By Gum!

Several weeks ago I found myself in the not very unusual position of getting rat-arsed with an assembly of backpackers in my landlord Mr. Pong’s bar. As always happens in these situations, the conversation soon turned to the subject of travelling, and it wasn’t long before everybody was swapping war stories. One poor Norwegian girl had had diarrhoea for an entire fortnight in Laos. An Australian guy had had a gun pulled on him in a roadrage incident in Vietnam. An Irish couple had slept in 40 different rooms over the last 40 nights. Somebody else had travelled exclusively by elephant, camel, raft and rickshaw for 10 days in Cambodia. And so on.

Eventually someone put me in the spotlight. “So Olaf, you’ve been in Asia for a while. How did you wind up here?”
“Well, I guess I did do quite a bit of travelling,” I agreed. “It all started back in Galway last February, when I took the early morning train to Dublin. Then I caught a bus from Heuston Station to the airport, where I flew to Frankfurt. After a six-hour stopover there, I flew on to Bangkok. Having topped up my nicotine levels in one of the airport’s smoking rooms, I immediately flew down to Ko Samui. I stayed overnight there and in the morning I took a cab to the Big Buddha pier, and caught the morning ferry to Ko Pha Ngan. When the ferry docked at Thong Sala, I took a cab to Mr. Pong’s. And here I am!”
Nobody said anything.
The entire table looked at me incredulously. After an uncomfortable silence, somebody finally asked, “You mean you just came straight...here? And you haven’t gone anywhere since?”
I gave a shrug.
Unfortunately, Pong quickly interjected, “Ha! Only for visa-run! He only gone twenny-fore ow-er! Den he come back!”
Nobody could quite get their heads around this.
I explained to them that I didn’t travel to Thailand to travel. I just wanted to get out of Ireland. I came to escape the pressures of not being famous enough, the viciousness of small-minded begrudgers, the ignorance of small-dicked critics, the naked greed of Irish publicans, and a crippling Eircom bill. I’m not holidaying on Ko Pha Ngan, I’m living on Ko Pha Ngan. Until further notice, my hut is my home.
Regular readers will be aware that my better, prettier-half, Leigh, joined me last month. I told it to her straight. “There is abso-bloody-lutely no way that I’m going travelling around South East Asia with you. It’s just not gonna happen! Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” she nodded, totally unconvinced.
I banged my beer bottle on the table and pumped up the volume. “DO I MAKE MYSELF CLEAR?”
“Crystal,” she seethed.
I really don’t like shouting at her but, sometimes, you’ve just got to put your foot down. Let her know who’s boss.
The first thing that greeted us in Malaysia was a big cheery sign at the border checkpoint. “BE FOREWARNED: DEATH TO DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER MALAYSIAN LAW.” The second thing that greeted us in Malaysia was a police roadblock. Of the 10 of us in the minivan, the policeman questioned only me.
“Why you going to Penang?” he asked.
“Because my stupid girlfriend is making me,” I replied.
“How long you stay in Penang?”
“As long as she makes me.”
“Then where you go?”
“Wherever she decides.”
“Hmmm... ok,” he nodded, handing me back my passport.
Formerly a British colony, Penang is an island, a state and a town off the coast of Malaysia. It’s connected to the mainland by a bridge but there’s also a ferry service to the capital Georgetown. We caught the ferry late at night, in the middle of a massive thunderstorm.
We found a cheap hotel in the centre of Georgetown. The service was impeccable. When I went down to reception to complain that our bedsheets were semen-stained, they lost no time in replacing them with bloodstained ones.
In the morning, we got up off the floor, showered several times, and then set out to explore. Predominantly populated by Chinese, but with a significant percentage of British and Malaysians, Georgetown is a vibrant, busy place. With so many cars, motorbikes and tuk-tuks zooming chaotically down the streets, we realised that the only way to get to the other side of the road was to have been born there.
Modern office blocks towered above dilapidated but charming hotels and arcades. The streets were thronged with hawker stands (the food was excellent), hookers and, surprisingly enough given Malaysia’s draconian drug laws, heroin addicts. They weren’t bothersome though. They just slept on the pavements, with hands outstretched.
For all of its myriad attractions, Georgetown wasn’t good for our relationship. We stayed there for three days and broke-up three times. Georgetown is also Bargaintown and she kept buying things. Every street stall we passed... we didn’t pass.
Eventually I had enough. “Look, will you please stop buying all this stuff!”
“It's my money!” she snapped. “What's the big deal?”
I was so annoyed, I almost blurted out the truth (“Because I need to borrow some”). Instead, using all of my strength, I opted for my one genuine grievance, “Because I have to carry it all – that’s why!" I sulked off into the distance long enough for her to realise the error of her ways.
When I turned around again, she was haggling with someone over the price of a wheeled-suitcase.
We took a night-train from Butterworth to Kuala Lumpur. The journey took nine hours but as an Iarnroid Eireann veteran, I’m well used to lengthy train journeys.
Kuala Lumpur is a big, modern, cosmopolitan capital with a wealth of sights, shops, restaurants and other tourist attractions. We found a four-star hotel for €25 a night.
A friend had asked if we could price a particular laptop for them. We went into a high-rise shopping centre near the hotel and headed for the information desk. “Excuse me,” Leigh said to the guy. “Are there any computer stores here?”
The guy smiled apologetically. “Not too many, I’m afraid,” he said. “Just floors 2, 3, 4, 6, 8, 9, 13, 14 and then floors 19 – 30. Oh, and the basement has a Sony Centre.”
After a couple of restful days in KL, we headed further south to Singapore on another night train. Singapore is a fine place. They fine you for fucking everything!
There are $500 - $1000 fines for smoking, jaywalking, picking flowers, littering, and even for leaving a public toilet unflushed. As for illegal drugs – “BE FOREWARNED: DEATH TO DRUG TRAFFICKERS UNDER SINGAPORE LAW.”
Chewing gum is also totally banned in Singapore and, while they don’t hang you for it, the penalties for possession are severe. While I generally have great respect for the laws of foreign countries, I found this one a little hard to swallow. So hard to swallow, in fact, that I shoved the four illicit packets of Wrigley’s Spearmint Extra up my arse instead.
Once we were safely through customs, I located a public convenience, and set to the task of retrieving my minty contraband. I was midway through this delicate procedure, when a man’s voice suddenly boomed out from the stall next to mine, “A-ha! Welcome to Singapore!”
I froze in mid-operation. Was I being busted by the Chewing Gum Police? But then again, maybe not. Maybe Singapore was the kind of town where strangers happily converse in public toilets. I knew I had to say something. “Em...thanks,” I nervously called over the dividing wall.
“Did you have a good trip?” the voice called back.
“Em... we took the night train from KL. It was... grand.”
There was silence for a few moments and then the voice asked, “Have you checked into your hotel yet?”
“Eh, no,” I replied, gently wrigleying out the last pack. “My girlfriend’s just gone to the internet café to see if she can book something.” There was no reply to this.”
The next time I heard the voice, it was speaking in an urgent whisper. “Look Jonathan, I’ll have to call you back. I’m sitting in a public toilet and there’s some bloody nutcase in the stall beside me.”
I don’t have a copy for reference, but somewhere in the pages of my egotistical, cliché-ridden, pretentious and premature autobiography, The Story Of O, I recall mentioning that my youthful dreams of being a successful author included sipping gin and tonics in Raffle’s Hotel. On my last day in Singapore, I turned a corner and suddenly realised that I was standing right in front of the world-famous establishment. Of course, I had to go in.
Ignoring the glares of the porters – who didn’t seem too impressed with my shorts and sweaty T-shirt – I made my way through the massive and beautifully furnished lobby, to a comfortable chaise-lounge in the Writer’s Bar. As a snooty-looking waiter approached, I realised that I was about to fulfil a childhood ambition. There I was, all grown-up, a published author and working journalist, about to order an ice-cold G&T in Raffle’s Hotel.
“Would you like a drink, sir?” the waiter asked, with his nose in the air.
It suddenly occurred to me that, while I definitely wanted a drink, I might not be able to afford one. I was running seriously low on funds. I asked to see a drinks menu and realised that not only could I not afford a G&T, I couldn’t even afford the T part of it.
I glanced at the watch I wasn’t wearing and said, “Oh, I’ve just realised I have an appointment elsewhere. Maybe I’ll come back later.”
The waiter smiled superciliously, obviously not fooled. “No problem, sir. The exit is that way.”
Still, revenge was mine. As I got up to leave, I gave him a conspiratorial look, reached into my pocket and asked in a low voice, “Would you like a stick of chewing gum?”
He looked around guiltily, nodded eagerly, and then put his hand out.
“There you go,” I said, with a wink. “Take the whole pack.”