Couchfish

I’m seated on a red plastic chair, on the pavement, at 6 am. My small aluminium table has a condiments holder, a strainer and a roll of toilet paper in a pale blue dispenser. Sweat is already beading up on the back of my neck, my forehead, and my arms. I haven’t even started eating yet.

Bình Tây market—pre–renovation. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The condiments include a screw top glass jar half full of chilli paste, the flecks glitter on the oily paste. There is soy, fish sauce, vinegar, pepper, a plastic tub of pickled something. A less than appealing cup of toothpicks. Wooden chopsticks stand to attention, a cluster of ceramic spoons at their base. The strainer is piled with herbs—basil, mint and other random green stuff I can’t identify. All rinsed, the water beads, collects, then runs off the leaves, dripping onto the shiny table top. Another small bowl holds lime halves.

Underfoot are chewed up pork joints, prawn tails, screwed up tissue paper, cigarette butts. When I leave, staff will wipe my table off, and all my discarded bits will rest on the pavement. Looking underneath, she’s been busy already.

Hủ tiếu Sa Đéc, in, funnily enough, Sa Đéc. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A couple of metres away, a pyjama–clad woman is preparing by breakfast—hủ tiếu—beside a steaming stockpot. Within, a rich and sweet pork stock is on a slow simmer. Every time she lifts the lid, a cloud of steam rushes towards the sky—I sweat more watching it.

Hủ tiếu has its origins across the border in Cambodia—Khmers call the dish kuy teav. In Vietnam though, it is hủ tiếu, often hủ tiếu Nam Vang, Nam Vang being being what the Vietnamese call Phnom Penh. The signage on the woman’s cart simply reads hủ tiếu.

Invariably a meal and a half. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

She prepares my stainless bowl. First a bed of bean sprouts, then flat white noodles. Next comes the meat—a scattering of prawns, a little pork meat and liver. Then a dash of chives and diced celery.

She raises the bowl and pivots. The lid comes off the cauldron, steam billows, she dips a deep ladle in and pours the contents into my bowl which she holds, hovering above the stock. Lid back on, my bowl returns to her bench and gets a quick wipe around the rim. She sprinkles pepper and MSG over it, makes the few steps to me, and delivers it.

I squeeze in a couple of lime halves, a generous spoonful of the chilli paste concoction and a squirt of the soy. I stir and mix it up, pulling the beansprouts to the top. Then I wait for both the meal to cool and my coffee to arrive.

No bread, different noodles—so much variety in one dish. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The coffee doesn’t take long. The short glass is about two inches across and four high. At the base, a half inch of condensed milk. Atop, a tinny drip feed sits, too hot to touch. The black magic drips into the milk, shifting from jet black to chocolate to caramel in colour as it mixes with the milk.

The street stall is busy. Most of the other tables are occupied. Office workers, market vendors, xe–om drivers. There’s some chit chat but mostly eating. Each face hunched over a steaming bowl.

All around are sounds of life. I can hear, though not see, the crunching sound of a sugarcane crusher. Bikes zoom past. Bus horns in the distance. A parking attendant very busy on his whistle. Market porters speed by. Their trolleys loaded with everything from stuffed hessian sacks to fruit–laden baskets. A bike pulls up, so close I can touch it, two freshly slaughtered pics lay across the back seat. Into the market they go.

Different again. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

I’m a few steps from a side entrance to Bình Tây market—the biggest market in Chợ Lớn, and one of the biggest in Ho Chi Minh City. Fittingly, Chợ Lớn means “big market”.

Some travellers come to Chợ Lớn so see the markets. Others for the beautiful pagodas with their slow burning cones of incense. Others still for the cathedral with a marker on a pew noting someone who sat there was assassinated. Long streets, sometimes lined with towering trees are busy with traffic.

I’ll get to all that later in the day. The best way to start your time in Chợ Lớn however, is with a steaming bowl, a slow drip coffee, and some red plastic chairs on the pavement.

Tomorrow: How to finish Chợ Lớn

What is it about rivers? The first time I set eyes on the Mekong was in Nong Khai, a provincial capital in Northeast Thailand. It was 1994 and the first bridge over the Mekong had just opened. From my riverside garden at Mutmee Guesthouse, I could look upriver and see it in the distance.

Across the river was Laos. It, like neighbouring Vietnam was in the process of reopening to tourism. A seven-day tourist visa cost US$100. I’d sit in the garden and gaze at the chocolate water swirling past. In the mornings, mist sometimes obscured both the river and Laos. I only knew it was there because I could hear the speedboats gunning their engines for their morning run. In late afternoon, as the sun set, the river turned to liquid gold and amber, sliding by enroute to the South China Sea.

From source to mouth, the Mekong stretches some 4,350 kilometres—the tenth longest river on earth. It comes into life with melting snow on the Tibetan Plateau, the source at an altitude of 4,650 m, at E 94º 18" 2' N 33º 34" 15' to be exact. By the time it bleeds into the South China Sea it has passed by China, Burma, Laos, Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. Along the way, it feeds some 70 million people.

Vietnam

Towards the end of 1994 I was in Vietnam. It was my first time in the country and travel was still very much rough and ready. With a bit of initiative you could do almost anything. And so, towards the end of the trip, I found myself in Mỹ Tho, a town that marks the beginning of the Mekong Delta.

Grazing in Mỹ Tho. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Mỹ Tho sits on the north bank of the Mekong. A typical provincial capital, the town itself was no great shakes. My Canadian companion and I stayed at a dire hotel, but it looked right over the Mekong. With no real plans, we stayed for days. We’d sit on the shared third floor veranda, sink beers and watch the sun set, with the river right in front of us. It was pretty special.

One day, we walked down to the freighter pier—we’d found it on another day of random wandering, hidden behind a market. We enquired about getting on a boat. Between us we spoke about two words of Vietnamese and the captain didn’t speak a lick of English. There was a lot of pointing.

There was no bridge back then. Sunset at Mỹ Tho. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

We got the ride. It was my first time on the Mekong. The wooden freighter carried fresh produce, the lower deck strung with hammocks. We sat on the roof, among huge baskets of avocados and bananas and trundled up river.

In the late afternoon, the boat pulled to at a fish farm. Thousands of fish were in a netted off enclosure, floating on the river. Beside it a floating wooden platform had some chairs and a large wok filled with scalding oil.

The crew called us over, pointing. Their meaning was obvious—did we want a fish? Sure! With that, they netted two and without a blink of an eye threw them straight into the oil. It doesn’t get fresher than that.

Crossing the Mekong near Sa Đéc. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Then is was back on the boat, between the baskets of fruit. The setting sun, some cold beers. Sublime. The towns slid by in the night. Vĩnh Long, Sa Đéc, Cao Lãnh—at the time I knew nothing of any of them. As time rolled on, I learned more—they’re all worth a night or three.

The trip from Mỹ Tho to Tân Châu, just shy of the Cambodian border, near Châu Đốc, took about 18 hours and cost us 25,000 dong each. Good value.

Cambodia

A decade or so later I found myself in Stung Treng, up by the Lao border in Cambodia. Much like Mỹ Tho, the town itself is nondescript. Most travellers only overnight if they must. Hanging around I met two Polish academics at the guesthouse bar. They were measuring sediment levels on river islands and, long story short, I went along for the ride.

Sunset across the Mekong and Tonle Sap, Phnom Penh. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

By this time I’d been living in Phnom Penh a year and save a sunset float of two, most of my river gazing was from terra firma. The Tonle Sap from Phnom Penh (Mekong in the distance) being the prime candidate. Kompong Cham and Kratie were also excellent towns for, well, sitting by the water. Before the bridge went in, the ferry crossing at Neak Loeung was always memorable.

The trip with the Poles was interesting (I’ve written about it in more detail here, short version, they were a bit mad). I hadn’t thought much about other islands in the river. Yet here we were, on a boat going from island to island, some deserted, others with small villages on them. The Poles were convinced the islands were inching upriver and each one we hit they’d hike in to take soil samples.

Island hopping, Stung Treng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The hamlets sustained themselves with fishing—and a little farming. Life was simple, and slow. As with the Delta, the river was the provider. It brought the fish they caught and the sediment they farmed on.

Laos

Further upriver, in Laos, the river came into its own.

Si Phan Don, the gaggle of islands before the waters slid into Cambodia was a backpacker hub. Two islands, Don Dhet and Don Khon, supported a baffling number of bamboo and thatch huts. The main past time was smoking weed in a hammock and going for a pizza afterwards—Laos, in a way, this was not.

It stopped the French. Photo: Cindy Fan.

History tells a different tale. The rapids cradling the stoner islands defeated French attempts to find a navigable route to China. The holy grail of trade—or so they thought.

Writes Francis Garnier of a visit to the falls in the late 19th century:

“Over a width of two kilometres, as far as the eye can see, an abundant foaming mass of waters surges down—one would have said a furious sea was breaking on a thousand rocks. Facing us, very close, the water hit the rock on which we were sitting and made it tremble.”

I’ve stood, perhaps not on the same rock, but in the same area, and it is true, the earth trembles. After the lackadaisical downriver flow, this power and energy of the flow is humbling.

Sunrise can be good too. Champasak. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Further upriver, at Champasak, a riverside town on the river’s west bank, the river reverts to gentle. Sliding by, a caramel chocolate expanse. All that gives away the power are the sampans—gliding or labouring depending on direction.

A short distance inland lies World Heritage Wat Phu. The oldest relics here date back to the fifth and sixth century. From outside the central shrine, with clear air, you can peer out, between the frangipani and see the Mekong. What did they make of it then I wonder.

Thailand

North again, on the Thai side, near Khong Chiam, lies Pha Taem National Park. Famous for its ancient cave paintings, you can climb atop the cliff and see the river, Laos beyond. A mist–free dawn here is beyond magical.

Go back down to ground level, where the Moon River pours out into the Mekong. A tourist attraction of sorts, the “two colour river”. Sit on a raft, scoff spiced Thai fare, and watch the colour of the Moon disappear into the Mekong.

A Mekong view from Pha Taem. Photo: David Luekens.

I’m a great fan of Northeast Thailand, for the people, food and Khmer monuments, but also for the river. That Phanom, a few hours further north, is a favourite for slowing down and watching it slide by. My favourite guesthouse, Niyana’s, run by a local teacher, is no more, but the temple is beautiful. Hire bicycles to ride along the river’s bank. When the waters are low, look for the throwaway farms—lettuce, cabbage and other leafy stuff. Fishermen everywhere. The river as a provider. Again.

Laos, again

Over the top of the northeast and back to Nong Khai, where I first saw the river. Years ago, I hitched onto a freighter from Luang Prabang to Vientiane. The trip took two and a bit days. We slept, one night in a guesthouse in Pak Lay, the second night on the riverbank. Sand is cold. The crew made a fire and we drank beers. In the morning, one of the other passengers, a British backpacker, ate the offerings off the prow of the boat. It was a bad idea.

A Mekong sunset, Vientiane style. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over those two days, we sat on the roof of the boat, telling tales and playing cards, all the while the scenery sliding by. The trip isn’t as spectacular as the northern leg, from Luang Prabang to Huay Xai, but it is special. I remember seeing locals, on both legs, panning for gold in the shallows, using mercury to bind it. In some ways, the Mekong isn’t only golden at sunset.

The approach to Luang Prabang from the north, takes your breath away. First, you pass Pak Ou, the cliff top cave temple jammed with Buddha images. Then, you round a bend and the first of Luang Prabang’s spires, glittering behind the palms, reveal. It’s a shame the boats no longer land at the base of the stairs to Wat Xieng Thong—the ideal way to arrive.

Racing the sunset, outside Pakbeng. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

North again, Pakbeng, Pak Tha—I’ve written about this trip and Pak Tha, at length elsewhere on Couchfish. In summary, if you can get off the boat, get off the boat.

One time in Huay Xai, we hired a speed boat and headed upriver to a village called Ban Nam Keung Kao. There were hot springs people said. Long story but we travelled by bullock cart, found locals floating lumber down a waterfall, and our guide caught a huge snake. I’m sure it ended up on the dinner table. Again, always get off the boat. The hot–springs, by the way, were a dud.

Keep on truckin. Freighter near Chiang Saen. Photo: Mark Ord.

Back on the Thai side. The ancient Thai outpost, Chiang Saen. Great places to stay, plenty of history and, of course, the river. Nearby, swing past the Golden Triangle (Sob Ruak), at the confluence of the Mekong and Ruak rivers.

While the passenger boats no longer run north, the determined can hitch a freighter ride to Xieng Kok from Ban Mom, a small village upriver from Sob Ruak, on the Lao side of the river. Try for one not loaded with buffalo.

I’ll finish in Xieng Kok, in far northwest Laos. In 2006 the village hit international headlines when American backpacker Ryan Chicovsky vanished. He was never seen again.

The river giveth and the river taketh.

Thanks to Couchfish reader Martyn for the idea for this post!

More Couchfish free reads:

On learning to not dive

Single serving friends

Six degrees of separation

The unending smallness of Java

On colour

The way to a traveller’s heart is through their stomach

A weird hotel

I wrote ages ago about when I learned to dive on the Togean Islands in Sulawesi, Indonesia. It had taken me years to work up the courage to learn, and that first breath underwater had me sold. Barely two years later, I stopped for good.

In the intervening period I was lucky enough to dive Komodo—it was amazeballs. I found my dive log book today, and the last entry I have is for the Sugar Wreck off of Perhentian Kecil in Malaysia. It was only my 19th dive—so I was far from experienced. My 20th—and my last—was in the waters off Kota Kinabalu in Sabah, Malaysia.

Three kilometres off the coast of Kota Kinabalu, lies an archipelago of islands. Back in 1974, the creation of Tunku Abdul Rahman Park incorporated two of the islands—Gaya and Sapi. In 1979 the park grew to include three more—Manukan, Sulug and Mamutik. Like many national parks, this is not quite as protected an area as you might expect. The islands are exploited—there are resorts, water sports and piers. There is even a zip–line between Gaya and Sapi.

While I’m not positive, I’m pretty sure that the smallest island, Mamutik, was where I went for my 20th—and last—dive.

There were two other divers in the group, both German and far more experienced than me. During the dive briefing, they donned their gear like second nature. Meanwhile I was still very much trying to remember what went where. The divemaster helped me, but my BCD (a vest like thing you control buoyancy with) felt wonky. I was sure I had too much weight on, but whatever, it was time to go.

Splash, splash, splash, splash. The four of us roll in off the side of the boat into the still water. A quick check, and then we start to submerge.

From the moment I had been struggling to get my BCD to fit properly, everything felt wrong. Once underwater, we sunk in a row to follow a drop–off along. Despite the calm waters, visibility was not great, and the reef was poor.

The whole time I was struggling to keep my buoyancy right. Rather than a steady glide down, I was zigzagging—a little up, a lot down, up and down. I found I was paying all my attention to getting my buoyancy right, rather than taking in my surrounds. It was frustrating, and not fun.

The dive continued. The divemaster pointed out creatures and critters—a sea snake wove between us—plenty of fish. All the time, a little up, a little down. This was supposed to be a fun dive and I guess I left my fun back in KK. The concentration and frustration was draining. Was it me? The gear? Was I just having a bad dive?

Towards the end I remember thinking I wish I had just stayed in KK and ate all day. The divemaster signalled it was time to rise to a depth of five metres, for our safety stop. We were at about ten metres, and we started to rise. I could see the shadow of the boat, above us, but to the left. I was glad it was almost over. I kept thinking of the food in Kota Kinabalu.

Near five metres, I lost control of my buoyancy and started rising, uncontrollably. I still don’t know what happened. I went to release air from my BCD so I’d sink again, but I rose faster.

Five seconds later, I broke the surface and my head just about exploded.

There are a bunch of reasons you have a safety stop—this is a pretty good explainer. Essentially you pause at five metres for three to five minutes to give everything time to get kind of back to normal.

My shooting to the surface skipped this step—I did seven to zero metres in about five seconds. For my efforts, I felt like a cricket ball had been inserted into my sinus. My teeth were rattling—like they were going to pop out of my jaw. I spat out my regulator (the mouthpiece you breath through) and yelled at the boat man. He gestured for me to go back down. I looked down and could see the divemaster gesturing for me do go back down.

They were both right of course, if I’d gone back down things should have eased. The pain though was overwhelming. Still yelling, I pulled my teeth out (I have a plate from when my teeth were smashed out in another personal disaster), as I thought that would help. It didn’t.

I swam to the boat and told him I wanted to get out. He yelled at me to go back down, but I wouldn’t. He took my gear and helped me out. I collapsed on the deck.

I kid you not, if I had seen a pair of pliers laying around, I would have taken to pulling my own remaining teeth out—every one of them. That is what the pain was like.

Prone on the deck, the divemaster arrived, to check I was ok. I said yes, but in a lot of pain. He told me I should have gone back down. I know, I know, I replied—I just couldn’t.

The others got out, but didn’t say a word as they stowed their gear. Embarrassed, frustrated and still in no shortage of pain, I lay there. After a brief confab, the divemaster said we’d go to the second site and he’d take the Germans down. The boat man would take me back to KK. I agreed.

An hour later, I waved as they sunk under the surface. The boat took me back to KK, paused at the pier long enough for me to jump off, and was gone.

The pain remained excruciating, but I didn’t know where to go. Hospital seemed excessive, so in the end I went to a dentist. I started to cry as I tried to explain to the dentist that I felt like my teeth wanted to pop out of my head. I must have been a right sight. She was though very kind, and poked and prodded around in my mouth while I blubbered. Then she told me to go back to my hotel and rest.

She said it was a pressure thing, and would clear in time. I asked how long it would take. She didn’t know—today, tomorrow, the day after? I wanted to vomit. She didn’t charge me anything bless her.

I walked from the dentist back towards my hotel. Then I heard what sounded like a rush of water inside my head and the pain immediately dropped. Whatever was blocked was now unblocked. I was still in pain but it was far more manageable. It would fade almost completely in the next 24 hours.

On the downside, I lost all feeling on the left side of my face for six months.

The whole shebang was a Team Stuart effort— I don’t blame the divemaster. The thought though, that a simple mistake had me lose feeling in half my face for half a year, was enough for me.

I’ve not dived since—but dives 1 to 19 were fantastic.

I wrote a few days ago about a “single serving friend” and a reader got in touch asking what I meant. They wrote “I can’t decide if you’re being snarky or affectionate, can you tell me what you mean?”

The line isn’t mine—I borrowed it from the movie Fight Club. Edward Norton is sitting beside Brad Pitt on a flight and Norton describes Pitt as a “single serving friend”. When he goes to explain it, Pitt cuts him off and says he understands what he means, and that he thinks it is clever. So do I.

So much of travel is single serving. The coffee and sugar satchels, the shampoo and conditioner, the bottles of water. And that’s just in the room!

People often say one of the joys of travel is the people you meet—both locals and other travellers. Many of these will be single servings, and over the last six months of Couchfish I’ve written of dozens of such cases.

All travel is transient to a point—you’re on the move, meeting (or avoiding!) places and people. I’ve written before about how train travel, for me, is travel. The perpetual motion sliding by the window, steaming humidity and chilly nights. Vendors passing by. Passengers sitting beside or opposite, sleeping across from, or above.

They’re there in the evening, wake in the morning and they’re gone. Ships in the night. As with Pitt and Norton, a single serving can change your life.

This issue had started off in a different place. I’ve put that piece on the back burner for now, but I want to quote a snippet from it. I’m meeting J, a Danish doctor working in a camp on the Thai Burma border.

“I meet J at the bar. She sidles up next to me, orders some drinks, then turns to me and says with a smile:

“Well hello Mr Backpacker, what brings you to our parts, we don’t get many of your kind here?” She bursts out laughing. To say we hit it off in seconds is an understatement. She invites me to join her group.”

It is a meeting where we both think, how is it we haven’t known each other our entire lives? Still, it remains a single serving friendship. Within 24 hours, we’re in a car accident, and she is unconscious. Life comes at you fast. (She was fine).

Yasothon in northeast Thailand. I’m there for the Rocket Festival, and I meet a Bangkok–based American drinking beer in front of a 7-eleven. We get talking and end up hanging out for the festival. Against the odds—as our meeting felt single serving—we keep in touch and become close friends. Long story short, it is through his generosity that I remain in Thailand.

A few years ago he left this world for good. By then, he’d left Southeast Asia and we’d become estranged. I find out about his passing on Facebook, and attend a wake for him in Hong Kong.

There are less than a dozen of us in a tiny roof–top restaurant. We eat, drink, cry, swap stories and toast him. A couple are colleagues, and have known him for years, others have had the briefest of encounters. He leaves a mark on all he meets—that’s for sure.

The other week I learn (again on social media) of the passing of a journalist I met a couple of times—we’d got on super well. As with my friend above, we later have a falling out of sorts and lose touch. Of course that doesn’t make the loss any less wrenching.

Years ago, I met another writer in Saigon. He’s an old Asia hand and while we’ve moved in similar circles, we’ve never met. We catch up for a messy evening of beers and bars, riding around town on his dismal excuse for a motorbike.

We hit it off and catch up on a decade’s worth of experiences moving in the same circles without ever meeting. We part with a “next time you’re in town, look me up,” kind of thing.

It is a year or so before I’m back in town. I email him but never hear back, the ghosting feels strange. When I get into town, I contact his girlfriend, has he changed his email address I ask?

He hasn’t. Instead he collapsed in their house a month or so after we meet—dead before he hit the floor—she tells me.

That evening in Saigon, will for me, always be my favourite night out in that city. Likewise the slow afternoon of coffee in Seminyak with the journalist. Also, sitting out front of a Yasothon 7-eleven.

Even though something—or someone—might be single serving, it doesn’t mean it won’t leave an indelible mark. When the person is gone, you can feel every inch of the forever.

That moment, when everything just feels so perfect—so sublime. Something as simple as a plate of noodles, or as complex as realising you’ve fallen in love. Travel is so often but a stringing together of these moments.

And that is what makes it so memorable, so life–changing, so addictive and so heart wrenching. And far out, I miss it!

A morning bus takes me from Hà Tiên to Rạch Giá, both the provincial capital and the most popular spot for boats to the islands. The town itself isn’t rich in sights of interest, but sometimes it is the people you meet that make a place memorable.

As I’m not island–bound I dump my bag at a plain hotel and wander off for coffee and a bite to eat. The town is, like most seaside towns, pretty enough—but forgettable. The Nguyễn Trung Trực temple and a small museum are the mainstays, but for most they’re only fodder before the boat.

The former is dedicated to Rạch Giá’s favourite martyr—you guessed it, Nguyễn Trung Trực. He led raids against the French colonialists in the 19th century but the French couldn’t catch him. So, they kidnapped his Mum and threatened to kill her—as one does. He then gave himself up and sure enough the French then executed him.

At a coffee stall near the temple, overlooking the water, I meet two Brits. They’ve been wandering through the Delta for a while and are heading to Phú Quốc the next day. They join me for coffee and we chat.

They’re slow travellers and good company. We swap notes and laughter over some of the destinations they’ve been through. Foreign travellers are few and far between in the lower Delta, and I’m the first they’ve seen in a week. They’re just bumbling around on an open–ended trip. Lost backpackers.

They’re a little younger than me—mid thirties at the time we met—and have nothing but praise for the country. Vietnam is home to the friendliest people in Southeast Asia they say. I’m inclined to agree—as much as Vietnamese can often seem abrupt on a quick take, the hospitality is genuine.

They’re in typical backpacker garb. Fisherman pants, sandals, a beer–branded t–shirt and she’s wearing an ill–fitting cotton tank–top. Plenty of beads. He’s on the way to dreadlocks, but not quite there yet, while her hair is super short, almost a crew cut. They’re both covered in tattoos.

I don’t have any tattoos, and I can count the number of beautiful ones I’ve seen on one hand. Not that that matters of course, they’re for the owner, not the onlooker. These two have so many, and so random, I feel like I’m reading them and talking to them. More than once she catches me trying to read a short story on the side of her waist. Each time I sheepishly look away rather than ask what it says.

One, on her forearm though, keeps catching my eye. I can’t not look at it. I know what it looks like, but think surely not, why would anyone tattoo that on their arm? I can’t think of how to ask, so I say nothing.

We end up spending the whole day together. Wandering around, sitting in cafes, bánh xèo here, spring rolls there. As the day rolls on into the afternoon, we switch from coffee to beer. As with anywhere in Vietnam there are no shortage of places to drink, and drink cheaply.

As the sun sets, we get comfortable outside a hole in the wall by the water. There are fishing boats tied up behind us and the cool from the water takes the bite out of the last of the day’s heat. The beers flow. We eat. Seafood of some description. It is good and affordable. We laugh and continue swapping stories.

We know we’re heading in opposite directions tomorrow and won’t see each other again. We’re single serving friends for one another—and the dosage feels like the perfect medicine.

Street artists pull up with an enormous speaker and perform. First there is moonwalking to Michael Jackson, then a magician stuffs tissue paper up his nose and out of his mouth to Gangnam Style. The performances are kind of awful but hard to take our eyes off.

Finally, after I don’t remember how many beers, I muster the courage to ask her about her tattoo. I’m sure I know what it is, but I have to hear her say it, and tell me why she has it on her arm.

So I ask, if you don’t mind me asking, what is the tattoo on your forearm?

He bursts out laughing, and asks if I have been waiting all day to ask. I nod ashamedly. Everyone asks, he says. They’re both cackling as she pivots her forearm towards me so I can see it in all of its glory.

Her skin, at least that not covered in tattoos, is soft and pale. The tattoo, even in the dim light is as clear as clear can be.

“It’s his penis,” she says, laughing, “True to life scale.”

Tomorrow: Deep into the Delta.

Says Wikipedia: “Six degrees of separation is the idea that all people on average are six, or fewer, social connections away from each other”.

Watching the US election over the last 82 years, sorry, I mean four days, I’ve thought about this a lot—in a travel context. Six is a small number, but it gets big fast.

In another life, I worked at the Australian embassy in Bangkok. In my role I met the Australian ambassador and various diplomats. I guess through their six degrees they’d get me to most world leaders. That is a bit weird.

Years ago in Thailand, I met a guy who claimed to be the spiritual advisor to Eddie Vedder of Pearl Jam. With Vedder as his first degree, I could stretch to Bowie. Yeah I know, I’d need the guy I met as a spiritual advisor to reach Bowie, but whatever.

At last year’s Ubud Writers and Readers Festival, I was blown away by the talk by author Rhik Samadder talking about his book, I Never Said I Loved You. Afterwards, when I saw him in the green room (a sala, this was Ubud afterall), I walked up and introduced myself. Something I have done, oh, about once, in my entire life. I’m sure he doesn’t remember meeting some guy who started crying, but I do! Again, that connection brings a whole segment of the UK writing scene into my six degrees.

I travelled as a kid a lot off the back of my father’s trade. A talented marine engineer, we lived in Japan, South Korea and Italy as a family. We lived in obscure locations. Countries don’t build shipyards next to Disneyland—and to this day, I’ve told Japanese people the name of the island, and they’ve never heard of it. Still, a semi–VIP would show up to launch the vessel, and I’d get a handshake, being the son and all. More degrees.

I used to climb volcanoes with an Indonesian from an insanely wealthy family. I guess that pulls me in some of the upper echelons of the Indonesian fancy–pants scene. And on the wealth circuit, to circle back to the embassy in Bangkok, of course there were degrees to Thai royalty. Don’t call me—I’ll call you.

This is not intended as humble bragging. Anyone who has travelled has met some people along the way, and cast their net of six degrees further.

I wrote a while ago, about a woman I met who was travelling, retracing the steps of her daughter who had passed away. Her daughter had kept detailed diaries and Mum was trying to meet the people her daughter had known. She’d tell them about her daughter’s tragic accident, and they’d cry together.

While I didn’t mention it in the original post, there were plenty of people in her daughter’s diary who I knew. Later, when I found myself at a guesthouse in Bangkok, I asked to see the owner. I knew her, but not well. I had been an on–again off–again guest over the years, but I’d not say we were “mates”.

The staff dragged Mama out of her bedroom—a room off the common area. She seemed to always be on the floor, drinking, smoking and counting money in about equal measure.

I explained to her I had met so and so in Battambang, and she’d told me about her daughter. She reached out, took my elbow, and burst into tears.

She led me into her money–counting/boozing/smoking chamber and sat on the floor. Rustling through a mountain of paper, she pulled out a photocopied page from said diary. It was the page that pertained to her, then she read it to me. It was brief, a couple of paragraphs, but the author captured Mama’s place, and the owner was beyond moved by it.

When she finished reading, I wasn’t sure what to do. She was still sobbing. She pulled a short of Thai whiskey and we toasted the author—and the diary owner’s mother. I felt uncomfortable lingering, so made my excuses and left her den.

A couple of days later, she was more composed and asked a staffer to take her photo with me—I thought nothing of it. A few years later, she had passed away by this stage, I was back at the guesthouse. The photo, and the letter, were there, on the wall, laminated. It made little sense, as neither the photo nor diary excerpt had an explanation.

Both though were on a wall of memorabilia. Travellers come and go. Some, like the diary owner, from the face of the earth, others, like me—against the odds—still kicking.

I’ve never been a big one for “fan walls”. But this one touched me. An old Thai woman, a diary from a passed–away Canadian, and me—all laminated on a pale blue tiled wall. A staffer walked up, she said she remembered me coming and seeing Mama and talking about the letter. It turned out Mama had misunderstood who I was—she thought I was the deceased Canadian’s brother.

I’ve always been a big fan of the “travelling breaks down barriers” line of thought. Once you’ve lived, travelled and/or existed, with those other than your “home folk”, barriers can fall away. Sure cynics say it can reinforce barriers, but I lean towards the glass half full take. I’m an advocate that travelling promotes better understanding—in both directions.

Over the last four days—or was it 82 years—I’ve thought a lot about this. More travel, more cultural mish–mashing, more understanding—it could not be a bad thing. Yes, this is all on a very pregnant pause thanks to Covid19, but there are still plenty of ways to try. Things may be out of our hands to a point, but the challenges are not insurmountable. A start could be as simple as picking up a book from another country.

I’ll finish with a Stateside story. In 1992, two British women, an Australian friend and myself drove across the USA, from LA to New Orleans. It is a long and messy story of young travellers doing stupid things, which I won’t bore you with. In the middle of the trip though, in Kansas, we pulled up at a Pizza Hut.

We were driving the kind of panelled station–wagon you’d see in a Chevy Chase film. Once it was blueish, but the ravers we bought it off in LA had spray–painted it. It stood out—take my word for it. Everyone in California asked us what country we were from. Everyone east of Nevada assumed we were from California.

At the Pizza Hut, almost all of the staff came out to look at the car.

We ordered, then ate, our pizza. Later the manager came over to say hello and ask us where we were from. She was friendly—and I dare say she could have said “we don’t get many of your kind around here”.

We said we were from Australia and the UK. We made some small talk, then asked for the bill.

The manager waved us off.

“This is on me. I just want to thank ya-all for coming all the way from Australia and England to eat at my Pizza Hut.”

Kansas, and the central US, has been all over the news over the last few days—and when it has been, I’ve often thought of that Pizza Hut manager.

Travel—and meet as many people as you can—while you’re at it.

I’ve always been always baffled by the few international tourists Indonesia’s Java attracts. Of course there are few (if any), at the moment, thanks to Covid19, but even pre–plague there were few. While it is popular with Indonesians, foreigners are few and far between. Why?

There are exceptions of course. The capital sees a trickle of foreigners—more often than not, transiting elsewhere. Yogyakarta, thanks to its cultural reputation, and proximity to Borobudur, ticks over. It is also on the way to Bali, which helps. I’d struggle to name another foreign tourist favourite on the island. Bandung? Surabaya? Distant thirds and fourths.

Meet Bakso Eddy in Probolinggo. Photo: Sally Arnold.

There are the niche groups of course. The surfers on the southwest coast, language students in Yogya, the volcano climbers. None of these move the needle though—at least outside the local communities they’re already in.

Earth’s most populous island, Java is home to over 150m people—over half Indonesia’s population. It has a rich history, diverse culture and natural attractions of staggering beauty. It is affordable, the food is good, and, by and large, the people welcoming. So what gives?

Sego Tempong M'bok Wah, Banyuwangi. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Is it the transport? Yes, long distance bus travel in Java (and Indonesia for that matter) can be lacklustre. The train is an excellent—and affordable—alternative. The rail network takes in many of the great destinations on the island. There’s also loads of domestic flights.

Is it the trash? A beach walk spent dodging soiled nappies isn’t ideal, nor is camping by garbage—regardless of the view. On this count, Indonesia is improving, albeit at a slow pace. Baby steps.

Grab a banana before Bromo. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Or is it a fear of “creeping conservatism.” That Islamic bugbear that the international press gives routine re–runs to? There’s a bit of that I guess—some regions are more conservative than others—a bit like the US, oh wait, they’re Christian. I digress.

Does difficulty in getting a cold beer put that many people off? To my mind it seems a small price to pay.

A small price for what? A lot.

Grazing at Warung Lamongan Cak Rie, Malang. Photo: Sally Arnold.

One of the joys of Java is getting lost, then found, then lost again. There are no shortage of enormous cities, but they’re but a collection of villages. Perfect for getting lost in.

In Surabaya, one of Java’s largest cities, I wanted to walk to the African Quarter. It was about a four hour walk from my hotel, and midway along the way, semi–lost, I buttonholed some students.

They set me right, then suggested a diversion—the House of Hadji Oemar Said Tjokroaminoto. Tenants of the once boarding house included thinkers like Sukarno, Musso and Kartosoewiryo. These men all played roles in the country’s path to independence. As with Dokter Mohamad Saleh’s house in Probolinggo, the museum is as excellent as it is under–promoted. In my experience, the stuff you stumble upon, is often the best. For me at least, the vector to these places, is frequently local people.

The stories these walls could tell. At the House of Hadji Oemar Said Tjokroaminoto. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Walking again, this time in Malang—my favourite city in Java. It was a food–meet–architecture walk led by a couple of Malang evangelists. We ate and we walked and we talked. We met local people and stepped through the threshold into their homes. It was far from a polished affair, but the guides’ enthusiasm for their town was infectious. The few foreigners who hit Malang often see it only as a launching point for Bromo, or for the Tugu—but nothing more.

There is, of course, far more. I’ve often said, at a glance Indonesia does not do cities well. Having a local hand to show you around though, as I’ve written before about Medan in North Sumatra, helps. Before you know it, you’ve not only lifted a corner of the carpet, you’ve rolled it up and found something else entirely.

Wandering Surabaya’s African quarter. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Matt Gross writes for the New York Times on how a series of circumstances delivers him to Nglurah. A village on the slopes of Gunung Lawu in Central Java, a ceremony is underway.

“Something changed for me there, as I watched this mishmash of traditions—Muslim, Hindu, Javanese, Nglurahnese—with a mishmash of nationalities. For too long, I realized, I’d been needlessly orthodox in my own thinking, intent on cramming Indonesia into the strictures of my narrow brand of lost-ism. But this was a land where orthodoxy has historically been bested by the easy joys of syncretism. I’d have to abandon, or relax, the rules I traveled by and instead follow Indonesia’s unofficial motto: Tidak apa-apa ko—never mind.”

When I first moved to Indonesia, Jakarta—a city I’ve never came to grips with—was home. On an early trip out of the megapolis, I took a train to Yogyakarta. After the oppressive greys of the capital, the trip was a revelation.

Meeting the locals on the Dieng Plateau. Photo: Sally Arnold.

The train passed by cities, towns, villages and nature. It was rare to have a prolonged stretch of forest or fields, but the scene was ever changing. So many people, so many scooters. Then, on one stretch, a valley sprawled out from the tracks, and the beauty took my breath away. I’m no newbie to rice field valleys, but this was magnificent. Java gets many accolades for its peaks, but the bountiful countryside is their equal. It was also easier to enjoy!

Here is V.S. Naipaul, on Java’s countryside—and its people—in Among The Believers: An Islamic Journey.

“The houses—as we saw later, driving inland from Surabaya—matched the rice strips. They were very narrow and went back a long way. The houses stood a little distance from the road, and the front gardens were scraped clean, but shady. Banana trees grew out of the bare earth, and coconut trees, mango trees, sugar cane and frangipani. The rice fields began directly at the back of the houses. During that drive we seemed to be going through one long village: Java here an unending smallness, hard to associate with famous old kingdoms and empires, a land that seemed only to be a land of people of petty diligence, the wong chilik, the little people, cursed by their own fertility, four million in Java at the beginning of the last century, eighty million today.”

Java’s population has almost doubled since he wrote this in 1981, yet the hospitality remains. Big time.

Quality batik requires a fine hand. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Before I visited Solo, a city an hour north of Yogyakarta, another writer described it to me as “Yogya with a veil”. He meant this as an insult, but once there, I saw while he said was factually correct, his opining was well off the mark.

Wandering the lanes of a fabric district in the early morning, places were opening up. A couple invited me into their humble abode for tea and cigarettes. Mum served tea in stubby glasses, Dad smoked. All of us on faded blue plastic chairs, a linoleum covered wooden table between us on a bare concrete floor. Their kids sat on the concrete and stared at me—then smiled shyly when I met their gaze. When I went to leave, Dad grasped my hand with both his, “Welcome to Solo,” he said, “the home of our president.”

This hospitality is not unique to Java of course, I’ve encountered it across the country. In particular in Sumbawa—another island supposedly under the thrall of “religious conservatism”.

At Resto Pecel Solo. Photo: Sally Arnold.

I’ve often thought of Indonesia as a weird response to colonialism. Each island is so different from the next—Sumatra to Java to Bali to Lombok and so on. Then within each island, changes and variations again. Faith, language, food and culture. Why are they all a part of the one country?

One thread ties all the islands together though: hospitality. The hand on your heart real deal, and there’s no better place to experience it than Java.

So to circle back to my original question. Why do so few foreign tourists visit? Yes, it is harder travel. Not brutal, but more challenging and uncomfortable than say Thailand or Malaysia. Indonesia’s tourist visa policies do it no favours, though I’m not going to flog that dead horse again.

Get out there and explore! Batu Karus, West Java. Photo: Sally Arnold.

More than anything though, look to Tourism Indonesia’s promotion of the country. Java has far more to offer than Yogyakarta, Borobudur and Jakarta. They need to double down on the real strength of the island—the people.

There’s no shortage of itineraries they could promote. Imagine an archeological route, tying together the empires of days long gone. Surfing the south coast. A food itinerary—my god, I don’t know where to start, but I do know we’d all be kilos heavier by the end of it!

As I’ve said, over and over, anywhere is worth a night. Java has no shortage of places one could or should stay another night in—or three.

Every face has a story. At Pa Djaja, Pangandaran. Photo: Sally Arnold.

Tourism Indonesia needs to wean itself off the low hanging fruit of volcanos and ruins. Once you’ve ticked off a monument or peak, there’s no need to return. Hello Burma, I’m talking to you too!

Tell peoples’ stories. Introduce the unending smallness of Java to the world, and give people a reason to return over and over.

Sorry for the radio silence over the last couple of weeks. Have been very ill will some kind of faux–dengue that comes and goes. Hopefully I’m back on track now!

Malaysia’s Perhentian islands sit off the east coast of Peninsular Malaysia. They’ve long been popular for offering some of the cheapest diving in Southeast Asia. There are two islands, Perhentian Besar (Big Perhentian) and Perhentian Kecil (Small Perhentian). The latter has a free–wheeling vibe, distinct from the conservative states onshore. And so it was I found myself there ramping up my dives under the guise of Travelfish research.

The crowd on Kecil veers young, but unlike the Thai islands, locals make up plenty of the business. Some are there to party, others to dive, others, like everybody, after a beach break.

Did someone say beach break? On Perhentian Besar. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The water is warm, with wreck diving and some pinnacles and plenty of fish. It is by no means Komodo or Bunaken, but it is a fun and gregarious scene. I’d fallen in with an English couple who were kind of working at one of the dive shops, but they didn’t seem to work much. Drinking and diving. Or was it diving and drinking? I can’t remember.

We were on a morning run over to the Police Wreck dive off Perhentian Besar, when I first noticed his leg. Above his knee was a perfectly round lump about the size of the top third of a golf ball. I asked what it was. A tumour of some kind? He wasn’t sure. He’d first noticed it a week earlier—he’d slipped over on the cross–island jungle trail, and had scratched himself up. Since then it had grown a little, day by day, but it didn’t hurt. Ok, maybe it itched a little, but he wasn’t concerned. Despite his girlfriend’s protests, as the weather was good, he was putting off a trip to Kota Bharu to get it looked at.

Just another back beach on Perhentian Kecil. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“I dunno,” he said, “a mystery. I guess it will pop out gore or just go away.”

The Police Wreck was lacklustre. The boat sits on a sandy bottom and someone only needs to pee underwater to stir up the sand. Visibility was a metre or so—like I said—this was no Komodo. I remember seeing him, at close quarters as we floated near the wreck’s bow, scratching at and rubbing his knee.

I didn’t see them that evening, nor on the morning dive the next day. When I didn’t see them the following evening either I assumed they’d headed back to the mainland about his lump.

Just another day on the beach. Perhentian Besar. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The following morning, as I was having breakfast, I saw his girlfriend and she joined me. She looked like she hadn’t slept for a week. Yes, he was on the mainland—but in hospital.

It turned out the morning after the Police Wreck dive, they’d both been diving the Pinnacle. It’s a deeper dive with current, but still a beginner spot—they were very experienced divers, so it was a no–brainer. He’d been complaining about his knee and about half way through the dive he signalled to her he needed to surface.

Covid–safe sunsetting, Perhentian Kecil. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“He was grasping at his knee and I could tell he was in some pain, he’s such an idiot sometimes” she said. “We still had to do our safety stop, but he was in so much pain I started to freak out.” [for non–divers a safety stop is a pause you make on your ascent, at five metres, to let the pressure equalise].

“I was holding his hand as we started to rise and then he flung my hand off, I looked down, and his knee exploded.”

“What? What do you mean exploded?” I asked.

I forget which beach this is. Sorry. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

“His knee split and peeled open, I don’t know, like an orange. The skin was flapping in the water—it was gross. There was some blood, not a lot I guess, I don’t know, I’d never seen a knee explode before,” she said.

“And then, there were like a million baby spiders. They poured out of his knee in a cloud. I almost vomited in my mask. They kept coming, more and more. The fish came and started to eat them. It was like a horror movie.”

My breakfast was over.

Check it for spiders before you sit down. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Long story short, once the spider vomit was over, the pain eased, they made their safety stop, and surfaced. He was then sped back to the mainland. He had called her to say the doctors didn’t think there were any serious risks, and he’d be back on the island in a few days.

Moral of the story: If you have a golf ball sized lump on your knee, don’t go diving—go to a doctor. And always always always listen to your girlfriend.

Readers may recall a piece I wrote in July about when we offered our daughter as a bribe to an immigration officer. No? You can read it here. At the time we were on our way to Kep for a wedding, and while the wedding was the main reason, close behind was the fresh crab.

Crab shacks. Photo: Mark Ord.

At the time, Kep’s fresh crab scene was a shadow of what it is today. Little more than a collection of wooden shacks, the setting was low slung tables and hammocks. The crabs, trapped in the sea grass fields right offshore, were as fresh as fresh gets—and not a first date meal.

Fast forward to today, and the story is not so sanguine. The offshore sea grass fields may well be ideal breeding grounds for crabs, but also for many other species. Illegal fishing has damaged the fields—and the reefs further out. Even without that, the increase in demand has proven to be unsustainable. Today, more often than not, your crab is from over the border in Vietnam. As one crab vendor says in this piece:

‘Vietnam,’ she explained. ‘You can’t get crabs this size in Kep’s waters anymore.’

Tourism eating itself (and the crab) yet again.

More than just crab on offer. Photo: Nicky Sullivan.

The wedding guests are all put up at the well flash Knai Bang Chatt. It is a wonderful example of the architecture I touched on in this earlier piece about Kep. After lunch at the crab market we return to the hotel for some lazing around time.

The property is expansive with a tree–lined lawn garden running right to the water’s edge. A wooden platform, part of what will become the hotel’s “sailing club”, juts into the sea. With a couple of lazy chairs dotted around, it is the perfect spot to spend the late afternoon. I lose time, reading and watching a catamaran becalmed offshore.

Before the volley–boy and elephant. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Behind me, centred on the lawn, a horizon pool beckons and a bunch of guests are cooling off before dinner. A mix of mostly male expats and Khmers working for acronyms in Phnom Penh, I don’t know many, but the pool swings the deal.

The water is that wonderful tropical tepid, the slightest chill as you slip in, but somnolence comes fast. A young boy, the child of one of the expats joins the crowd, and they start playing volleyball with him—and I mean with him. He’s the ball as they pick him up and throw him from one end to the other.

This job kills me I tell ya. Photo: Samantha Brown.

The racket is annoying—the scene is so peaceful, the sailboat still loiters in the very late light. I move off to a corner of the pool and watch from afar. The boy is enjoying it (I think!) and one of the men, an American military contractor, has the strength to throw him almost the length of the pool. It is impressive and scary in the same breath.

I roll over to watch the sun set and as I do, an elephant slowly walks past me on the lawn. Led by its mahout, it trundles by, oblivious to the shenanigans in the water. The elephant had a role in the ceremony earlier in the day, so it isn’t totally out of the blue, but still, it adds to a magical, other worldly scene.

Last light. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

The next morning, up early thanks to Lyla being still so very young, I take her to sit in a garden sala at dawn. The grounds deserted, we laze around till eventually another guest, A, also with a young child joins us.

She’s an American, like many of the guests, working for an acronym in Phnom Penh. I know her, but only vaguely, and I ask about her work. Her field is about as far removed from the other worldly scene at Knai Bang Chatt as you can get. Bauk. A Khmer word, bauk translates as “plus”, but in this case, it refers to gang rape.

Repeated surveys have found that many Khmer men find the practise acceptable. Writes the Guardian in 2003:

“Gang rape is now one of the most popular after-dark pastimes among the affluent, unmarried 20-30 something males of the country’s larger towns.”

Lyla and I having a laugh about the time we offered her as a bribe to immigration. Photo: Samantha Brown.

A tells me how her work involves Khmer sex workers, who bear the brunt of it, but also those outside sex work. She tells me of the abuse, but also how it has been so normalised in male Khmer behaviour.

Her stories are beyond horrifying and I’m ashamed to have never heard about it before. She asks if I can speak Khmer, when I say no, she says that’s a shame, as if I did I could ask our night security back at the house about it.

“You wouldn’t like their answers,” she says, “It is everywhere.”

Lyla was thankfully oblivious to the conversation. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

A waiter walks over and asks if we’d like coffee, we both do. When it comes, we sit on the edge of the sala in silence, the two kids playing on the trimmed lawn in front of us. First light smears out across the Gulf of Thailand.

Tomorrow: Off to Rabbit Island.

The first time I headed overseas, all the talk at the travel doctor was about malaria. There were daily, weekly and monthly pills to consider, and of course a chunk of dosh. In all my travels I could count on one hand the number of travellers I’ve met who have caught malaria. Dengue fever on the other hand ...

Random photo from Sidemen, Bali. Photo: Stuart McDonald.

Over the years I’ve had dengue fever twice. Once I was hospitalised (the first time), the second time, I just rode it out at home. Overall, I would not recommend catching dengue fever.

So imagine my elation when I woke the morning before last at 1 am, feeling, well less than terrific. By 3 am I started to suspect dengue, by about 6 am I was thinking, oh no not again. A few hours later, I was pretty much certain. This morning, a little over 24 hours after first waking up feeling like I’d been run–over by a garbage truck, I’m certain.

Sadly, dengue is a bit like riding a bike—once you know how it works you never forget it. Third time around the characteristics are all too familiar. So what are the characteristics?

Dengue is not known as “break bone fever” without reason. Imagine someone affixing two or three vices to your tibias. They’d need to somehow manage this direct to the bone, as the pain is not muscular. It is totally in the bones. Then they wind them as tight as they’ll go. Then tighter ... and tighter.

Later, they add three more, to the femur. These they spin even tighter. How tight? Tight enough to bring on nausea now and then. This time around, these are the worst. It is magically indescribable. Pain is the wrong word, yet it is far more than an ache. Far more.

Moving up the body, yesterday afternoon I scored two vices on each humerus. These have not been spun as tight, but it is painful to lift my arms—typing is a joy ha ha.

The other classic dengue symptom is a searing pain behind the eyeballs. This pain comes and goes, but when it is bad, I’d say it is like having nails driven into the back of your eyeballs. Having never had nails driven into my eye sockets, I’m guessing here. Suffice to say it hurts, and closing your eyes doesn’t help.

It isn’t called dengue fever for nothing. The first time I had this you could have fried an egg on my forehead, but so far this time around, the fever and chills have not been so bad. Then there is the exhaustion—I tried to walk to the minimart last night, lets just say that was an error in judgement. Extreme skin sensitivity rounds out this little bevy of joy delivered by some random aedes aegypti mosquito.

Treatment? Rest, staying hydrated, and lots of paracetamol. Lots. I love paracetamol. Anything but the vile papaya leaf thing.

So, this is a long–winded way of saying Couchfish is off the couch and in bed till mid–next week. I’ll pick up the missing entries once I’m back on deck.

Stay safe, and if you see a mosquito, please hit it with a hammer.

And hey, at least it isn’t Covid19!

Stuart