Gripes

Travel ain't all awesomeness and frivolous fun times y'know. It may sound like it is, but there are plenty of things that become exceedingly annoying. So I penned this rant; if you've been envious of my adventures at all, read it and feel your jealousy melt away. Be grateful you're at home. Or at work. Yes, you're probably reading this at work aren't you?

Far and away the most annoying thing about traveling is getting hassled by people who want your money. It is true that the majority of tourists are walking ATMs, and a lot of locals rely on tourist cash to put food in their stomach, but fuck me the harassment gets annoying. This is an average 100m stroll down a street in Asian city: "Hey Mr! Want to buy my magazine / book / newspaper / sunnies / book / knife? Want to stay at my hotel / ride in my tuk-tuk / eat at my restaurant / ride on my moto / drink at my bar / ride in my tuk-tuk / get a massage from my bitches / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / smoke my hash / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / ride on my moto / fuck my prostitute / ride on my moto / fuck my prostitute / ride on my moto". And all that in sixty seconds. The squeakiest wheel may get the most oil, but it also gets the most death stares from me. However, imagine the japes I would’ve got into if I’d responded with “Sure!” to even a few of the offers! It would’ve cost a bomb, but ahhh, the stories I could've told. Unfortunately for you, and them, I’m a goody-two-shoes tight-arse, so usually said “No” and occasionally “Fuck off”. Although one tiger balm seller in Katmandu was too persistent and really shat me off, so eventually I turned on him and said "Listen pal, that's the fifth time today you've asked me if I wanted to buy some of your shit-house tiger balm and every single time I've said No. What on earth makes you think I've changed my mind?". After this mini-tirade he looked a bit downcast and stood next to me glumly looking at his shoes, then confided that there weren't many tourists around and business was slow. It was a heart-wrenching story . . . but I'm a prick so I told him he better go find some tourists to get some money from, cos he sure as fuck wasn't getting any from me.
I think the Thai massage ladies deserve a special mention; the plaintive cries of "Meeee-staaaaar, you wan' a massssaaage? Me massage you lon' time . . . " have to be one of the most annoying vocal emissions known to man. They are an aural atrocity; a despicable assault on the ears of the most heinous kind. I've never killed anyone before, and in all likelihood never will, but those annoying hussies went very close to inciting me to murder. If you're a solo male traveler it is impossible to walk down the street in peace and quiet.

Language. When you're traveling you feel obliged to learn the local lingo, but it's never that easy is it? And just when you've come to terms with the essentials (hello/thank you/how much is it?/d'ya wanna see my doodle/oww why did you slap me? that really hurts) you move onto a different country and a different language. Don't get me wrong, I like foreign languages 'n' all, I studied French and Indonesion at school and I had to learn German when I lived in the Vaterland (although I am a simple lad so it did take me a while), but I am incredibly lazy, so once I left Nepal I really couldn't be arsed any more. I don't even know what they speak in Cambodia. Is it Portuguese? Dunno, don't care. English is the main language in Vietnam, right? Yeah, brill - hey dollface, chuck a burger and fries my way, thanks darl. Don't forget the dead horse while you're at it. Whaddya mean "Que?"??!?

Which brings me nicely around to the subject of food. Of course, traveling is a great way to try new foods blah blah blah, but for someone like me it can also be an issue. Breakfast for example. I'm stuck in my ways somewhat, and love Weetbix for brekky, but they are pretty hard to find in some countries. When I finally did get my hands on some, after going a month without, I guzzled down 24 of the bastards in three days. Back in my 19-year-old heyday I used to eat 12 Weetbices in one sitting (I posit that Weetbices is the correct plural, much like index/indices and vertex/vertices) . . . and then a couple more later in the day. How many do those various famous sportsmen on the ads claim to eat? Pfft, pathetic. Another issue is trying to find nice food - sometimes you just get stuck eating a really shit meal because there's no other option, and it sits badly in your stomach and has the incredible power of turning even the sunniest disposition decidedly grumpy. Try it yourself; no doubt you're in your neck of the woods that you know well, so pretend you're new in town and go grab some food from a less reputable place and see how much it drags down your good spirits. And if it happens to be really dodgy food . . . well, I spose it is a good way to lose weight but having the runs for a couple of days is not my idea of fun, although it does happen far too frequently on the road. Keeping some bog roll to hand is one of my top travel tips. That and take your passport with you when you want to head overseas. I found that one out the hard and expensive way. Heh, woops. Have I mentioned I'm just a simple lad?

So - being 'new in town'. Well, that is part of the point isn't it? New sights, sounds, experiences - all exhilarating and one of the main reasons many people travel. But rocking up somewhere new is, quelle surprise (that's French that is!), always disorientating, and it bothers me every single time when I arrive somewhere new that I have absolutely no idea where I am. Or where I should be going. "Hmm, is it this side alley or the next? Wait, am I at Long-squiggle-with-dash Rd, or is the river off to the left? Where's the goddam river? If I could just find it I could . . . uh-oh, this side-street doesn't look too friendly. Uhh . . . hey guys, wassup? My, that's a mighty shiny knife you have." Yeah, I can hear ya down the back, "Harden the fuck up, princess!". Whatever, I'm just saying it bothers me, that's all.

Other tourists. Jesus, how annoying are other tourists?!? Do I even need to elaborate? Why don't they all just fuck off back home so that I can enjoy being a tourist in peace and quiet and not have to put up with all these other tourists wanting to be tourists too. Dickheads. Get outta my way. Same goes for beggars. Some say you shouldn't give money to beggars, some say you should, some even say vegetables are tasty. Alls I know is veggies give you cancer and I don't give money to beggars. Yes, I can see you have no money and no home and you have funny shaped limbs but I'm not going to give you any of my money - I'm a prick, just ask that dejected looking tiger balm seller over there. I give money to charity every month, but if I give money to you how do I know you're not going to spend it on booze? Hmmm? Huh? Care to answer that one bud? Oh, alright, for fuck's sake, I'll buy you some food, geez. Now please fuck off and stop making me feel guilty.

Beggars aren't the only way to easily rid yourself of your hard-earned cash by the way. The mere act of traveling itself is an excellent way of doing this. And any extended travel generally means you probably won't have an income. I'll let you do the maths . . . . . . . . . almost there, just a little more thinking time . . . . . done! See, it is a wee bit disconcerting watching the bank balance rocket towards zero. Zilch. No money. Nada (that's . . . ummm . . . Spanish for zero. I think. Yay for languages! Yay for me and my knowledge of languages and stuff!). Zippo. Nothing. Sweet fuck all. And then you're in danger of winding up in a lonely ol' place called No-Money-and-No-Income Lane and then you have to hang out in city parks at night turning tricks to make ends meet and . . . well, it's just not great okay?

Speaking of nocturnal activities (ahem), I'm sure you all have a comfy bed at home. I know I do. Crawling under the familiar covers is a pleasure; piling my two favourite pillows on top of each other (thinner one always on the bottom!) I know I'm headed for a quiet, blissful night of rabbit-chasing leg-twitching sleep combined with the occasional snoring and drooling. That's how I roll baby. But on the road not only do you have to put up with other bastards snoring the night away, but also shit pillows (oh the number of times I wished I had my two favs with me), hard beds, short beds, narrow beds, cold beds and the absolute worst - bed bug infested beds. Little itch-inducing fuckers. And you're expected to pay for it! Trust me - when you slide into your bed this evening take a moment and rejoice in its comfort and familiarity. Unless you have a shit bed in which case you should really do yourself a favour and invest in a new one. What price a good night's sleep eh? Add to that the various early morning starts: get up at 4 am to catch a flight, 5 am for a train, 4:45 am to see sunrise. At least it gives you the opportunity to turn the light on and make a lot of noise so as to wake that prick in bunk 4 who came home pissed at 2 am, waking everyone up, and then proceeded to snore like a bastard for two hours.

Of course all this lack of sleep makes one a tired panda. But wait, there is a solution - waiting! Yep, travel actually isn't the glamorous pursuit you may imagine it to be. Scientists have recently discovered that travel is 73% just waiting around. Waiting for the bus, the train, the car, the plane, the boat (and then waiting on the respective mode of transport); waiting to eat, waiting to drink, waiting for the toilet, waiting for the ATM, waiting for the tourist attraction to open, waiting for . . . *
Thus, distilled from years of experience, I can now give you my definition of travel: paying money for the privilege of waiting in a place you wouldn't normally wait.

Despite all this whinging, it's gotta be said that the highlights make it all worthwhile. I'd much rather lay on the sunny grass admiring the might of Annapurna than sit on the couch and watch another episode of Australia's Got Talentless Dickheads. I'd rather pick my way through the ruins of Angkor Wat, marveling at a long-lost civilisation than pick my way through the mess in my room and know I'll have to clean it sooner or later. Given the choice of rolling out of bed at 6:30 am and going to work, or rolling out of bed, glancing at the limestone islands of Ha Long Bay and diving straight into the water for a pre-breakfast swim, I know which I'd choose, and just about every single time. The only reason I say 'just about' is because the sedentary life is actually quite enjoyable. There is a great deal of pleasure to be found in routine, in being home, in having friends close by, in knowing your surroundings. But sometimes these starkly white feet of mine get itchy and I have to travel again. Actually, as an aside, my feet are so blindingly white because of tennis coaching. Well, to be more accurate my feet are the colour of me, it's just that they are made to look even whiter by my brown legs, tanned from years spent on a tennis court belting yellow balls of fluff at kiddies, making them pick them up again and then yelling at fuckwits like 8-year-old Tom Nesbitt after he made Tony the Asian kiddy cry by calling him a "stupid-stupid bum-bum head". When bloody Nesbitt hadn't had his medication he was a right little shit. Nick Young too. He had ginger hair. Say no more eh? They're both probably of drinking age now . . . hmmmm, if anyone knows them, slap them. If I ever see them I'm going to slap them as well. Little troublemaker shits. Now, where was I? Oh yeah, waxing lyrical about soppy/sappy stuff. Hmm, no doubt you're a bit sick of reading that kinda rubbish so it's as good a place as any to end. This may have been a ranting post, but of course I had a lot of fun and I'll no doubt do something similar again some day . . . although you probably already knew that, didn't you?

* . . . me to finish this sentence.