Hitchhike to India legs 54 and 55: Surat Thani to somewhere in Malaysia
By
I could feel it happening; that slow, dilapidating decline into wasterdom. Sweating like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, spread eagled on my bed, naked the day I was born with a shitty fan failing to assist in healing my hangovers. “Good luck getting out of there” was one friend’s recent throwaway comment about my current location. I was to prove her wrong. With a gargantuan effort I put a cork in the bottle and book passage off this rock. It’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge.
3 quid a night shit-hole right next to the beach. Rubbish fan out of shot. I’ve stayed in worse.
I decided to take it easy, spending one full day getting back to the mainland – such was the enormity of the effort required. I took a slow ferry to Surat Thani – which is little more than a transport hub, and booked in as what appeared to be the only guest in a cheap hotel. The only highlight of the day was chatting to a couple of older full moon party refugees, who were clearly still on some kind of narcotic. They were on a 4 year anniversary holiday, with a budget of “only” $250 dollars per day. My daily budget is around a tenner. How the other half live eh?
This was a little better for 8 quid. Oh – and there’s my new hat I nearly left there.
City back alley. Cardboard hitch sign finding gold. Indeed I found a stack on the right.
…and make this – which says Malaysia. I think. Or masturbater.
In the morning I rise early to test the Thai hitch water once more – but it starts slow. It’s the cities – it’s always the damn cities – near impossible to get out of. Most traffic is local, and many people don’t understand that you don’t necessarily want a ride all the way to the destination. This is especially true considering my only sign for the day reads “Malaysia” in Thai. After walking for an hour or so a young lady pulls in and informs me that I’m going to confuse people. She takes me to a local store and obtains me some new cardboard – on which she suggests I write the road numbers. This I duly do – and she’s got me a lift in seconds. Even when they can’t give me a ride themselves – they’re abundantly helpful. Still – nearly two hours in since I left base and no real progress made could potentially screw me over for the rest of the day.
Hastily made road signs. For roads.
Prior to this stroke of fortune, a couple of incidents of note occurred. I’m getting a lot of attention from gaggles of school kids on their way to class, waving and calling hellos from across the street. I make a wrong turn and have to double back on myself, when I come across one of the strangest sights I’ve seen. Passing by their school at what I can only conclude was the morning assembly, thousands of uniformed kids are standing in row upon perfect row, singing along to what I imagine is the Thai national anthem, belting out over a tannoy. I’m desperate to sneak a picture, but Johnny Foreigner lurking outside a school gate taking snaps of kids probably isn’t a good idea. The area is thick with security too, but I stand and admire the educational army for a moment, before desperate times force me to move on. Once again the local cuisine comes calling.
Look it’s not my fault dear readers. I can’t seem to find cheap, healthy food that doesn’t involve curry or a 7/11 toasted sandwich. And this is a warts and all account so you’re gonna have to go through it with me. Working my way out-of-town on a dusty carriageway, suddenly my recurring stomach problems stabs me in the gut and I double over in pain. It’s excruciating, and with no ride in sight it’s beginning to look very bleak. I give it more than a moment’s consideration to turn back to the safety and comfort of a hotel room and a flushing toilet to try again in the morning.
But I stumble on and into a roadside cafe to a lot of unwanted attention. For the love of Christ not now. They don’t serve tea (who doesn’t serve tea?!) so I buy a bottle of water in exchange for use of the restroom. This is of course a filthy hole in the floor, but similar to Renton’s experience in Trainspotting – anything at this stage will do. Of course it’s only after I free myself of the harrowing torment that I realise I’ve no loo paper. This just couldn’t get any worse. I anxiously root around in my pockets for anything that will serve – and pull out a bunch of paper money.
No! I didn’t! Honestly! Under the circumstances, doing something like that with the king’s face would cause heinous offence – and wind me up in jail. I opt instead to shuffle gingerly back to the cafe, subtly rob a wad of napkins, and shuffle back. Of course in a land where you stick out like a sore thumb, anonymity is unlikely, and every pair of eyes in the place watches me do it. Still – I like to think nobody had any clue what atrocities I had just committed. They can discover it later when I’ve successfully fled the scene of the crime. I hope they don’t do DNA testing.
Waited an age here before a very kind lady pointed out my glaring error.
Fast forward to the point after that nice young lady helped me out and with my new sign I’m instantly picked up by another nice young lady. Before Thailand – I’d only ever been given a lift by one woman and that was all the way back in Slovenia. I must look really shady. Probably pick me out for the sexual predator pest that I am. But here in Thailand, I’ve had three already! Things are looking up! This one speaks wonderful English, and can take me to the first highway. Once out of the city – it’s a piece of cake.
Right on highway 44 – she knew the score.
Rides come thick and fast. The first is an excited, young truck driver who can’t speak a word of English – but is desperately trying to do so. “I NOO INNNGLISH! I NO SPEAK IIINNNGLISH!” He beams and jumps up and down in his seat. I’m laughing all the way to the crossroads – and the main event – highway 41 direct to the border.
Facebook this. No idea what it’s about.
Ride three of the day comes courtesy of another pair of truckers. After waiting for around 10 minutes (a lifetime in Thai hitch standards) these guys can take me to a place called Hat Yai – which is the turn off for the border road. Unfortunately – and something I still can’t seem to learn – that although these long haul drivers can take you a fair way, you’re sacrificing speed for distance. They make several stops too, and the guy behind the wheel speaks the kind of Thai that wouldn’t even be understood by Thais. Still, hours into the journey and with daylight thinning, they drop me at an intersection, a grin showing missing teeth and jabbing a grubby finger in the direction of Malaysia. The border is within touching distance at least.
One of many “Wats”. A roadside temple.
Oh Thailand, how I love thee. I cross the intersection, hold out my sign, and another lady driver pulls in. This time it’s the comfort and air con luxury of a Toyota Hilux – vehicle of choice for ISIS. What’s good enough for them is good enough for me, and I relax as she throttles it up and we make the border in no time. Cheerio Thailand – for now. Keep yourself warm for me.
Cheeky border snap. Could get into trouble for this.
I cross with little trouble – save for some confusion of where to go on the other side. Added to this, I’m more than a little nervous about them checking my stuff. You hear all the horror stories of unwary travelers unwillingly being utilized as drug mules, so to be on the safe side I give my pack a going over. I don’t want to end up on the end of a rope.
Malaysia. Don’t do drugs.
I sail across and park my butt some distance from the concourse. Light is well and truly leaving me now, and time is not my friend. Malaysia is also an unknown quantity regarding hitchhiking – but I needn’t have worried. Barely a minute has gone by when Andy, another long distance trucker, pulls in. Speaking perfect English, he’s not going to where I’ve originally chosen to spend the night – he’s going further. I take the risk and stick with him, and after a wonderful natter to his daughter over the phone (they offer to put me up in their house – but he’s not finishing until late and I’m shattered), 130 km over the border and he’s dropped me at a cheap roadside motel. With such good fortune, I make the decision to strike for Kuala Lumpur when the cockerel crows, and rest my weary bones in country number 59.
My new map – which for some reason people struggle to understand. I’ve come to the conclusion people around the world are spatially challenged.
I rise late, deciding that at a mere 400 odd kilometres away this is going to be a cinch – and indeed it is, but not without its tribulations. Breakfast consists of a runny egg on bread – which in light of recent events I hope doesn’t come back to haunt me. Without even holding out my hastily cobbled together KL sign, a young Indian guy waves me over. He can take me to the next toll station – easy pickings.
Toll booths = paradise.
He speaks perfect English – this – I was to find – was to become the norm in Malaysia. Everyone speaks English. EVERYONE. Cleaning ladies, truck, taxi and bus drivers, workmen, waiters and shop attendants. Statistically the people I always look for when gauging the general grasp of English in a country. To my shame, I still haven’t done my usual boning up of the basics of the local lingo – but there’s just no need at all.
Waited about two minutes here. I like this country.
Moments later I’m in another ride, again having a full conversation – and my experience hitching here continues to get even better. Pulling alongside an 18 wheeler, my current driver actually flags down the behemoth transport while doing 50mph in tandem. To my utter astonishment, he slows to a stop and out jumps the driver for a (surely dangerous) highway hard shoulder photo shoot. Of course my new driver speaks English as well, and can take me all the way to Kuala Lumpur. I scarce can believe my luck. I think Malaysia might just beat Thailand in the hitch stakes – and that’s saying something.
Standing in front of rides two and three, respectively.
But it’s never THAT easy is it dear readers. Course not. Where would the story be?! I’d bore you to tears if not for my bowel movements and drinking habits! Once again I realise my error as my driver stays off the main highway. This – he claims – is because he gets tired from the monotony of the motorway, and prefers the differing back roads. Hauling an 18 wheeled, three-metre-wide trailer an alternative route is never going to break the sound barrier. Leaving base camp at around 10 am, I’m informed we’ll make KL at 5 this afternoon. It’s going to take about 6 hours to travel what should take 3. All this in a cab with broken air con, and only one windscreen wiper that worked – on my side of the vehicle. This was to become something of a problem a short time later.
Mile after mile of Malaysian jungle.
I settle in for the long haul. It’s all about the journey and not the destination anyway, right? He’s a funny guy to chat to, and I enjoy my slow view of “real” Malaysia from a vantage point. Getting to see something of the country and not just endless concrete is actually very beneficial. He pulls into a road side cafe so I can eat – and I don’t even give it a second thought of leaving my stuff in the cab as I do so. This I would never have done previously – but such is my confidence that people are good – it’s never an issue.
However – he’s brought back a six pack of beer and he hopes I don’t mind that he drinks it to keep himself awake. Cracking one open, and rattling through the stubbies quick-fire, it isn’t long before he’s tipsy – but thankfully I can only tell from him becoming more talkative and not his driving ability. Then a biblical monsoon strikes. If you remember – only my windscreen wiper is operating. I’m in a huge truck with a boozed up driver, ploughing through a field of water, and he can’t see out of his side. But it’s all fun and games isn’t it?! What could possibly go wrong?
We’ve gone on holiday by mistake…
I’m strangely nonplussed. Since leaving the shit show road nightmare that is Kyrgyzstan, I’ve got supreme faith in even the naffest drivers anywhere else – which my current host is not. Although it’s taken an age, He leaves me safely at an outskirt bus station, gives me advice on how to get to the city centre, and then is on his merry way. Now all I have to do is figure out the transport system.
Bus stop. Sure enough – it worked.
But I needn’t have worried a jot. Number 772 comes round the corner as advised, and the (obviously) English speaking bus driver informs me that he does indeed go through Chinatown. An hour later and I’m at my hostel door, slap bang in the centre of Kuala Lumpur. Moments after a terrific and super cheap feed, I’ve purchased a new flag sticker for my guitar (the ease of which I base entire perceptions towards a country). Malaysia – I think you and me are going to get along just fine.
Two days, 8 rides, 845 km. I’ve spent about 20 quid in total, and enjoyed some of – if not THE best – hitchhiking I’ve ever done. I book in for five nights in a cheap but comfortable hostel and crash out. Tomorrow I’m going to get my crap computer fixed and explore the shit out of Kuala Lumpur. After that – I just might have a beer. You deserve it Malaysia; you deserve it.
Hitchhike to India legs 54 and 55: Surat Thani to somewhere in Malaysia
I could feel it happening; that slow, dilapidating decline into wasterdom. Sweating like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs, spread eagled on my bed, naked the day I was born with a shitty fan failing to assist in healing my hangovers. “Good luck getting out of there” was one friend’s recent throwaway comment about my current location. I was to prove her wrong. With a gargantuan effort I put a cork in the bottle and book passage off this rock. It’s time to get the fuck out of Dodge.
3 quid a night shit-hole right next to the beach. Rubbish fan out of shot. I’ve stayed in worse.
I decided to take it easy, spending one full day getting back to the mainland – such was the enormity of the effort required. I took a slow ferry to Surat Thani – which is little more than a transport hub, and booked in as what appeared to be the only guest in a cheap hotel. The only highlight of the day was chatting to a couple of older full moon party refugees, who were clearly still on some kind of narcotic. They were on a 4 year anniversary holiday, with a budget of “only” $250 dollars per day. My daily budget is around a tenner. How the other half live eh?
This was a little better for 8 quid. Oh – and there’s my new hat I nearly left there.
City back alley. Cardboard hitch sign finding gold. Indeed I found a stack on the right.
…and make this – which says Malaysia. I think. Or masturbater.
In the morning I rise early to test the Thai hitch water once more – but it starts slow. It’s the cities – it’s always the damn cities – near impossible to get out of. Most traffic is local, and many people don’t understand that you don’t necessarily want a ride all the way to the destination. This is especially true considering my only sign for the day reads “Malaysia” in Thai. After walking for an hour or so a young lady pulls in and informs me that I’m going to confuse people. She takes me to a local store and obtains me some new cardboard – on which she suggests I write the road numbers. This I duly do – and she’s got me a lift in seconds. Even when they can’t give me a ride themselves – they’re abundantly helpful. Still – nearly two hours in since I left base and no real progress made could potentially screw me over for the rest of the day.
Hastily made road signs. For roads.
Prior to this stroke of fortune, a couple of incidents of note occurred. I’m getting a lot of attention from gaggles of school kids on their way to class, waving and calling hellos from across the street. I make a wrong turn and have to double back on myself, when I come across one of the strangest sights I’ve seen. Passing by their school at what I can only conclude was the morning assembly, thousands of uniformed kids are standing in row upon perfect row, singing along to what I imagine is the Thai national anthem, belting out over a tannoy. I’m desperate to sneak a picture, but Johnny Foreigner lurking outside a school gate taking snaps of kids probably isn’t a good idea. The area is thick with security too, but I stand and admire the educational army for a moment, before desperate times force me to move on. Once again the local cuisine comes calling.
Look it’s not my fault dear readers. I can’t seem to find cheap, healthy food that doesn’t involve curry or a 7/11 toasted sandwich. And this is a warts and all account so you’re gonna have to go through it with me. Working my way out-of-town on a dusty carriageway, suddenly my recurring stomach problems stabs me in the gut and I double over in pain. It’s excruciating, and with no ride in sight it’s beginning to look very bleak. I give it more than a moment’s consideration to turn back to the safety and comfort of a hotel room and a flushing toilet to try again in the morning.
But I stumble on and into a roadside cafe to a lot of unwanted attention. For the love of Christ not now. They don’t serve tea (who doesn’t serve tea?!) so I buy a bottle of water in exchange for use of the restroom. This is of course a filthy hole in the floor, but similar to Renton’s experience in Trainspotting – anything at this stage will do. Of course it’s only after I free myself of the harrowing torment that I realise I’ve no loo paper. This just couldn’t get any worse. I anxiously root around in my pockets for anything that will serve – and pull out a bunch of paper money.
No! I didn’t! Honestly! Under the circumstances, doing something like that with the king’s face would cause heinous offence – and wind me up in jail. I opt instead to shuffle gingerly back to the cafe, subtly rob a wad of napkins, and shuffle back. Of course in a land where you stick out like a sore thumb, anonymity is unlikely, and every pair of eyes in the place watches me do it. Still – I like to think nobody had any clue what atrocities I had just committed. They can discover it later when I’ve successfully fled the scene of the crime. I hope they don’t do DNA testing.
Waited an age here before a very kind lady pointed out my glaring error.
Fast forward to the point after that nice young lady helped me out and with my new sign I’m instantly picked up by another nice young lady. Before Thailand – I’d only ever been given a lift by one woman and that was all the way back in Slovenia. I must look really shady. Probably pick me out for the sexual predator pest that I am. But here in Thailand, I’ve had three already! Things are looking up! This one speaks wonderful English, and can take me to the first highway. Once out of the city – it’s a piece of cake.
Right on highway 44 – she knew the score.
Rides come thick and fast. The first is an excited, young truck driver who can’t speak a word of English – but is desperately trying to do so. “I NOO INNNGLISH! I NO SPEAK IIINNNGLISH!” He beams and jumps up and down in his seat. I’m laughing all the way to the crossroads – and the main event – highway 41 direct to the border.
Facebook this. No idea what it’s about.
Ride three of the day comes courtesy of another pair of truckers. After waiting for around 10 minutes (a lifetime in Thai hitch standards) these guys can take me to a place called Hat Yai – which is the turn off for the border road. Unfortunately – and something I still can’t seem to learn – that although these long haul drivers can take you a fair way, you’re sacrificing speed for distance. They make several stops too, and the guy behind the wheel speaks the kind of Thai that wouldn’t even be understood by Thais. Still, hours into the journey and with daylight thinning, they drop me at an intersection, a grin showing missing teeth and jabbing a grubby finger in the direction of Malaysia. The border is within touching distance at least.
One of many “Wats”. A roadside temple.
Oh Thailand, how I love thee. I cross the intersection, hold out my sign, and another lady driver pulls in. This time it’s the comfort and air con luxury of a Toyota Hilux – vehicle of choice for ISIS. What’s good enough for them is good enough for me, and I relax as she throttles it up and we make the border in no time. Cheerio Thailand – for now. Keep yourself warm for me.
Cheeky border snap. Could get into trouble for this.
I cross with little trouble – save for some confusion of where to go on the other side. Added to this, I’m more than a little nervous about them checking my stuff. You hear all the horror stories of unwary travelers unwillingly being utilized as drug mules, so to be on the safe side I give my pack a going over. I don’t want to end up on the end of a rope.
Malaysia. Don’t do drugs.
I sail across and park my butt some distance from the concourse. Light is well and truly leaving me now, and time is not my friend. Malaysia is also an unknown quantity regarding hitchhiking – but I needn’t have worried. Barely a minute has gone by when Andy, another long distance trucker, pulls in. Speaking perfect English, he’s not going to where I’ve originally chosen to spend the night – he’s going further. I take the risk and stick with him, and after a wonderful natter to his daughter over the phone (they offer to put me up in their house – but he’s not finishing until late and I’m shattered), 130 km over the border and he’s dropped me at a cheap roadside motel. With such good fortune, I make the decision to strike for Kuala Lumpur when the cockerel crows, and rest my weary bones in country number 59.
My new map – which for some reason people struggle to understand. I’ve come to the conclusion people around the world are spatially challenged.
I rise late, deciding that at a mere 400 odd kilometres away this is going to be a cinch – and indeed it is, but not without its tribulations. Breakfast consists of a runny egg on bread – which in light of recent events I hope doesn’t come back to haunt me. Without even holding out my hastily cobbled together KL sign, a young Indian guy waves me over. He can take me to the next toll station – easy pickings.
Toll booths = paradise.
He speaks perfect English – this – I was to find – was to become the norm in Malaysia. Everyone speaks English. EVERYONE. Cleaning ladies, truck, taxi and bus drivers, workmen, waiters and shop attendants. Statistically the people I always look for when gauging the general grasp of English in a country. To my shame, I still haven’t done my usual boning up of the basics of the local lingo – but there’s just no need at all.
Waited about two minutes here. I like this country.
Moments later I’m in another ride, again having a full conversation – and my experience hitching here continues to get even better. Pulling alongside an 18 wheeler, my current driver actually flags down the behemoth transport while doing 50mph in tandem. To my utter astonishment, he slows to a stop and out jumps the driver for a (surely dangerous) highway hard shoulder photo shoot. Of course my new driver speaks English as well, and can take me all the way to Kuala Lumpur. I scarce can believe my luck. I think Malaysia might just beat Thailand in the hitch stakes – and that’s saying something.
Standing in front of rides two and three, respectively.
But it’s never THAT easy is it dear readers. Course not. Where would the story be?! I’d bore you to tears if not for my bowel movements and drinking habits! Once again I realise my error as my driver stays off the main highway. This – he claims – is because he gets tired from the monotony of the motorway, and prefers the differing back roads. Hauling an 18 wheeled, three-metre-wide trailer an alternative route is never going to break the sound barrier. Leaving base camp at around 10 am, I’m informed we’ll make KL at 5 this afternoon. It’s going to take about 6 hours to travel what should take 3. All this in a cab with broken air con, and only one windscreen wiper that worked – on my side of the vehicle. This was to become something of a problem a short time later.
Mile after mile of Malaysian jungle.
I settle in for the long haul. It’s all about the journey and not the destination anyway, right? He’s a funny guy to chat to, and I enjoy my slow view of “real” Malaysia from a vantage point. Getting to see something of the country and not just endless concrete is actually very beneficial. He pulls into a road side cafe so I can eat – and I don’t even give it a second thought of leaving my stuff in the cab as I do so. This I would never have done previously – but such is my confidence that people are good – it’s never an issue.
However – he’s brought back a six pack of beer and he hopes I don’t mind that he drinks it to keep himself awake. Cracking one open, and rattling through the stubbies quick-fire, it isn’t long before he’s tipsy – but thankfully I can only tell from him becoming more talkative and not his driving ability. Then a biblical monsoon strikes. If you remember – only my windscreen wiper is operating. I’m in a huge truck with a boozed up driver, ploughing through a field of water, and he can’t see out of his side. But it’s all fun and games isn’t it?! What could possibly go wrong?
We’ve gone on holiday by mistake…
I’m strangely nonplussed. Since leaving the shit show road nightmare that is Kyrgyzstan, I’ve got supreme faith in even the naffest drivers anywhere else – which my current host is not. Although it’s taken an age, He leaves me safely at an outskirt bus station, gives me advice on how to get to the city centre, and then is on his merry way. Now all I have to do is figure out the transport system.
Bus stop. Sure enough – it worked.
But I needn’t have worried a jot. Number 772 comes round the corner as advised, and the (obviously) English speaking bus driver informs me that he does indeed go through Chinatown. An hour later and I’m at my hostel door, slap bang in the centre of Kuala Lumpur. Moments after a terrific and super cheap feed, I’ve purchased a new flag sticker for my guitar (the ease of which I base entire perceptions towards a country). Malaysia – I think you and me are going to get along just fine.
Two days, 8 rides, 845 km. I’ve spent about 20 quid in total, and enjoyed some of – if not THE best – hitchhiking I’ve ever done. I book in for five nights in a cheap but comfortable hostel and crash out. Tomorrow I’m going to get my crap computer fixed and explore the shit out of Kuala Lumpur. After that – I just might have a beer. You deserve it Malaysia; you deserve it.