Off the Beaten Track Read online

  Off the Beaten Track: My Crazy Year in Asia

  Frank Kusy

  Published by Grinning Bandit Books

  http://grinningbandit.webnode.com

  First published in 2014 by

  Grinning Bandit Books

  http://grinningbandit.webnode.com

  © Frank Kusy 2014

  ‘Off the Beaten Track: My Crazy Year in Asia’ is the copyright of Frank Kusy, 2014.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, digital or mechanical, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

  Cover design by Amygdaladesign

  Contents

  Map

  Foreword

  1 – The Crazy Polish Biker Chick

  2 – The King is Down

  3 – Outward Bound

  4 – Buddha and the Coca Cola Lady

  5 – Bali High

  6 – Java Jive

  7 – Marco Polo and the Voodoo Bus Driver

  8 – Big Blag in Kuala Lumpur

  9 – How to Get the Death Penalty in Malaysia

  10 – Love Shack

  11 – Stressed out in Samui

  12 – It’s my Job

  13 – The Unluckiest Man in the World

  14 – Off the Beaten Trek

  15 – How to Die in Khao Yai

  16 – Joss

  17 – Behind the Veil

  18 – The Trouble with Trat

  19 – Big on Frogs

  20 – The Wackiest Wat

  21 – Back Home…to Trouble

  22 – The Neighbours from Hell

  23 – A New Direction

  24 – Maria

  25 – Golf on the Dunes

  26 – Aliens in India

  27 – Birth of a Market Trader

  28– The Final Curtain

  Postscript

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  DEDICATION

  For my dearest Anna D…with thanks for not pushing me under that bullet train.

  Map

  Foreword

  I suppose the idea of getting off the beaten track came to me in Penang. Having left my Trailfinders tour group back at the Snake Temple (too many live snakes falling out of the roof for my liking!) I was standing at one of the boat quays, looking out to sea. Just then, a small motorised craft puttered up and about a dozen loud, fat package tourists piled out.

  ‘Hey, mister!’ a particularly fat and noisome youth accosted me. ‘Where’s the nearest Taco Bell?’

  I couldn’t believe my ears. ‘You’ve come to one of the most beautiful islands in Southeast Asia and all you’re interested in is fast food? Don’t you want to look around first?’

  The boy absent-mindedly scratched a pimple on his face. ‘No, we don’t. Now, where’s the Taco Bell?’

  I sighed. ‘Penang doesn’t have a Taco Bell. But it does have a McDonald’s at the top of the new Komtar.’

  The group uttered a collective ‘Really? That’s great!’ And then they all ran off to claim their Double Double Cheese burgers.

  Half an hour later, they were back on the boat and zooming off to their next destination, having seen nothing of Penang but a smiley Malay in a perky hat offering them extra Coke and chips if they went ‘large’.

  ‘How sad,’ I thought to myself. ‘Is this what mass tourism is doing to the world? Whatever place I write about, it’s going to be overrun with McDonalds, KFCs, coffee shops and 7/11 stores in a few years. My only hope of giving my traveller readers any sense of adventure is to look out venues where no man has gone before.’

  There was no doubt about it.

  I was going to have to go off the beaten track.

  Chapter 1

  The Crazy Polish Biker Chick

  I didn’t really want to write another travel guide. Especially one covering half of SouthEast Asia. But the crazy Polish biker chick was cursing me through the door again. She left me no choice.

  It all started innocently enough. Buoyed up with the success of my first book – an oddball diary of my shoestring travel through India with a character called Kevin – and having just completed a travel guidebook on that same country, I sat down one day to write my magnum opus. I had no idea what it was going to be about, but it was going to be good. I was going to be a titan amongst writers. I was going to be the next Hemingway or E.M. Forster. I rolled a sheet of crisp new paper into my new portable typewriter, and sat down and waited for the Muse to smite me.

  She didn’t. I wrote the title, and then my name, and then I thought of a better title and ripped out the page and started again. At this point, my OCD kicked in and I started obsessing about fluffs on the carpet. There was a particularly annoying one at the foot of my Buddhist altar – it had to go. So did the piece of litter just up and to the left of it. It was the corner of an old sweet wrapper: how on earth had I missed that? In the end, I had to hoover the whole carpet. Twice. That was when I knew I had a problem.

  *

  The crazy Polish biker chick and I hooked up one stormy night when there was a power cut in our house share and we drunkenly collided in the corridor. It was the same night I finally ran out of fluffs to pick off the carpet and had to face up to the grim fact that I was not going to be the next Forster or Steinbeck after all. So I was a prime candidate for an amorous distraction.

  Unfortunately, I already had a girlfriend. One who’d been patiently waiting on the sidelines for me to come out of my literary angst and have time for a relationship again. This girl, Anna, was far too good for me – she had got me into Buddhism, along with her sister Brenda, a few years earlier, and had been putting up with all my botched attempts at ‘human revolution’ ever since. One time, she had almost pushed me under a bullet train in Tokyo – she was that frustrated with my behaviour – and now, when I told her the ‘good news’ of my new romance, she was going to wish she’d gone ahead and done it.

  The Polish biker chick was scary. Long, black hair right down her back, dressed tip to toe in black leather, she made me twang her suspenders and then leapt on me in totally inappropriate social situations. Lifts, bus stands, railway platforms, even bedding stores on Sale Day: everywhere was fair game. Then she would drive me home on her Harley low rider and force-feed me Italian spaghetti to build up my strength again.

  All thoughts of writing went out of my head. I was the unwilling love slave of a booted and bodiced Boadicea who would have put a chain round my neck if she could.

  There is a term in my Buddhism called shakubuku, which loosely means telling other people about the practice, awakening them to their full potential as human beings. ‘I’ve got this girlfriend who says she’s interested in Buddhism,’ I told Dick Causton, the leader of our small Nichiren sect in the UK, ‘but all she wants to do when I open up my altar to start chanting to it, is rip my clothes off. What’s your take on that?’ Dick paused in thought. ‘Well,’ he chuckled gently. ‘There’s no rule against…ahem...‘horizontal’ shakubuku. But is it elevating your life-state, or is it elevating something else?’

  Still confused, I went to a Buddhist discussion meeting and poured out all my woes to a surprised – and mainly amused – group of virtual strangers. Comments ranged from ‘You’re complaining?’ to ‘What’s her phone number?’ But one young girl, with the most liquid pair of green eyes I had ever seen, took me more seriously. ‘There’s this quote I found recently by our main man in Japan, Daisaku Ikeda,’ she said.

  “When we fall in love, life seems filled with drama and excitement. We feel like the leading characters in a novel. But, if you get lost in love just because you are bo
red, and consequently veer from the path you should be following, then love is nothing more than escapism.”

  Well, that rang several bells. That was exactly my situation.

  ‘I don’t feel like the leading character in a novel,’ I found myself sobbing into this girl’s arms after everyone else had left. ‘I’ve got into this mess by avoiding having to write one!’

  ‘There, there,’ she said, patting me gently on the head. ‘Stay here tonight, and take a load off.’

  And all of a sudden, staring up into those twin pools of liquid green eyes, I really was lost in love.

  *

  The biker chick didn’t mind about Anna – she seemed to enjoy being the ‘other woman’, the risky biscuit, the siren who had stolen a man’s soul from his first love. But as soon as Nicky came on the scene, she certainly did mind.

  ‘I can hear you in there!’ she screamed through the door as Nicky and I began christening my new carpet. ‘You say you go in the room to do your chanting! This noise is not chanting. This noise is like sexy noise of buffalo to cow!’

  We stopped, and giggled. This was too much fun. What was that crazy biker chick going to say or do next?

  The answer was ‘plenty’. A pile of steaming hot spaghetti came sliding under my door. Followed by the most eerie and frightening Polish curses through the thin pane of it.

  Pójdź prosto do piekła, skurwysynu! Wygotuję twoje jądra w oleju! (Go straight to hell, motherfucker. I’m going to boil your testicles in oil!)

  And she just would not go away. We could hear her out there, rocking back and forth on her fish-netted knees, moaning and crying like a mad thing.

  ‘Czym sobie na to zasłużyłam? Muszę się zabić, chcę umrzeć!’ she shrieked, which roughly translated as ‘What have I done to deserve this? I must kill myself, I want to die!’

  *

  But then she got hungry and forgot about dying. We paused and waited until we heard her thump heavily upstairs to the kitchen, and then I smuggled Nicky out of my ground floor window and out into the street.

  ‘Will you marry me?’ I asked her as I lowered her to safety. ‘I really think we’ve got a good thing going.’

  ‘Of course, you idiot,’ she laughed back. ‘As long as you survive the next twenty-four hours.’

  Turning round in my small room, I considered the deep hole I was now in. How was I going to explain myself to Anna, not just about one woman, but two? How was I going to tell the biker chick I had just proposed to someone I’d only just met? And how was I going to tell Nicky that I was so flat-broke, I couldn’t even afford a wedding licence?

  *

  Just then, very fortuitously, the phone rang and saved me from triple trauma.

  ‘We love what you’ve done with India,’ enthused my publisher, Paula, down the airwaves. ‘How do you feel about doing another one?’

  A stone dropped from my heart.

  ‘Yes, please!’ I crowed back. ‘Where am I going?’

  ‘Bangkok to Bali. How soon can you leave?’

  I shivered as the biker chick began howling at my door again.

  ‘How about right now?’

  Chapter 2

  The King is Down

  Zoom, zoom, zoom, I was zipping down the road on a maniac motorbike, whizzing in and out of the traffic, dodging mile upon mile of stranded cars and taxis in downtown Bangkok. It was the rush hour and I knew it was a risk, but these nippy two-wheelers were the only way through. The driver was on speed, he had to be, and I hadn’t got a helmet. We came to a set of lights, and it was yellow, no, it was red, and he was going too fast to stop—just ploughed on through and skidded into this long white stretch limo with diplomatic flags on top. I just had time to register a small frightened figure in the back of the limo, wearing a high plumed hat with a feather on it, and then crash, bang, wallop—we went straight into the side of him. I fell off the back of the bike, skidding my tailbone on the tarmac, and the driver, well, he was pinned to the bonnet and a whole load of guns were pointed at his head. ‘How exciting!’ I thought. ‘It’s like that film Alien, but instead of all those guns pointing at a giant monster from a different galaxy, they’re pointing at a tiny little Thai guy with bad teeth and a fag hanging out of his mouth. But hang on, why are they starting to point some of those guns at me?’

  Nobody venerates their king like the Thais. I’d even heard of them attacking a foreign tourist who dropped a ten baht coin and who stamped on it to stop it rolling away. Unfortunately, for the tourist, he’d stamped on the side of the coin with the king’s head on it, and they beat him half to death on the pavement.

  With horror, it dawned upon me that King Bhumipol himself was in that limo, and that the security guards advancing on me were not smiling. This was not good.

  ‘Terrorist attack on our beloved king!’ I sat in their van, imagining the next day’s headlines. ‘Motorbike taxi makes daring attack on our beloved sovereign! Foreign tourist held for questioning! In an unprecedented raid, two villainous assassins—posing as a motorbike driver and his foreign passenger—have just charged a convoy of vehicles bound for the airport and tried to kill the king! His royal highness was rushed to safety after the cowardly assault, and is reported to be in “stable condition”. The bike rider faces the customary death penalty, and his tourist accomplice the maximum jail sentence allowable by law. The tourist has been named as Mr Francis Kusy of Surrey, England, and his only comment to date has been: “What a buzz! Best ten minutes of my life!”’

  I also imagined a voicemail message from my mother in England:

  ‘Dear Son, It was very rude of you to put the phone down on me. It’s no good saying “Help! They won’t let me speak anymore and are putting me in chains!” I know the real reason—you have time for everybody else, but not your own mother. All I got from you was that you were sitting in a police cell in handcuffs, and you didn’t know why. Haven’t you heard the news? It’s all over the TV! I don’t know what you were thinking, but it was quite irresponsible of you hitting that poor king. He didn’t deserve it, and we didn’t bring you up that way. Your father and I are very disappointed in you, and you won’t be getting that new car we promised you for Christmas. You are obviously not safe behind a wheel. I am especially concerned that you weren’t wearing a helmet—you could have had an accident. Some nice man from the British Embassy just phoned to say that you will be detained, quote, “indefinitely”. Does that mean you’ll miss my birthday? The neighbours are already talking and I don’t know what to tell them. For God’s sake, when will you grow up?’

  I directly inherited the travel bug from my mother. She it was who, following the death of my Polish father, took me on a long series of holidays all around Europe – a different country every summer – until, quite suddenly, she re-married a totally unadventurous man and had her wings clipped for the next 25 years. I guess she was a bit jealous of this because she totally disapproved of my later travels – especially my first trip to India four years earlier, when I’d had my head shaved for a laugh and sent her a photo of my billiard-ball bonce.

  ‘I am afraid I do not share the “joke”’, she wrote huffily. ‘As a matter of fact, I had a good cry. If you’re getting catcalls even in India, imagine the response back here in England. You look like a convict, or a skinhead. It takes at least six months to grow a little hair, and meanwhile you’re supposed to be looking for a job. Who will employ you looking like this? Incidentally, it was Mother’s Day on Sunday. This makes three years in succession that you have forgotten.’

  My dear old mum. I thought of her fondly as the security guards emptied my wallet, found my Press card, and decided to let me go. She would have loved all this.

  But no, on reflection, she wouldn’t. Only that morning, I had received a very disappointed communication:

  ‘Anna phoned me today. She was upset, and told me about your letter, breaking up the relationship. I could only sympathise with her, and suggest she wait and see wh
at happens when you return. You can imagine my surprise when I received your last letter, telling me that you have now proposed marriage to someone else – who is Nicky? – and that you have shaved your head again. What is Asia doing to you? I am most puzzled. How can you break up a long and intimate relationship one day, and on the next, ask a different girl to commit herself for life? Full marks for nerve, son. What have you to offer this new girl on your return? No job, no home, no money, no prospects – and no hair. I am sorry to write like this, but it seems such irresponsible behaviour. At the moment, you are far way in a different world, and probably very lonely. So postpone any other impulsive decisions until you return, please. And please try and grow some hair before you come back!’

  *

  Yes, I had shaved my head again. But this time it was a complete accident.

  I had spotted the hair dye whilst wandering around Foodland supermarket in Sukhumvit at midnight. It was a Japanese brand called Bigen, and it cost only 60 pence for five applications. The first one stained the entire sink a dark brown, and half the toilet too. The second one worked okay, but it left the whole bathroom looking like an abattoir. Even my pillow was stained black in the morning.

  It was during the second application—while I was standing by the sink, stark-naked and with blood-coloured dye running down my head and torso—that I heard the knock at the door. It was a timorous knock, suggestive of someone who didn’t really want to come in. I didn’t stop to think, just grabbed a small hand-towel and ran off with it, coyly clutching it to my loins. As the door opened, I was confronted by a tiny room-maid holding two trays of food meant for someone else. I looked at her, she looked at me, and then she dropped the trays with a shriek, and ran off down the corridor, pressing every alarm button in sight. Moments later, just as I was cleaning myself off, there was another knock at my door, this time a much more insistent one. ‘Where is BODY?’ demanded the burly security guard as I opened up. ‘Where you hide BODY?’ Three other guards then piled in and began turning my room over—peering into cupboards, looking under the bed, even leaning out the windows. It took me quite some time—with the hotel being evacuated, police sirens kicking off in the street below, and fellow guests shouting ‘Murderer!’ at me from down the hall—before I finally convinced them that I hadn’t killed anybody.