Cracker by Damian Christie

When I think about my life as an old man, I have a few different versions of how I see that going. One involves a superyacht in international waters; another a small beach house in a remote area up North; and a third sees me holding court from a large leather lounge chair in the Northern Club or some similarly ivy-clad building, sporting a big red nose and a scotch on the go. “Oh Sir Damian,” they implore, “tell us another one.”

As improbably – and in all likelihood, completely hideous – the latter vision might be, the Government’s decision to return to titular honours make it at least possible. (Actually in my pretend future it’s ‘Lord Christie’, but I’m not sure how that relates to whether or not we have a titular honours system in New Zealand).

I had to go around the streets yesterday to do some vox pops for Back Benches – and while I certainly make no claim as to the scientific accuracy of a survey where I simply interview the first ten people willing to talk to me as I walk from TVNZ down towards Les Mills – it seemed nine out of the ten people were in favour of the move.

I don’t think there’s any doubt more people understand the basics of a Knighthood – i.e. that the person becomes a Sir or Dame because they’ve done something special – than are familiar with the system we’ve had for the past nine years. But I don’t think you’d find more than one in a hundred people who could actually tell you the designations of the New Zealand Order of Merit in order, whether before 2000, last week, or after these latest changes. The point is, someone can have any string of important letters after their name, but unless they’re Sir John or Dame Jane, we don’t tend to know, and we don’t tend to care. And if knowing and caring are two things we’re trying to achieve in awarding honours to people (because as far as I’m aware, there’s no cash prize or other reason to want them), then going back to Knights and Dames makes sense.

I mean, personally (and my Northern Club fantasy aside), I don’t give a toss what you’re entitled to call yourself. With or without the ‘Sir’, Bob Jones is still a self-absorbed cantankerous old scroat, who only gets any airtime at all because the media know he’ll say something shocking – he’s like a geriatric Howard Stern. And don’t get me started on that squash player who’s sold out to more insurance providers, deodorants brands and vitamin supplement companies than I can count. But I’m sure neither would fizz particularly if we simply addressed them by their first name – and I’d say the same thing about our current and immediately former Prime Ministers too. Someone told me once that Jim Bolger quite enjoyed his time as US Ambassador, because over there once you’ve been President you’re ‘Mister President’ for life, and obviously they assumed the same about our Prime Ministers. But I think most of us don’t tend to stand on tradition. We’re too small – I’ve blogged about it previously – and in a country where any of us can bump into the PM walking down the road, it’s all a bit silly to start bowing and scraping.

One thing that does interest me though – why now? I mean, the “Why National?” question is pretty obvious isn’t it? How many successful businessmen (intentionally gender-specific) and former high ranking politicians with influence on or in the party have been waiting for the Queen’s Birthday as though it was their own? Who needs fairy bread and pass the parcel, let’s get the sword out and start tapping some deep pockets on the shoulder. If I were a betting man, I’d say Shipley and Brash would be in with a grin – maybe not this year, maybe that’s too transparent even for a National Government still early enough in its term not to give a fuck about public perception. And maybe that’s the answer to the why now? Sure, the economy’s tanking, unemployment is tracking upwards and the Government’s books aren’t looking that hot, but with a minimum of three Queen’s Birthdays until a change of Government, might as well get in there early and keep the backers happy, eh? Whatd’ya reckon, Sir Mark?

After the relative cold of Chiang Mai and the North of Thailand, it was nice to hit the Southern shores again, where life just seems that much more relaxed.

Powder blue surgeon fish - kinda like Dory but not quite

After a bit of googling, and a few phone calls, I’d booked myself in on a liveaboard dive trip around the Similan Islands, with a company called Wicked Diving. I’d chosen Wicked, because they seemed to have more of an environmental aspect to their operation – organic sheets and towels, biodegradable soaps and detergents, recycling, rechargeable batteries, that sort of thing – and while we were on the trip we spent one afternoon picking up refuse from a beach, and one dive cleaning up the reef. [Look out for a feature on Public Address Radio in the next week or so about the difficulties and benefits of trying to run a green dive operation in Thailand.]

Honeycomb moray eel

The Similans is a group of nine islands, a few hours boat ride from the mainland. It’s a national park – both above and below the water – and camping is only allowed on two of the nine islands.

I’d already done a couple of dives on Koh Phi Phi – see pictures in a previous blog – and while it had its moments, it didn’t quite scratch the itch I had developed from all these years of diving in our less-than-tropical waters. From the first dive at the Similans I was sated – although like good crack, only temporarily – the water, the flora, the fauna, the topography; everything was incredible.

Clown triggerfish

Fortunately I had eight more dives to suck up as much as I could over the next three days. The variety, particularly of the undersea landscapes (underseascapes?) was vast. From huge round boulders, protecting intimate anemone gardens – peering over the boulders was like watching a small, fishy soap opera – to gently descending coral-filled slopes and massive pinnacles. Each dive bought new treats, from lionfish and honeycomb morays, to turtles and triggerfish.

Turtle, of some description

Life on the boat was about as good as it gets. A sample timetable:

0630 Get up (okay, this was the only struggle)
0645 Eat light breakfast, some toast, bananas
0700 First dive of the day
0830 Full cooked breakfast
0930 Laze around in the early morning sun
1030 Second dive of the day
1200 Full cooked lunch
1230 Laze around in the midday sun – snorkel or swim
1430 Third dive of the day
1600 Laze around in the afternoon sun, crack open the first beer
1800 Full cooked dinner
1900 Drinks, card games, enjoy the evening sun…

A Nudibranch, or type of sea-slug. Some divers go crazy over finding these little guys

Yeah, so after a couple days of this I was pretty happy. On day two I did my first night dive, which was something I’d been vaguely apprehensive about for a couple of years. As it turned out, it was fine, and when we turned off our torches and swam through the luminescence, green sparks flying off our fins, it was magic. Although clearly some people found it a little less relaxing; when we turned our torches back on, one of our group was about six metres above the rest of us (when you hold your breath in fear, you tend to ascend quite quickly).

A Manta ray, or "devilfish"

On day three we left the Similans and head an hour or so north to Koh Bon. It’s a beautiful site, but there’s one main reason people dive here – Manta Rays. As with any diving there are no guarantees, and it was a little early in the year (they’re more common in April and May), but we had our fingers crossed. No one was allowed to utter the words though, and instead we all hoped for “Blackbirds”.

Mantas are the biggest of the rays (also known as ‘Devil Rays’) and can grow over seven metres from wingtip to wingtip, although between three and five metres is more common (and still farking huge). Everyone has different things they dream of seeing underwater, from rare sea slugs, to whale sharks, but for many, Manta Rays are it.

This was one of the smaller ones...

So as you can guess, our first dive of the third morning, we saw one. Back on the boat, all of us were buzzing. Many had never seen one before – certainly not the woman doing her Open Water course, for whom this was her very first qualified dive (ruined for life?), nor me, nor as it turned out our uber-experienced dive leader, Thomas.

The second dive at Koh Bon, half past ten, and we struck black gold again. This time we saw four Mantas in the one dive – three at once. I was busily taking photos of one Manta, a few metres ahead of me, when I looked down and the ground had turned black – another was gliding by only a metre or so beneath my feet, while another cruised over my right shoulder.

Bannerfish

You can see the photos, you can look up videos, but nothing can compare to being in the water with these things. The biggest we saw was probably five metres from tip to tip; they cut an awesome figure through the water, a unique silhouette as the swim away, almost out of sight, and then bank in the distance, coming in for another close pass. That experience alone justified every hour of training, every piece of equipment I’ve bought, every dollar I’ve spent learning how to dive. It was, quite simply, one of the best days of my life.

A school of juvenile barracuda

Back on the boat, motoring home to the mainland, everyone was in a dream. It reminded me of the back room of a certain nightclub I used to frequent in the late nineties – people lounging around on couches, huge, stupid grins on their faces. We were blissed out on the Mantas, and the next morning there was only one thing everyone had been dreaming about.

Best. Dive. Ever.

(Thanks everyone at Wicked Diving for an unforgettable trip, and Ben and Thomas for their skills as dive leaders).

"So it seems our journey together ends here, my friend," said my travelling companion Bas, managing to sound like a Dutch James Bond supervillain. But no laser beam was about to saw through my genitalia; we were instead standing next to Bas's motorbike, staring at a flat tyre.

We were 20km south of Mae Hong Son, in Northern Thailand. I had hired a motorbike the previous day in a wee town called Pai, and rode the 120 or so k over a beautiful mountain pass to visit the long-neck hill tribes on the Burmese border. Bas was accompanying me part of the way back to check out a waterfall. I dubbed him to the top of a hill where he could get cellphone reception, and left him to it. Three hours later, after a repairman was sent out with a faulty pump, he was back on the road.

Muay Thai fight, Chiang Mai

Despite, or maybe a little bit because of such incidents, hiring a bike and crossing the mountain pass to Mae Hong Son feels like the first time I've had an adventure this trip. I'm far from the first to do it, probably not even the first today, but I didn't see any other falang biking on the road north, which is really what gives it that sense. Air-con minibus seems the way most prefer to do it, and having done both, I gladly risk the puncture again.

Before you get this sort of Easy Rider picture in your head, I should point out that that there were no big bikes available for hire, not even a 250cc beast. Which in retrospect was probably for the best; having only ridden my Vespa around Grey Lynn, I didn't think this was the best time to be learning to ride a motorbike. So I ended up tootling about on a 125cc automatic Honda scooter - pretty much de riguer around these parts. Combined with the steep and constantly winding mountain roads, the underpowered automatic stretched 120km over about 2 and a half hours. But I was in no hurry.

Watching the Fight, Chiang Mai
A rescheduled dive trip to the Similan islands meant I had to cut my time up north short, but one night was enough to look around the small, wintry northern town of Mae Hong Son, and a few hours was enough time to visit the long-necks of Paduang. I'm not being derogatory; this is how they refer to themselves, or at least what it says on all the signs say on the way out to their village.

Paduang Village, Northern Thailand

I had some pretty below-par 'authentic village' visits while in Laos, so I wasn't expecting too much from this one. Sure enough, 35km out of MHS and only a few k's short of the Burmese border, the Paduang village at Nai Soi again featured a succession of stalls running along its main track, selling authentic crafts, such as key-rings and magnets. Like the cows in that Gary Larson cartoon, I wonder if these long-necks detatch their coils as soon as we've left - contrary to popular belief, their neck muscles don't atrophy and cause suffocation of they remove the coils - but short of a dawn raid, I guess I'll never know.

Paduang "Long-neck" woman, Thai/Burma border

The dawn raid phrase is fitting; these Paduang come from Burma, and this 'authentic village' is really just an income generating clip-on to the refugee camp next door. Later that night I get talking to two Thais in a bar, one of whom works for the UN looking at human rights aspects in the camp. Only the Thai government doesn't call it a refugee camp, she tells me, it's a 'temporary resettlement shelter'. I guess that avoids certain obligations required if using the term 'refugee'. Some of these Paduang have been temporarily resettled here for more than twenty years, and it looks like they won't be going anywhere soon – I'm told the Thai government doesn't consider the long-necks appropriate candidates for integration into the refugee community internationally – but more on this later, including some rather interesting developments.

I buy trinkets at almost every stall just to give them some money - an entrance fee is paid at the start of the village, but I don't think much of this gets to the people inside – and also to assuage the guilt of being a voyuer here. The few other tourists who have travelled out here follow behind me, and don't seem to share the same concerns, snapping away but keeping their wallets firmly in their pockets.

Mae Hong Son, Northern Thailand

Travelling around, money in Thailand seems to be, I don't know, a fluid, or at least inconsistent concept? You'll find yourself bargaining with someone, and maybe walking away, over five cents. You'll pay $4 for a bus ride to a town some four hours away, but $5 to the tuk-tuk driver to take you to the bus station. Everything that can have a concession attached to it, does – whether it’s a waterfall a k or so off the main road, or a cave, or even a beach. It’s a reminder how good we have things back in New Zealand

The majority of the Thai/non-Thai relationships - both short and longer term – that I have seen also appear to have a fiscal basis. I’m sure there are genuine relationships, and I have seen at least one, but generally, you're either a quick buck for an hour’s work or a ticket to somewhere better – even if people like to kid themselves otherwise. One night at a bar in Chiang Mai, a fat old toothless Eastender spits boorishly about how he's the best thing to ever happen to his young 'girlfriend' and I find myself hoping he's the next victim of the credit crunch.

Island #8, Similan Islands, Southern Thailand

But it’s not something I dwell on. Dry land can be ugly at times, but there’s one big, blue, wobbly place I know I can go to clear my head – so I journey back down south for a three day liveaboard trip to the Similan Islands. More on that next time – but here’s a preview of a few pics, one of which shows one of the most incredible experiences of my life to date. Can you guess which it is?

I fell on hard times for a bit, and when I couldn't make the rent, I agreed to have sex with my landlord. Strangely, it left me feeling empowered.

It was an odd admission from someone I'd only known for a couple of hours, but travelling does that to people – there’s a degree of anonymity and freedom from consequence that comes with telling your secrets to someone you’ll never have to deal with again. This was from an Englishman, who I'd met at a bar at 6am (I'd just got off a bus, my guesthouse wasn't open until 10am, what else was I going to do?). Later that evening, another tourist, an American based in Vietnam, detailed his history of Venereal Disease in Asia 1980-2009, rattling off diseases as though they were stops on a tour.

Railay Beach, Southern Thailand

My own tour, now into its fourth week has been refreshing free of either VD (I refuse to call them STIs – you want to scare kids safe with awful terms, not try and play it down), nor have I had to put out to pay the rent. I’ve been in Chiang Mai for the past few days, my girlfriend having just gone back to NZ for work, and my room here costs 150 baht a night – about $8 – so all things being equal I shouldn’t have to go on the game anytime soon.

Monks collecting their morning Alms, Luang Prabang, Laos

Aside from their frankness, the other thing I’ve noticed about travel stories, both here and before I left, is that they are essentially the opposite of fishing stories. Rather than the fish getting bigger, everything gets scaled down. “I caught the train to Vietnam, cost me 25 cents, then stayed in a mansion for $5 a week and had massages every day for a buck,” that sort of thing. Things are definitely cheaper here in Chiang Mai than elsewhere, and being on my own now I tend to live a bit cheaper, but the money still goes.

We had a competition to get photos of the most people on one bike. This is 'fivesies'.

Thus far on the trip I’ve been to Laos – there’s a well-worn tourist path that goes from the capital Vientiane, to backpacker-haven Vang Vien, where drunk tourists people float on inner tubes down the river while being plyed with alcohol at makeshift bars along the way, then up to the quaint-in-the-same-way-as-Arrowtown, French-influenced Luang Prabang. From there we went to Siem Reap in Cambodia, so I could check out Angkor Wat, archeological wet dream of mine for some time now, and then four days at the gorgeous Railay Beach, in Southern Thailand before starting this solo leg. I have no solid plans from here on in, but I’m likely to head further north to Chiang Rai and Mae Hoon Son before fitting in some more diving down south again.

Bayon temple, Angkor Wat, Cambodia

Don’t get your violins out or anything, but traveling South East Asia can at times be exhausting. Particularly in places such as Bangkok, it’s hard to find a single minute when someone’s not trying to sell you something, take your for a ride – literally and figuratively – or just straight out scam you. I wouldn’t want to upset my good friends at Asia NZ, but if you come to South East Asia as a tourist, you will be ripped off any number of times.

I think this is called Chinese Chess, but who knows, Siem Reap, Cambodia

It might be the Tuk Tuk driver who insists on taking you where he wants to go (usually some store where he gets a commission) rather than where you want to; the kindly old lady who tells you that the markets you’re trying to get to are closed today – a special Thai holiday – but by chance there’s an even better one she can helpfully get you to; even the official-looking guy standing outside the temple telling you it’s a Thai-only day (but you really must see the temple across the road!), when you can clearly see tourists for Africa wandering about inside. You learn to keep your hands in your pockets lest you accept something that’s handed to you and have to pay for it, such as $10 insense sticks at Angkor Wat, or $20 oranges to feed the monks collecting their morning alms. You learn to close your ears and your eyes to the constant offers. Unfortunately you start to automatically mistrust anyone who approaches you.

Little boy selling birds for release at the Buddha caves, Laos

In places like Chiang Mai though, things are more relaxed, and the only offers one gets with any regularity are of a late-night variety (it’s very hard as a single white male not to look like a sex-pat, even if I’m not fat, middle-aged and English). It’s tempting just to stay here for a few more days, take some time out from the 12-hour bus rides which have been a feature of every third or fourth day thus far. I tell ya, this being on holiday is a tiring business.

Guess who I found?

*The title of this post comes from a sign outside a travel agency touting various treks. But I like the idea of a shop that only welcomes interesting people.

Diving off Koh Phi Phi (of 'The Beach' fame)

I had wondered whether I could get to the end of the year without blogging. It’s not like there’s been nothing to talk about – since my last post an election has been fought and decided, there have been terrorist attacks, APEC, new Governments and in my case, an ad-hominem attack from a pompous and, by all accounts, increasingly mad old rent-a-quote.

I almost blogged when I was on tenterhooks over the protests at Bangkok airport. No, I have no particular interest in the democratic process there, but I was sitting on two return tickets, no travel insurance (I’d wanted to read the fine print before signing up) and watching my summer plans disappear in a revolution fought between two groups wielding different-coloured hand clappers. Fortunately, my optimism was well-founded, and a week later the airport cleared out before a blog was written.

I got really close to blogging over Act’s attempts to relitigate the science of climate change, and then something happened at Select Committee that I don’t quite understand and now am I somehow ingratiated to Peter Dunne for throwing that out before it even got started, and how poorly drafted was the Act’s coalition agreement where it can lose such battles before the ink’s even dry?

And all of a sudden Summer’s here, and I could have written about scootering around this great city, fantastic Sundays drinking off my hangover on Cheltenham Beach, diving for scallops off Rakino Island, or catching snapper in the Gulf. But that sort of thing doesn’t really translate well into words, and I’ll leave pictures of men holding big fish to the fellas at fishing.net.nz

So now it’s three sleeps to go until I take off for about six weeks (having now added a side-trip to Tokyo into the equation), and I’ve still got a tonne of work to finish up, the house to tidy, bags to pack and so forth, so even blogging this much seems like a reckless way to spend my time. But I couldn’t have my last blog for the year be a Halloween story, and I’m not sure whether I’m going to have the time, resources or inclination to blog from Laos or Cambodia. There will certainly be tales and photos galore when I get back, but you’ll forgive me if I end up waiting until then, yeah?

It’s been a big year with a lot of change, both personally, nationally and globally. I don’t really know how to sum it all up, not in one pithy sentence. But before I go, I’d like to at least acknowledge this guy, because he is awesome. Shame about his intended victim's cocaine-quick reactions.

Happy holidays y’all.