca.

“And,” I added as an afterthought, “one of those empanadas.”

“I wouldn’t eat that,” Atlanta said, eyeing my Colombian surrogate midnight kebab.

He had a point: it’d been baking under a heat lamp like George Hamilton for the better part of the millennium, and the hands that plucked it from the cage were varnished with grime. Nevertheless, I took a bite. It was basically Whiskas in shortcrust pastry; and while a reasonable person might think, ‘Yuk, if I wanted to eat something crusty and fishy, I could just track down Lindsay Lohan and have a gnaw on her’, I was too stubborn to admit that he was right. So I forced it down with the vigour of a dickhead.

Back at the hostel, I clambered into my bunk, set an alarm for quarter past dawn, and dropped into sleep.

My stomach woke me before the alarm could. Apparently the piscine abomination I’d just consumed was so fetid that my body’s only option was to violently expel it. Right. Fucking. Now.

I vaulted off the bunk with an athleticism that I don’t possess and spent the next hour trudging to the bathroom and back until I gave up and lay on the floor, my head resting on the tiles, breathing shallowly through my mouth like a pregnant kelpie. I was okay with this—what little pride I had was lost when vomit had leaked through my fingers when I didn’t make it off the bunk in time.

And, on a side note, I’d like to apologise to the girl in bunk number seven. If you send me the dry-cleaning bill, I’ll reimburse you.

At about 3:45a.m., my belly gave the sort of ominous rumble that tells you to find a toilet, trash receptacle, or tin-can of sorts. Exhausted, but desperate, I grasped the side of the sink, intending to use it to lift my turgid carcass from the floor. As I pulled myself up, the basin came out from the wall, separated from the porcelain column it rested on, tottered elegantly in midair for a moment or two, and then crashed to the ground like Newton’s apple.

So—to recap—I was trapped in a bathroom wearing a Peter Alexander singlet in fetching, vomit-fleck yellow, and men’s Target-brand boxer shorts with an erroneous, easy access crotch panel. Half-digested Nemo could be found in my hair. My hands clutched part of a sink with the remainder scattered in shards around me, and, to be honest, I probably smelt like a sex crime.

My stomach rumbled.

Oh, and I still needed to go.

The remainder of the basin dropped from my fingers.


Shortly later, I snuck to the reception for confession.

The night porter was sitting at the desk, his feet crossed at the ankles, a block of chocolate resting on his belly. He was engrossed in his laptop, which was playing pornography. He jumped when I approached him, dropping his chocolate (which is a nice euphemism for what I’d just been up to myself, really), adjusting his glasses and offering an uncertain, “Hola?”

I attempted to explain in manic Spanglish, trying to highlight the fact that I hadn’t intended on smashing the bathroom like Keith Richards on crack, but an empanada (“Which might have been cat food. You know, el gatto.”) caused me to vigorously evacuate everything from my system which had, inadvertently, caused me to break the bathroom.


“I’m not on drugs you know,” I babbled. “Honestly.” For some reason it was very important to me that he know this. “I mean, I know it’s Colombia but I’m not.” I blinked, my anxious eyes jittering across his face. “I promise. But the bathroom is—”

From the desk, the naked woman on the laptop let out a moan. We both glanced at it. With one hand he slammed the lid.

“—completely fucked.” I finished.

He explained that his English was not very good, and even if he spoke fluently, he’d struggle to cohere the nonsense that I was hurling at him, so I should just shut the fuck up and show him whatever the hell I was ranting about.

To paraphrase.

I led him to the bathroom, head bowed like a war widow. He looked in. Coughed. Crossed himself.

I glanced up.

The toilet hadn’t flushed properly.


“The other bathroom,” he began, a smirk on his lips. “She is okay?”

I frowned. “I guess so.”

He locked the door. “Then use other bathroom tonight.”

That was it?

Wait—that was it?

He just shut the fucking door? I could have done that! In fact, why didn’t I just do that?

“They fix in morning. Now it’s late. You sleep.” He laid a paw on my shoulder and, remembering the porn, I tried not to think of where it had been.

“You need something else?” he asked.

“Do you have any Gastro Stop?”

He frowned. “I don’t know what this is.”

“How about a cork?”

“Goodnight, miss.”


The following morning, Atlanta was in hysterics. “I told you not to eat that shit!” he crowed.

“Be kind to me,” I mewled.

Dehydration had pulled my eyeballs into my skull and the soles of my feet were laced with micro-cuts from the porcelain. Brittle and wan, I was shaking like a dild—

…um, like a…llama. With Parkinson’s. Yeah.

I’d run late for the bus, too. Which was total bullshit. Colombians operate on ‘Colombian time’: a vague assemblage of moments distinguished by phrases such as ‘mas tarde’ and the idiom ‘ahorita’, which, to Colombians, means ‘Nowish…ish.’ It’s impossible to be behind schedule when even a nebulously binding reference to time is abstract. This bus driver was apparently a German expat because Atlanta had to bribe him to wait for my leaky arse.

“You want drugs?”

I peered at him through knock-off Raybans. “You think cocaine fixes everything.”

“I’m not sharing that. I mean these,” he fossicked in his pockets, dropping loose tobacco, receipts, lint, and lighters on my lap before presenting a battered pill packet.

I turned it over. “Codeína?”

He nodded.

“You want me to take,” I squinted at the packet, “sixty milligrams of codeine for food poisoning?” In a distant part of my brain, my nurse training came online. “I don’t think it’s indicated for that.”

“Codeine causes constipation,” he began with forced patience.

It’s true, codeine can turn chia seeds into concrete…and we had eight hours before we reached Buritaca…

“If nothing else, it’ll help you sleep. Keep the pack,” he grinned. “I’ve got shitloads.”

That pill packet would resurface a year later on a bus in Nepal.


My gorgeous sister and I had travelled through there in January and—aside from a slightly rapey overnight train, a pair of sunglasses landing with a squelch in a squat toilet, and a clutch of hysterical pilgrims that nearly swallowed my blanket-wielding sibling whole—we’d navigated it without incident. I even swam through crap and corpses in the Ganges, managing to emerge free from sin and dysentery. So when I kissed my sister goodbye in Pokhara, feeling bulletproof, I did what any cocky tourist would do: I gave salmonella prevention the middle finger and ate a discounted hamburger.

The following day, when the rancid meat was somewhere in my jejunum, I boarded a bus to Kathmandu, fragile and cranky. Initially, my ire was blamed on the obnoxious Americans behind me: the ones comparing the selfies they’d taken with malnourished, haunted, but tentatively hopeful Cambodian orphans on their recent poverty-porn world tour. At the first rest stop—with six hours left on a bathroomless bus—I sprinted off to abuse a roadside toilet. It then became as clear as the second line on a pregnancy test that I was screwed.

Buying a bottle of water, I downed the Colombian codeine along with a handful of Gastro-Stop, hoping to calcify the evil that was incubating within me. It worked and six Gastro-Stops later, I was in Kathmandu.

I disembarked into chaos, knowing that my hostel was somewhere, unsure of where, but trusting HostelWorld’s claim that it was a $3 cab ride away. The first two taxi drivers didn’t know where somewhere was, but could get me everywhere else for $5. I declined, and since they didn’t want to go nowhere, they followed me around until I tersely said that I wouldn’t be going anywhere with them.

The third driver didn’t speak English, but nodded with the sort of earnestness that I find charming. I showed him the address on my iPhone—a move which proved to be as useful as a bathroom door around Oscar Pistorius—he couldn’t understand it and I couldn’t pinpoint where Samjhana Street was in the melee before me. We drove through crowds, sporadically stopping to ask random strangers for directions, my iPhone proffered like pocket-sized oracle. In three Gastro-Stops we found it. I checked in, went upstairs to my room, and passed out on the stained futon.

I awoke just before midnight in a batten-down-the-hatches state that can best be described as ‘gastrointestinal Armageddon’. Throwing open my door, I bolted downstairs to the dingy washrooms. This became my first evening in Kathmandu: a veritable red, white and green kaleidoscope of bad decisions punctuated by a shitty staircase. In desperation, I took my entire stash of Gastro-Stop, something that may have caused mild delirium because I recall kicking open the toilet door at one point and swaggering to the bowl like John Wayne after an enema, snarling, “Hello again, you old bastard. Remember me?”

Even though I’d booked the hostel for three nights, I decided to leave early the next morning, because fuck running up and down stairs like Tom and Jerry. I splashed out on a hotel that had a bathroom in the room, packed my bags, and headed to the front desk.

Not wanting to pay for the whole stay, I approached the clerk with a smile and said, “Hello, my grandfather’s dead. Can I check out?”

In Australia, a family emergency trumps a cancellation fee. In Nepal, it opens up a negotiation. With a small nod of condolence, he tallied my bill, swiped my card, and presented me the receipt as if it were inconsequential: bacon rind given to a hungry dog. I glanced at it.

“You’ve charged me for three nights.”


“But I’m only staying one.”


“But,” I paused, trying to direct my thoughts through the fog of fatigue. “Can’t you…?” I trailed off, letting the sentence rot in the air between us like a bag of liposuction fat.

He slid a notepad and pen across the counter. “What is your offer?”

I stared at him. “What?”

“You tell me what you want to pay and then we discuss.”

“But…I,” pause. “No! My—”

“And I’m sorry for that.” He tapped the pad, looking delighted. “Your offer?”

The only offer that felt appropriate was a bucket of dicks for him to suck but I had no idea where to unearth such a treasure—not in Nepal, anyway—so I gave up. I reasoned that the money wasn’t worth the very real danger of shitting my pants mid-negotiation—a tactic that could have worked in my favour, but seemed like the sort of thing I’d ultimately regret.


Outside, the streets were still quiet and I stopped at the only pharmacy that was open. I bought the essential narcotics from the white-smocked clerk, neglecting to do the currency conversion in my head. Later that evening, I discovered that he’d charged me roughly three times the amount he was supposed to. A fact which bothered me roughly three times the amount it should have.

Sure, it was a minuscule amount of cash to me but a modest amount to him, but I was vexed: It was wrong, I was just a tourist. And I was sick. Vulnerable. He was taking advantage of that. He was shitting all over me. I had to say something—for colonically-challenged travellers everywhere.

Two days later, lathered into frenzy, I strode to the store with my indignant inner monologue juggling words and phrases in my head like linguistic Sudoku. I stormed up to the pharmacist, struck my fist on the counter, and said—among other things—“You ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

Yep. Apparently food poisoning turns me into Dorothy from Oz. I mean: who says ‘ought to’ in general conversation? What the fuck was that? Why not just go all-out and put my little soliloquy into iambic pentameter?

At the end of my rant, he was flummoxed. Here we go, I thought. He’s going to find some ridiculous justification for it.

“Madam,” he began delicately. “I’ve never seen you before.”

My first reaction was shock, “What?” which slowly gave way to confusion, “I was just in here the other day,” then realisation, “Oh,” and finally, a throbbing mortification: “You didn’t serve me, did you?”

He shook his head.

I looked around, trying to pick the offender from the line-up of neat men in matching uniforms. “Does your twin brother work here?” I gave what I hoped was a charming, disarming, and completely non-racist smile. “Maybe he served me?”

“Madam, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

“Okay,” I turned, and then looked back. “Just, you know, don’t overcharge tourists. Not that you do. Because, um, we now know,” grin, “that you don’t.” Pause. “I’m a nurse by the way! Yep. An egalitarian nurse who is totally supportive of refugees and…”

I prattled on like this for a while, determined to dig myself out of the hole I’d just placed myself in.

Perhaps I should have just buried my shit in it instead.

Most cats do that, you know—bury their crap.

But not this one.

This cat flings it into the ether of the internet in a scatological frenzy.

Me llamo CC

17 Sep

I’m about to spend eight months backpacking through South America.

So I’m trying to learn Spanish.

I illegally downloaded the Learn Spanish with Michel Thomas series and have been spending hours wandering through a nearby park with my iPod in, speaking badly accented espanol out loud as bewildered cyclists speed by. Occasionally they understand me, causing them to crash, spectacularly, into a deciduous tree when they realise that the young woman walking alone at dusk is proclaiming “I NEED IT NOW!” to the air around her. I gesticulate when I speak Spanish as well, who knows why. Maybe I don’t look ridiculous enough on a daily basis. I imagine that I look like this


minus the beard. One does not simply speak Spanish in a park. One does not simply emit a bilingual double entendre at sunset. One does not simply use phrases like ‘one does not simply’ without obliquely referencing the meme it’s from.

Thanks to Mr Thomas I can be unleashed on another continent where I will point at people and exclaim things like tengo hambre! (I have hunger) quiero comer algo! (I want to eat something) quiero comer algo porque tengo hambre! (I want to eat something because I have hunger). It’s interesting that the phrases I can recall the easiest are those that bleat about the apparent lack of digesting food in my stomach- perhaps I am subconsciously preparing for travelling on a budget. I can also remember how to ask for “ANOTHER glass of wine, please”. I can’t even remember the words for ‘red’ or ‘white’, just wine. Any wine. All the wine. Bring me food and wine. And a serf. Pronto.

There is a part in the course where he teaches you “I have” and its derivatives. He then instructs you to say: “Don’t you have it for me now? But I need it! Why don’t you have it for me? It’s very urgent!”- a group of sentences that I cannot utter without the temptation to stamp my foot. I can now throw a tantrum in Spanish. I know how to complain- I can say that something is too expensive, too hot, too slow…I’m going to enter Colombia sounding like premenstrual Naomi Campbell. If only I could learn “Don’t you know who I am?!”

The only positive things I can say are “I want to buy something” and “I love you.” So if I’m in a restaurant:

Waiter: Are you enjoying your meal?

CC: I love you.

Until recently, the only way I knew how to ask for things was to say quiero which is “I want”. I want this. I want that. I’ll be like a bratty toddler. A fat American child with a fistful of dollar bills, gesticulating, clicking my fingers and ordering around scowling South American’s who cower before my Western might. Trying to come up with a slightly more polite way to ask for things, I opened Google Translate, playing with what little Spanish I know to see if I could figure out how to say “Could I have…?” Instead of “I want…!” I put what I imagined to be “Could I have a glass of water?” (puedo darme una vaso de agua) which translates to “I can give me a glass of water!” Exclamation point optional.

In Spanish, words ending in ‘ion’ and ‘ical’ are similar to their English equivalent with slightly different pronunciation. Therefore, I can also ask, “What impressions do you have of the political and economical situation in Spain at the moment?” How handy. This is a phrase that I don’t believe I have ever uttered in my native tongue, but, thanks to Mr Thomas, I will now be able to corner bewildered Peruvian men and grill them on their opinion of another countries fiscal policy. Since my Spanish is shaky at best, asking anyone that question would mean that I couldn’t understand their response, unless it involved the words wine, love, and hunger. So unless I’m asking about the economic climate of France, I’m screwed. Besides, assuming that I did manage to understand their opinion, what would I respond? I can barely hold down a political debate in English, the best I could offer in Spanish is, “My name is CC. The chicken is too slow. You look very expensive and I want to buy you today.”

Basic phrases elude me, and I wanted to learn a better way of parting ways with someone without resorting to the slightly melodramatic Hasta la vista. Don’t ask me why I’m so desperate to learn ‘goodbye’. I don’t know ‘the weather is nice today’, I don’t know ‘how old are you?’ but for some reason- out of the thousands of words in the English language- I’m worried about how to say ‘goodbye’. My conversational focus in Spanish is appears to be ‘I love you’ and ‘Goodbye’. Don’t analyse that too much. Anyway, I hit Google Translate again, typing in what little words I know, trying to see what I could come up with. I entered this:

Voy a la salida ahora

Which roughly translates to “I’m going to the exit now.”

What an amazing way to excuse yourself. I’m tempted to start using it in English. “Your party was fantastic, thank you so much for inviting me but I’m going to the exit now.”

I used to work in a hotel where we had a lot of Chinese tour groups stay, often on their way to the Blue Mountains, The Opera House, or any other place in Sydney that was not the suburban toilet that Eastern Creek was (is?). The language barrier was often hilarious. One woman came to the desk and asked for something in Chinese. I had no idea what. A koala? Food? Shelter? The first four Black Sabbath albums on vinyl? After some awkward back-and-forth, she eventually pantomimed brushing her teeth.

Unfortunately, she exaggerated her movements and I’m immature.

“Oh, you want to give a blow job? Hold on, I’ll just see if I can find someone…”

If there’s a hell, I’m going there.

But first, I’m going to the exit now.

This is long. And angry…”CC’s rant about idiots.”

18 Dec

Maybe I have been away for too long, maybe the world is made up of equal amounts of dipshits and cool people. In any event, some travellers in South East Asia are starting to shit me.

Especially, for some reason, young American and English tourists. It seems that if you get a privileged white kid, give him a modicum of travel experience and throw him in an underdeveloped country with Daddy’s MasterCard; you get the most cocky, smug, know-it-all, Ferris Bueller fucktards around.

I’ve been avoiding them. They are easy to spot, the blokes look like rejects from a Bret Easton Ellis film adaptation with counterfeit ray bans and the girls all wear elephant print Cambodian pants with Birkenstocks- you know, the I’m a free trade loving, world travelling, Coldplay fan look. Or, at the other extreme, the girls wander around in hot pants and bikini tops, looking like a well-fed sex crime on a plate, not very feminist, CC offending everyone with their attire except their ditzy friends.

I’ve overheard tourists aggressively bartering the locals down to absolutely nothing just because they can. A certain amount of negotiating is essential- for example, not bartering with tuk tuk drivers can actually be detrimental to locals because drivers can avoid them to take cashed up tourists instead. However, I can not and will not haggle a desperate market stall owner to near tears to save $2. I have, you know, pride. Or respect. Or intelligence. Or sanity.

I don’t want to tar everyone with one brush. I have met some deeply cool people from all over the world while I’ve been away.


Many tourists here are completely different to what I have encountered in Europe. Perhaps the locals are too polite to pull them into line. Could you imagine someone being rude to a French waiter, laughing with their friends because he or she didn’t speak flawless English? There are times I’ve felt like shouting- how well do you speak Khmer, skank? Not well? Well, shut the fuck up.

I know. Grumpy old lady.

The fat woman at Angkor Wat.

I’d gone for the sunrise, getting up at 4am, suitably dishevelled and feral. It’s packed, and I join the hordes of people waiting to catch a glimpse of breathtaking beauty at dawn.

Just before the sun rose, a woman with dirty blonde hair pulled back in a scrunchie stood behind me. She bent and began to rifle through her bag, bubble butt sticking straight up in the air, a disturbing pair of red lace knickers protruding from the top.

Eventually she straightened and pulled out a tripod, edging ever closer.

Hmm, I think I know what is about to happen.

She edged closer, furtively eyeing the small gap between me and the girl before me.

What she didn’t realise is that I’m a seasoned concert goer who is used to defending my place in a crowd, occasionally dropping the odd elbow or scraping a Doc Marten down a shin to do so.

She sidled over, trying to push in front. I shifted my weight to block her.
“Can I just-”
She frowns, then tries the other side. I shifted my weight again, readying my elbow.
“I just want to-”
Frown turns into a glare. I ignore her. Sorry, love. I dragged my carcass out of bed to get my spot, you should have done the same.

She tried the Japanese tourists beside me, who were too nice to say no. Eventually she squeezed to the front, bending again to set up her tripod, fat ass majestically high in the air. All I wanted was to put my foot up it. What annoyed me the most was that the tripod had a shit-hot DSLR attached to it. One would assume that she knew how to use it. Nope. I watched as she took badly framed pictures in auto mode with the flash on. Seriously, did we have to push to the front for that? If you’re taking flash photography pictures of a sunrise with a DSLR, you can have a few heads in the foreground because you’re a moron with too much money.

I put that thought down to lack of caffeine and, once I took in the sunrise, set off to find coffee.

Ignoring the Locals

At Angkor Wat, and indeed everywhere in Cambodia, you are badgered by people trying to sell you things. Constantly. It’s the nature of the country. They are poor- Siem Reap is apparently the second poorest city in Cambodia- and they see tourists as walking ATMs. If you are polite but firm, they go away. I was walking behind a young couple, in search for coffee. A Cambodian was scurrying along beside them, clutching a menu: “Sir? Sir? Would you like a coffee? Sir? Would you like some breakfast? Sir? Sir? Sir? Hello, Sir?”

Yep, tourist man was ignoring him. Quite rudely so. Yes, they are persistent but it takes nothing to acknowledge a fellow human being. Nobody is beyond that.

Eventually Cambodian man stops, glares, and says something under his breath in Khmer. I can only assume it was a variation of, “you rude motherfucker.”

I cracked up, couldn’t help it. He looked over.

“Dude, I’d love a fucking coffee, hey.”

Verbatim. Whatever- nobody is Mary Sunshine at 6.30am.

He led me to the Number 5- Harry Potter café stall. It’s two down from “Number 007: licence to coffee”. Love. It.

They can’t speak English, so they must be below me, right?

This annoyed me the most, to the point where I opened my mouth and gave the old fuck a serve, which I don’t do often.

I noticed him immediately. I was at the border in Thailand, waiting for the bus to Koh Chang with a gaggle of tourists. I’d just eaten my vegetable fried rice, was munching on a strawberry Magnum. Total cost: $3.30.

Bear that in mind.

I couldn’t place his accent immediately. I’m still not 100% sure, but I’ll go with American. He was rude to the Thai waiter that served him, enunciating things s-l-o-w-l-y, making demands, being dismissive. While he was waiting for his food, he got up and started chatting to the group of Chinese guys beside me. I pretended to read and listened.

“Look at the portions,” he was saying. “Babies portions. And for 50 baht! Next they’ll try and make it 70. It’s getting ridiculous here, tourists have to speak up. That’s the problem. No one says anything and it just gets more and more expensive.”

My blood was boiling.

You ignorant, arrogant fuck bag. You come over here, into another persons country, don’t respect them, and you are complaining about spending $1.65 on lunch. You probably make ten times the amount of money they do. If they want to sell it for 70 baht, fucking let them, maybe it will bridge the gap between privileged assholes like you and hard working people trying to eke out a living at a tiny bus station cafe.

He sat down and the waiter brought his food over. “No, no, no. Take it back and put more food on there. That’s a babies portion.”

Unimaginative. But at least he was consistent.

The waiter looks scared, he leaves and calls the manager. I’ve closed my book at this stage.

If he’s rude to the manager I’m saying something.

The manager arrived at the exact time the young fellow from the bus company materialised before me. “Koh Chang, Miss? Come!”

I’m torn. I can hear the manager patiently explaining standard portion sizes to the American and want to interject, but I have to board my bus. To compensate, I turn Girl Scout, perhaps to show not all tourists are assholes, “Koh Chang? Ooooh, awesome! Thank you!”

As I pass the guy I can’t help myself. I fix him with my best fuck you glare- my friends and family know the one- shake my head disdainfully and call him a “rude piece of shit” under my breath as I pass.

I didn’t catch his response.

Don’t think it was a polite retort.

No, I don’t know what got into me. I periodically do this. Last time I was in Thailand I called a group of drunk Aussies a “bunch of fuckwits” after they threw a bottle at the girl singing on stage.

Yes, I’m aware that this type of behaviour will cop me a smack in the mouth one day. If I’m standing up to a bully it will be worth it. I will wear my fat lip with pride.

I think Karma may have rewarded me- when I got to the minibus I was given the front seat next to the driver- hello, leg room- instead of being crammed in the back. However, he could have just been feeling sorry for the single lady.

A week earlier, in Sihanoukville, I was at a bar and I got talking to two guys from Beligum. One was married to a Cambodian lady and he told me a story that I don’t think I will ever forget.

His wife’s family fled to Vietnam during Pol Pot’s reign when she was a child. Years later, she moved back to Phnom Penh with her daughter after her husband left her. She was working as a massage therapist. The business was taken over, and the man who bought it wanted to turn it into a rub-and-tug place. She refused to do that, and was unceremoniously fired. She begged on the street with her daughter for a while, starving and homeless. Her friend invited them to move in with her. The three lived in a ten foot square shack in the slums of Phnom Penh. The toilet was a hole in the ground. No shower, they washed using a bucket of water. They slept on straw mats. She got a job as a masseuse in a pub, for every client she massaged she got 50c, plus $2 each day she showed up to work. She met the Belgium there, he was too drunk to safely get home- Long Island Ice Tea had wiped the name of his hotel from his brain- so she offered him a place to sleep. Yes, even after all she had been through she found it in her heart to be kind enough to help out a complete stranger.

That’s humanity.

That’s amazing.

This is why I have quickly become addicted to travelling, it prises your eyes open to the realities of the world. Anyone lucky enough to fly to another country can, at the very least, be civil to people there, respect the customs. If that American prick had of pulled his head out of his ass and talked to a few locals instead of dismissing them, he may have heard a similar story. Do you think he would be bitching about paying 50baht for lunch then?