Arriving at Suvarnabhumi airport in Bangkok was not exactly what I had expected. In the concise travel information provided by Shoestring Travels – I should have known that name would come back at me sooner or later – there was one paragraph written in a rather panicky tone. It told me I had to pick up my luggage asap and move towards the exit, where a bus would be waiting for the whole group (which at this point was still a bunch of indistinguishable individuals that did not know each other) to drive to the other side of this vast city. There we would take a domestic flight to Chieng Rai, the start of our three week journey. Hurrying was of the utmost importance, even though there was a six hour layover between the flights.
I have always been a responsible, obedient young fellow, so I rushed off the plane, scooped up my backpack and trotted towards the exit. That exit revealed itself as a four-storey maze of exits to bus stops, taxi stands, tourist desks and foreign exchange bureaus. Lots of grinning people holding signs, but none of them mentioned Shoestring. At this point, a slight sensation of worry nestled behind my right ear. I scratched it away and while humming Theme from Rocky, I continued to look for a bunch of people that looked like fourteen Dutchmen that were looking for one Belgian dude. The closest I came were five Germans haggling with a local over a minibus fair. Uh oh.
An hour later, I called the telephone numbers of Shoestring’s travel agent. ‘We are closed on Sunday’. Rats. Meanwhile, my backpack was getting heavier. I checked if there weren’t any little old Chinese ladies entangled in the straps. There weren’t. I did bring too many books however. I texted the Dutch emergency phone number: I did not want to wake anyone in the middle of the night for doing a booboo, at least not yet: it was clear I hadn’t paid enough attention during the trip. All the other ones had gathered and decided not to wait for me. As much as that was obvious.
After almost two hours, I decided to take a bus to Don Muang airport. Bloody Dutchmen. It this was their sense of humour, it could be a long three weeks. During the 50 minute bus trip, I thought of different ways to get rid of 14 Dutch people ànd make it look like an accident. One in the Mekong river. Another one trapped in an old Vietcong tunnel. One choking on some strange looking indigenous fruit. One arrested for smuggling contraband, the old opium trick. Yeah, that should work. With still plenty of time left, I arrived at Don Muang airport and put my luggage through a security check before dropping my luggage next to the check-in counter.
‘Oh but sir, you mistaken. This flight take off from Suvarnabhumi airport.’
– …What? Excuse me? No, no, this flight take off here.
(It damn well do or else I’ll release some of that deranged Belgian apeshit separatism on the limbs of the next one who says it don’t.)
The friendly lady convincingly pointed out to me that she was not mistaken. But there was nothing to panic, because superspeedy van could take me back to Suvarnabhumi in no time. Besides, I still had three hours and counting.
I decided to chill out, not have a cow and take ‘er easy in one big shrug. Slumped under my luggage, I went to seek the superspeedy van which turned out to be indeed superspeedy, racing back to my original point of entry in less than 40 minutes.
I got checked in and could not help but notice a slight sense of irony when thinking how the hell I was going to spend another two hours. If you ever end up in that situation, I have a tip for you: reading Douglas Adams is a splendid solution. Then again, reading Adams is always a splendid solution. There is hardly a better way to spend free time. I suppose lying in the sun on the deck of a slowboat on the mighty Mekong river drinking Laotian beer could top that. But not much else.
I have always been a responsible, obedient young fellow, so I rushed off the plane, scooped up my backpack and trotted towards the exit. That exit revealed itself as a four-storey maze of exits to bus stops, taxi stands, tourist desks and foreign exchange bureaus. Lots of grinning people holding signs, but none of them mentioned Shoestring. At this point, a slight sensation of worry nestled behind my right ear. I scratched it away and while humming Theme from Rocky, I continued to look for a bunch of people that looked like fourteen Dutchmen that were looking for one Belgian dude. The closest I came were five Germans haggling with a local over a minibus fair. Uh oh.
An hour later, I called the telephone numbers of Shoestring’s travel agent. ‘We are closed on Sunday’. Rats. Meanwhile, my backpack was getting heavier. I checked if there weren’t any little old Chinese ladies entangled in the straps. There weren’t. I did bring too many books however. I texted the Dutch emergency phone number: I did not want to wake anyone in the middle of the night for doing a booboo, at least not yet: it was clear I hadn’t paid enough attention during the trip. All the other ones had gathered and decided not to wait for me. As much as that was obvious.
After almost two hours, I decided to take a bus to Don Muang airport. Bloody Dutchmen. It this was their sense of humour, it could be a long three weeks. During the 50 minute bus trip, I thought of different ways to get rid of 14 Dutch people ànd make it look like an accident. One in the Mekong river. Another one trapped in an old Vietcong tunnel. One choking on some strange looking indigenous fruit. One arrested for smuggling contraband, the old opium trick. Yeah, that should work. With still plenty of time left, I arrived at Don Muang airport and put my luggage through a security check before dropping my luggage next to the check-in counter.
‘Oh but sir, you mistaken. This flight take off from Suvarnabhumi airport.’
– …What? Excuse me? No, no, this flight take off here.
(It damn well do or else I’ll release some of that deranged Belgian apeshit separatism on the limbs of the next one who says it don’t.)
The friendly lady convincingly pointed out to me that she was not mistaken. But there was nothing to panic, because superspeedy van could take me back to Suvarnabhumi in no time. Besides, I still had three hours and counting.
I decided to chill out, not have a cow and take ‘er easy in one big shrug. Slumped under my luggage, I went to seek the superspeedy van which turned out to be indeed superspeedy, racing back to my original point of entry in less than 40 minutes.
I got checked in and could not help but notice a slight sense of irony when thinking how the hell I was going to spend another two hours. If you ever end up in that situation, I have a tip for you: reading Douglas Adams is a splendid solution. Then again, reading Adams is always a splendid solution. There is hardly a better way to spend free time. I suppose lying in the sun on the deck of a slowboat on the mighty Mekong river drinking Laotian beer could top that. But not much else.
In fact, I am lying in the sun on that boat while I am writing this. But I’ll tell you about that tomorrow, when I arrive in Luang Prabang, a Unesco-protected village, about which I’ll enlighten you the day after when travelling to Vientiane, possibly the first time I’ll have an internet connection to actually get this story on-line. Which means it actually doesn’t make an awful lot of sense to write about past, present and future in the according tenses. But why am I telling you this? I have totally cocked up my chronology now. Probably it’s because I don’t give a rat’s ass, given the unmistakably mind-boggling fact that I am lying in the sun on a slowboat, gliding down the Mekong river in the direction of what all fifteen Lonely Planet guides on this boat describe as ‘the most laidback place on earth’. Bring it on.
1 opmerking:
Jeez, Bos, ik was al vijf doden gestorven als ik zo'n hel als jouw aankomst had moeten doorstaan.
Niemand vinden, bus nemen, blijkt niet te kloppen...
Hopelijk wordt de rest de rustgevende, relaxing experience you need.
I'll keep an eye on this blog.
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