THE BACKPACKER - DAY 6
Camp 5, approx 12-16km from Camp 4, Somewhere in Northern Thailand
Fortunately last night finished uneventfully. I swapped Ipods with Phil and listened to his life in music: ambient, acoustic, thrash metal and country & western. It was as eclectic a taste as you could get – jeez, if ever there was a cry for help. I dozed off wondering how much his therapist charges.
In the morning I woke to the sound of commotion. Bleary-eyed, I spilled out of the tent. Thijs had Matt in a headlock with Phil and Morag trying to pull them apart. It seemed that whilst moving about inside the tent Matt had ‘inadvertently’ banged against Thijs’s already tender head. For Thijs this had been the tipping point that was now encouraging him to squeeze the life force out of Matt. Unfortunately he released his grip.
“You nutter!” spat Matt., “I could ‘ave ‘ad you! I’m a Chelsea ‘ead’unter! The Firm, mate! The Firm!
“Please, no more fighting!” says an exasperated Maria, “Be good. Shake hands. We are all in this together.”
Those beautifully intoned (if somewhat stilted) comments seemed to do the trick.
“Right. Let’s aw gee each ither a hug” utters the articulate one.
Although I took the gesture to be a fairly token one, I must admit I was looking forward to hugging Maria. But before I know it, Phil has himself draped around me and is sobbing into my neck. Worse still, his nose is running.
“Whoa, Phil. What’s wrong?” I enquire with maximum heterosexual concern. Maria goes to him and hugs him affectionately for at least two minutes.
“I miss him , guys. I miss him so much” he sniffs.
“Michael, huh?” empathises Thijs (how on earth does Thijs the Trappist monk get to know so much?)
“Yeah. Look I’m sorry folks. Just ignore me. I’m feeling a bit lonely right now.”
“Fuck me!!” says Matt, exaggeratedly.
The emotionally stable members of the group turn and stare at him, increduously.
“Hey, it wasn’t an invite!. It’s just that those geezers Hy and Lo appear to ‘ave disappeared.
Sure enough, our stoic little Thailanders had indeed effed off. A search of the camp only produces a map – wrapped in a bright red protective plastic covering and suspiciously located under a sole rock in the middle of the camp. It is the first time we have clapped eyes on a map of any description. Cripes! What a spiffing adventure this is going to be now. All we need now is some sticky buns and lashings of lemonade. So this must be the part where we are left to our own devices and have to fend for ourselves. Can we make it to the next camp? Who will be the natural leader? What will we find out about ourselves…I mean, as people? Yeah, right. It’s another embarrassingly contrived situation.
We have an emergency group meeting, during which we discover, according to the map, we have only trekked about fifty-eight clicks, instead of the anticipated seventy kilometres. I check my pedometer that I bought as a special offer with Kelloggs Bran Flakes – two hundred and fifty-two kilometres! Even with my distressed padding about the camp I couldn’t have walked an extra hundred and ninety-odd kilometres. When I get home I’ll demand my £5.99 back. Anyway we agree to miss out Camp 6 and head straight for Camp 7 since they look equidistant from Camp 5. In a rather childish show of hands, Thijs is voted to lead our intrepid group of explorers, with Phil bringing up the rear (so to speak). We stumble across a path of sorts, and without too much effort, make our way through the vegetation.
Sneakily, I have positioned myself behind Maria. After staring at her bum for forty minutes of the trek I break out of my fantasy and begin to look at other parts of her. Disturbingly. several ‘flaws’ begin to manifest themselves,viz: her hair colour may not be natural; her ankles are quite chunky; she has quite long, hairy arms (albeit blonde hairs); oh, and she has multiple ear piercings. I only wish I wasn’t so good looking and these things didn’t matter. I have a quick look back at Morag, who is picking something out of her teeth with a hunting knife, and things are once again put in perspective. Thank heavens for ugly women.
To be honest, as each day passes the trek has become less and less enjoyable. It is almost dark when we get to what we reckon is the proposed site for Camp 7. For his sterling work as guide, Thijs gets a pat on the back from most of us and foolishly a rub on the head from Matt, who seeing him wince in pain, immediately protests his innocence.
In theory, tonight is the second last night, but if the map is to be believed we still have another 36km to endure over the next two days. Given the distance we have covered so far that would be a big ask. To think I knocked back the opportunity of a cycling holiday in East Anglia.
We are now old hands at setting up the tents and getting the night fire lit. Not surprisingly, the topic of conversation after eats is the disappearance of Hy and Lo. The general consensus is that it’s all part of the package and travelling on our own is a hoot. I’m not with them on that one. Then Morag, the laterally-shaped lateral thinker intones that “It’s easy tae fun(?) oot the score(?)” and she proposes that Matt, the sole mobile phone possessor, should phone the trek organisers for information. It’s a eureka moment that is only eclipsed by Matt’s subsequent announcement, after rumbling about in his backpack, that he can’t find his mobile…or his Ipod…or his money…or his passport. With complete disregard for his circumstances, we immediately check our own backpacks. It’s a similar tale for us all. Even my top of the range digital camera with no photos in it...gone. The thieving little bastards! Morag ensures the group that if she catches them she’ll turn them into full-blown lady-boys.
Deflated, we review the situation and agree that it would be better to get a good night’s sleep before tackling our new-found dilemma.
Fortunately last night finished uneventfully. I swapped Ipods with Phil and listened to his life in music: ambient, acoustic, thrash metal and country & western. It was as eclectic a taste as you could get – jeez, if ever there was a cry for help. I dozed off wondering how much his therapist charges.
In the morning I woke to the sound of commotion. Bleary-eyed, I spilled out of the tent. Thijs had Matt in a headlock with Phil and Morag trying to pull them apart. It seemed that whilst moving about inside the tent Matt had ‘inadvertently’ banged against Thijs’s already tender head. For Thijs this had been the tipping point that was now encouraging him to squeeze the life force out of Matt. Unfortunately he released his grip.
“You nutter!” spat Matt., “I could ‘ave ‘ad you! I’m a Chelsea ‘ead’unter! The Firm, mate! The Firm!
“Please, no more fighting!” says an exasperated Maria, “Be good. Shake hands. We are all in this together.”
Those beautifully intoned (if somewhat stilted) comments seemed to do the trick.
“Right. Let’s aw gee each ither a hug” utters the articulate one.
Although I took the gesture to be a fairly token one, I must admit I was looking forward to hugging Maria. But before I know it, Phil has himself draped around me and is sobbing into my neck. Worse still, his nose is running.
“Whoa, Phil. What’s wrong?” I enquire with maximum heterosexual concern. Maria goes to him and hugs him affectionately for at least two minutes.
“I miss him , guys. I miss him so much” he sniffs.
“Michael, huh?” empathises Thijs (how on earth does Thijs the Trappist monk get to know so much?)
“Yeah. Look I’m sorry folks. Just ignore me. I’m feeling a bit lonely right now.”
“Fuck me!!” says Matt, exaggeratedly.
The emotionally stable members of the group turn and stare at him, increduously.
“Hey, it wasn’t an invite!. It’s just that those geezers Hy and Lo appear to ‘ave disappeared.
Sure enough, our stoic little Thailanders had indeed effed off. A search of the camp only produces a map – wrapped in a bright red protective plastic covering and suspiciously located under a sole rock in the middle of the camp. It is the first time we have clapped eyes on a map of any description. Cripes! What a spiffing adventure this is going to be now. All we need now is some sticky buns and lashings of lemonade. So this must be the part where we are left to our own devices and have to fend for ourselves. Can we make it to the next camp? Who will be the natural leader? What will we find out about ourselves…I mean, as people? Yeah, right. It’s another embarrassingly contrived situation.
We have an emergency group meeting, during which we discover, according to the map, we have only trekked about fifty-eight clicks, instead of the anticipated seventy kilometres. I check my pedometer that I bought as a special offer with Kelloggs Bran Flakes – two hundred and fifty-two kilometres! Even with my distressed padding about the camp I couldn’t have walked an extra hundred and ninety-odd kilometres. When I get home I’ll demand my £5.99 back. Anyway we agree to miss out Camp 6 and head straight for Camp 7 since they look equidistant from Camp 5. In a rather childish show of hands, Thijs is voted to lead our intrepid group of explorers, with Phil bringing up the rear (so to speak). We stumble across a path of sorts, and without too much effort, make our way through the vegetation.
Sneakily, I have positioned myself behind Maria. After staring at her bum for forty minutes of the trek I break out of my fantasy and begin to look at other parts of her. Disturbingly. several ‘flaws’ begin to manifest themselves,viz: her hair colour may not be natural; her ankles are quite chunky; she has quite long, hairy arms (albeit blonde hairs); oh, and she has multiple ear piercings. I only wish I wasn’t so good looking and these things didn’t matter. I have a quick look back at Morag, who is picking something out of her teeth with a hunting knife, and things are once again put in perspective. Thank heavens for ugly women.
To be honest, as each day passes the trek has become less and less enjoyable. It is almost dark when we get to what we reckon is the proposed site for Camp 7. For his sterling work as guide, Thijs gets a pat on the back from most of us and foolishly a rub on the head from Matt, who seeing him wince in pain, immediately protests his innocence.
In theory, tonight is the second last night, but if the map is to be believed we still have another 36km to endure over the next two days. Given the distance we have covered so far that would be a big ask. To think I knocked back the opportunity of a cycling holiday in East Anglia.
We are now old hands at setting up the tents and getting the night fire lit. Not surprisingly, the topic of conversation after eats is the disappearance of Hy and Lo. The general consensus is that it’s all part of the package and travelling on our own is a hoot. I’m not with them on that one. Then Morag, the laterally-shaped lateral thinker intones that “It’s easy tae fun(?) oot the score(?)” and she proposes that Matt, the sole mobile phone possessor, should phone the trek organisers for information. It’s a eureka moment that is only eclipsed by Matt’s subsequent announcement, after rumbling about in his backpack, that he can’t find his mobile…or his Ipod…or his money…or his passport. With complete disregard for his circumstances, we immediately check our own backpacks. It’s a similar tale for us all. Even my top of the range digital camera with no photos in it...gone. The thieving little bastards! Morag ensures the group that if she catches them she’ll turn them into full-blown lady-boys.
Deflated, we review the situation and agree that it would be better to get a good night’s sleep before tackling our new-found dilemma.
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