Not quite what I expected

We decided on a mid afternoon visit to Ubon.  Nothing strange or unusual with that decision, except it was  a treat after three days working on the house in sweltering conditions.

The re-painting of Owerrrouse is almost complete - well at least on the outside.  I am certain we are going to paint inside as well, but one job at a time.  

So, on the motorbike and into Ubon.  Of course, in the west we take road safety very seriously and would not think about going out on a motorbike without a sturdy crash helmet.  The law is catching up in Thailand and it is now compulsory to wear a helmet whilst either driving a motorbike or as a passenger.  Except the law doesn't work in most rural villages and it is a common, often humorous sight, to see children as young as 12 or 13 riding a motorbike with great skill.  The bike looks twice as big as they are, and very often they don't even wear shoes, never mind a crash helmet!

The law is a bit more strict in the urban areas, so with due regard to our safety as well as the law, we comply.  However, there is a shortage of crash helmets in Owerrrouse, so we have borrow them.  Khamma's is new, looks good and fits her well and belongs to her nephew.  Mine is old, small and belongs to her cousin.  We find it on the floor of the porch covered in dust.  It is red and makes me look like an unlit match.  I think of myself as a Swan Vesta.  If something more severe than an ice lolly were to hit it, I'm certain it would crack my skull; the helmet not the ice lolly.  It is more a hindrance than an essential aid to one's safety.  It's no use complaining, I just wear it and sit on the back of the motorbike in a sulky silence knowing that I am complying with law, but in all probability if there were an accident, I am a goner.  Did I re-write my Will?  

I know next to nothing about motorbikes.  I do know that a motor drives a chain, which is connected to the back wheel.  This is how the bike moves.  Over time, the chain becomes slack and if left unchecked it will become slacker and start to make a clattering noise.  Today, the motorbike is suffering from what I describe to Khamma as a 'slack chain clatter'.  No, she didn't understand either.  However, we have a quick discussion and decide to call in at one of the myriad of roadside motorcycle repair garages.  Back in England I'm sure you would have to make a booking for about 2 weeks in advance, but in this part of world, you can just drive in and ask the man to fix the problem.

The man in question today I nickname after Kevin Webster from Coronation Street.  A cheeky grin, a sharp intake of breath and the words come out;

'Yer lookin at a big job 'ere pal.  It's goin to cost ya a bob or two.  Just sayin like!'

No sooner had I placed the top end of my Swan Vesta (the crash helmet) on the makeshift swing our Kevin had made out of old tyres, tow rope and an ancient motorcycle seat, than I saw two gleaming crash helmets in their dusty plastic bags.  It didn't long to convince me to buy one, and at 360 bhat (£7) it seemed a snip.

Meanwhile, Kevin (that's not his real name) was busy tightening the chain, which took him about 5 minutes.  He took the bike for a test drive, but his little daughter, who looked all of three years old, insisted on going with him.  She stood the bike, held onto the mirrors and Dad drove off, into oncoming traffic, round the block.  Luckily it was a quiet moment on Highway 2050 and they returned safe, both smiling, Kevin because he tightened the chain enough, daughter because she had been on ride with Dad.

Now here is where Kevin really impressed me.  Ever since we bought the motorbike (Honda Wave - what else?), the front nearside handle bar panel has rattled.  Experts and non experts alike have tried in vain to stop the rattle, but all have failed.  However, Kevin knew exactly what the problem was, and in less than two minutes dis-assembled the entire panel and located the issue.  An inner panel protecting the wiring for the lights, indicators and horn was not correctly fitted.  All it need was a thick rubber washer and the rattle was gone.  However, keen eyed Kevin also spotted some cabling that had become exposed.  This was confirmed by Khamma who said the indicators hadn't worked for weeks!  So Kevin wrapped some insulation tape around the cable, fixed the rattle, re-assembled the handle bar unit, tightened the chain and had the audacity to charge me 20 bhat - about 45 pence!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! And I get told off for not charging enough for a Will!

I am going back later this week so he can service the bike from front to back, top to bottom.  Customer service, first class.  I recommend Kevin from Yankerdow (the name of the village) for his workmanship. So we put on our helmets and began to look like proper bikers.  OK that's taking it a little too far, but set off again for Ubon.

Our slight diversion was at the expense of losing some daylight.  It goes dark in these parts at 6:00pm and it is wise not to ride a motorcycle in the dark.  The only thing worse is driving in the dark in a thunderstorm.  As we left Ubon the dark clouds of Issan assembled to rage their anger on the flat lands of north east Thailand.  It started to thrash with rain.  We bought cheap plastic rain jackets (like the old Pac-a-Macs) in the vain hope of keeping dry.  They were useful, but I can't think why; it just seemed the logical thing to do.  As we left Big C a shallow wave of water, only about a centimetre high, steady flowed into the car park like a tsunami, from the street.  Just outside the car park we were driving through a foot of water and in danger of drowning the bike.  Khamma's riding skills saw us through the worst, but not for long as stretches of the road, and the houses alongside it, began to flood.

We kept on going as it grew darker, rained harder and lightening struck in the distance.  My new helmet kept most of the water off my face, but my new cheap plastic rain jacket completely failed to keep me dry.  It was a difficult journey home, but Khamma has done this many times.

Now as I sit in Owerrrouse musing over the eventful afternoon, I marvel at the way the Thai people 'just get on with it'.  It being life.  They don't ask for favours, they are resourceful and very skilled with getting on with life.  Have we in the west lost touch with these skills and attitudes?  It is a bit like the bridge issue I wrote of earlier this week.  There's the problem, this is the solution, now let's get on with it and four weeks later everyone's life is better.  In the west we are too good at looking for problems, then forming committees to find a solution, listening to everyone from health and safety to regulation of standards and quangos, then deciding it is too expensive.  Result; the issue gets worse.  I know that's simplistic, but watching Kevin today made me a little humble and very thoughtful.  We have a lot to learn, still.

Getting out of the Comfort Zone - Part One My Birthday

I have always assumed that as one becomes older, the balance between being adventurous and opting for an easier life tilts in favour of the easier life.  Certainly, the body seems less inclined and slower than it once was, and the mind develops demonic filters to question the sensibility of an apparently foolish scheme or activity.  Such is the ageing process.

However, I try hard not succumb to travelling on this one-way road and, like a salmon swimming against the current, I cling onto the vestiges of my youth.  Sometimes I think it is hopeless to think I can replicate my youth, even more so to do things I never had the guts or confidence to do twenty or thirty years ago.

Some adventures are physical, but others are adventures of the mind and especially those that take you out of your comfort zone.  These adventures involve either challenges where the outcome is at best uncertain and at worst costly, physically, financially or both.  However, the reward is pleasure and satisfaction at having done something different.

Not all adventures and challenges require planning, nor need they be expensive or time consuming.  Two such occasions arose unexpectedly last week.

Last Thursday was my 58^th birthday.  I panic when I think how quickly time passes, and I am almost beside myself when I wonder how much time is left.  There is so much to do.

However, to celebrate my birthday, Khamma and I decided to take the short trip to Pakse in Laos.  It is only three hours away by bus, and that includes the border formalities.  We stayed in the Champasak Palace Hotel, which really was a Royal palace before Laos became the Peoples Democratic Republic of Laos.  Nowadays it is a bit quirky, but not expensive, and not a bad place to stay.

As usual, we did not have a particular plan regarding activities for the day until we came across a shop renting motorcycles.

I have a bit of a love-hate fear of motorcycles, as a couple of my friends will testify.  I fear them because I can see it does not take much to have an accident, and I ‘love’ them because I can understand the freedom and exhilaration they provide.  I have never owned one, save for a scooter in the distant Mods and Rockers era of the sixties and seventies.  I have never driven a proper motor bike save for pottering around on Khamma’s Honda, which I thoroughly enjoy.

Nevertheless, the rental offer was a bargain at 50,000 kip (£4) for a full day.  Compare this to the ‘comfort zone’ alternative guided tour at $65 each per day, and you can understand why my brain started to work in the way that it did.

There were many disadvantages in taking up this challenge.  My first thought was that I had reached 58 years relatively unscathed, and this was neither the time, nor the place, to blemish this achievement.  The second thought was I had not seriously ridden a motorcycle, never mind passed any kind of road proficiency test.  In Laos, they drive on the right hand side of the road, if they drive on any particular side at all!  However, most important consideration of all was Khamma would have to ride as pillion passenger.  Not that appeared to worry her unduly, but she did not realise the limitations of my experience, in particular the lack of experience driving a motorcycle with a passenger on the back!  With this mental list of disadvantages rapidly forming in my mind, I signed the ‘contract’, paid over the money, left my passport in the shopkeeper’s capable hands and we rode off, before I changed my mind.

There are critics claiming that males cannot multi task.  My counter claim is that they have not studied the myriad of thoughts running through my mind as I started the bike and Khamma clambered onto the back.

—        Where are the gears, brakes etc

—        Keep to the right of the road

—        Where is the traffic coming from and where is it going to

—        Where is my confidence to move and join the traffic?

—        Balance the bike with Khamma on the back, who, by now realised this is not easy.

—        We need fuel, where is the petrol station

—        Watch that bike and car coming towards me on MY side of the road

—        Careful of that car overtaking me on the left

—        Where is second gear?

—        Is 30kilometres an hour fast enough?

—        Where are we actually going?

—        Look at the state of the road – pot holes more like craters

Was this a good idea for a 58-year-old novice?  The answer was of course yes.  We had a fantastic day out with lots of laughs and about 130 kilometres under our belts.