The one glaring difference between the nature of my backpacking adventures of yore, and this trip (aside from its duration), was the fact that this time I would be accompanied by an experienced resident of the country in question. This, in my head at least, would mean we could swan about unchecked and fancy-free, chatting, laughing and generally endearing ourselves to locals wherever we set foot, employing a combination of Rachel's insider knowledge and Thai linguistic skills, and my.... general presence. This illusion was shattered the second we clambered into a waiting taxi outside the airport, and entered into a passenger-driver exchange that began as slightly terse, and ended in a full-scale, dramatic argument over the agreed fare, with much gesticulating and amplified expletives on both sides.
Thankfully, this did not set the tone for the rest of the day, and after freshening up my travel-and-anxiety-fatigued self at Rachel's swanky central apartment, we hit the streets to explore Ratchathewi district (incredibly pronounced 'Ratatouille'). This involved a clandestine and sneaky visit to Rach's place of work (a local school), that was rendered so due to her spectacularly forgetting her staff pass and having to sweet-talk the security guard by bribing him with a tantalising cube of fresh pineapple.
The rest of the day was equally restful and tranquil, contrasting sharply to the notion of Bangkok I had previously held. As opposed to the frenetic streets, heaving traffic, indistinguishable chaos and general bamboozling craziness that I had been repeatedly told characterised the Thai capital, I experienced elegant malls, serene strolls in Lumphini Park watching terrapins and monitor lizards frolic about, and sophisticated evening dining. Maybe Rachel and I had become the kind of cool, calm and collected travellers that knew what they were doing. Perhaps the seven years that had passed since we (in no particular order) managed to lose passports, get locked out of hostels, fall over turtles, view one of the new wonders of the world wearing the planet's most ridiculous hats, jump out of aeroplanes / into gorges and get chased out of Chinatown in Singapore had made us... competent? Time would tell.
The next morning provided a welcome lie-in for those of us who were jet-lagged (me) and those of us who had had too much wine the previous evening (also me). The groggy start did nothing to dampen my spirits however, as this was to be the day that the proper backpacking adventure would commence, in the form of a local bus north west to the province of Kanchanaburi. Cramped seats, bemusing radio stations, packets of internationally enduring Doritos... I could feel the young traveller within me stirring once more. A few hours later, Rach and I could be found perched atop our mountain of bags, staring confusedly at a yellowing bus timetable, and desperately trying to match its information to one of the ZILLIONS of mini buses milling around the station we were in. We had already stopped off at a nearby 7-Eleven for gloriously unhealthy bus snacks, which we were already unashamedly consuming. Eventually, through a combination of Rach's Thai skills and pot luck, we managed to locate the correct bus, clambered aboard, and were given the joyous news that we had unwittingly managed to book an entire separate seat for our bags. Decadent.
The journey passed by without incident, save Rachel's incessant crisp munching earning her all kinds of shade from the driver, and a continuous and incredibly irritating dinging noise from the dashboard. After a few hours we disembarked in Kanchanaburi, and were immediately scooped up into what Rachel described as a 'ratchet ass bus' by an eager driver who couldn't believe his luck. We had previously agreed that Kanchanaburi was to play host to the more indulgent portion of the trip, and had consequently booked ourselves into a boutique hotel on the banks of the River Kwai. Even so, we were pretty astounded by the location and beauty of the hotel, and swiftly settled ourselves on the terrace, drink in hand, to take in the scenery.
We could very easily have sat there supping cocktails for the remainder of the day, but after an hour or so we were shaken out of our opulent stupor and onto the backpacking path once more. This path took us along the river and to the world famous Bridge on the River Kwai. Our time spent on the bridge mainly involved ducking and dodging out of the frames of various tourist selfies, something which certainly hadn't been a feature of our travelling days back in 2010 (a time when photography involved taking more someone-elseies than selfies on clunky digital cameras). We walked the length of the bridge, and then proceeded to follow our growling stomachs into town.
After spending roughly 6 years looking for a cash-point to stock up our Baht coffers, we somehow found ourselves sat in the most beautiful floating restaurant, merrily stuffing our lil' faces with pad thai and all manner of other delectable treats. With the moonlight glinting off the river, a soft tinkling of piano keys and cliched Chang beer a-flowin', it sure was a change of vibe when our blissful gazes across the water were interrupted by a gaudy and garish float approaching, featuring what appeared to be a waterborne disco, complete with flashing neon lights, awkwardly dancing middle-aged tourists and blaring 80s power ballads. The proceeding half an hour failed to provide an explanation for this occurrence, so we paid our dues and hit the hay.
The following morning dawned full of promise, as we were due to (somewhat reluctantly) leave the luxurious comfort of our hotel, and travel another hour north in the ratchet bus to an elephant sanctuary nestled amongst the lush, green mountains. Of course, Rachel and I were all too aware of the complex and varied issues around elephantourism in Thailand, but days of tireless research, endless scouring of review forums and much on-the-ground anecdote gathering from Rachel had directed us to this particular rescue centre. As a child, I thought everyone's favourite animal had to begin with the same letter as their name. Because logic. Ever since that paradigm-defining revelation, elephants had held a special place in my heart. As a truly incredible birthday present for me, Rachel had arranged an overnight stay at the centre, where we could interact ethically with its residents.
As we pulled up at the centre's entrance, I could tell that both Rach and I were mutually hit with a wave of nostalgia. This stemmed from the early days of our five month trip back in 2010, which we spent living in an eco-lodge on the Costa Rican coastline, working with endangered sea turtles. The same wooden structures characterised the place, the same tanned, athletic looking volunteers were busily milling around, trying to look official, the same damp, jungle scent hung in the air. We had precious little time to dwell however, as we were immediately shepherded away from the vehicle and onto a wooden platform that ran along the edge of the main station.
After a swift briefing (which involved me being told my shorts were too short, and having to rearrange my outfit lest I offend the prudish elephants), unwieldy baskets of gently fermenting fruit were shared out amongst us, and the creatures themselves came into view. Lolloping towards the platforms were around a dozen majestically beautiful elephants, ranging in age and size from young and spirited, to elderly and delicate. Rach and I were assigned one of the older and more doddery of the pachyderm residents, and were still desperately trying to coax her into eating the endless pile of jackfruit and not simply hurling it over her shoulder, which was all we'd managed thus far, when everyone else’s elephants had long finished. Following this semi-successful feeding time, we headed down to the river to wave brooms about under the guise of elephant cleanliness.
Later that day, Rach and I could be found sodden, caked in mud and generally exhausted, reclining on the terrace of our personal hut, in what must have been the world's most uncomfortable chairs - whittled out of a solid block of mahogany with scant regard for ergonomic comfort. That said, we were most pleasantly surprised by the quality of our elephant digs, in which we would be spending the night. The mahogany theme continued inside the slatted doors, which housed two incredibly inviting beds, shelves and a wardrobe, and even an en suite bathroom. The en suite, had it been expected by either of us, I'll admit would have been a let down. It consisted simply of a stained toilet and sink, large bucket complete with saucepan for flushing, and shower (a.k.a limp pipe connected to a butt of rainwater). But the fact that we need only stagger about four paces from our slumbers to use the loo was heartening. I'll cut to the chase - both of us desperately needed a wash, but neither could quite summon the motivation to move from our rigid seating arrangements.
Eventually, the combined acrid odour emanating from us both proved too much, and we showered and changed as best we could ahead of the evening's plans - dinner in the centre's dining area with assorted volunteers, staff and visitors, followed by an educational elephant film screening. Later on, sat in front of a flickering, yellow-tinged screen that looked as though it had last seen the light of day circa 1998, wedged uncomfortably into a structurally unsound plastic chair, I must say I wasn't absorbing a huge amount of elephant welfare knowledge. This scenario was only worsened by the fact that the sanctuary's one hallowed copy of the film was a little worse for wear, and kept jolting to a juddery halt before being temporarily resurrected by one of the Canadian gang sat behind us. After a while, this repetitive sequence of events grew wearisome, and the film-viewing crew retired to bed. Sadly before we could discover the fate of BoBo the elephant and his Mayanmarese mahout.
When I say 'retired to bed', in the case of Rachel and I, I really mean that we wandered back to our mahogany dream house and lay sleeplessly under our respective mosquito nets. This was before we discovered that although the nets were undeniably performing their function of blocking the mosquitoes' passage, it was unfortunately from inside to out, rather than the more desirable alternative. Many minutes of screaming and frantic spraying of deet followed.
I awoke the next morning as the sun broke through the previously impenetrable rainclouds, primed and prepared for an early start. We had agreed the previous day to partake in the daily morning hike, which was open to staff, volunteers and visitors alike, and departed the centre at 6:30am sharp. After a swift and refreshing shower of cold rainwater, I decided, I would get dressed in my least mud / elephant dung / river water saturated garments and head off with Rach to hike our way into the day. This plan was foiled fairly early doors, as I stood under the rusty pipe that formed most of the shower, turned the handle, and was soaked by a torrent of absolutely nothing.
We rocked up at the designated hike meeting point a healthy five mins early, Rachel inexplicably wearing knock-off Thai Crocs. That well-known outdoor sports brand. We were struck by a haunting lack of people, save a solitary mahout who was bobbing around in the distance. Eventually, a group of about five staff members wafted over, dressed in what we could assume was hiking attire. Without saying a word to us, they gathered water bottles and set off at a brisk pace, leaving Rach and I to hastily scurry after them, slipping and sliding on a particularly muddy patch as we did so with the grace of two contestants on Total Wipeout.
The hike began straight forward enough - the terrain under foot (and Croc) was faintly slippery, but otherwise firm and the incline manageable. The only minor challenge was our legs constantly being head-butted and knocked sideways by a seemingly endless stream of dogs, who had joined us out of nowhere. Unfortunately, this fairly relaxed pace wasn't to last, and before long we were led by the hiking mahout (who was rather arrogantly wearing flip flops) around a steep outcrop, and then up what can only be described as a near vertical scramble. This new hiking pace required both arms and legs to be fully involved, and as a result was fairly exhausting. We hauled ourselves up rock face after rock face, precipitous ledge after precipitous ledge, all the while being splattered in the face by mud and shoved over - often face first - by countless dogs. At one point I sliced the palm of my hand open on a rock, blood dribbling down my wrist. Instead of attempting to seek some sort of first aid, my physical exhaustion meant that I simply gravely accepted that it would probably get infected, and I'd need an amputation the second I landed back on British soil. It was a fairly grim scene. And then it started to rain.
Suffice it to say, the descent was no easier, and at one point Rach and I both resorted to literally slithering down the mountainside on our arses like a horrendously un-fun Slip 'n Slide. We eventually made it back to the centre in time for breakfast, and sat down next to our Canadian friends who immediately commented upon our mud-and-blood encrusted appearances, and the haunted looks in our eyes.
The day did not get any less muddy after that, particularly for poor Rachel, who (after narrowly avoiding being crushed by an elephant and having to be bodily sheltered by Win, one of the staff members), fell into a muddy pool that engulfed the majority of her lower half. RIP Crocs. After some lunch and a liberal hosing down for Rach, we made our way along the river in a rickety truck, along with the Canadian crew and a few assorted others, about 20 mins away from the centre. This time, rather than joining the elephants for a swim, we were being treated to what Win described as one of his favourite ways to relax: floating downstream, carried by the current back to the centre. As we disembarked the truck, we were each handed a deliciously mouldy and damp life jacket. Just as I was pulling mine over my shoulders and attempting to do it up, I was stopped in my tracks by Win's overdramatic shout of 'No! You're doing it wrong!' as he proceeded to step his feet into the armholes and pull the life jacket up like a pair of shorts / buoyant nappy.
Dressed like the cast of the Rugrats, stood in unceasing, lukewarm drizzle and about to be submerged in a river, I'm not gonna lie... I wasn't convinced I was going to enjoy the next two hours. However, once we'd ungracefully slid down a muddy bank and been floating along for a few minutes, I was actually proven wrong. Save for a few instances of being nibbled at by overly inquisitive fish, and being at the mercy of Win's terrible directional instructions, which always seemed to be at odds with the current, the river float was definitely a highlight of the trip so far. When we turned up at the reception of the River Kwai hotel we'd booked another night in that evening, literally encased in roughly four coats of mud, shoes containing several inches of river water and faces smeared with a glorious mixture of elephant faeces, blood and yet more mud, well, you can imagine how hard the poor receptionist had to work to conceal her unadulterated disgust. Let's just say that the shower I had that evening was potentially the best of my young life.