So, literally, only one night in Bangkok.
A beautiful balmy night and I’d taken the incentive group for dinner at Vertigo, the restaurant on the roof of the Banyan Tree Hotel. We didn’t tell them about the venue and the first glimpse of things to come was after they’d exited the lift and walked two flights of stairs. Bam! Suddenly there they were, on the open roof, with the whole of Bangkok, lit and twinkling beneath them. It took their breath away. Occasionally, someone suffers from the same name as the restaurant and we seat them at a romantic table in the restaurant on the floor below but on this night even the Vertigo sufferers didn’t want to miss out so they groped their way to their seats and spent the rest of the night feeling very proud that they’d overcome their fears.
Dinner was superb as always and as we neared the end of the meal I was just waiting for someone to ask the question. No one had yet, but someone would – they always do……
And finally, some brave soul did indeed ask.
Um Lisa, how far is Patpong from here?
I grinned and walked around our tables. Yes, I had two coaches downstairs waiting for us. Yes, if people wanted to visit the night markets and/or Patpong I could arrange for one of the coaches to do this while the other took the remainder back to the hotel. No problem, just say the word etc etc.
Strangely enough I found myself on the coach to the markets/Patpong. I was now “off duty” and had meant to go back to the hotel but the VIP pulled a fast one and collared me on the way to the coach with some “very important questions” and shortly there we were, merrily on our way to the bustling street.
Oh well, I thought, if you can’t beat ‘em join ‘em so I explained to everyone that the markets run the length of the street and the bars/clubs line the sides etc etc. In short order we arrived, jumped off and hit the markets en masse.
I have no intention of saying how many of the group peeled off into the bars. You know, what goes on in Patpong stays in Patpong and all that. I simply kept my head down and helped the shoppers. Anyway, I couldn’t wait for the stories which would be told over breakfast in the morning!!
About an hour later I calculated that as the 30 people still with me were carrying more or less their own body weight in fake Rolexes, Ed Harvey T-shirts and D&G handbags, they were about ready to go back to the hotel. We gathered on the corner and began the fine art of bartering for cabs and tuk tuks. We’d all picked a target and the whole process was conducted with much laughter, us arguing with our cabbie or tuk tuk driver and then shouting to other members of the group further down the street to make sure we were getting a good deal. It was a riot!!
Hence, we all piled into our transports at about the same time and set off. Now normally the ride back to the hotel takes about 10 minutes but our high spirits must have been contagious as the drivers all wheel spun away into what was obviously the first ever Bangkok F1 street race.
Cabs vied with Tuk tuks, red lights were ignored, road etiquette unheard of as we wove in and out of the rest of Bangkok’s unsuspecting drivers.
I was one of the first back to the hotel and stood under the portico to give a rousing welcome to those who came behind, in a seemingly never ending convoy.
And come they did, racing up the drive and skidding to a halt, the occupants helpless with laughter as they spilled onto the carpet and paid their money.
I noticed that a few were still missing and was about to ask if anyone had seen them when in the distance, over the night-time noises of busy Bangkok the "duff duff duff" of a severe sound system gradually got louder and louder. Out of sight at the entrance to the hotel we heard a screech, the duff duff swelled and around the corner came a tuk tuk unlike anything I have ever seen before. Disco lights mounted on every available surface (inside and out) and flashing in time with the music, ultra violet tubes which lit the ground from underneath the chassis, a TV screen mounted in the back (showing god knows what but I think it was XXX rated) and the now deafening pounding of what was obviously a very popular club hit.
The tuk tuk showed no signs of slowing down and I assumed that it was going to carry on, nothing to do with our group, but at that moment the driver performed the most stunning extended wheelie which lasted more or less the entire length of the hotel and revealed the hysterical faces of the missing three of my group.
They ‘dismounted’ with cheers and much back slapping, having literally showered the driver with Baht for his prowess at the wheel (and I’m assuming for his knowledge of where they could get the beer that they hadn’t spilled a drop of) and the tuk tuk duff duffed off into the night.
At breakfast the next morning the pimped up tuk tuk got as much airplay as the other events in Patpong, surpassed only by the story of how many darts it took for one Thai hostess to pop 6 balloons. (I didn’t ask……..)
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Thursday, September 3, 2009
What’s for Dinner?
I have two wonderful memories of my overnight stay in Agra. The first was the Taj Mahal. Yes, the monument itself was as pretty as in all the pictures – although be warned, if you want to get the classic photo of the Taj Mahal’s reflection in the water you have to lie absolutely flat on the ground within sniffing distance of everyone else’s hot dirty feet... But by far the best thing was an encounter with the locals.
After we’d walked through the monument to the other side of the building we found the steps packed with a group of Indian people from a remote village up north, come to pay their own respects at the shrine. None of them spoke English, most of the women were heavily tattooed on their arms and necks (the real thing, not just henna) and the whole group of about 60 people had about 10 teeth between them.
While we were waiting for the rest of our group we ‘mimed’ to these visitors that we’d like to take a photo with them. They welcomed us into their ranks and we assumed the position waiting for our guide to press the button. However, the locals had other ideas – within seconds the ladies had whisked off their headscarves and were draping us girls and the gents were busily wrapping up the heads of our male colleagues into expert turbans. They were all smiling and laughing and everyone within reach had an arm on our shoulders or were holding our hands.
It was beautiful. We were as strange to them as they were to us. They didn’t want a ‘tip’ for posing in our photos, they were just happy to have met someone different and enjoy the moment. As were we.
The second thing took place as I was sitting on my balcony at the hotel in the late afternoon. I’d positioned my feet on the railing and was admiring the view of the Taj Mahal dead centre between my dusty toes - every single room at the hotel has this view – (although admittedly most don’t have my dirty feet in them which would improve the view somewhat……).
Suddenly my attention was diverted to a small family of goats in the near distance that were happily trotting along the wall of the hotel gardens. They made such a pretty picture against the immaculately manicured lawns that I grabbed my camera but at that moment one of the littlest goats simply fell off the wall and into the hotel grounds. (I didn’t actually think that was possible – aren’t they supposed to be really, really surefooted?)
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The goats still on the wall were running up and down its length anxiously, the little goat on the grass couldn’t figure out how to get back up, all of them were bleating at the top of their voices. It was heartbreaking. This went on for a few minutes (It was better than telly and I was glued to the action, would the little goat make it back to its family, tune in next episode etc etc)
Then (and this is when a scary soundtrack would have been perfect) two hotel employees appeared from around the corner of the hotel, brandishing big sticks and running towards the little goat. The rest of the goats took one look and legged it, leaving little goat alone and defenseless.
The men chased the little goat across the lawn, around a tree a couple of times and then out of sight into a wooded ditch (Perhaps the music would need to change to a Benny Hill soundtrack at this point). All that could be heard was the pitiful bleating of the goat and the occasional shout of one of the men.
I’ll never know if the men were just trying to herd the goat back to where it could rejoin its family or if they were up to something more sinister. However, I will say that we ate in the hotel restaurant that night and I chose the vegetarian option…………
After we’d walked through the monument to the other side of the building we found the steps packed with a group of Indian people from a remote village up north, come to pay their own respects at the shrine. None of them spoke English, most of the women were heavily tattooed on their arms and necks (the real thing, not just henna) and the whole group of about 60 people had about 10 teeth between them.
While we were waiting for the rest of our group we ‘mimed’ to these visitors that we’d like to take a photo with them. They welcomed us into their ranks and we assumed the position waiting for our guide to press the button. However, the locals had other ideas – within seconds the ladies had whisked off their headscarves and were draping us girls and the gents were busily wrapping up the heads of our male colleagues into expert turbans. They were all smiling and laughing and everyone within reach had an arm on our shoulders or were holding our hands.
It was beautiful. We were as strange to them as they were to us. They didn’t want a ‘tip’ for posing in our photos, they were just happy to have met someone different and enjoy the moment. As were we.
The second thing took place as I was sitting on my balcony at the hotel in the late afternoon. I’d positioned my feet on the railing and was admiring the view of the Taj Mahal dead centre between my dusty toes - every single room at the hotel has this view – (although admittedly most don’t have my dirty feet in them which would improve the view somewhat……).
Suddenly my attention was diverted to a small family of goats in the near distance that were happily trotting along the wall of the hotel gardens. They made such a pretty picture against the immaculately manicured lawns that I grabbed my camera but at that moment one of the littlest goats simply fell off the wall and into the hotel grounds. (I didn’t actually think that was possible – aren’t they supposed to be really, really surefooted?)
Suddenly, all hell broke loose. The goats still on the wall were running up and down its length anxiously, the little goat on the grass couldn’t figure out how to get back up, all of them were bleating at the top of their voices. It was heartbreaking. This went on for a few minutes (It was better than telly and I was glued to the action, would the little goat make it back to its family, tune in next episode etc etc)
Then (and this is when a scary soundtrack would have been perfect) two hotel employees appeared from around the corner of the hotel, brandishing big sticks and running towards the little goat. The rest of the goats took one look and legged it, leaving little goat alone and defenseless.
The men chased the little goat across the lawn, around a tree a couple of times and then out of sight into a wooded ditch (Perhaps the music would need to change to a Benny Hill soundtrack at this point). All that could be heard was the pitiful bleating of the goat and the occasional shout of one of the men.
I’ll never know if the men were just trying to herd the goat back to where it could rejoin its family or if they were up to something more sinister. However, I will say that we ate in the hotel restaurant that night and I chose the vegetarian option…………
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
Poor Piggy
When choosing menus for a group you have to be very, very careful. There are some truly delicious and some very scary local delicacies throughout the world but for every person on an incentive trip that would be keen to try there are twenty more who couldn’t think of anything worse. As a result I tend to choose beautiful food but food that is easily identifiable as something familiar and not too ‘exotic’.
So I was very surprised when at least half of the members of my group to Peru approached me within the first few days on the trip saying that they’d been challenged by the folks back home to try ‘Cuy’ (or Guinea Pig as you or I would say).
With those sorts of numbers I needed to give them what they wanted. But, never one to give everything away, I just nodded sympathetically and said that I understood but that I had to cater for everyone so it probably wouldn’t happen. I then slunk off to the caterer for my gala dinner and had a quiet word.
When Cuy is served ‘formally’ at an event it’s cooked just like a suckling pig and arrives on the silver platter with a cherry tomato in its mouth. I arranged for two Cuy, one as a ‘presentation pig’ (for the photo opportunities) and one that would be chopped into small pieces so that everyone could have a taste.
At speech time, before dessert and after the VIP had said his thing I took the microphone and centre stage.
“Hello everyone. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here in Peru and are as sad as I am to be leaving tomorrow. Now, most of you have told me at some point on the trip that you would have liked to have tried the Guinea Pig.
Well I tried and tried to get hold of one and finally today, while we were in Ollantaytambo I had a bit of luck...”
(At this point the waiters appeared bearing the sacrificial guinea pig and were greeted with spontaneous cheers and applause from the group. I waited a few seconds until people had started to try their mouthful of guinea pig and carried on….)
“I do hope you enjoy it and please don’t be at all distressed at the thought that at this very moment, there’s a little girl in Ollantaytambo who is saying to her mum “Mummy, why did little Pedro have to go away…..?”
Heartless lot!
PS: For those of you who are wondering, it tastes just like pork (strange eh)……..but crunchier.
So I was very surprised when at least half of the members of my group to Peru approached me within the first few days on the trip saying that they’d been challenged by the folks back home to try ‘Cuy’ (or Guinea Pig as you or I would say).
With those sorts of numbers I needed to give them what they wanted. But, never one to give everything away, I just nodded sympathetically and said that I understood but that I had to cater for everyone so it probably wouldn’t happen. I then slunk off to the caterer for my gala dinner and had a quiet word.
When Cuy is served ‘formally’ at an event it’s cooked just like a suckling pig and arrives on the silver platter with a cherry tomato in its mouth. I arranged for two Cuy, one as a ‘presentation pig’ (for the photo opportunities) and one that would be chopped into small pieces so that everyone could have a taste.
At speech time, before dessert and after the VIP had said his thing I took the microphone and centre stage.
“Hello everyone. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time here in Peru and are as sad as I am to be leaving tomorrow. Now, most of you have told me at some point on the trip that you would have liked to have tried the Guinea Pig.
Well I tried and tried to get hold of one and finally today, while we were in Ollantaytambo I had a bit of luck...”
(At this point the waiters appeared bearing the sacrificial guinea pig and were greeted with spontaneous cheers and applause from the group. I waited a few seconds until people had started to try their mouthful of guinea pig and carried on….)
“I do hope you enjoy it and please don’t be at all distressed at the thought that at this very moment, there’s a little girl in Ollantaytambo who is saying to her mum “Mummy, why did little Pedro have to go away…..?”
Heartless lot!
PS: For those of you who are wondering, it tastes just like pork (strange eh)……..but crunchier.
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