Where else on earth do the bars spill out onto the streets so that street food venders have to mow you down to get their rancid scorpions/atmosphere warmed pad thai to the mouths of Chang Tower drinkers, bartering over CRUDE (understatement) bracelets, whilst simultaneously kicking a live rat out of the way so that it knocks a dead rat into a crevice in the sun baked tarmac to soak in a stew of petrol, urine, raw sewage and rotting left over “fresh” coconuts. The breeze picks up the scent of all this commotion at the moment you bravely choose to inhale the filthy city air and here you are, a new arrival to Khoasan road, swiftly booted from the seatbeltless airport taxi, bags flung on your back armed only with the knowledge that somewhere down this street, between all the colourful (in every sense of the word) market stalls and flashing bar lights, your hotel lyes, possibly hidden down a tattoo/tailor shop lined back-alley, possibly right in the thick of it, possibly you’ve been ripped off and it doesn’t even exist.

However, as you wander, treading carefully because your backpack extends your width, ninja turtle shell style, making you vulnerable to unintended violence on the surrounding tourists (so many of them) you begin to feel the incredible buzz, the smell fades from chocking to simply unpleasant, the bartering over so far seemingly stupid objects starts to look fun and then OMG its your hotel, get inside, freshen a little (although really this is pointless, the humidity will beat all your deodorant and tinted moisturiser, salt spray etc etc) hit the street with no weight on your shoulders, literally and figuratively, choose a bar, any bar, go in hard and choose the busiest bar, who cares the whole freaking road is a bar/goldmine for all the incredible tourist parafanailia which after your first litre of chang you need all of, and you need it all fast… The walking stalls sense fresh meat, and if its not the “blind” lady bashing your arm with her jukebox/money tin its the “poor” well dressed happy-go-lucky child with a sign reading, “no home, no money, no school, buy a Rose”, closely followed by a parade of mental old ladies with ridiculous hats rubbing a wooden knubin over the back of a wooden frog to make it “ribbit”, luckily your resting sulk face syndrome works a charm in adding extra intensity to your NO, until you have one two many beers and suddenly become an EXPERT barterer and get yourself some Khoasan bargains. Lets go to another bar, wait, shall we try a street massage, lets join those crazy swedish girls, but first, let me take a selfie…

Uh oh its morning, wheres all my baht, wheres the contents of my stomach, damn that Pad Thai, why am I wearing a fluorescent bracelet inscribed with “Wolf Pack”. All the inappropriate behaviour starts flooding back, you turn to face your travel partner, thank god they’re in the room, which way to the bathroom please. Lets go to the Grand Palace… And only eat Macdonalds from now on, and purchase some more imodium, oooh look a Boots and Starbucks right over the road.

Rose x