Walk to School

Check out this witty video about getting the kids to school without using a car.

Is this the start of the end for GDS?

It's the Internet stupid!

Tight Arse Travel doesn’t understand why your average traveller would use a Travel Agent when most airlines allow you to book direct through their own website. There has to be money in it for the agent, and that must eventually come from your hard earned, directly or indirectly.

Thanks to airlines like Colorado based Frontier, and Dallas based Southwest, not only can you book flights direct through their websites, there are incentives to do so, or disincentives not to!

Check out Clive Dorman's piece in The Age about airlines taking back control of their business.

AirAsia X Quiet Zone

AirAsia X have done it again - that is, get Tight Arse Travel's vote for innovative thinking.

Early in 2013, they introduced a quiet zone from row 7 through 14 on their long haul flights. Children under 12 cannot be booked in a seat in this area.

Tight Arse Travel only wish they had brought this in a year earlier, that way we would not have had a lovely little munchkin screaming, and kicking the back of our seat all the way from KL to Cochin.

World Airline Awards 2012

News just to hand..... ... . ...... .. . .. ... ..

The 2012 World Airline Awards have just been announced. And the winner is - Qatar for the second year in a row.

QANTAS dropped from 8th in 2011, to 15th in 2012.

AirAsia has been awarded 'World's Best Low Cost Airline'.

Best of Australia: 50 unforgettable adventures

I love it when The Age Travel Section does all the work for me, enjoy...

Seven surprisingly good airlines

Another little gem from Ben Groundwater on the surprises out there in International Airline world.

Unfortunately, Tight Arse Travel cannot comment on the other airlines, but we have flown AirAsia X between Australia, Malaysia, India, Thailand, and Indonesia in 2011, 2012 & 2013, and we can’t fault them.

They are cheap, leave and arrive on time, the meals are good, and the staff are friendly and attentive. You might have a short walk from your plane to the terminal, but we appreciate a good leg stretch at the end of a flight.

Unlike full-cost, full-price carriers, where you pay for all of the services available, whether you need or want them, Tight Arse Travel like the no-frills, low-cost flights, with the ability to add or customise services for a low additional fee.

Check out the AirAsia business model.

Bangkok 2012 - Part 4

I think his quest is a noble one, and a great way to sample as much variety as possible. As we delve into the tropical armpit of Asia, we are always on the lookout for the next taste sensation. Besides, the normal three modest meals a day in this climate is not ideal, and I find it best to follow local tradition when it comes to these matters. Therefore, we duly snack, nibble, munch, graze, and browse our way around town for the next three days.

On our way to a rendezvous with an old friend of his, we walk in the shade of the skyscrapers through the late afternoon hustle of downtown peak hour. As we leave behind the Chinese style wooden buildings — warehouses, shops & dwellings in the old part of town — they make way for the steel and glass monoliths of international hotel chains, multinational banking conglomerates, and impersonal mega malls.

Street side food vendors set up to catch the passing trade of office workers making their way home. In inverse proportion to the minimal inputs — a few fold up chairs and tables, and a couple of gas rings — they are able to conjure up the tastiest of snacks and light meals. We are snared; caught in their trap. The meal is only meat, but it is marinated and char grilled to perfection, washed down with an icy cold Leo. I think that was meal number four.

After hooking up with his friend, we enter the bowels of an anonymous office block and find his car in the underground car park. Joining the famously lethargic Bangkok traffic, eventually we make our way out of the larger streams and into quieter backwaters, where the rich locals and western ex-pats live cloistered in gated apartment blocks. I’m not sure what they are gated against, as there does not seem to be anything to be afraid of: the streets are safe, the locals friendly, and the biggest problem they have is the loss of their ultra-cheap Burmese maids.

These ladies have until now been sending home most of their meagre earnings to their beleaguered relatives, in the hope of somehow keeping them out of poverty’s gaping maw. To a degree, they have sacrificed themselves to relieve their family’s plight. Now, with the sudden unexplained reversal in direction from one of the most austere regimes on the planet, they are going home. At last, there is some hope that their country is beginning to climb out of the depths of poverty and despair, and they want to be part of it.

Bangkok 2012 - Part 3

The place we chose for that well-earned beer is like so many others in South-East Asia — an opportunity, grasped with both hands, and made to work hard. The opportunist is the owner of a small travel agency, restaurant, and footpath bar. His opportunity was to convert unused first floor space into ‘hotel rooms’ (this term is interchangeable with ‘rat infested fire trap’) for weary travellers. The space is divided into as many small rooms as possible to maximise his return on investment. The effect is akin to the inside of a hair dryer with a broken fan - dark, hot, & potentially dangerous.

My travelling companion — much more used to the privations of cheap travel than I — allowed me the one small comfort available from the two rooms we are proffered: a window. I thanked him then, but was later to regret the decision. I showered in one of the two available bathrooms. These modern facilities have all a weary traveller could wish for: a door, barely strong enough to keep out a rampaging mosquito, a toilet with a broken seat and no cistern, a large bucket (this of course you fill with water to ‘flush’ the toilet), and a shower. And when I say ‘shower’ what I really mean is a tap on the wall at knee height, with half a meter of grungy plastic hose attached. All of this is contained in a space barely bigger than a normal toilet cubicle, come to think of it; this is a toilet cubicle – with a bucket and a tap!

Showered, I made my way back to my box with a window (room) for a short rest. Besides the window that contributes no more to the room than a little grime tinged light, the only other comfort is a fan. Unfortunately, this is not the normal three bladed ceiling fan, but a desk fan, bolted to the ceiling. The switch on the wall allows speed changes, but no control over the oscillation. So as I laid on my bed feeling the sweat from my back slowly soak into the tissue-thin yellowed sheets, I time the fan’s rotation: twenty seconds, seven on me. The thirteen wasted seconds it is not blowing on me is enough time to become completely drenched. It is so hot my shins sweat. I’m not sure I can put up with this for three days.

‘Rested’, we hit the streets to see what Bangkok has in store. Remembering that we are on holiday, a late morning beer is in order. We plonked ourselves down at the footpath bar and ordered a couple of Singhas. Chatting to the owner and his less than coy friend, we find out that he has as many business pies across Asia as he has fingers to put in them.

My travelling companion lives in India for nine months of every year, and is therefore very accustomed to the delights of that foreign cuisine. Having visited Bangkok once previously, he is aware of, and more than a little keen to sample as many Thai culinary delights as possible in our short time in the Big Mango. His aim is six small meals a day, and with two in the bank by 11 am, he is well on his way to fulfilling that goal.

Watered; time for a feed. You would have to be blind, deaf and suffer from anosmia to go hungry in this town; there is food everywhere, and it arrives via many forms of transport. From people carrying baskets, pushing carts, from bicycles to the back of motorbikes, temporary stalls on footpaths and restaurants in buildings, there is every type of nibble, snack and meal to tempt all but the most fussy. We settle for a small footpath stall and a bowl of spicy meaty soup. It is so good, my companion has two.

To be continued...

Bangkok 2012 - Part 2

After negotiating the multiple labyrinthine stairways leading from the false world of air conditioned chrome and glass modern travel, the noise, and grunge of the street reality hits home — I am in a foreign city. I know roughly where I am, and where I want to be, but getting there is made harder by the cacophonous traffic, stifling heat, and humidity. The effect on the 60% of my body that is water is to grab its passport and leave. It wants to be somewhere else … not in me.

After bumping into two other equally clueless farangs, a Cannuk and a Dutch, we decided to pool resources, grab a taxi and strike out in search of lodgings, street food, and most importantly, cold beer. We are dropped in the old section of Bangkok, nestled within a bend of the sleepy Chao Phraya. It is a bustling mix of local houses and shops, food stalls made of core-flute and discarded tautliner material, held together with rope, bungee, MacGuyver-esque skill, and a modicum of good luck.

They jostle for pavement space with tourist stalls cascading with cheap fake consumer goods. These are randomly interspersed with vegetarian hippie restaurants, deep trance beer barns, and a wide variety of accommodation pitched at the budget conscious traveller.

Under these trying conditions, finding a bed for the night can be a daunting proposition. This, of course is not helped by my already peaking stress levels, induced by leaving a large proportion of my luggage behind at the ATM in the Airport. Discovering this more than minor oversight just after you have negotiated escalators, travelators and security gates, and are about to board the train into town, is enough to break the most travel hardened road warrior into an asthma wheezing, incoherent mess.

Therefore, I parked myself in the shade with my recently reacquainted luggage, and left the task of securing accommodation to my much less encumbered travelling companion.

During the five-minute walk to our new short-term home, every pore on my body is working overtime to remove what was left of my internal fluids. When we arrive I am in a semi-delusional state, and gratefully accept that which is offered, if only so I can unburden myself, shower, regroup my thoughts, and get that cold beer.

Bangkok 2012 - Part 1

When viewing South-east Asia on a map, and using a modicum of imagination, we see Singapore as a tropical fruit grasped by the strong hand of Southern Malaysia. The combined peninsulas of Thailand and Malaysia are the arm; and there is Bangkok, nestled right in the pit.

Now, this is not some big, hairy road-worker’s armpit. This is the smooth shaved pit of the ubiquitous lady-boys, albeit with a nick and cut here or there, and like armpits everywhere, hot and sweaty. I was pleasantly surprised at the clean and orderly state of this city. This can be attributed to the nature of its inhabitants, unrivalled as they are in their ability to rally for a political cause, or together as a community when faced with the unprecedented level of recent flooding.

Within seconds of leaving the frosty air-conditioned comfort of the German manufactured airport train, I was drenched from scalp to toenail in perspiration: a sweat whose speed of arrival and volume can only be compared to that induced by a Scandinavian sauna. Unfortunately, the Bangkok version can't be tempered or relieved by periodic romps in the snow with nubile Nords.

I was suddenly grasped by the knowledge that if I didn’t maintain my hydration levels, my usual body fluid content would be drained away through every pore before I could say 'Yingluck Shinawatra'. 

Fort Kochi, Kerala, India 2012 - Multi Tool

The tool I have, not earned in the usual way from direct toil, but from perseverance, time spent. It is not mine to use for personal gain, but to help others. Previously, it has helped return a broken-down 4WD to the road, so a Bogan, his pretty Bogan wife, and their cute Bogan child could continue their journey and enjoy a night at the speedway. Today it solved an Indian man's plumbing problem.

While in Fort Kochi staying in my usual digs — Onion Skythings — taking in the street life below from my first floor balcony, I observed the chap next door — the owner of a private residence — struggling to separate two pieces of plastic pipe. I watched from above, unobserved from below, while he twisted and turned the pipes attempting to pry them apart with a screwdriver. A cautious "halloo" from me to catch his attention turned his and his wife’s gaze upward. Shirtless, my toned athletic body must have appeared to glow in the reflected late afternoon light. I displayed to them my shining silver tool and its magical transformative properties. As a sign of not only my omnipotence, but of my never-ending love for my believers, I allowed the tool to drop to earth. They were in awe, and appeared to worship and pray to me.

Using my tool to grasp the pipes in a vice like grip, he was transformed, if but for a few moments into a demi-god. My powers, transferred through the conduit of the tool, gave him not only the skill of a great artisan, but also the strength of ten men. With a few well-judged twists and tugs, the pipes are separated — his gratitude was indescribable.

I can only imagine that to them I appeared to be a god like creature. I was on a higher plane, my skin glowed even in daylight, I spoke in a tongue unfamiliar to their ear, and I possessed a magical tool.

Varkala, Kerala, India 2012 - Dawn

All night the Arabian Sea crashed relentlessly and senselessly on the shore.

Early dawn, the World’s colour stolen by the night, yet to be returned. The air not cool, but deliciously comfortable. The sea is a knife grey, and at the horizon, it softly smudges into the pale sky.

They are usually much closer to the distant horizon, but today the fishermen are close to the shore. In their multi-coloured high-prowed craft, they work in pairs to haul in their nets.

On the beach, singles jog, pairs practice yoga, and groups frolic in the shore break. A gaggle of boys play football, pairs of jandals half buried in the sand serving duty as goal posts. On the cliff top shopkeepers sweep away the detritus of the previous day's trade. Dreadlocked, rucksacked backpackers head to the station and the next stop on the hippie trail. Dogs yawn, stretch, and then with nothing to provoke their attention, flop back down.

Varkala, Kerala, India 2012 - Ayurvedic massage: a review

As I am in the home of Ayurvedic 'medicine', it would be remiss of me to not try the local delicacy. Besides, as I've mentioned earlier, I had sore legs and I'm keen to try most things at least once.

What did I expect? Well, I was told it would hurt; at least that was not a lie. But how would it hurt? Aye', there's the rub. I expected a massage to hurt because the masseuse (in this case 2 masseuses, the father - the master, and the son - the apprentice) as far as I was concerned are expected to stick their oily fingers into and in between the victim's,
sorry, patient's: weary muscles, sinews, tendons, and whatever other bits and bobs lurk beneath the surface of my outer coating. This apparently moves the 'toxins' out of the 'bits 'n bobs'.

I need to take a moment here to clarify for you that, no dear reader; I am not actually a qualified medical practitioner. Therefore, please take most of what I say with a grain of salt, or maybe: a Bex, a cup of tea, and a nice lie down.

Now where was I? Oh yes, toxins. It has never been explained to me, even during conventional 'western' sports massage, what these toxins are, how they got there in the first place, how massage gets them out, and where the hell they go. That said, let us take the toxins as a given; I mean, usually before a massage something is sore, and after it is not sore.
Something has changed, so let' go with for arguments sake that sore = toxins, and therefore not sore = less or no toxins. Are you still with me?

So there I am. Naked as the day I was born and at the mercy of these practitioners of Ayurveda. I am handed a length of string - this will be my ‘belt’; its purpose is to hold my loincloth in place. This cloth is thin and small. Even for the normally endowed, this cloth is barely adequate to maintain any level of modesty. Oh well, I'm only about to spend 45 minutes in a tomb like room, with two grown men I have never met, and allow them to oil and rub me.

They oil me from head to foot like a Sunday roast being prepared for the oven. They rub my limbs in rhythmical motions, their arms working like sinewy brown pistons. I'm flipped over and rubbed some more. Note I say rubbed, this is not the deep tissue massage I was expecting. I'm tugged and tossed (please, keep it clean) and rubbed some more. The experience hurts, but it's not the rubbing that hurts so much, more the side of my body pressed into the hard wooden plank, which serves as the massage table.

Finally, it is over, and as the good Doctor leaves the room, I am told to relax. Relax! I'm oiled from tip to toe, my loincloth is giving me a double wedgie, and I'm lying on a hard plank of wood. I must look like a corpse laid out prior to a funeral ceremony. I have no pillow, and as he leaves the room, he turns off the overhead fan. This, I find, is a perverse idea of relaxation.

After what seems an eternity - probably 10 minutes, but long enough for me to list many things I would rather be doing or other ways to relax - he returns with shampoo, soap and a towel. ‘Shower’, what a most excellent idea. Alas, no amount of lathering and rubbing is going to completely rid me of this oily residue. After reducing the soap to a nub, I admit defeat, and give myself a brisk rub down with the provided rough towel. (Please allow me some simple pleasures)

I dress, depart the tomb, find the good Doctor, and pay him his fee, thanking him profusely for a wonderful experience. (C'mon, I was being honest. It was an experience, and it was full of wonders. Like, I wonder what the fuck they are doing now...)

So there you have it; massage Ayurvedic style. If you like: near naked embarrassment, wondered what the inside of a crypt looks like, want to be oiled and rubbed by two perfect strangers, or would like to relax in the most un-relaxing surroundings, this might just be the thing for you.
Two out of five stars.

Varkala, Kerala, India 2012 - Morning Ride

I rise early this morning; the air still cool from the night and the sun yet to clock on for the day shift. First breakfast of tea and toast at Coffee Temple - unadventurous I know, but I'm off for a ride. I have been graciously lent a bike while the owner is at his morning yoga. It will be interesting to see how my legs and lungs cope after a five-day hiatus.

From the cliff tops, the land rises slowly up to the town and the passing railway. It is so pleasant to be moving under my own steam again, cruising through lazy country lanes, past rural life in all its forms. At the northern end of the tourist strip, Indian life slips back to normalcy again; fishers ply their trade as they have for centuries, maybe millennia. They ignore me as I play 'Terry the Tourist' and photograph them hard at work.

Ride complete, legs and lungs feel OK. I rode for about an hour with small climbs and fun flowy downhills back to the coast.

Second breakfast, this time coffee, fruit salad, oats, honey & curd. The bike owner has teed up a massage for me at 1pm. Hopefully this will relieve the leg soreness I have from the days spent sitting on transport, and walking on the least forgiving of surfaces in less than supportive footwear.

Varkala, Kerala, India 2012 - Sea Queen

Dinner at Sea Queen to farewell one of the Ayurvedic yoga crew - a Hungarian woman who cuts her own hair. Amongst the United Nations are: a Spanish couple slowly working their way home, not wanting to arrive before the icy grip of one of Europe's worst winters is over, a Russian actor who could work in Hollywood, bemoaning the corrupt state of her homeland - what can you expect when the rot starts at the very top. Vlad the Impaler, impaling his nation with the lance of his own ego - set a bad example, and your nation is sure to follow. There was a German guy who had worked in Sydney, but preferred Melbourne, and a hippie couple who we decided were from 'Europe', and a few others we did not meet.

This is typical of Varkala, mainly Eurotastic, but all comers are welcomed, with languages and accents to tease and please the ear.

Varkala, Kerala, India 2012

Are you: a holiday within a holiday, an escape from the real India, one more stop on the hippie trail, a place to spruik your wares, a better opportunity to beg, a place to pass on the dubious claims of ayurvedic medicine to a larger walleted, spirituality craving audience?

Varkala please stand up - you are all these things, and more.

Ernakulam - Varkala, Kerala, India 2012

5:00am Ernakulam Station. A wake up chai seemed in order - when in Rome...

The locals stand in small groups; twos & threes. They speak in hushed tones, as if muffled by the blanket of the night or girding themselves before a battle. In a way, I suppose they are – every-day life is a battle of sorts for most Indians.

5:50am. We leave in darkness, the last of the night - dawn is only a vague idea. Slowly, pitch turns to dark grey, and now I can see the Coconut palms exploding against the pre-dawn sky like inky black fireworks. Through the outer suburbs & into the countryside: rice paddies interspersed with banana & mango trees, tethered goats & water buffalo, men playing badminton on makeshift outdoor courts, chickens scratching around the yards, and lazy dogs lolling in the shade. And all amongst this the great washed heading to school, work, or whatever business requires their time today.  These folk are scrubbed, pressed and polished as if prepared for a job interview. Travelling second class I was expecting worse. I am the only one wearing a t-shirt and shorts, all else in pressed trousers, shirts or glittering saris.

And so to Varkala. At least for a few days there will be no timetable demanding my adherence. When met at the station my friend immediately befriends an Italian, Tibetophile barista. He is going in the same direction, so we share a cab. They exchange addresses, and he shouts us breakfast.

The rest of the day is spent relaxing, nicely topped off with a visit to a coconut vendor, an ocean swim, followed by a rinse under a spring pouring from the cliff base. The same water is used to fill our water bottles.

In the evening outside many restaurants, the catch of the day is displayed. A cornucopia of fruits of the sea - choose your poisson. It will be cooked to your liking & on your plate in minutes. I had the calamari, Keralan style, with coconut rice. 

Kuala Lumpur - Ernakulam, Kerala, India 2012

An uneventful flight - the best type I find - over northern Sumatera, then Sri Lanka & southern India, the latter two almost attached by a string 'o pearls of islands and islets. I could see below the hills & lakes of Kerala, soon to be my mountain-biking stomping ground. Upon arrival I top-up on Rupees at the airport, and grab a taxi into Ernakulam and my Spartan digs; chosen for their close proximity to the station and an early morning get away. Although unfamiliar with the city, I had a better grasp of its geography than my driver. He struggled to find one of the two main railway stations, a skill I would have thought essential for any self-respecting cabbie.

After recently spruiking my ability to find a bargain hotel, I now humbly realise that I received every Rupee worth of value from that exchange. Dinner was - of what I expect will be many, before this trip is over - chicken biryani from a rail side diner. Based on the constant attention of the friendly staff, I was clearly the odd one out in the establishment. The food service was fast & friendly (take note so-called fast food establishments), and the biryani excellent. Concealed in a hemisphere of spiced rice were chunks of chicken & a boiled egg. Sides of red onion raita & brinjal pickles topped off a most excellent end to a long day. Now to rest, as best I can, in my mosquito infested bunker, sometimes referred to as a 'Hotel Room' in these parts.