Discovering the world on $20 per day ......................




Post 250: Dosvedanya Comrade Scorpion


Volgograd was a lifetime ago. A plea for help. A hastily scribbled note and a copy of The Rider’s Digest. Roman and Slava had raced to our rescue. Under their protective wings in an amazing city of plenty, we were wined, dined and lavishly entertained. With Roman’s help, we tracked down new tyres in Moscow. Metzler Tourance’s for the rear and Pirelli Scorpion’s for the front. Not ideal, but infinitely preferable to riding on canvas. Six days later, with tyres replaced and personal batteries recharged, we pulled out of the “BikeCity34” workshops and onto the wide and perfectly paved Strasse. The compass pointed East towards Saratov but the Tiger‘s were reluctant to follow. Around the first corner and safely out of sight, we pulled to the side of the road. Something was wrong. Tyre pressures too low? Steering bearings too tight? We checked and adjusted everything possible but both bikes had adopted new and dangerous personalities that we just couldn‘t seem to cure. The once reliable and precise steering of the Tiger was gone. The new tyres weren’t working as new tyres should. Individually they were probably fine tyres, but as a mismatched pair they were certainly an experience. At any speed below 40 mph, the handlebars oscillated violently and the bike gave a constant feeling of “falling over“. The front wheel just refused to steer. Where once a gentle nudge would tip the Tiger into any corner, every turn now required a threatening memo giving notice of your intention. It wasn’t a pleasant experience but I was confident that miles and wear would eventually solve the problem.

The mounting miles did little to improve the steering and the silky smooth roads of North America only highlighted the problems. In New York, 18,000 miles after the tyres had been fitted, I replaced the now threadbare Metzler Tourance. I couldn’t bring myself to replace the offending front tyre. In 18,000 miles the Scorpion had used less than half of it’s tread, the bloody thing just refused to die. Sadly, there was no improvement with the new rear. Granted, an undersized Pirelli Diablo Corsa wasn’t the ideal partner for the part worn Scorpion on the front, but it was all that I could find and came at an amazingly low price. Beggars don‘t make good choosers.

Back in Blighty and with only 3,000 miles under it’s belt, the new Diablo Corsa was already beginning to show-off it‘s canvas undergarments. The lovely people at Jack Lilley Triumph in Ashford Common replaced the rear tyre with a previously enjoyed, but free and lovely, Bridgestone Trail Wing. For another 3,000 miles through the summer, I wobbled on with the 24,000 mile Pirelli Scorpion before finally screaming “enough” . I now hated riding the bike, it was always awkward, like walking in flippers or dancing in clown shoes. Calling time on my frustration, this morning I headed down to Essential Rubber in London N1. The Pirelli Scorpion was removed and a new Michelin Anakee was fitted. For the very first time I‘d changed a tyre long before it was legally necessary. I rode out of Essential Rubber wearing a giant smile. The transformation was instant and amazing, riding the Tiger was once again an absolute pleasure. If only I hadn’t been such an arsehole, I could have changed the offending tyre in the Spring and enjoyed a Summer of motorcycling fun. 24,000 miles is a damn fine innings for a tyre, but I wasn’t sorry to see the back of it. Lesson learned.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Post 249: Donald Masters RIP


This post is an insight into the lengths that many bikers will go to in order to help fellow riders, sometimes friends but more often than not, total strangers. I first picked up this story from a concerned American friend on the 9th of September.
Donald Masters disappeared on the 31st of August while riding his Honda Goldwing in the Rocky Mountains between the borders of Montana and Idaho, somewhere to the north-east of Yellowstone National Park. Donald was a veteran two-wheeled traveller and a regular contributor to Honda Goldwing and Honda ST (Honda Pan European) Internet forums. The alarm was raised when Donald failed to arrive at his destination in Denver Colorado on or around the 9th of September. At first, it seems that local Government Services paid little attention to requests for help, passing responsibility to other Services or to other Localities. It probably seemed to Donald's family that nobody was interested in his disappearance.
Joe Norris, aka 'Mellow' from the US Honda ST Internet forum, a fellow rider but a man who had never met Donald, then posted a message on the forums bulletin board. Word quickly spread, information was gathered and riders were mobilised. Cell phone data was retrieved, surveillance video from traffic cameras was viewed and credit card usage was analysed. Within days, riders were out riding every possible route that Donald could have taken, searching for anything that might possibly help. The town of Dillon Montana became the centre of unofficial operations, riders from across the North East States joined in the search and bikers from further afield paid for their accommodation, food and even helicopters to assist them in the search. The search area was vast, approximately the size of Wales, cell phone coverage was limited and communications difficult. Roads were ridden North and South, East and West, then retraced by other riders. Every motel, gas station, convenience store and camping ground within a seventy-five mile radius of Dillon was checked, ''Missing'' posters handed out and clues to Donald's movements sought. On the weekend of 19th and 20th September 2009, more than a hundred riders were directly involved in the physical search for Donald Masters while many more worked telephones and fax machines from their homes. The majority of these fine people had never met Donald, but each gave their time in support of a missing biker and his family.
Sadly, on 19th September on ''I-93'' just South of North Fork Idaho, Donald Masters was found. His Honda Goldwing had left the road on a bend and come to rest in a ditch shielded by dense undergrowth. Donald Masters had been travelling from Montana to see his newly born grandchild in Denver Colorado. Exactly what happened to Donald Masters may never be known, but as a biker, it's comforting to know that while to the outtside world many of us can appear to be strange, we're never really strangers. My thoughts are with Donald's family, my respect with those who helped his family in their search.

Post 248: Essex Air Ambulance Motorcycle Run


Sunday 13th September 2009, was the 10th anniversary of the Essex Air Ambulance Motorcycle Run. 5,000 bikes gathered at Ford's Dunton Technical Centre before heading off in convoy towards Harwich. Stunt maestro Craig Jones entertained the crowds with wheelies and burnouts that were almost as long as the queues for burgers and coffee. He wasn't the Star of the Show, that place was reserved for the Air Ambulance and its crew. However, life being what it is, the helicopter was called into action and left the event early .... no apology necessary.
The organisation was slick, the segregated car parks were emptied with military precision and 5,000 bikes departed for Harwich without incident. Seeing so many bikes on the road at the same time is an amazing sight, unless of course you just happened to be a car driver waiting to join the same carriageway. All along the route, turn-outs and bridges were filled with waving well wishers. To be riding a motorbike in Great Britain and be 'accepted' by the general public, is a great feeling, especially for a Despatch Rider. Riders and passengers waved back at the crowds and everybody behaved themselves, everybody on a bike that is. Unfortunately, the young spotted dicks in their big noise Vauxhall Corsa's still tried to provoke violence along the A12. But thankfully, none of the riders reacted and the 'Corsa-Boys' survived to annoy us all tomorrow. The day, sponsored by Equity Red Star and Cannon BMW of Braintree, raised more than £40,000 for a service that an increasing number of people, especially bikers, owe their lives to.
Wandering amongst the 5,000 bikes in the car park, I was amazed at the wide range of metal and plastic on display - Scooters, Harley's, Trikes, Classic British, Modern Japanese and Exotic Italian. There were no stars, people or bikes, everybody was equal. It was Animal Farm for powered two wheelers and bragging rights were taking a rest day. In the far corner of car park #3, I spotted a group of immaculate and original Kawasaki KH triples; 350, 500 and 750 versions, a trio of widow-makers. When I was a teenager, my favourite bike was my Kawasaki KH250. I helped to make Sheik Yamani a very wealthy man and kept Darlington's Bob Fortune Kawasaki Centre in business, Kawasaki two-stroke ownership was never cheap, but it was always eventful. It was a bike that made every journey feel like an adventure into the unknown, and often into the nearest hedgerow, but it was the bike that intorudced me to the spirit of biking. It's difficult to form a bond with a bike that you start with a 'Button', but when you kick it into life with your foot, it's a whole different story, you connect. I never had the balls or the finances to graduate to the 250's larger brothers ............. but like the beautiful KH500 above, I've lived to tell the tale.

Post 247: Financial Meltdown ... Happy Anniversary



For those uninterested or unaffected by the current economic conditions, then this is an ideal time to go browsing elsewhere. I’ll return to biking matters in the next post, but to celebrate the first anniversary of Financial Armageddon, the following is my layman’s take on the why’s and how’s of last years financial meltdown.

One year ago this week, I was riding happily across America with a fistful of dollars and not a care in the world. Tents and motorbikes are not the most media friendly environments, but despite being divorced from economic reality, it was impossible to overlook the simultaneous collapse of the world’s banking system. Gas stations were the ideal place to freely read the front pages of newspapers like ‘USA Today’ and the road was the ideal place from which to observe the economic effects on everyday people. Possessions in front yards were labelled with handwritten ’For Sale’ signs and ’U-Haul’ trailers were carrying the possessions of the displaced in every possible direction. The population of Middle-America was selling-up and moving-on. The world had changed overnight, Wall Street had collapsed and Main Street was ’For Sale’.

Collateralized Debt Obligations (CDO‘s), Credit Default Swaps (CDS’s), Asset Backed Securities (ABS’s), Contracts For Difference (CFD‘s). For most people, these terms might as well be from an alien based language and that’s exactly why the Banker’s developed them. Such terms are designed to impress us into a false sense of security and to prevent us from asking questions that we fear might leave us looking stupid. Complex financial instruments are not a new concept, they’ve been in use since the 11th century, so why did it all go so horribly pear-shaped in 2007? The answer is basically ‘Greed’ and below is my layman’s explanation of why things went so horribly wrong.

Building Societies were great institutions. If you had excess cash, you invested it into a savings account and the Building Society paid you a regular rate of interest. In order to afford the interest that they paid on the savings, the Building Society lent out those savings to people who wanted to buy, and more importantly could afford to buy, a home. The interest charged on the ’Mortgage’ was 8% and the interest paid on the ’Savings’ was 3%. The Building Society enjoyed a margin of perhaps 5% that would cover it's operating costs. If the new homeowner stopped making the monthly loan repayments, then the Building Society would recoup their losses by repossessing the house and selling it back into the market. Each Building Society shouldered the risk of every loan that it made. To reduce this risk to an absolute minimum, the Building Society vetted the mortgage applicants and only loaned money to those people that they deemed to be financially worthy and had a healthy initial deposit. The ’Mortgagee’s’ got their homes, the ‘Savers’ got their interest payments and the Building Society ’Members’ shared in the organisations success. It all worked remarkably well, but each Building Society was limited to lending out in mortgages no more than they received in savings. The management of Building Societies began to change and governments encouraged the development of home ownership, the Retail Banks became more aggressive in the residential mortgage markets and the Building Societies looked on in envy. A Building Society’s capital came from the savings deposited by it’s members, but a Retail Bank was owned by shareholders and could borrow additional capital on the open market. Retail Banks had a seemingly unfair advantage and the answer was quite simple ……. Building Societies would become Retail Banks.


We all got our Halifax and Abbey National Shares, the names on the High Street began to change, our regional Building Society became a Retail Bank, the Retail Bank was then swallowed up by an International Retail Bank and the International Retail Bank bought a sexy little Investment Bank with a nice address in London EC3. These new megalithic Financial Institutions had cheap money thrown at them from every direction, annual profits rose and the decimal points moved to the right on the rocket scientists bonus cheques. House prices were rising. Regan, Clinton, Bush, Thatcher and Blair all encouraged the concept and reality of home ownership. New money flooded into the housing market, mortgages once only available to Mr Prime were now being made available to his less reliable half-brother, Mr Sub-Prime. The profit margins were good, Mr Sub-Prime was less worthy than his half-brother and therefore paid a higher rate of interest. He kept up his repayments, why wouldn’t he? His house was rising in value every year. If financially things became a little difficult for him then it wasn‘t really a major drama because a no-questions asked re-mortgage was never more than a mouse-click away. Everything in the financial garden was flourishing and everybody was much more financially aware than the generation before, ’Risk’ was no longer an important factor.

The Rocket Scientists at Investment Banks such as Lehman Brothers, had rediscovered the CDO, the Consolidated Debt Obligation. For the Retail Bank this was a way of reducing the risk involved with homeowners defaulting on their mortgage repayments and for the Investment Bank, often part of the same institution, it was just an amazing way to sell the same profitable product several times over. A CDO is basically a box-file, a container for documents, in this case those documents are Mortgages. Into that container, a bank will put a selection of it’s own mortgages, otherwise known as ’Debt Obligations’, and attach a value to the box, a selling price. Human and corporate nature being what it is, the Retail Bank will hide a few of it’s Mr Sub-Prime Mortgages in with it’s gold-plated Mr Prime versions, thus off-loading some of it‘s more dangerous loans. The Investment Bank buy’s a van full of boxes from various Retail Banks, shuffles the documents into larger boxes, attaches a new selling price to each new box and finds a willing buyer. It works well, each sale generates a small profit and each container can be rearranged and sold again and again. Each subsequent box becomes so big and so diverse in quality, that it becomes impossible to assess the true value of it’s contents. These boxes are on a merry-go-round, Banks are re-purchasing bad mortgages that they’d off-loaded weeks earlier, but now at a slightly inflated price. Finally, somebody asks the sixty-four billion dollar question - ’’why is this box full of crap?’’

The answer to that sixty-four billion dollar question is CDS, the Credit Default Swap. It’s not really an answer to the sensible question, it’s more of an escape mechanism that deems a meaningful answer unnecessary. The fact is that the there is no real ‘answer’, nobody can really understand what the hell is in each box. The boxes of mortgages are now so far removed from the original lenders that even the Bank’s Rocket Scientists can‘t calculate an accurate value for it‘s contents. The reaction of the Bankers is to bury their heads in the communal caviar, continue turning the profits on the CDO’s and to introduce an additional means of making new profits; the CDS.

It’s almost perfect. When the Bank sells CDO, a box of assorted mortgages, it now sells an insurance policy that sits happily alongside it, a Credit Default Swap. The Bank charges an additional premium for the CDS, and if the underlying mortgage asset turns sour, then they compensate the buyer accordingly. At the same time, when the Bank buys a box of assorted mortgages, it buys a Credit Default Swap as part of the same deal. The risk is spread again, everyone is protected and more profits are being made. Suddenly, the world’s largest insurance group AIG, pricks up it’s ears and wonders why it’s missing out on what they deem to be ’Insurance’ business. The Investment Banks are more than happy to let AIG in on the action. I can just imagine an AIG underwriter looking into a billion dollar box of assorted mortgages that’s passed twenty times through various institutions and wondering 'WTF?' Long story short, AIG seem to accept the ’Retail Price’ stamped on each box, they collect the premium for providing the CDS and announce record annual profits on the back of this entirely new business. By the end of 2007, the global trade in CDS’s exceeded $60,000,000,000,000.00, that’s sixty trillion dollars.

Historically, a Building Society could lend no more money than it held in savings. Their profit was limited by the amount of money that they had available to them. By the end of 2007, many Investment Banks were leveraged to a factor of forty. This means that they had borrowed amounts equal to around forty times their actual value, forty times more than they were worth. To put that into context, it’s equivalent to a person earning two thousand pounds a month taking on a mortgage of one million pounds, it’s financial suicide. Adding to this leverage problem, the loans taken on by these Banks were in nature, short-term, but these loans were used to purchase mortgages, which are long-term. The situation was beyond precarious, the entire worlds financial stability rested on the value of our houses.

Much of governmental economic thinking revolves around controlling the rate of inflation. The rate of inflation is determined indirectly by the supply of money, and the supply of money is determined in part by interest rates. As higher inflation became a possibility, Interest rates began to rise which meant that monthly loan and mortgage repayments increased. Added to this problem, many of the Mr Sub-Prime mortgages were falling from their ‘Introductory Discounted Rates’ and homeowners were confronted with a double whammy. The housing market slowed and homeowners began to default on their monthly repayments. Houses were repossessed, new buyers stopped entering the market and prices fell further. A vicious circle had begun. The Banks also had massively increased repayments on their own debts which added pressure to their already overstretched cash holdings. They were no longer able to loan money to other institutions, the financial squeeze was coming from all sides. Northern Rock were the first to break cover. The short-term loans that they’d used to provide long-term mortgages for their customers were not being renewed, they quickly ran out of money. Northern Rock approached the Bank of England and the first run on a British Bank in living memory began. To the public, the failure of Northern Rock was reported as a blip, the result of a flawed business model, an individual case of gross mismanagement. The rest is history; Fannie Mac & Freddie Mae, Bear Sterns, Bradford & Bingley. Lehman Brothers bankrupt, Lloyds saving HBoS and RBS falling into government hands.

The Banks got greedy and the greed was rewarded with the payment of stellar salaries and bonuses. Smoke and mirrors were used to disguise the true value of their business transactions. Profits and bonuses were annual calculations but the mortgages upon which those profits were based were not. Governments were happy with the application of soft-touch regulation for financial institutions while they spent the enormous tax income on popular vote winning projects. Nobody emerges from this global fiasco looking good, but some will emerge looking wealthy. Unfortunately, those are the same people who’s actions created this whole mess in the first place. Governments and Customers don’t design and sell complex financial instruments …. That’s all down to the Bankers.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Post 246: Summer Holiday, Krabi Southern Thailand



Krabi, deep in the south of Thailand. Rainy season but thankfully for us non-farming off-peak tourists, very little rain. White sandy beaches, warm seas, endless sunshine and ice cold beer. Long tail boats to islands, deserted beaches, peace and tranquility. Krabi is like Phuket of 25 years ago or Kho Samui some 20 years ago. It's not 'unspoilt', but it's at a stage of development that unlike Phuket and Kho Samui, still represents a good compromise between tranquility and entertainment. Unbelievable beaches that you see featured in magazines and movies, will either be in the expensive Seychelles or here in good value Thailand. Sand, white and pure against a sea so blue that you can't help but feel has been freshly painted in anticipation of your arrival. It's August, the low end of the low-season and everything is cheap. At the Ao Nang Beach Resort Hotel, we have adjoining mini suites overlooking the beach, rooms that cost a large fortune during the peak periods are ours for just £10 per night.
From the beautiful Ao Nang beach, a few pounds takes us to the nearby islands on a long tail taxi boat. Poda and Chicken Islands are a few minutes away, Kho Phi Phi Don and Kho Phi Phi Lei are a little further and slightly more expensive. Sadly, Kho Phi Phi Don, featured in 'The Man with the Golden Gun', and Kho Phi Phi Lei, featured in 'The Beach', have risen in popularity and unless you arrive really early in the morning, you'll be sharing your small piece of tranquility with a million other tourists and a flotila of taxi-boats, even in the low season.
For the first time in my life, I paddled a sea kayak. An unsinkable boat designed for two people. The purveyor of these craft turned out to be from Isaan. Everywhere that we go Tassaneeya seems to meet somebody that she knows and advantageous deals are constantly being negotiated. The craft was suddenly suitable for three people, but it seemed that I had the only paddle that ever got wet. It was hard work paddling against the current, but entering the mangrove swamps where macaque monkeys jumped down onto the kayak and hitched short rides made it well worth the effort. We didn't encounter any crocodiles but paddling on still waters beneath high canyon walls was quite an experience.
Later in the day, we visit an elephant sanctuary where once again, Tassaneeya strikes up a conversation in the language of her village. Within minutes, the three of us are aboard an elephant called 'Chang Bung-Shwee' (Mr Helpful Elephant). I struggle with the whole concept of animals being kept in captivity and had it not been for Hannah, I would never have done this. Reluctantly I'd agreed to take a trek through the forests and with hindsight, I'm pleased that I did. We wandered the forests for an hour, taking it in turns to ride the elephant, sitting on it's shoulders and steering with small strokes on it's ears. Meanwhile, the Isaan mahout's walk around us and a constant stream of jokes flow, mostly at my expense. It was actually great fun, Hannah's highlight of the entire holiday. Chang Bung-Shwee didn't seem to notice that we were there, he simply wandered where he wanted, drank half a stream, ate any leaf that took his fancy, pee'd a small reservoir and poo'd a whole mountain of crap. I'm not sure that I'd ride another elephant, but at least these elephants have escaped the trauma's of wandering the streets of Bangkok for the entertainment of other tourists. All in all it was a really good day.
I'll definately return to Krabi in the future, if not for the beauty of it's beaches, then simply for the magnificence of its sunsets.

Post 245: Summer Holiday, Back to Bangkok


After four days in Isaan, Bangkok slaps your face and steals any remnants of tranquility that you'd managed to find in the provinces. It's a different world, a different country, a different culture. We've fallen lucky. I've found a shiny new boutique hotel just off the Kao San Road that's batting well above it's introductory room rate. All the mod cons, three tourist stars and not one of them borrowed or faked. It's a short walk from the 'SleepWith Inn' to Wat Phra Kaeo (The Temple of the Emerald Buddha) and Phra Borom Maha Ratcha Wang (The Grand Palace), but as it's Hannah's first visit to Bangkok, that means taking a tuk-tuk. Tuk-tuks used to be the main means of transport for those who couldn't afford taxi's, but now they're strictly for the tourist and priced accordingly.

The roads are congested, busy even for Bangkok. Within minutes the reason becomes clear. We're surrounded by thousands of protesters. 'Red Shirts', supporters of ex-prime minister Thaksin Shinawatra. A man in exile, a man accused of massive corruption, of electoral fraud and of buying votes by giving away a million free cows to the farmers in the north. Tens of thousands of people form an ocean of red in Sanam Luang, a huge parade ground just to the north of the Grand Palace. Organisers use microphones to whip the crowds into a political frenzy. I have no idea what they're chanting but they seem more than enthusiastic about their cause. It's not intimidating, but it becomes quite claustrophobic as they spill out onto the streets. They stop the traffic and surround our tuk-tuk. It's good spirited, they pose for photographs and wave at Hannah who seems to take it all in her stride. There are no masks to cover their faces and the only visible weapons are banners and long strings of jasmine and orchids worn around their wrists and necks. Then without warning, everything stops, not a single person moves and a comfortable silence falls across the entire area. The sound of Thai music replaces the protesters chanting, the Thai national anthem begins to play. At 8am and 6pm every day, all outdoor spaces across the length and breadth of Thailand are filled with the sound of the national anthem. Everybody stops, everybody stands still and everybody listens. Thaksin Shinawatra might be popular here, but the King is in a whole different league.

We avoid the smiling touts who surround the main entrance from dawn till dusk. They inform unsuspecting tourists that the complex will be closed for two hours, two hours in which they'll escort them to various tourist shops, fashion boutiques and gem stores. In exchange for escorting tourists to these establishments, the tout will receive a healthy introducers fee before returning them to the always open Grand Palace. Nobody seems to stop it, many seem to fall for it and it's the one thing in Thailand that is guaranteed to test my saint-like patience. Thankfully today the touts didn't ask, probably because Tassaneeya was with us, but many other tourists seemed to be falling for their no doubt convincing charms.

Once inside the grounds of the Grand Palace, tranquility is restored. A hundred well armed Thai soldiers march past us at the double and block the entrance against the protesters. Good timing, one minute later and we too would have been denied access. Hannah and Tassaneeya are shocked, not by the demonstration or by the appearance of our well armed guards, but by the fact that they have to rent sarongs in order to cover their lower legs. As we'd left the hotel an hour earlier, the girls had laughed at me for wearing jeans on such a hot and humid day. But I'd known the 'Rules' and no matter what they're called here in Bangkok, I really don't do skirts of any description. Appropriately attired, we reach the turnstile and Hannah is shocked again, ''Foreigners 400 Baht, Thai's Free''. Discrimination she cries.

Dating back to the late eighteenth century, The Grand Palace complex with it's tall golden tower is probably Bangkok's most famous landmark. A complex of richly decorated palaces, rooms and temples that has developed and grown over the centuries. It's a rappers utopia, blingtastic in every sense. Everywhere that you look there is gold, gold and more gold. In the centre of the main temple stands the Emerald Buddha, a statue made entirely from Jade, hence the name, 'Emerald'. The Siamese once covered entirely in gold in order to make it appear worthless to invading forces. I've no idea if the Khmer or Burmese invaders ever reached this far south, but if they did, then the gold diversion had clearly worked because the Emerald Buddha is still here. Of all of the temples that I've visited here in SE Asia, this is my least favourite. It's undoubtedly beautiful but with each additional visit, I get an increasing sense of 'Disney Land'. I prefer the ancient ruins of Ayutthaya or the faded magnificence of Wat Po. But this is for Hannah and no visit to Bangkok is complete without a tour of Wat Pra Kaew and The Grand Palace.

After several hours of wandering, the girls return their temporary sarongs and we escape the tourists and pack sardine-like onto a water taxi along the Chao Phraya River. From the river, you see a side of Bangkok that's invisible from the street. The only open spaces are the perfectly manicured lawns of the luxurious hotels bordering the river; the Mandarin Oriental, the Shangri La. Between them and hidden behind high white walls, are shanty homes that cling to the banks supported by wooden stilts that sink down into the depths of the river. Rows and rows of clothes hang drying on makeshift washing lines and every ramshackle home represents a platform upon which another can be built. No planning permission, no permits, illegal living awaiting the inevitable fall of the developers axe.

We leave the still overcrowded commuter boat at Thaksin Bridge and take the BTS (Sky Train) to Nana Station. I love Thai food and will happily sit all day long at a street stall and eat until way beyond capacity. But this is a holiday and Hannah needs a reintroduction to menus and crockery. It's not the cheappest, but I take the girls to my favourite restaurant. It's unusual and the name sounds strange, but the food is quite possibly the best that I have ever tasted. 'Cabbages & Condoms' is located a few hundred metres along Sukhumvit Soi 12, but it's well worth the walk. The restaurant supports Thailand's Population and Community Development Association, a non-profit organisation founded by a former Thai Health Minister. It promotes safe and responsible sex in a fun, and I guess, practical way. All around the beautiful outdoor dining area, light shades, art work and statues are made from condoms and as the delicious meal comes to an end, instead of the usual after dinner mint, each diner receives a condom. It's difficult to explain this unusual place, you really have to go there, but for the food alone, it's well worth the journey. Hannah and Tassaneeya loved it. After the meal, production of a receipt at the adjoining clinic entitles the presenter to a free vasectomy .... an offer that I politely declined.

www.justgiving.com/geoffgthomas

Post 244: Summer Holiday, The Village Temple


As Buddhist's, Thai's believe strongly in the process of making merit. The belief is that the actions taken in this life, will determine their position and happiness in the next. The three basic ways of making merit are to pray, to maintain the Buddhist commandments and to give alms. In a modern and lets face it, seemingly sinful city like Bangkok, this process can often feel at odds with what's happening in the current life. Even in the bars of Bangkok's notorious 'Entertainment Districts', every venue will have a small shrine where prayers are offered and food is given to the spirits of their ancestors. On Bangkok's streets, every morning between 6am and 7am, thousands of monks will walk in their saffron robes towards their various temples. While the tourist sleeps, Thai's will flock onto the streets and place food into the monk's bowls. They add freshly prepared rice, fish, vegetables and fruit to the monk's bowl and place candles, joss sticks and flowers into the monks shoulder bag. Then, they will bow their heads and receive a short blessing from the monk. As the monk performs the blessing, they will often pour water between them signifying that the merit that they receive is to be shared amongst the donors entire family. Most tourists probably miss this daily act, but to understand it, you have to leave Bangkok and travel to the more rural areas, places that are yet to be affected by the cultural pollution that has infected the towns and cities of Thailand.
In Bangkok, or in any other major town in Thailand, you'll see many young and middle-aged people. However, you'll seldom see a Thai of any great age. Thai's are historically village dwellers and the villages are the homes of individual extended families. The cities are for the young with careers, places for making money to provide for the extended family back home. Life will usually begin and end in a small village, often a village without a name. The city or town is for the middle part of life, a means to an end but never a place that a Thai will really consider to be 'home'. Home is a rural place, a place where the family can trace it's ancestors back to the times of deforestation, a time when the travellers levelled the land and began irrigating and planting their rice. The buildings are new, the traditions are ancient and the contrast between the two can seem irrational to the European eye. It is only out in the villages where everything begins to make sense.
We kick off our shoes and follow Tassaneeya up the burning marble steps into the coolness of the dark Village Temple. Thirty elders of Tassaneeya's family, mostly the womenfolk, sit around the floor on uniformly sized straw mats, mats upon which they'll pray, eat and sleep for a period of 24-hours. They're all dressed in exactly the same white robes, they share the same facial features and chatter together in chirpy Isaan Thai. It's a language derived from Thai and Lao, a language that I struggle to understand. Amongst the thirty sisters and cousins, I eventually pick out Tassaneeya's Grandma. She looks at me and cracks into the most beautiful and toothy gleaming smile. Three monks with shaven heads wearing less than pristine saffron robes, sit cross-legged on a small dais and quietly meditate. To the side of the dais stands a small and temporary internal room that wasn't there on my previous visits. It has walls of golden silk fabric that flow and shimmer beneath the cooling breeze from the whirring ceiling fans above us. In front of the curtains is a low altar covered with flowers, burning candles and strongly scented smouldering joss sticks. The chattering has stopped, all attention is now on us, or more particularly, on Hannah. As whispers turn to giggles, I pick out several often repeated words; 'sow, farang, narak', girl, European, lovely, Hannah is the subject of all conversation. The eldest monk gestures for us to come forward. We kneel in a line before the monks and offer the goods that we have brought for them. UHT milk, paper tissues and fresh fruit. They smile and together nod their approval. We knew that the monks would approve of our offerings because they operate something of an informal 'wedding list' system, we'd brought only the things that remained outstanding. The ritual of making merit might be ancient, but it's also totally practical. You give only what is needed at the time, nothing is wasted. The people take care of the monks and when the people become, for whatever reason, incapable of taking care of themselves, they can join the Temple as monks. A perfect system of welfare. We light candles and joss sticks on the altar in front of the curtained room before returning our attention to the three monks. They provided their blessing and smilingly indicate to Hannah that she should turn around. Forewarned by a fatherly whisper, Hannah turns around slowly and with hands clasped tightly together, head bowed, she speaks quietly, 'sarwasdee ka'. To the European eye and in perfect unison, thirty identical septuagenarian women return the smiling gesture and say aloud, 'sarwasdee ka'.
You had to be there, it was a moment in life that is unlikely to be repeated. In a slightly scary movie, this would have been a 'one-take' scene, perfect, surreal and so bloody funny. Everybody was laughing, excited that they'd met another European, a girl, and a girl who spoke some Thai. We leave the temple and wander outside in the Temple gardens. We're still laughing, Hannah asks me what 'the thing' behind the curtains was? There was no point in trying to hide it from her, the whole point of traveling in this way is to discover. I told her what was behind the curtain and surrounded by strongly scented joss sticks ...... but unfortunately we wont be here for the Senior Monks final funeral on Monday.

Post 243: Summer Holiday, Leaving London


Heathrow hotels charge upwards of £60 per night. That's equivalent to staying five or six nights at hotels in Thailand. No contest. An uncomfortable night on the free but inadequate benches of Terminal 3. Cold metal, multiple armrests, too little comfort, zero sleep. The Etihad tickets had been amazingly cheap. I assumed this meant that the planes would be empty. Boarding at 8am for the 7-hour flight, no spare seats, no room to sleep. Muslims returning to Abu Dhabi for the holy month of Ramadan. Two hours in transit at Abu Dhabi's new airport before boarding the 6-hour onwards flight to Bangkok. Again, no spare seats, no room to sleep. Muslims escaping Abu Dhabi for the holy month of Ramadan.
Bangkok; hot, humid and wonderfully vulgar. Hannah's first visit to South-East Asia, a culture shock of some magnitude. All personal space is abandoned at Suvarnabhuni Airport, a taxi to Sukhumvit Road, kind offers of golf, massages, tailored suits and precious gems all politely declined. The Guest House, £12 for two rooms. Fifth floor, no lift. Hannah gets a room with balcony and a wonderful view over Bangkok. Next door, I get the buildings two giant watertanks and the promise of a reasonably priced night of sleeplessness. The prospect of a 7-hour bus journey to Khon Kaen is unpopular. I revisit the purveyor of forged air tickets on Sukhumvit Soi 4. It's closed. Wednesday 12th of August, the beginning of the grouse season in Britain, the Queen's birthday in Thailand. A public holiday.
North of Bangkok, we arrive in Khon Kaen. The vast and inexpensive hotel, always empty, always welcoming. A conference for H1N1, the threat from the swine flu pandemic has followed us into Asia. The hotel is full, all hotels in Khon Kaen are full, bad timing, poor planning. I consider the prospect of sleeping at 'The Village'. No great problem for me but a hardship too far for a teenage town dweller with an addiction to all things electrical. I smile and I beg, they find us two rooms. The first proper nights sleep, pressed cotton sheets and cool air conditioning. Hannah will need it, and so will I.
The huge silver pick-up truck bumps across unpaved roads that weave between flooded paddy fields surrounded by lush green trees. It's growing season in Thailand. Entire families work as teams in the fields. Bent double for hours on end beneath wide brimmed hats and a blazing sun, not an inch of flesh exposed. The rice is planted by hand. it grows lush and thick before before transplanted into flooded fields where it flourishes until harvest. These are hardy people, Isaan people. Their long eared, long faced cows are more sensible. They shelter beneath the broad leaves of the banana trees as they watch their masters toil. Eventually, we arrive in the second village, the home of Tassaneeya's family, a village still without a name. As Hannah climbs out of the truck, a small crowd of children gathers. The adults, more reserved than their offspring, stand back and observe us from a distance. I was not the first European that the villagers had seen, but for most of them, I was the first that they had met. Now Hannah was something completely different, a giant European girl, a first for everybody. I could hear the chatter of the adults in the background and the giggling of the children closer to us. They wanted to reach out and touch Hannah, perhaps to see if she was real. It was quite surreal, possibly a once in a lifetime experience for her.
The village seemed to be quieter than usual, none of the older generation were outside to greet us. A fast exchange in too fast Thai. Tassaneeya then explains their absence. The village elders are 'making merit' at the Temple. They will be spending the night there, paying their respects to Tassaneeya's Grandfather and the senior monk who both recently passed away. We too should go to the Temple, and we did. But, I'll try to convince Hannah to describe exactly what happened next.

Post 242: Holiday Season


When it comes to English weather, you can only have so much fun before you finally admit defeat and throw in the beach towel. But escaping these shores in the summer is expensive. Whenever the schools are in recess, the cost of flights increases and the price of sunshine moves further beyond your budget. For me, the answer is to head for the rain and to hope for the best. It's 'Low Season' in Thailand and I managed to book flights for myself and Hannah when they were still relatively cheap. It will be Hannah's first taste of travelling. Nothing extreme, apart from the limited budget. Hopefully a temporary separation from hair straighteners and meals that don't need to be unwrapped will prove less traumatic than she currently fears. We'll be roughing it for a night in Heathrow Airport before flying via Abu Dhabi to Bangkok. We'll spend a couple of days in and around 'The Village'' close to Khon Kaen and then back to Bangkok for some therapeutic shopping that should help to reduce any teenage trauma. From there, it's down to a beach hut in Krabi for a few days before returning home via every landing strip in the Middle East. Hopefully, Blighty will still be here when we return at the end of August.
Meanwhile, I think it's fair to say that 2009 hasn't been Gordon Brown's finest year. I suspect that for him the summer recess couldn't have arrived soon enough. For the first few weeks of his family vacation, Mr Brown is spending time with his family in the Lake District and by avoiding flying, he'll be helping to save the planet. Then, he'll return to Kirkcaldy where he'll be undertaking voluntary work and thus helping to save his reputation. To prevent this altruistic act from looking like any another calculated publicity stunt, the Downing Street press office has quietly announced that this volunteering should not be a matter for media attention. Shoot me.
Back in Westminster, Deputy Leader Harriet Harman had moved loudly into Number 10. It's interesting that she's chosen this particular time to announce that 'Men' are to blame for the current financial crisis. She's probably quite correct in her assumption that men are to be blamed, but as she makes her feet comfortable beneath Downing Street's shagpile, I wonder if she'll be brave enough to name the 'Men' she's referring to? Harriet is undeniably ambitious, but Gordon needn't worry too much about her current bout of sniping. Next week she''ll be gone and replaced by his trusty sidekick, Peter Mandelson. In turn, Mandelson will later be replaced by Jack Straw who'll keep things ticking along until Gordon returns to the helm at the end of the summer recess. Hold on. I know that Alan Sugar's been drafted in to support Gordon's Cabinet, but this is beginning to sound like a very scary episode of the apprentice. The contestants may be quite familiar to us, but I think we can guess who Peter Mandelson is hoping will get ''Fired'' and ''Hired''.
When Lord Mandelson of Foy in the county of Herefordshire and Hartlepool in the county of Durham, First Secretary of State, Secretary of State for Business Innovation and Skills and Lord President of the Council moves into Downing Street next week, I suspect that included within his personal baggage there will be a tape measure. Mandelson may lack many things, but like Harriet Harman, ambition isn't one of them. It seems that having saved Gordon Brown's arse, Mandelson has been given the freedom of Westminster and is using it to advantage. His own advantage of course. Gordon Brown must surely have enough vision to see that those around him are planning their own advancement based upon his demise.
Lord Mandelson hasn't employed any subtlety in his efforts to undermine the Prime Minister. He doesn't need to be subtle, Brown is a fighter on the ropes, punch drunk, upright but unconscious and clinging to every possible glimmer of hope. Mandelson privately devised, and then publicly destroyed, the obviously flawed message of 'Tory Cuts'' verses ''Labour Investment''. He volunteered Brown for a ''Presidential Debate'' that he can never win and that he'd already declined. I can only guess that it was the Lord of Darkness himself who advised Gordon Brown to continue the Government's stupid and immoral challenge to the levels of compensation paid to service men and women injured in the line of duty. I'm no fan of Brown, nor a supporter of Cameron and Clegg, but they're all infinitely preferable to the twice disgraced and unelected hubris horror that is Lord Peter Mandelson.
Perhaps I'm being paranoid, but my theory is this: Mandelson plans the complete the public destruction of Gordon Brown and thus ensures that Cameron's Conservatives win the 2010 General Election. A task that with Brown's assistance, he seems to have already achieved. Prior to the election, Mandelson will relinquish his many titles and stand as a Labour MP in the safest possible seat. Following a humiliating election defeat, Mandelson will run, with Harriet Harmen as his Deputy, and gain the leadership of the Labour Party. The Tories will inherit an economy where for many years to come the only thing in the black will be Alistair Darling's eyebrows. They'll have to increase taxes and drastically reduce Government spending. Within five years of necessary but unpalatable economic pain, we'll grow bored with the austerity and vote New New Labour back into power. Peter Mandelson, First Lord of the Treasury, Prime Minister ...... mission accomplished.

Post 241: Old Dog ... New Trick


For a while now I've considered myself to be 'Middle-Aged'. Then last week I sat down and did the maths, middle-aged my arse, I'm 'Old'. Back when I was just middle-aged, I could have done the maths in my head, but now that I'm old, just like when pulling on my waterproof over-trousers, I'd had to sit down to do it. Half of seventy-four is thirty-seven, and that's a particular milestone that I passed almost a decade ago. I didn't notice old age creeping up on me, maybe it didn't creep, maybe it just pounced on me from nowhere. Ageing is a slow process that begins at birth, but becoming old is something that seems to happen almost overnight. Don't start shedding tears, because I'm certainly not. I'm still far too young to die from old age and being old actually comes with benefits.
When I was young, which for forty-five years I was, I often worried that when I eventually got old my mind would begin to wander. The truth is that my mind has started to wander, but thankfully I know the reason why and it's not an entirely negative thing. When you're old you think about sex an awful lot less than you you did when you were young and as a bloke, it's amazing just how much mental capacity suddenly becomes available for alternative thoughts. It opens up a whole new world of discovery and I'm now beginning to understand why so many men of a certain age return to motorcycling. It's not that they're trying to recapture their collective youths', it's just that for the first time in years they've had enough spare mental capacity to start thinking above the belt.
For example, I've been shaving for thirty-five years and while the first five years might have been purely voluntary, the following thirty have been a necessary pain in the arse. I've missed a few days here and there but it's definitely never been more than a week. For me, the itch of four-day stubble is akin to having facial haemorrhoids and no matter how much I loathe the act of shaving, it's an awful lot better than the irritating alternative. During the early years of shaving I experimented with various combinations of foams and blades before finally settling on a decent combination and turning it into a standard and familiar routine. Same time each day, the same number of facial strokes and the same temperature of water etc. It's a ritual, a subconscious OCD, an act that can be carried out on auto-pilot and as such allowed an additional five minutes to think about other things, probably sex. Now that I'm old, and clearly not thinking about sex quite as much, I once again sat down to consider the maths.
Over a period of thirty-five years, I've spent five minutes of each day painfully stroking my lathered face with a razor. That's more than forty days and nights and while that's a lot less time than I've spent eating, it's an awful lot more time that I've spent actually having sex. I'd thought that after spending so much time shaving, there'd be little left for me to learn about the art. But I was wrong. last week I picked up a tiny bottle of 'Shave Oil' made by King of Shaves. It actually costs more than a large tube of shaving gel and the price might deter many blokes from trying it, but don't be put off. It's a shaving revelation. Thankfully for us forgetful old folks, the bottle contains clear instructions for use. The challenge now is not to forget that I've discovered it .... and then not to forget that I've forgotten.