Imagine, if you will, that you’re a slightly unhinged military dictator with a country’s resources at your fingertips, a hefty dose of paranoia, and an inferiority complex the size of a crater. Your capital city is based on the coast, you’re convinced that US will attack at any minute, and that they’ll come from the sea.
What do you do?
Build a new capital city, of course.
Now first you’re going to need a location. Best to start in the middle of nowhere; fresh start and all that. How about this gigantic tract of virgin rainforest, uninhabited for at least 2,000 years? Labour’s no problem. Just ship in a load of peasants, give them machetes and absolutely no communication with the outside world. Slash and burn, mix some cement, eradicate the mosquito infestation; boom, you’re laughing.
You’ve never done this before, have you? You’ll probably need some architectural and financial assistance, not that we’ll acknowledge either. What about the country that’s always nudging you about cooperation? You know, the one which knows what they’re doing when it comes to magically erecting enormous cities from scratch with no immediate promise of inhabitation? Yeah, China. Get them on board.
Ship me somewheres east of Suez, where the best is like the worst,
Where there aren’t no Ten Commandments an’ a man can raise a thirst;
For the temple-bells are callin’, an’ it’s there that I would be
By the old Moulmein Pagoda, looking lazy at the sea– Rudyard Kipling, Mandalay
Visitors to Myanmar complain bitterly – and not unreasonably – about the country’s accommodation. Overpriced and under-supplied, it’s different from other south-east Asian countries in that reservations are strongly advised, prices are double what you might expect, and the quality half as good. Fearful that we’d end up on the streets if we didn’t book ahead, we temporarily switched tactics and planned our itinerary day-by-day, knuckling down for six hours to research train times and book hotels. For future Myanmar visitors, this is definitely a recommended approach.
Onward transportation from Koh Samui, organised by opportunistic but efficient tour companies, was plentiful and easy. They branded us with stickers and pointed us towards a catamaran filled with hangovers, which zipped to the mainland, where buses branched off to various destinations: the train station, the airport, a selection of hotels. We bemoaned the lack of autonomy whilst happily leaving the organisation to somebody else, dodged the hobbling tourists with their moped injuries (of which there were an alarming number), and leapt on the first train to Chumphon.
On a Thursday afternoon many moons ago, my friend and then-colleague Madeleine asked if I wanted to join her that evening at a secret tiny post-premiere gig by formerly-Prince-formerly-Squiggle-now-Prince-again*. It involved going home to change into suitable attire and also pack for a wedding I was heading to straight from the office the following day, returning to Soho for 11pm, falling into bed around 3am, then sloping back to work a few hours later, suitcase in tow.
Naturally, I jumped at the chance.
Of course, she knew I’d say yes. We’ve always admired each other’s determination to seize the day. Or, you know, both have a severe case of FOMO.
Therefore when, prior to my departure, Madeleine and I discussed my impending travel plans, and I said “you should join us when we’re in South East Asia!” and she said “ok! Tell me when you’re in Thailand and I’ll fly out”, I knew she meant it.
In central Java, Yogyakarta – or Jogja, as it’s commonly known – takes centre-stage.
But we’d read that nearby Surakarta, or Solo (what is it with the Javanese and their unrelated nicknames?) was less westernised and more compelling, so we set our course that way instead.
Peter heroically took charge of the hotel booking and stumbled upon the Alana Solo which appeared unfeasibly swanky yet inexplicably fit our budget. And so, for £23 per night, we found ourselves in a room that looked like this:
The train to Malang contained only economy benches, and departed from Banyuwangi at 5am.
Perhaps this is why it’s such an underused route. Even The Man In Seat 61, international train journey guru, failed to recommend or even make Indonesian tourists aware of its existence. We found it merely through casual googling and the desire to traverse Java by rail.
We had arrived in Banyuwangi by ferry late in the afternoon and immediately bought our onward train tickets at the cavernous, leaky rail terminus. It was entirely empty: perhaps not surprising since they only had two trains a day; one arriving, one leaving. A cleaner ushered us into the information booth where we purchased a chit from a lady concerned we wouldn’t be happy with economy (not that there was an alternative), and then traipsed across the hall to get our tickets printed. The journey would take eight hours, and we had paid £3.50 each.
What to do in Bali?
Before arrival, we had vaguely discussed visiting one of the Gilis. These are a trio of islands, technically belonging to Lombok, the next big island to the east, itself much-touted for its beauty. One is practically untouched, one is party-central, one has Goldilocks-status with some infrastructure but no bars, and all are famous for their beaches and sunsets. But after our disappointment with Ubud, and neither Peter nor I being overly bothered with beaches, they fell from favour.
So where to go?
Now if any of you have been thinking “this is all very nice Robyn, but where’s the “flash” part of your flashpacking? This just sounds like slightly more civilised backpacking to me”, then my answer to you would be two-fold. Firstly, as far as I’m concerned, that’s what flashpacking is, to be honest. And secondly: you make a good point. Let’s get a bit flashier, shall we?
Enter Malaysian Airlines. Did you know that they offer us poor cattle-class plebs the opportunity to upgrade our experience without turning up to the airport in high heels and hoping for the best? Instead, you can bid to fly business class. I originally only chose Malaysian because they were so inexpensive: just £200 to fly economy from Tokyo to Bali, a 7 + 3 hour flight with a 6-hour stopover in Kuala Lumpur. They’re clearly struggling in the aftermath of MH71 and MH370. This bidding gimmick is presumably their way to try and drum up some new custom, and I was happy to bite!
The biggest joy of having neither children nor pets is the ability to jet off for a weekend and simply lock the door behind you and hope you don’t get burgled or that you left the gas on.
The other weekend, my boyfriend and I did precisely that. I had some holiday I needed to use up, we were free of 30th birthdays (they’re doing the rounds at the moment), and the opportunity was there to be seized. We had initially decided on Amsterdam but literally moments before I was about to press “buy” on eBookers, he suggested we check out the alternatives. A quick root through available flights to Tallinn, Riga, Copenhagen and Helsinki (cross-referencing prices and best possible timings) brought Helsinki out on top. Flights: purchased. I teetered on a tantrum when it turned out that average temperatures in February are -6°C, but then discovered a luxury hotel housed in a 19th century prison, and the mood was restored. Sadly AirBNB (my accommodation stalwart) doesn’t have a great foothold in Helsinki; whereas the Best Western Katajanokka had a history, good location, and breakfast included for less than the price of the few unappetising AirBNB apartments on offer.
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