In view of the last 30 minutes of my life, she then delivers 4 words that could freeze bone marrow: ‘Tomorrow, you need motorbi…’

I cut her short. There’s no need to finish that sentence. ‘No, I’m good, thank you!’ I blurt in an overly keen, please-don’t-trouble-yourself kind of way.

‘I walk. I like to walk…I enjoy walking…every morning!I love it!’ Me? Enjoy walking? Meh. I think not. This is coming from a bloke who, in the normal run of events, generally qualifies the word ‘walk’ with ‘last resort’ and would only consider running on very special occasions, like if being chased by a bull elephant. Or a Grizzly bear, and a big angry one at that. But the words continue to spill out, each one unimpeded by any form of brain activity. Then, as if to brush away the last remaining fleck of personal credibility, from nowhere comes this ridiculously toothy grin and an accompanying hand signal to raise the weeee-taaard bar even further.

I look to my hand, which has now made it’s own way out and into the space between myself and counter lady, and my eyes are fixed firmly upon it as if to draw even more attention to what happens next. And the next stage is inevitable, there’s no going back – the hand is already out there and has no intention of retreating without putting on a show first. The index and middle fingers are fully extended and pointing downward and, as if they were an entity to themselves, start to flick rhythmically to and fro like something from a Yellow Pages advert. All the while, I’m bobbing my head and smiling like I’ve just been eating Prozac off Carmen Electra’s boobies and I’m saying ‘walk, walk, walk’ in time with finger flicking.

I can see how ridiculous it looks, after all I am actually there, BUT I CAN’T STOP IT! Please, God, make it stop. Possibly call in a meteor strike as a distraction, or an ice storm maybe, or as a last resort even engage my brain if need be, but somehow, please, make it stop.

Eventually, just before my other hand has to intervene, it does stop. Clearly, it’s been doing it for long enough now – long enough for everyone to form their own well founded opinion – so now I can put my hand back in my pocket where there’s a little less chance of it continuing to make me look like a complete tool. Besides, that’s my mouth’s job. So there you have it, another fine example of pointless gesticulation. Once again, consider the bar raised.

With the show now over, I look back up to the lady who has now moved a little deeper behind the counter, possibly out of throat slashing range, and is now clutching a menu as if it were a comfort blanket, or perhaps her last line of defence. Despite her putting on such a brave face, I can see the confusion and smell the fear.

I review the situation and wonder whether I managed to get the message across. I think I did, albeit not the message I’d initially hoped to convey. Still, either way it’s a safe bet that I’ll be making my own way to the pier tomorrow. And maybe looking for a different guesthouse to stay in tonight, possibly one without the optional ferry transfer service.

Langkawi tomorrow. Stroll on.

My jobs in Penang are done. I’ve had my fill of curries and Guinness and, thanks to one of the book shops on Chulia street, Penang’s tourist epicentre, I have a new Thai visa in my passport. This visa gives me another 2 months in Thailand with the option of extending for a third month from within the country. In theory, I can now go back to Thailand and avoid the wrath of immigration for another 3 months.

The process couldn’t be easier. Hand over your passport, a couple of photos (also done on Chulia street), and 120 Ringgit – that’s about 30 US Dollars – and go back 2 working days later to pick it up.

So here I am, passport in pocket and all set to head back to Ko Phi Phi. I can make it back in two days if I get the bus up to Had Yai, the main provincial town in Southern Thailand, and then onto Krabi to catch the ferry back to the island – but since I’m in no rush I’m going to take a detour. I’m going to head back via Pulau Langkawi, or at least try to anyway.

Pulau Langkawi, the next island north of here, doesn’t look very far away according to the map pinned on the Stardust Guesthouse wall. The map also shows a gently curving dotted line running from the north coast of Pulau Penang to Langkawi’s south east corner. Also on the dotted line, there is a little picture of a boat. I’m guessing I can take a ferry to Langkawi.

I ask the lady in the Guesthouse if the ferries are running this time of year. This is her cue to sell me a ticket to Langkawi. But before giving me either a yes or a no, she calls over to the young Malay guy at reception. Counter guy immediately picks up 2 crash helmets and strides confidently toward me. Holding out one of battered lids, he says ‘We get ticket now?’ Taking that as a yes for the ferry question, I say ‘sure, why not?’

Gone are the days of asking the price before I buy something in Malaysia. Malaysians are among some of the most honest people I’ve met in Southeast Asia. Of course, taxi drivers and market vendors are a little different, but where in the world isn’t that so?

His bike is sitting outside the cafe. I hop on the back and even before I have time to work out how to fasten the helmet strap we’re wending our way through the streets toward the ferry terminal. 5 minutes into the ride I give up on the helmet’s chin strap as a bad job. Instead, my efforts focus more on keeping my kneecaps in their current locations and not leaving bits of them on a variety of parked cars that we hurtle past at warp factor 5. I clamp my gangly limbs tightly to Barry Sheen’s torso while he repeatedly demonstrates his mastery of the racing line. The back of Barry’s head and neck start to go a shade of purply-blue, and the laboured wheeze is becoming more pronounced with each car narrowly missed. Nevertheless, the torso death clamp continues with gusto. In the battle for limb retention, I will not be defeated.

We reach the ferry port and pull up outside one of the ticket shops that line the entrance. I remove my knees from deep within Barry’s ribcage and he breathes easily once again, he seems almost as happy to be off the moped as I am. Removing my still unfastened crash helmet, I glance downward to the previously unclipable clip. It now seems oh so straightforward. I make a mental note of what locates in where for the ride back and wonder whether I should ask to borrow an extra 2 crash helmets, the original one for my head and the other 2 for my still miraculously intact kneecaps. At least that way, with this extra protection, my only concern for the return journey would be getting a Tom and Jerry-esque clotheslining from a bus wing mirror. As we approach the ticket shop, I picture a road sprinkled with shards of glass and, dangling limply from the side of a bus, a buckled plastic wing mirror housing with a deep set of teeth marks in it. I also wonder how long it would take me to walk back from here to Chulia Street.

Getting the ferry ticket proved painless enough. We stand at the counter, Barry talks, I hand over some money get given a slip of paper and we walk back out into the sunshine. If only everything in life could be this easy. We climb back onto the bike, I tuck my knees back into the indentations I made earlier, and without further ado we’re away from the starting line and ripping up the asphalt, our chinstraps gaily flapping in the breeze. We swing onto the main road – to me, a wing mirror rich environment – and instinctively I clench my teeth and start to bop and weave like Muhammed Ali.

Also, I’m working pretty damn hard not to poop my pants.

It’s a cheap and relatively cheerful place where things can be done with the minimum of fuss. Laundry can be sorted for next to nothing at any of the local Chinese dhobi shacks, onward travel arrangements, including a plethora of visas, can be arranged via many of the bookshops along Chulia Street and for those whom prefer DIY travel, internet access only costs about 2 buttons an hour – even cheaper should you own a laptop and hang out in the bars/cafes offering free Wifi with a purchase. It’s incredible how long one you can make a coffee last.

Also, with eating and drinking being great value and somewhat of a Malaysian national sport, it’s easy enough to find a world class curry and pay less for it than you would, say, for a mug of tea in a Happy Chef – or Happy Thief, as they should rightly be called – the robbing bastards.

In Georgetown, value for money extends beyond these two primordial needs. Alongside sensibly priced restaurants, bars and cafes, some central hotels offer just as much bang for your buck. If you’re up for a break from 5 dollar flophouses – even if you’re body says ‘yes but the wallet says ‘no’ – Georgetown offers several mid-range sleeps at almost budget prices. Within just a few blocks of the tourist hub you can sniff out a decent room in the kind of classy establishment that offers aircon (ear plugs recommended), fuzzy terrestrial TV (both channels), Wifi (if you are up high enough), free soap, shampoo, toilet rolls, bed sheets and shower curtains – all this for around 15 US Dollars. Well, they’re classy compared to usual backpacker hangouts, anyway.

Throw in a Chinese and Indian quarter, colonial architecture at every turn, and a heap of things to do and sights to see within and beyond the town and it comes as no surprise to learn Georgetown draws travellers by the dhobi-bucketload. And best of all, despite it’s inherent popularity with foreign visitors, you’ll encounter a minimum of hassle and just a smattering of touts.

Granted, at times Penang can be a touch chaotic and appear little rough around the edges. At night, for instance, some areas do become a little seedy (after dark, the shifty ‘you want lady?’ cyclo drivers crawl out from under their rocks) and I wouldn’t consider nocturnal exploration armed with any more cash than I require pints of Guinness.

In addition to the potential hazards above ground, others also lay below. While wandering through Georgetown you forever run the risk of consumption by storm drain. One moment you’re weaving around a motorbike parked across the pavement, or marvelling at the intricate mouldings above a Sino-Portuguese shop house, and the next you’re approaching terminal velocity in an altogether downward direction quicker than you can say ‘AWOL paving slab’. In Georgetown, this can happen in a trice. Particularly at night, and particularly if you’ve already saved a fortune in a bar promoting export Guinness at dangerously low prices. Nevertheless, in my opinion, Penang’s pros (please excuse the pun) still outweigh the cons. Tenfold.

I’ve got two weeks to return before the dive shop sends out a search party so, unless the curry happens to be about the same size as a 3 story town house in Winchester (and gets washed down with enough Guinness to fill Micheal Barrymore’s swimming pool), I’m banking on having sufficient post-curry time to visit a few other places as I wend my way back to Phi Phi. But let’s be honest here, either way I can’t lose.

So, the plan as it stands: Head straight to Penang, gorge on curry, see some stuff on the way back up to Phi Phi. And why not?

If you can remember as far back as my last post (bad blogger! Bad!), you’d know I had got as far as Phuket on my round the houses trip south through Thailand to either Koh Phi Phi or Koh Lanta.

That was a month ago, give or take a sunny day or two.

After just a couple of days in Phuket Town I upped sticks and set my sights on Koh Phi Phi. My reason for choosing Phi Phi over Koh Lanta? Purely geographical. I thought I’d stop on Ko Phi Phi for a few days and then head onward, again by boat, to check out Koh Lanta (and, among other things, Conrad’s white rabbits.)

Alas, the best laid plans of beggars and bums fell well and truly by the wayside on about day 2 in Koh Phi Phi. It’s a smashing place. Furthermore, and quite unsurprisingly, I’m still here.

A month and counting, and it’ll be a little while longer for sure – like I said, it’s a great place to drop the pack for a while.
So what the heck to you do on a small tropical island for a month? You dive. But what do you do if you’re not a diver? Well, then you get your Open Water Certification and then dive. OK OK, maybe I’m a little biased – but unspoilt coral reefs and walls absolutely teeming with marine life, awesome visibility and 30 degree water gets me going every time. In short, the diving here kicks some serious ass.

The cost of living is slightly higher than in the mainland haunts, but the Phi Phi island lifestyle and surroundings make it worth every last Baht.

Rest assured there will be a few more posts from this corner of the world (groans)…all I need to do now is stay out of the water long enough to write them. More soon!

“I don’t know about guesthouses” the girl replied, “because we stayed in a hotel, but it was only 250 Baht if you’re interested.”
Too right I was. A hotel for under 10 bucks in Phuket? Go girl, I’m all ears.

“It’s called the On On Hotel. A funny name, I know, but have you seen the film ‘The Beach’?” she asked. I feared my nodding may have appeared more impatient that eager.

“Well, apparently, that’s where they filmed the Khao San Road guesthouse scene with Leo Di Caprio and Robert Carlisle.” She continued, pointing to the spiel in their Thailand Lonely Planet.

Now, just like everybody else who’s ever lost the will to live in a backpacker cafe, I’ve seen that film but, just between you and me, I actually thoroughly enjoyed it in a perverse, dreamy, never-gonna-happen kind of way – and I clearly remember that particular scene, too.

“Oh, right…” I said, not really knowing what to think now.

Part of me wanted to stay at the On On Hotel, if just to experience a bit of Hollywood history from probably the most popular backpacking movie ever made. But the other, more rational part of my subconscious recalled the room in question as being a two-bit, cockroach infested rabbit hutch worth a damn site less than 250 Baht a night. Nevertheless, I fully appreciate the inaccurate skew Hollywood manages to put on many a real life situation. Just look at the ‘true’ story of how the first Enigma machine was captured in the WWII submarine blockbuster U-571.

I thanked the roaming Canucks for the guest house tip off, wished them safer travels on the next leg of their journey, and headed off down Thanon Phang-Nga to find the On On hotel. After all, even if the hotel was as bad as it looked in the movie, it cost nothing just to see it.

The place was easy enough to find. Walking in through the imposing, whitewashed facade and up to the counter, I checked out the room tariff. At 180 Baht for a single room with fan, or about 6 US Dollars to you and I, the price seemed (slightly) more realistic. Eventually, one of the sullen staff did me the huge favour of showing me a room. I felt eternally grateful – albeit gratitude laced with guilt for rudely interrupting their chitchat and forcing them to do what they were paid to do.

If I were to scribe for Lonely Planet (warning: bitterness alert) I’d surely describe the On On Hotel as having an ‘air of colonial elegance’, I’d no doubt swiftly follow this with a string of trite phrases including ‘crumbling charm’ and ‘former glory’. However, I don’t write for them. But it’s not because I’m not good enough, you understand, it’s more for reasons similar to the world class footballer who (or should that be whom?) plays for Dagenham and Redbridge instead of Real Madrid. It’s simply because he chooses to…

Anyhow, back to reality; for me, the reasons behind the On On Hotel’s evident popularity remain a mystery. The place was nothing but a run-down shithole managed by indifferent staff – an overpriced flophouse clearly running on Hollywood fumes. I thanked the caring, sharing staff for their efforts above and beyond the call of duty, ticked the ol’ imaginary travel box and wandered back into the sunshine.