Popping to Phuket

Head pounding, mouth dry, glugging water and squinting my eyes at the scorching sun that reflected off the surface of the pool. What a sorry state I was in, given our beautiful surroundings. C, J.E and I were on holiday in J.E's beautiful family villa in Phuket, an island off the west coast of Thailand. 

The beautiful villa

The crew <3

As we were driving to the villa on our first day, I looked out the window and watched the lines of newly built, concrete houses; the shrill sound of drilling and construction work was everywhere. The houses along the main strips lacked beauty and authenticity compared to the delicate detail of Thai architecture; it was cheap, concrete and convenient; ideal for the temporary nature of tourism. The size of the island surprised me, it was huge! We drove and drove as the grey clouds began to form dark clusters, preparing for a downfall. The car slowed as we entered the compound that J.E's villa was situated in, surrounded by other identical, luxury holiday villas that were rented out throughout the year - what a genius investment. Our tummy's were grumbling so we dropped our bags and left the compound in search of some cheap, Thai food. As we roamed the streets, we observed the gentrification in the form of expensive cafes and restaurants, built for rich tourists; it didn't take long to realise that my idea of a cheap trip to Thailand might not have been so realistic... We scoped the area for the cheapest pad thai, picked up a pack of Chang from 7/11 and retreated to the pool as the sun began to shine. That evening, the adventure began...

We were on a mission, so we went to the local taxi rank and asked to be taken to the nearest reggae bar. The driver dropped us off halfway to our destination, pointed down a little sand path and charged us an extortionate fee but in our tipsy states, we were in no mood to argue. We got out, paid and followed the wooden sign that was painted red, yellow and green (despite having no association to reggae). Standing around a makeshift beach bar was a group of people, mainly middle-aged men with beer bellies, grey hair and brown, leathery skin from too much sun. It turned out to be the local hotspot for the expats living on the island, most of them unsurprisingly worked in construction and one owned the bar at which we were standing. We ordered a round and conversed about island living. A young, chirpy American/Thai guy J was working as the bartender. In broken bar chat, he told his story and explained that he was now working on the island and being looked after by the men surrounding us, who were his family friends. His ego was evident as he bragged a bit too loudly about his uncle being the chief of police and granting him direct access to a variety of narcotics... it was somewhat entertaining watching his chat being followed by the bar owner sternly reminding him to watch his mouth in public again and again; but he took no notice..

Waterfall walk 
Note: google maps is not always right.

The empty bottles of beer began piling up and I found myself in a heated conversation with a conservative, Californian tourist. He started off telling me about how much he despised Muslim refugees as they were 'ruining his country'... oh man, one of these. I found the irony amusing given my current work supporting (mainly) Muslim refugees. I'd had a few beers and was feeling a little provocative, so I continued to ask him questions and he continued to share his views. He turned around to proudly present the back of his T-Shirt that read 'Guns in!' above a huge, bait picture of a silver gun. Soon he was telling me about how climate change was a money making scam and essentially, doesn't exist; you've guessed that he's also a Trump supporter, right? His deluded beliefs astounded me and throughout the conversation he remained ignorant towards my beliefs or profession. I didn't waste my energy trying to convince him otherwise, one conversation wasn't going to crack that nut but I did wonder how often people did contradict him... for he seemed so sure of such nonsense.

Things lightened up when the men began belting out American country tunes and the bartender J, who was eager to show us around town was finally ready to go. We were given a lift to the 'actual' reggae bar to complete our mission and continued on to the other local hotspots that J insisted we check out. By the time we had reached the last bar, the rounds of beer were hitting me all at once and I was ready to go one of two ways. Thankfully, they served pad thai at the bar so in a blissful state of drunken ignorance due to J's insistence that it was vegetarian, I ate the whole plate (and the next afternoon as I sat raving about how good it had been, C informed me with a smug grin that it was full of minced pork. Fabulous.)

The waterfall (+ a the Russian Couple..)

I switched to water and my vision began to even out again. J was swaying around with a pool cue, giving orders to the local staff who he claimed were his great friends. But after a few warnings from the bar staff, we came to realise that very few of the locals actually wanted to be associated with him (i must admit I was oblivious to it all). The energy in the bar dropped when a buff Thai guy knocked J just as he was about to shoot his ball. The air was tense as the guy sat down with his other buff Thai mates, looked over towards J and shot C a deadly stare, we decided it might be a good time to go. The bill came and J's hosting skills were toppled as we were charged for the rounds of beers that he'd ordered despite no one wanting them. He denied ordering anything and we reluctantly forked out the rest of our weeks drinking budget. We got in a taxi and left, realising that he was a young, naive boy that was probably best to not get involved with.

We drove back in silence, processing the event that had just taken place. As we arrived at the villa, the headlights shone on the front door and a black figure emerged from piles of bags strewn across the front step. I squinted my eyes to see and beneath the overgrown facial hair, I began to recognise L! My best friend from Bristol who had been unresponsive online for 42 hours since we'd arrived. He'd intended to surprise me but instead, arrived to a locked, empty villa just after we'd left for our night out... 5 hours before. Classic. We picked up his makeshift campsite, cuddled, caught up and crashed.out. R arrived a few hours later from London to a villa of passed out drunks and the crew was finally together.

R & I <3

We spent our days eating Thai food, drinking beer, jamming and riding mopeds around the island; everything you could want from a holiday in Thailand. Once we'd recovered from our night with J, we braved Patong, Phuket's notorious area for a night out. Needless to say, we would not choose to return. Somehow, half naked transvestites tucking in their genitals on vibrating platforms and 16-year old strippers dangling from the ceiling, doesn't quite spark my serotonin. It's always interesting to see who ends up there; the middle-aged couples drinking beer in silence are the ones I don't quite understand. I felt a mixture of sadness and surprise watching the scenes play out; the excessive alcohol consumption to assist in the 'enjoyment' of it all was just about the only thing that made sense.

mmm... satisfaction.

So we got caught in a few of the tourist traps but you've got to experience it once, right? We'd found our flow by the end of the holiday and ticked almost everything off the list. L and R booked their tickets to Bali and J and I returned to KL; with a bit of a tan and mango sticky rice in hand, we had a smooth ending to a truly eventful trip.

The final wave

And then there were 4… It’s coming to the end of my time in Morocco and our Essaouira family are coincidentally leaving within days of each other; like a game of dominoes, when L left it initiated the movement out of our comfortable lives that we’ve become so used to. Every evening over the last week has been a goodbye, not that our nightly activities have changed from the usual red-wine and smoke fuelled jam sessions in the apartment or on the terrace. In the midst of this leaving procession, there was a super full moon and for me, the days leading up to it were ridden with anxiety - an emotional build up to change perhaps, as though an animal in flight mode preparing to flee the nest. But as the moon begins to disappear again from our visual field and the end of our time here nears, I feel calm. The time has come for change. 

Over the last month, we’ve formed a transitory family in this magical town by the sea… It started off with just two of us. I’d been working at the hostel Surf Mellow for a week and I was on the terrace, arduously washing the wet suits. R walked up the stairs having just checked in, he was a fellow nomad from Seattle a year into his travels and his opening line was a sarcastic comment on my poor ability to complete my task; that did it, friends for life. R was constantly entertained by my many failures at hostel work (that eventually lead to my being relocated to a different hostel), my lack of enthusiasm for the job was apparently quite obvious. Our daily routine was simple: I’d teach yoga in the morning, we’d surf together in the afternoon and chill/ work at the hostel in the evenings, with meals filling the gaps. We were absorbed into a new subculture of people with which we lived the beach life that was so simple yet so fulfilling; from the kite surfers in the wind to the surfers in the sea, we too learned to dance with the elements. 

Our routine was jogged when R and I were no longer welcome back to the hostel because of various reasons surrounding incompatibility with the owner. R went first, a few days earlier than I and instead of confronting him about the true reasons, the owner had just said that there weren't enough beds available; so whilst waiting for a bed (that would never appear) R decided to camp in a sand dune amongst the desert shrubs. By the time I’d been kicked out too, he was over his 'Into the Wild' stint, and was ready for a bed so we both happily relocated to the sister-hostel ‘Ambra’, where our duo began to grow. V was the endearing and inquisitive Chilean of the group that always had everyone hooked on an interesting thought: "what does it mean to authorize yourself?" His look was strong; he’d pensively play his guitar wearing a black beret whilst smoking a cigarette that would stick out beneath his moustache. We were all sitting on the balcony having our first conversations and (appropriately) drinking red wine, when I met D – the energetic, loud and loving girl of the group that soon became my Moroccan (meets Melbourne) ally. D was also here on a business venture, launching a line of leather bags that were being produced in Marrakech. It took one evening together to know that we’d all found somewhere we wanted to stay with people that we wanted to stay around. 

One of my favourite parts about travelling is the characters you meet along the way; for those first initial days we were graced by a special character Rd, the magician we called him. He’d travelled down from Portugal in his magic van for the electronic music festival that was bizarrely being held in Essaouira. Every so often, he would wave his wand and cast a surprise spell out the back of his magic van, sending someone off into a dimension of some sort. When it came time for his disappearing act, he returned to Portugal and D went back to Marrakech to check on her bags. Meanwhile R, V and I continued on with Ambra life.

Working there was an interesting experience… 5 hours a day of sitting on the dark, bottom floor of the hostel, checking people in and making sure the door stayed closed. This was in exchange for a €5/night hostel bed and breakfast (that rarely appeared). The bottom floor of the hostel was the only Wi-Fi zone in the building, so I was fortunate to always have company; but the job soon became mindless and restrictive – I felt like a trapped animal and my petals began to wither as I spent most of my day sitting in a dark hostel, while the sun shined outside…  I still wonder why I stayed for so long. The cleaner of the hostel, Fatima spoke to me regularly in Arabic; none of which I ever understood but nevertheless, I’d respond in my broken French/ English and motion with my hands. Despite not understanding each other the conversation would always end with some form of unknown agreement, Fatima walking off shaking her head while I stood confused, wondering what we'd just spoken about. The manager of the hostel was another funny character - Rw, the cool, young Moroccan who used to compete in capoeira competitions with the 2 hostel owners. I don’t know how long he’d been managing Ambra for but there was no system (alike most other hostels in Essaouira). He’d never know how much money guests had paid or how many rooms were free and if there was ever a mistake, it was never his fault. Like my experience with most local, Moroccan men he persisted in his shameless and incredibly forward attempts to flirt, despite being married. 

Time went by, V was still ‘leaving in 2 days’ and R eventually started volunteering with me so I could finally have a day off. But it was Murphy’s Law and my day off was also the day the hostel had to be (conveniently) quarantined due to a bed bug invasion; it seemed the managers technique of playing musical beds and avoiding the bugs, could only work for so long. Those working at Ambra weren’t considered a priority so we were mercilessly asked to leave. R stormed out after a dispute with Rw who refused to listen to how awful the management of Ambra was and I walked out smiling, finally free from hostel work and its mundanity. 

This is when we discovered The Atlantic - the biggest hostel in Essaouira that hosted about 100 people and was known for its late night parties. Cous Cous was the nickname for the crazy chef with the 10 one-liners that you’d eventually notice repeated themselves amongst each new group of travellers. Much to our amusement, he assumed a fairly authoritarian role in the hostel despite his actual lack of authority, for he was only in charge of the kitchen. But as fun as it all was I had been living in hostels for a while now and craved my own space; so I spent a week going on missions around the medina with various locals, looking for potential apartments to rent. I viewed countless properties that ranged from small, run-down dusty spaces to beautiful, open-plan villas adorned in vines and banana trees. One night, out of slight desperation after a series of unfortunate events I sent a drunken text to my estate agent, confirming a property by Bab Marrakech… finally, my own space.  

I moved in to the apartment and like clockwork, I was hit with the flu. For a week I went M.I.A and slunk in to the quiet side of the medina, skipping the late night jam sessions. Our crew had grown larger now, encompassing D and L – two best friends and writers from New York, Le a chef/ writer from Canada and A, the sweet American girl next door. As I started to feel better, I began to miss having constant company around so R moved in to my extra room. He now had space for his nightly shenanigans and I had an amazing housemate. Meanwhile, back at the Atlantic the heat was beginning to rise - incidences of stolen property had become increasingly frequent and the thief  still remained a mystery. The staff’s method of handling the situation was to ban all outsiders, meaning R and I. Never in our lives had we been kicked out of this many hostels, for a moment I had to wonder whether it was actually us ... but just for a moment. This new rule meant there was now an awkward divide amongst the group and when the terrace tunes began on the top floor of the Atlantic, R and I would reluctantly slink back to our apartment. Occasionally, we’d have the whole group crowd around our little Moroccan-tiled living room table; but the angry knocks and shouts from our neighbours suggested that they didn’t quite enjoy our jams as much as we did… 

During the daytimes, everyone had their own routine but we’d all meet up regularly at one of our favourite local cafes, Chez Omar or the lentil stand. There was always a new member to meet and a new story to hear as the crew expanded like a growing organism. Every character in the group added a unique touch and we all shared a love for music; as we went about our daily activities, someone was constantly bursting into song or playing a tune, it was wonderful.

But no song lasts forever... so with the last gusts of wind, the notes are beginning to fade as the dominoes continue to fall and now we’re down to the final 4. We all sit together at our favourite local cafe for 'one last' Moroccan sunset. An air of love and nostalgia surrounds us as we indulge in msmen with amlou and sip on mint tea, what a magical moment by the Essaouira sea. 

Song of the day: Give me one reason (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ym1eDeOxq14) 

Gottwood

It was finally that time of the year! Like an excited schoolgirl ready for her first day, I jolted out of bed; my breathing getting shorter as my mind began to race with mental notes “tent poles? Check. Glitter? Check. Wine? Check” I took a deep breath. One step at a time. First mission: Coffee (not that I needed more stimulation...)

It was time for Gottwood, the first festival of the year located 6 hours from Bristol in Anglesey, Wales. I zoomed over to N’s house as the caffeine levels peaked, half dragging along my camping gear that was awkwardly strapped to my body. We packed the boot of his newly acquired, 1960’s baby blue Volvo, shut the bonnet and sat down to fiddle with the ancient seatbelts. As the hum of the engine began to reverberate through the leather seats, I rolled down my window, closed my eyes and felt the Bristol breeze as the first of the day’s tunes began to play.

The flow was easy as the hours passed, countless rollies were smoked and conversation continued … until we hit standstill traffic. The summer sun beat down hard on the bonnet, the temperature gage was stuck on ‘hot’ and we began to feel like a slow cooked, Sunday roast with no ‘fan assisted’ option to cool us down. “Please can the engine not blow, please can the engine not blow” was the mantra for that moment as I supressed the possibility of getting stranded in the middle of Wales.

One hour later, when patience had reached its limits, the traffic started moving and so (thankfully) did the breeze. We drove on, engine intact, brain half baked but managing to keep our cool and save the full cook up till later. It wasn’t long before we’d made it through the tedious queues, bargained down the shuttle bus driver and arrived, along with the rest of the crew to the camping spot that T and D had patiently saved… poles, pegs, mattress pumps and many hands – soon enough we’d erected a little village with I and B’s totem Bell tent adorned in fairly lights and incense, serving as a signpost and safe-haven for when the rain fell.

Gottwood was the perfect festival to start the season; the music was mostly funky house with the line-up including amazing artists such as Joy Orbison, Bradley Zero and Archie Hamilton who played in stages dotted around the Welsh woodlands; the lake-stage holding the perfect day vibes for when the rays were out and the pyramid stage, with its 3D mist-filled visuals transforming the night-time into a multidimensional reality of sorts. With our beautiful crew who could often be found slutdropping under the neon arrow held by Queen L, we wondered through the woods, dancing along and branching off to discover magical venues.

It’s funny how fast we create routines for ourselves, the motive of our waking life became the music instead of the sun; rising late-afternoon, beginning the ritual of glitter and fancy dress, packing some real nutrition in at the avocado stand followed by a caffeinated beverage of some sort: re-set, re-charged and ready. Should the griminess and overflowing portaloos get too much to bear, the glorious options of a shower or a posh poo were game changers. Although, it did rain enough for a daily cleanse (free of charge!)

I chuckle to myself as I reminisce about the first downpour. I was sat against a hay bail, talking to a beautiful stranger about our love for the elements and nature. A deep, monotonous techno tune was playing and every 4 beats, a woman’s voice would quietly chant “rain”. Sure enough, synchronicity was in effect and the droplets started arriving, rapidly picking up pace and shifting the tone of our conversation from appreciation to annoyance; we cursed the elements that we’d loved only minutes before, gave each other a squeeze and ran off to join our separate crews. We clambered into the bell tent, leaving our muddy wellies at the entrance to enter the west world of yoga and slut drops to a harmony of kumbaya… “Inhaaale” everyone lifted their arms “and exhaale”, as their eyes closed and their arms came down “OI OI OI OI OIIIII!!! CHUG IT!” We creased at the vibe-kill as the group of lads next door began chanting loudly, jeering their mate on to chug his beer and then like clockwork, L stumbled in to the centre of the circle, eyes rolling and 2 bottles in hand. What to do but laugh…

From laughing to tears, the times took an emotional twist. I truly learnt the effects of sleep deprivation due to being convinced that the festival finished a day early and pulling a premature all-nighter. I realised I’d gone from half-baked to fully frazzled when I bumped into our mate O (who we’d spent all morning with) in the middle of a crowd, looking at me as he called my name, still dressed in his policeman outfit from a few hours before. My blood froze, thinking I’d been hunted down by security and was being kicked out of the festival. I stood in shock for a few minutes before my very slow brain began to recognise him and I loosened the grip on my rucksack and broke the confused silence with a laugh. A new song came on and the rhythm continued, as it always does.

So, although there were shit moments (like when we were dancing at the pyramid stage and the guy dressed in the inflatable poo-suit popped up on top of the hay bails), most of them were incredible (like when the whole crew coincidentally found each other around a random tree, like woodland creatures responding to natures call). On the last morning, C & I were the last to leave the deserted campsite due to our deadened response to all the attempted wake up calls. I managed to luckily reclaim my phone at lost and found before we spotted N & D who’d been patiently waiting for us by the car. As we drove off in that baby blue Volvo, I smiled; still riding the buzz of the weekend and feeling the warmth of beautiful company, like an aftertaste of the Chai-rum that had always given us that much needed lift at the end of the night. Until next year, Gottwood.

Song of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5-s32ESIR-4 

Mix of the day: 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i1hIxht83h8

Airy Fairy I

Wanderer

Dancin with the fairies

It amazes me what an intense effect stress has on the brain, I watch my amazing housemate work through a full-time masters and a half-time job, buzzing along the mood spectrum from calm to hysteria, those of us with slightly less stress showing pretty similar symptoms (if living in a house of girls is a reliable reference point ;) ) … it makes the importance of finding something to calm you down whether it be meditating or monging out to TV so important. Without the balance we’d all end up in asylums or …slow-down camps. The point of the stress rant was what has just happened yet again, on the start of an Easter adventure to Holland to catch up with a few of my favourite girlfriends from high school.

Just about where my head's at

Tralalala

I woke up this morning with a foggy head that soon vanished after a long sesh of yoga, a scattered feat of packing and a run in the spring sunshine. Packing always takes so much longer than anticipated doesn’t it? Doing it the night before is what we’re been taught for so many years but for me, it still hasn’t sunk in.

So of course, I look at the time, hoping it’ll be 2pm (I actually learnt the psychological phrase for this the other day… ‘false hope syndrome’, ha) but of course it’s 3pm instead and as I sit leisurely blow drying my hair, the cortisol levels rapidly rise and I realise I have 30 minutes until the bus leaves and I still wasn’t ready... so trying to get my priorities in check, I put down the hairdryer...

It's never seemed more
appropriate that both our
names begin with J .. for
this holiday at least <3

Chuk mung nam moi B! See
you in Dam B <3

Fast-forward mode began, what a familiar feeling. A taxi it had to be. A gulp of coffee and a regrettable puff of a J and the taxi arrived. Bags in, door shut and finally, feeling somewhat reassured we were on our way, 5 minutes down the main road. Shit. Please don’t tell me I just put my phone down on the kitchen table. 20 minutes left. Arghhhhh. After a brief inner-battle as to how necessary a phone was compared to a new bus ticket to Holland, we turned around. Run in, grab phone, back in the taxi. We arrived at the megabus to London with 10 minutes to spare; I check in and sit down. Realising I’ve put my laptop under the bus … um a 3 hour bus ride isn’t going to entertain itself. Gawwwd. The bus driver mutters under his breath and lets me climb into the luggage compartment and start rummaging while he eyes me suspiciously. I manage to awkwardly pull out my laptop bag, lying on everyone else's bags in the process and rolling onto the pavement next to the driver who was tapping his foot and shaking his head, making sure the items in my hand had actually come out of my bag. There's not much trust left in the world is there... but then again, after just watching 'the pursuit of happiness' and seeing the peace and love looking hippie run away with Will Smiths scanning machine, I can understand the association :p. I sheepishly walked back onto the bus, straightening out my clothes to then receive a call from the taxi driver notifying me that I had left my only warm jacket in the taxi. Eeek. As a lovely gesture, he was going to come back to

From Laos to Amsterdam -
Seeing these travellers soooon

A long awaited reunion
with these 2 beauts <3

return it to me. So I get back out of the bus, repeating ‘thank you’ in my head every time a late-comer walked up to the bus driver with their reservation numbers. Oh my god pleeease hurry up!! I stood, biting my fingers nervously with a foggy head, my inner-clock getting louder and louder as the minutes ticked on. The taxi driver arrives, I breathe a sigh of relief, run to grab my jacket, thank him and then scramble onto the bus. The engine finally starts. Ahh J we’re about to leave. The engine stops… I could hear the bus driver storming back onto the bus. “Who’s lost a black wallet?”. I laughed in my head… how bad would that be. He comes up to the 2^ndfloor and what do I recognise in his hand but my.black.wallet containing my passport, bank cards, bus tickets and money.

So now I sit on the bus that’s finally moving, cringing behind my seat and feeling successful at having ticked every box on the ‘what not to do when you start travelling’ list. Let’s hope the rest of the holiday gets better from here… :p

17 hours later at a (real) coffee shop
... AMSTERDAM

Recipe of the day: Easter egg fairy cakes
http://allrecipes.co.uk/recipe/7083/easter-fairy-cakes.aspx