I’m sitting here on the sand, watching the waves roll in under the moonlight, sipping on my last beer before heading back to Australia tomorrow morning. I’ve spent six weeks in Indonesia, Myanmar and India, six weeks that have felt like a lifetime and as if they would never end, but which are now just hours from burning out.
I’ve become a fixture here at Patnam. There’s an icy cold longie of Kingfisher ready for me when I get to the Om Shanti bar at five, they bring me my menu on my third beer, and they get the prawns and cheese naan ready ready. It’s such a relaxing place, and I will miss it. In a couple of weeks the monsoons will start tearing in and this whole area will be deserted, so it’s probably time I get out of here, though.
I spent my last full night in India at what is quite possibly the world’s worst nightclub, which was an interesting experience. For starters, there were only two girls there and 50 or 60 horny, salivating Indians gyrating around them. When Indian fellas dance in clubs, they don’t just shuffle around like Aussie dudes do, they go full-on Bollywood, miming to the songs, waving their arms around and shaking their arses.
There was a fat man with his top off, and homeless who was mine-sweeping beers when he wasn’t breaking hearts on the floor. He looked like he’d just fallen out of the wrong end of a dog and smelled even worse. I called him Nigel, for reasons any Kevin Bloody Wilson fan will understand.
A fight broke out between two drunk dudes who both wanted to dance with a girl who obviously didn’t want to dance with either of them, and there was a white chick who was getting onto as many Indian perverts as she could, and then took three of them back to her room. Bloody hell, and I complain that my arsehole is burning after having Indian…
I’ve seen the beauty of Bali, the frightening ruggedness of Lombok, and the banality of Jakarta. I’ve been surprised by Yangon and amazed by the temples of Bagan. In India I’ve been overcome by the intensity of Delhi, disgusted by the soul-crushing horribleness of Jaipur, and rejuvinated by the calm beaches of Goa. But it’s time to go home, and you know what? That’s fine.
In the past, my trips overseas have been an escape from normal life, and returning from holidays sucked because I didn’t feel there was much to go back to. But not this time, because now the adventure continues at home. I’m going back because I want to, not because I have to. I have a fucking paraglider waiting for me in my bedroom back home, come on!
To travel is to give a part of yourself to the country you are visiting, and to take a part of it with you, and that’s why it changes us. Most of what I gave India was made in regular deposits into the toilet, but the point stands. This journey and the struggles have changed me in ways I don’t yet understand, but I look forward to using the wisdom I have gained by getting through this as I stumble drunkenly through life.
It’s been a tough trip in some ways. Not just because of the frustration of organising anything in Asia, but because of the lack of opportunities I’ve had to meet people over the last few weeks. There were very few tourists in India, probably because of how dangerous it is becoming to travel there, and Goa was nearly empty because it was the end of the season. It’s tough being alone and cut off, but I’ve still met lots of interesting characters and more than a few decorative women, so the good outweighs the bad. It was definitely better than the time I got my cock caught in a mouse trap.
I truly thank everyone who has followed my adventures through Asia, and hope you will join me for more drunken, unemployed adventures through Australia, and wherever the fuck I go next. Maybe this blog will turn into photos of me eating meat pies in my undies and watching back-to-back episodes of Bob’s Burgers, but I guess there’s a market for that, too.
A special thanks also has to go to my thongs, which have carried me through hundreds of kilometres of cow shit and other crap. I had an expensive pair of Denali sandals that packed it in after a week or so, and my $5 Coles thongs picked up the slack. They’ve been with me for longer than most girlfriends.
Shit, an attractive blonde just sat down at the next table. Oh well, I guess I’ve got time for one more beer…
Note: This article was published two days after being written, due to technical difficulties, aka both my phone and my computer totally shat themselves. Right now I’m actually at home, drinking wine and wondering when someone’s gunna bring me a seafood curry.