Ben Welsher | Writings

Day 59 - The Mekong River Having bid farewell to the rest of the tour group the previous evening Lieke and I were getting the slow boat to Luang Prabang. Sat on the boat at 9:30am awaiting an uncertain departure time we observed a few of our fellow passengers already on the beers. Funny how once an idea takes root it can swiftly become all-consuming. And the idea was to consume all the beers. We put on our shoes with furious haste and dashed up the concrete steps to the road above the pier. Grabbing a polystyrene cool box and bags of ice we filled it with all the beers we could, threw indecipherable banknotes at the shopkeeper until she nodded that the bill was covered and hared it back to the boat before it left. We were hot, sweaty and reeking of alcoholism but we had our essential supplies. A swift bond was formed with three English lads who shared our intention to make this a party boat. Lieke produced a ludicrously oversized bluetooth speaker and the die was cast. From this - T...

Day 58 - Somewhere in the jungle Dawn is breaking and I am peering into the canopy 40 metres above me. Bec, Lieke, Csilla, Sil and Liset are peering too but nothing is happening. But then a low howl. And a response. 'Howl' may be a poor description because as our guide, Champy, tells us, the gibbons hidden in the treetops are singing. As the whole family joins in though it becomes an other-worldly electronic noise like nothing else I've ever heard. It vibrates through the foliage breaking the new day's stillness. We all sit unmoving but moved by the intensity of the sound. We can't see them but such is the volume they could be metres away. Laying eyes on the gibbons has become increasingly difficult. There is now only one family in this area, down from three. When COVID hit and tourism in the area disappeared desperation drove local villagers to hunt the gibbons to sell to the Chinese. Truly, greviously depressing. Fuck traditional medicine and the ignorant, worl...

Day 55 - Huay Xai After what has felt like an age in Thailand I am heading for a new country. The ticket lady asks if I want to travel to Chiang Kong on the Thai-Laos border today or tomorrow. Since I am sat on the bus to Chiang Khong the answer would seem to be obvious. Well I assume it's the bus to Chiang Khong though it has another destination on the side and her question unnerves me a bit. You can never be 100% certain of anything when travelling in these sort of countries, just about everything you do requires a leap of faith of greater or lesser distance. A couple of hours later we make a stop in a town. Is it a disembarkation stop? A rest stop? Short stop? Long stop? These things are never made clear. I'd been apprehensive about this part of the journey because the main road forks here with the route to the north being the one I assumed we'd take to Chiang Khong and the route to the east being the one that would take us to Thung Chiang which is what is on the outs...

Day 51 - Chiang Mai To avoid further mishaps I book a direct flight from Sydney to Northern Thailand. Several days of negative covid tests mean I'm highly unlikely to fail one at the airport but I just want the ease of a single flight. The mishaps that ensue anyway are minor and entirely my own fault. I spend 20 minutes on a bus in Sydney that is going in the wrong direction but only decide something is amiss when the driver pulls over the otherwise empty bus, gets out and locks the doors. Having located the correct bus I make it to the airport. At check-in I'm given a sticker to wear but no explanation as to why. It's got something to do with baggage I think. I don't like wearing stickers so during the flight I take it off. Wine for breakfast makes you reckless. The belt trundles around it's circuit now empty of luggage, the hall now empty of people except me. This is becoming familiar. That sticker, it transpires, was to help staff guide me to the correct bagga...

Day 38 - Sydney After 15 hours of travel I heave myself up steep and familiar streets. The houses sit low and frumpy, riding the waves of the eastern suburbs. There was a mad dash through Guangzhou airport to get the connecting flight. The checked bag, with none of my fleet-footedness did not make it which at least lightens my load up these hills. The streets were flatter in my mind's eye, smooth and reverberating with the sound of my constant footsteps. As I walk I try to remember my life here. And not the prosaic outline of events and people, not the rosy, compressed joy but the feelings. Was I happier? Was I happy? I can't recall. I had expected a wave of nostalgia but there is none. I expected a welcoming ceremony and the keys to the city. But the city doesn't remember me, it's moved on. I own nothing of it and there is no debt to my past residence. Places are memories but they do not have memories. If I search for the familiar and comforting here that is not sur...