300 elephants. Let the madness commence.
26th November 2005

We take a risk over a room and it pays off
Flowers by moonlight
How much fruit should one lay in for an elephant party
Now you see it, now you dont
Elephants do their stuff

No room at Surin, or so we thought

Surin has been on our game plan for quite a while. We heard about the elephant festival a good while back and for me the sound of a game of football featuring the second larges pachyderms on the planet was unmissable. It dovetailed quite nicely with our route out of Thailand eastwards into Cambodia. In the meantime we had also learnt that the tiny border into Cambodia just South of Surin was open to foreigners.

Surin is home to the Elephant Round-up because the area is home to a minority tribe of elephant herders, the Suay, with their own language and traditions. So one presumes that the Round-up was traditionally the time to bring the trained elephants to town for sale. Now it is a festival of all things local, mostly of course, elephantine.

All advice from the guide books was to arrange accom in advance. We’ve had so little success with this strategy that we thought our best approach would be to turn up, checking hotels in the nearby towns on the way through, and resort to camping if there was that possibility. Trouble was there were no hotels in the little settlements on the way to Surin. This was begining to look somewhat inauspicious. Although it was half way through ‘elephant week’ when we arrived, the streets did not seem to be full of huge grey mammals and their waste products. In fact as we spiraled in towards our first option hostel, only a single elephant was visible. Very strange, we’d seen more in Kanchanaburi. Was this the right week?

Pirom’s guesthouse is not obviously such until you get right up to it and see the 18 inch by 4, handpainted sign shaded by mature trees. It doesn’t have a pool, car park or even much of a reception area, but it does have a 1972 long wheelbase Landrover painted in a shade of green that had me fondly remembering ‘Lettuce’ who transported the Watson family on continental juants in the 70’s. They had a room as they don’t take bookings in Elephant Week to give a chance to the more casual visitor. This was just too easy. OK, so the room was a shade on the small side and a bit overpriced but still half the cost that I’d mentally allowed ourself given that we were arriving for a huge festival. We were unenthusiastic about having to squeeze in so, but as the place had a nice family atmosphere and they were happy for Berthette to come in under the roof, we couldn’t grumble especially as we could disperse large items like the helmets elsewhere.

Pirom runs trips out to remote Angkorian temples and to other sources of interest that are not easily accessed. We perused his list of tours but when we got to the bottom line decided that we’d be better of trying to see things randomly by ourselves.

Krathong full moon festival

Bonus. Not only had we arrived in time for the elephants but there was going to be tha annual Krathong festival that night. This celebrates the 11th full moon of the year and is dedicated mainly to giving thanks to water. We heard all manner of other explanations as to the significance including something to do with Buddhas footprints. When I pointed out to someone that the festival seems to coincide with the rice harvest and maybe way back it was some kind of harvest festival/fertility rite type thing they thought this awfully funny. Oh well, forget the carreer as an anthropologist then.

So, what happens at a Krathong do, then? When the sun sets, folk gather by large bodies of water and release floating offerings with are beatifully made from sections of banana stem decorated with two-colour banana-leaf origami and chrysanthemum flowers and orchids. Topped off with candles and incense sticks, they were absolutely gorgeous. During the afternoon we traipsed around the park by the biggest pond in town where krathong makers were doing their thing. Such lovely people who took time out to show us in great detail how they went about making these things. It was like being in a slow-mo ‘Generation Game’ show. When we wanted to take photos they made up extra special ones. Beautiful.

Down at the bottom end of the lake, huge things were afoot. 3 to 8 feet high conical structures were arriving and being transferred onto oil-barrel rafts. There was to be, we were told, a competition for the best (it seems that to be best, an element of biggest is required) krathong and these were the institutional entries from schools, scout troops and what have you. Anyhow, this is how we came to meet Kid and his teachers. They were clearly keen to practise their English which was very helpful as our Thai by now has reached a terminal vocabulary of around 8 words. They explained all about what was going on in town over the next few days and where and when to see the highlights. Kid’s delivery was wonderful. (He is currently the schools english speaking regional champion and off to Bangkok in a few weeks for the nationals the first prize being an all expensives paid tour of England paid for by the King. His Trevor McDonald perfection was extraordinary and proof that the World Service is alive and well and broadcasting to Thailand. In fact we had seen an article in the Bangkok Times that there has been a campaign against the cutting of Thai service from the BBC. I know that the BBC is seen as a bit of a white elephant (does everything have to relate to elephants in this journal entry?) back in the UK, and a burden on the TV licensee, but here it is viewed with great respect. Do you really want the world relying on CNN? We promised to come along and see them the following day at the elephant buffet, which I hasten to add is a buffet for elelphants rather than a selection of pachyderm cold cuts.

We came back to the pond in the evening (it would be remiss of me to not mention the three very tidy Triumph Speedtwins and a BSA C15 that we passed on the way over - regrettably, the lack of a shared language left me knowing no more than that they exist) to witness the krathong launching and to make sure that the larger offerings were managing to stay afloat. So here’s the deal; you buy a krathong from one of the artisans, light the candles and incense sticks, make a wish and place it in the water. With a gentle splashing you can send it on its way. Within a minute, an urchin will bob up alongside your water offering and rummage around under the decoration. It seems that for even more luck some people must secrete a couple of quid on their float. No-one seemed to mind the kids messing about like this and I can only imagine that it is looked upon like finding the coin in a Christmas pud. Obviously we cannot broadcast our specific wishes as this will render them innefective but Helen’s precise wish concerning Bolton Wanderers was perhaps stretching things a bit. I thought it was a tough enough test that would prove the validity of the krathong.

There was another form of luck management afoot. It seems that folk who have had a year of bad luck can shed this by the releasing of small fish into the pond. Quite a nice touch, we thought. We couldn’t help but have sympathy for the poor chap with about twenty bags of fish that he was steadily releasing. How can a year be that bad? I hate to think.

We’ve heard about this releasing things for good luck elsewhere but using birds rather than fish. We need to bang in an application for intellectual copyright straight away on our new concept; stand on the precinct in, say, Bolton and sell pigeons for release to render to good luck to the purchaser and then return home to gather up your pigeons once again to take them back out for re-sale. Genius.

We’re told that hardly an event passes in Thailand, now, without a beauty pageant of some kind. They are very beautiful people. Here, after the launching of the krathongs, the crowd gathered to witness the Surin Krathong Queen thing. We retired early as we were rather uncomfortable with the laughter of the crowd at the pre-cursor to the main event, the Miss Larger Surin Krathong. It offended our sensibilities to watch beautifully dressed up and proud larger ladies parading only for the crowd to think the whole thing a joke. I guess Hippy and I are not really beauty pageant people anyway. Back at the hostel, Aree, our hostess explained that there are endless and diverse pageants in Thailand which are totally inclusive so there are Mr Muscly type things and Mr/Ms Ladyboy competitions. Whatever.

The elephant buffet was due to be set up in the afternoon so we had a day to fill. On the search for silk to satisfy Hippy’s material fetish we popped out to the Ban Tha Sawang Silk Weaving Village on the edge of town. That is a little unfair, actually, I was as keen to go but my interest was more in the process of production than the search for souvenirs. We were warned before we went that there would be a high likelyhood of disappointment as many of the ladies would be out in the fields doing the harvesting. BTSSWV was set up under the Queen’s craft training scheme that we’d come across in Bangkok. Now there is a 30 loom factory turning out the highest quality Thai silk to be had. The pieces all have to be ordered but this means that you could have, say, a repeating pattern of the BWFC logo included in your sarong. Eat you heart out Mr Beckham. The chap showing us round was very polite, but I got the feeling that football logos were a little beneath him, and twiddly Thai design more his thing.

As had been suggested, most of the weavers were out scything rice and so the factory was short staffed. Our guide, the manager, seemed reasonably chilled about the fact that his workforce had deserted. It seemed unlikely that I would find anyone unwinding cocoons so I settled from a description form our very helpful guide. It really struck me as quite odd that this chap had devoted so much time to us when the factory only turns out highly expensive silk cloth to order and we were not likely to be customers.

Quick bit of maths. The looms are operated by a team of up to five people as the lifing of the warps to create the patterns means the hand manipulation of bamboo rods onto which the pattern has been programmed. On one of the looms was a complex piece in progress. He estimated that there had been three day’s weaving time which had progressed the work about 5 centimetres. A full length of silk is about 4 metres. Check my figures if you like but this means 1200 man/days, not including the setting up of the loom and patterns and the production of the silk thread. A price tag of 100,000 Baht (£1,300) didn’t seem that much after all. Not hard to see how machine weaving caught on, though. I think if I was going to lash out that much on the material for a frock for the missus, I’d like it to be washable, too, rather than made with traditional natural dyes that migrate at the sight of soap. But I’m rather soulless.

Personally, as a needlwork hobbyist, I was fascinated; the programming of the rods for the pattern could take weeks in itself for a complex design. I have been told by Pat not to get too technical into sewing speak, as I will loose the reader. (how come he can witter on about drive shafts and bike speak. As we say in Little Britain. Whatever.) If there is a colour was only used in a small area of the cloth exra mini shuttles were introduced to prevent thin, messy and wasteful lines in the material carrying of the thread across the back of the work. Showing the test of really good weaving that the back looks almost as neat as the front.

There was one big, biiig problem with seeing this quality of work first - now when I looked at the work I could afford, it looked sloppy in comparison. I looked at the offerings of the general stall holders uninspired. But, the ladies were very helpful, and I at last learned how to wear a sarong and not look like an unkept farang, but instead get those neat pleats down the front.

On the way back to town I followed a lead that Pirom had given me. Not only were there the 3 neat Triumphs and a BSA in town but a further 6 Triumphs, 3 BSAs and an Ariel. These further offerings were parked up on the lot of Surin Classic Bikes. The proprietor wasn’t there so I am still no wiser as to how in such a small town in Thailand I come to see not only the only old British iron I’ve seen in SE Asia but a glut. Very strange.

Pat, I am sure was salivating. They all looked like very pretty bikes to me. Can’t think why but Surin is quickly becoming Pat’s favourite place in Thailand, or even the world. It is true, that in general the region is the least touristed area, and has just enough of an influx once a year to make tourists an exciting novelty, rather than an annoyance. It is hard to say how, but people had been friendly and cheery all over Thailand, but here it seemed that they had more interest in general gaffing than as an alterior motive to get you into a tuk-tuk, or some such.

Elephant fodder

Elephants like to eat fruit if they can get their trunks on it. An elephant buffet, then, is quarter of a mile of trestle tables laid out with seasonal fruit. Just as with the krathongs, there was a competition element to the event. Down by the monument to the greatest elephant trainer of all time, special tables had been laid out for the creation of fancy buffets. Water features seemed quite popular. Beautiful ‘scrimshaw’ work had been created on watermelons that had been lovingly decorated for some discerning jumbo to consume in a single bite. Strangest to me were the chillis that had been placed amongst one table to create a lovely pattern. I had visions of sweat breaking out on the brow of a large bull and it desperately cavorting around for a water source to put out the fire. No, the people of Surin are the ones with elephant experience. I’m sure they know what an elephant does and doesn’t like.

Tesco is about the only omnipresent supermarket chain in SE Asia (there’s a few Carrefours but no real competition) and their local branch had knocked up a contender for best elephant buffet table. We thought their range of fruit rather disappointing. Shame on them.

There was something rather nice to me that although the elephant festival was somewhat of a tourist attraction, all the townpeoples seemed to be involved. The competition food displays were amaazing and took all day to prepare. I thought of a comment by an American of Thai parentage, who was thinking of setlling in Thailand, that what he enjoyed was that people here really celebrate their festivals, it really is a community activity.

It was clear that the presentation and judging of buffets was just the start of the evening as stage blocks, lighting and sound equipment were tumbling out of trucks. We took a time out to dine out on noodles at a stall to one side. Hardly worth reporting but for the rather handsome chap dining alone on the next table. Looking the epitome of health and style, he was dressed in a rich checked sarong, lime green chemise and a turban-like cloth framing his naturally smiling face. Around his neck was a pendant made from a good chunk of ivory. This was not a man on his way home from a shift at the cement works.

This was the opening of the festival proper and so there were lengthy presentations of local dignitaries who were given front row seats to watch the performance of local dance, music and poetry. It was wonderful for us as it was all new but I had great sympathy for these poor stranded officials who must be forced upon these events with great regularity. I think everyone felt the same and cut them enough slack to let them sit chatting on their mobile phones while the performers performed.

The performances kind of worked up through the ranks, with the primary kids starting off the proceedings. There was something rather nice about a young lad in his smart sarong strumming his electric base guitar, with that international enigmatic look of all base players. Behind the scenes, lads and lasses dressed up to the nines, sat waiting their turn for their turn in the limelight. Gaffing, playing clapping games and the like, proudly posing for photographs. Somehow I found it impossible to picture white anglo-saxons so proud to be celebrating their heritage.

The only slight hiccup to the evening’s entertainment was when a freak gust of wind blew through and blew out all the lovely hand-held candles in one section of a group of lady dancers. The dancers reacted in one of two ways, either comletely crestfallen that their lights had gone out or finding it a complete hoot. All down to self-confidence, I suppose. I tell a lie, there was a second wind-related incident. Another group of dancers had parasols as part of their equipment. Just at the point of their routine when the knelt down and placed their parasols on the ground, that wind came back and carried them away. It was lovely to see the relief on their faces as members of the audience dash out to reunite dancers with their equipment.

During the course of the evening, the identity of our natily dressed random bloke taking dinner next to us was revealed. A photo op came up and he insisted in having Hippy in the picture with him. Poor lass hadn’t time to do her hair and so there’s rather a contrast between Mr Natty and Ms Dishevelled. Anyway, just as I was snapping away Kid turned up and started filling us in on what all the dances meant. Into the bargain, he pointed out that our mystery man was in fact no other than the local dancing master and was astonishingly in his mid-sixties. Remarkable. I do recall some old timer once telling me that dancing keeps you young. I, of course, felt a bit guilty that I hadn’t realised that he was a man of such impotrtance and had not given the respect that was due to him.

The interviewing started that evening. It seems that this year’s pet theme for social studies coursework is ‘What do the tourists reckon to our elephant festival?’ We got a good 15 minute break between each set of questionaires but it was hard work all the same. We did our best to be mannerly (is mannerly actually a word or is it just a quaint Guyanism?) and supportive of the students but each time we faced the exact same question “What did you enjoy most about the festival?” we must have looked like we were chewing on lemons. I think it just hit a nerve that just as the kids we taught in England thoughtlessly went through the motions, here they were just doing the same. We smiled and replied, “The elephant buffet competition as that is all there has been so far.” They happily wrote the answer down and walked away in blissful ignorance of the meaninglessness of the answers on their pro forma. Hippy thought that asking an attendee at an elephant festival “Do you like elephants?” was perhaps redundant. I thought it statistically possible that an elephantphobic may be attending to confront his fears as a form of therapy. (I am reliably informed by my psychological wife that this is ‘flooding’ therapy)

A few very well behaved elelphants were around during the evening to give rides. With all that lovely produce on display, one could have imagined all sorts of naughtiness from a peckish pachyderm. Their handlers sensibly steered them well clear of the fruity offerings, collecting and dropping people off at special elephant stops that had been set up. Climbing aboard an elephant from ground level is rather more of a feat than mounting one’s pony and there were little staircases scattered about. We were sat in the proximity of one of these stops when we got accosted by an elephant rider’s sidekick who caught me at a weak moment and persuaded me to buy some cucumbers to feed his elephant with. As they were reasonably priced, I thought I’d give it a go. It was rather charming feeding it by hand and it wasn’t too greedy. Poor Hippy was sitting just in front of me and this heffalump had something of a runny trunk. I suppose it is not difficult to imagine how much snot there is in a runny trunk. It was only a dribble. Really. I’m sorry I laughed.

I was entralled be the elephant trainer’s control, they sant on the neck one foot down the other tucked under them and with the subtlest twitch of their toes redirected the beast. No words uttered, it was unnecessary. The way the handlers moved as one with their wards was harmonious to watch.

We spotted our first Mormons in SE Asia. But it didn’t completely spoil the evening. They looked so out of place and onto such a hopeless cause of converting Buddhists that I almost felt sorry for them. I said almost.

We were advised to be early to see the elephants arrive for the buffet and we could see the point. Surely a bunch of hungry critters would clear up in no time and arriving to see only a load of dung and the heads of pineapples would be a terrible disappointment. So we got to the forum by eight o’ clock. The elephants only arrived at ten, of course. We were offered all kinds of stuff while we waited but only one that we couldn’t put a name to; it looked like a stick of bamboo with something rolled up down the middle of it. We later discovered that it was sticky rice cooked with coconut and wrapped in neat cylinder with a leaf. So now we know.

Elephant’s tea party

It was well worth the wait, though. 300 elephants makes quite a scene and it wasn’t as if they just paraded past and picked up a couple of watermelon to snack on. They seemed to prefer to eat stuff that was handed to them. Possibly it is easier for them to negotiate stuff they can just wrap their trunk around than try to pick things up from a flat surface. I was surprised that they seemed so undiscerning about their food, being content to eat the nasty spikey bit off the top of a pineapple along with the fruit. Probably very good fibre.

Such gentle, calm beasts. You would think with so many large mammels in a small space with a bunch of idiot tourists getting in their way, that there would have been a bit of tetchiness. We heard the odd truculent trumpet from one or two, but that was mostly the baby ones demanding attention. Baby elephants are impossibly appealing. With their big feet they’re waiting to grown into, floppy trunks that they haven’t quite learnt to master and tufty hairdos, they stole the show from their majestic, serene elders.

When they’d had their fill, their riders offered trips to folk (for a consideration of course). You could see their eyes light up at white folk as there was obviously better cash to be made. Now in this part of the street there were none of the little step arrangements for mounting the elephants and so any piece of wall, fence or tree became fair game for getting a leg up. Now you could spot someone who worked with the beasts as their technique for climbing aboard involved a neat flourish in syncronization with an elephant that offered first foot, then knee, then shoulder as stepping stones aloft. Very cool.

The majority of control seems to be exercised through the use of the legs behind the ear of the elephant. Very rarely did we see the use of the rather nasty looking pick that is used to remind Nellie who is boss. Judging by the lack of sharp action by the disciplined animal, one imagines that it’s not really the pain of the blow that has an effect, probably more the horribly annoying thonk noise that the blow makes on the skull.

It’s a bit odd to see a couple of Mormons taking an elephant ride. Sounds like the start of a joke.

So, eating over and the streets were full of shit, But only briefly. In double quick time squads of hygiene operatives were out and about making the streets safe for flip-flop wearers. No, really, I was amazed at the excellent planning of this aspect of the event. Indeed the whole shebang was very impressive and I’m sure our wait for it to start was more to do with a cock-up on the timing front than all the elephants being tricky to get up in the morning. We were unsurprised to see amongst all the debris on the floor that the chillis had either been too tricky to be picked up with a trunk or carefully discarded by the inteligphants.

We rounded off the afternoon with several more meaningless interviews although we could now choose between the elephant buffet judging and the consumption thereof as our favourite elephant event and had we been taking therapy it might have been possible that by now we might like elephants more than we did before.

When we got back to the hostel, we were informed that my photo in stupid pose with a bunch of interviewing students had made it onto a noticeboard in a photodevelopers shop. (the guy had even taken a picture of the picture to bring back and show me - quite an odd concept really) To what end we do not know but if that picture wins a prize I want my cut. Make no mistake.

There was an afternoon free so we headed back to the BTSSW Village to see about satiating Hippy’s silk craving. We wandererd around the stalls in the village that sold silk products from other villages. I’m afraid I’m not going to sanction the spending of over a grand on silk that does not even have the Trotters’ logo woven into it. We haven’t haggled for a long time and I think we were a bit weak, only managing a feeble 7% discount on their orginal price. Still at £20 for a frock, 4m length of plain silk for tailoring and a scarf we mustn’t grumble.

After our temporal disappointment of today, we debated the point of getting up early on the morrow to see the elephant show. We decided yes on the basis that the day after we were heading for the border and needed an early start so it would be best for our body clocks to be up and running.

101 things to do with an elephant

The elephant show, started appropriately by a blessing by the Suay chief and the elders. Then the show began. Only half an hour late, not bad going. We weren’t too upset by that as we’d had the foresight to shell out for expensive seats in the stands - it’s rather like going to bull fights, if you’re prepared to stand in the sun it’s almost free.

The elephants made their entrance en masse before returning to their dressing rooms to be made up for their speciality performances. 265 of them following a trail of sugar cane and pineapples that had been tossed our of jeeps. A very impressive sight indeed.

There was all kinds of stuff to show off the skills of the trainers and the role of the elephant in Thai society. There were battle re-enactments, football (not sure on the rules on trunk ball), basketball, parades. Some stuff I found a little nauseating, the poor things trained to stagger on two legs, all very unnatural, but on the whole the elephants seemed to be having fun, particularly the ones that were spinning hula-hoops on their trunks and those dancing in a manner vastly superior to anything Patrick can manage.

How can Hippy condense the experience of seeing 5-a-side elephant football into nine words? More explanation is required surely. For example, the goals were a lot wider. I imagine trying to stroke home a penalty kick otherwise, when the goal is blocked by three tons of elephant. OK, they’re slow and there’s a good gap under them so beating the goalie is actually quite feasible. This was not a game played by free-willed sporting beasts, but under the direction of their handlers and so we must apportion blame for poor tactics to them. Very little lumbering off the ball, little sense of positional play and hogging the ball all reminded me of playground football. Of course, we were a lot smaller. A couple of them had a pretty fair shot on them and a goal was scored but unfortunately disallowed so the match was settled on penalties, or rather, turned on a stunning single penalty save. Gordon Banks would have been proud of it. Yes, the only real poor form was the tendency of a large bull to pick up the ball and run with it. Sort of thing that was considered fair game by the toffs at Rugby school but sneered at by decent hard working everyday folk.

By contrast, the basketball was rather dreary. Perhaps it is my reluctance to accept netball as a ‘grown-ups’ game (particularly for men) or simply that it is a sport the Britain will always be useless at but basketball in any form leaves me cold. Here, there was simply a competition to ‘make baskets’. I believe that is the expression used although this simply conjures up images of piles of whicker to me. Slam dunking is not tricky if your arm (or in this case, of course, trunk) is six feet long.

There was a tug of war. Not between teams of elephants or even between individual elephants but a competition between a single elephant and 40 men. (There may have been an explanation in Thai that we missed but it does seem by rough calculation that 40 grown men must weigh somewhere in the region of three tons and so it was a fair match) It was a walkover for the elephant and was repeated three times for good measure, each time more pathetic humanoids being added to the rope to no extra effect. Very impressive indeed although I feel that the 1960’s world championship team from Derbyshire under the direction of Hattie Critchlow might have fared better.

Let us not forget polo. This is something of an Indian classic but I’m not sure too much standard polo is generally played here in Thailand and so stick control seemed to be the major issue. One goal settled it and the crowd didn’t seem to warm to the event much. Yes, footy was the one that inspired passion from the stands. Good to know that the beautiful game can cross species and retain its fascination.

The warfare re-enactment was quite beautiful, if war can be described in such a way. The lack of blood and hideous injury made it so much more acceptable. Lines were drawn up between the Thais and the Khmers (rivalry between Thailand and Cambodia seems to be quite a popular theme) and a couple of explosions set off to get the ball rolling. One of the elephants lived up to the advice of keeping ones pets in doors on bonfire night and got a bit frisky at the unexpected loud bang. Fortunately it was pacified before it cavorted about crushing its teammates. How would a comanding officer sensitively phrase a letter home to a next of kin to explain that their husband/son had lost his life under the feet of a friendly elephant? The costumes were quite stunning and became even better for the final scene of the victory parade and ceremonial carrying off of the spoils, towhit the Queen of the Khmers. Forgot to point out that the Thais won. Odd that. Funny how you never seem to see battle re-enactments in Britain where we are being conquered Normanishly.

A sack race would be something to behold but even with the degree of training that these fellows have, gravity will out and we had to make do with a kind of egg and spoon race. It was more like an ‘It’s a Knockout’ game actually with several elephants trundling up the arena picking up objects as they went and passing them up to their rider. All good fun.

Elephants plied the edge of the stands doing tricks for tips which they passed delicately by trunk to their master with a graceful upward curl. Bet they are taught not to snot on the wonga! A gringo photographer did not fare so well; while he was crouched in front of an elephant taking an interesting up-shot, a large gob dropped dropped right on the lens. Nasty!

There were intermittent dance displays, between elephant acts. Now Thai dance, to an ignoramus like myself, looks like Indian dance done in slow motion. An awful lot of graceful, contorted hand positions. I got the feeling with the music that it was always being held in check, and that the rythmn was busting to pick up tempo, like Greek or Russian music, but it never quite got there.

As we left the arena it was impossible to get away without at least one questionaire filling. Now we had a difficult decision as to what had been our favourite elephant related activity. We had to plump for the buffet - barking mad.

We had been so lucky with Surin that it was hard to think about moving on. We had little choice, though as our visas for Thailand ran out the following day so a hoon to the border was in order. This will certainly stand out as one of the most memorable few days of my life and I’d recommend Surin in late November to anyone who has an interest in the peculiar and charming things of the world.

Poor Pirom had become the victim of his own flexibility. As he doesn’t take bookings during elephant week there is always the chance that he may have a room if you just turn up. Great. However, as there’s no booking, there’s no reason to turf people out when new folk arrive. We’d caught the show on Saturday and it was due to run on the Sunday also which meant that on Saturday folk were turning up on spec to see if there was space. Now a great number of guests had left all their stuff in their rooms in the morning to go and watch the show but discovered that all the trains were fully booked on the Sunday and so chose to leave on the same evening. The upshot was that poor Aree and Pirom had been turning away customers all day assuming that they were fully booked only for half the guests to leave in the late afternoon. It seemed that they were just too nice to insist that folk pay for the rooms that couldn’t now be filled and the leaving guests appeared to be too ignorant to offer any compensation. I hope we were wrong about them.

Just before we left for the border we got a bit of a blow. Yes, this border at Osmach is open to tourists and Cambodian visas are issued there, but the road is pants. I’d had several chats with Pirom about the road and the border and it seems that we’d managed to talk at cross purposes and get all the facts messed up.

I was keen to get as much time as possible to take on this poor road but we got pleasantly delayed by a Prague-based Argentine journalist who wanted a quick interview for his travel column. I’m not sure what best policy is when talking to folk about our travels. If we answer concisely it makes us makes us seem a bit aloof but if we dot the i’s we could talk for hours. Thankfully our man only wanted specifics on our S American leg which meant we only had to bore him for an hour. If we are published, it will seem so odd. We’ve just watched ‘Motorcycle Diaries’ in which that famous son of Argentina, Ché Guevara, blags his way around Peru on the strength of a newspaper article about himself. Really we should have done this interview three years ago for a bit of blagging power.