It's on the Meter

by Paul Archer

  Although China had felt modern in its own very Chinese way, Thailand was modern in an American, 7-Eleven on every street selling hot dogs and iced coffees, Starbucks and MTV kind of way. We wanted to find an island, to get away from the hustle and bustle where we could chill for the last few days of the girls' holiday.

  We eventually found ourselves on a southern island called Ko Chang, where a couple flagged us down. They were English and were fascinated to see such a familiar sight so far away from home. They told us they'd show us a good place to stay if we gave them a ride there in our cab. 'You'll have to let us buy you a beer when we get there,' they proclaimed.

  They took us to a charming palm-fringed beach with an excellent restaurant and bar, and little wooden huts where you could stay for next to nothing. We were assured that the views were stunning as well, but all we could see was the monsoon bucketing down. Sheltering from the rain, one beer turned into three or four, as we sat at the bar with white sand beneath our feet. It turned out that Ian and Mish had led fascinating lives. Ian had been a session musician for some of my favourite bands, playing with The Prodigy, Massive Attack and the Smashing Pumpkins, before moving to Cambodia. They now volunteered for a local charity, working to stop the child sex trade, rescuing children and teenagers and providing them with an education.

  Ian's job in particular shocked me. In his own words, he's a 'dodgy looking bloke', his greasy black hair falling down to his chin and with the red complexion and brown teeth of a forty-a-day man who drinks a vodka-orange for breakfast. Looking the part, his job was to act as a 'John' in sting operations to catch madams peddling underage sex. He would also go along with Cambodian police to arrest Western men in the act, and ensure they don't get the chance to bribe their way out; apparently a mere £1,300 is enough to ensure the police and the child's family get paid and heads look the other way. It was all quite shocking stuff.

  Then he told me an interesting story from a time he visited Cambodia ten or 15 years earlier with another prominent musician. Cambodia was still recovering from the vicious Khmer Rouge regime and was relatively lawless at the time. Ian and his pal were invited to shoot AK-47s and roll grenades under cars in the jungle. Apparently this was something that tourists liked to do. So, for a few bucks they got to shoot 30-year-old Vietnam War-era ammunition at trees, while feeling very concerned about the condition of the weapons they were using. Once they had finished, their guide asked them, 'So… you want to shoot cow with rocket launcher?' He then winked in a very obvious and overt way. Ian declined.

  'Are you sure?' he said, winking again. Again, Ian declined, but eventually the story came out about what the guy really meant.

  Apparently, if you wanted, you could shoot a person – a real, live, breathing person – dead. There are a very small number of customers (interestingly, it was apparently an almost exclusively American clientele) who have the desire to pay to kill another person. Older Cambodian men would volunteer (although by 'old' he meant 'about 50 or so') and the money would be given to their family to ensure they could eat. Obviously shocked, Ian was curious how much this cost and asked the guide, to which he replied between £3,000 and £4,000. For £3,000, the victim stood stationary; for £4,000, he would run around for sport.

  CHAPTER 40

  THERE AND BACK AGAIN?

  A few days later I was on the road again with Ian and Mish. I had to meet the lads in Phnom Penh, but first I had agreed to give Ian and Mish a lift home to Cambodia.

  The road clutched the coast, passing beautiful resorts and tiny villages. The closer we got to the border, the thicker the jungle got, but the close, humid temperature was blown away by the fresh sea breeze; perfect driving conditions.

  On reaching the border, I began to have a minor panic that I had only known Ian and Mish for a couple of days and had no idea if anything they said was true. For all I knew, their luggage might be stashed full of drugs. But after some delays, where I ended up basically doing the border guard's job for him (months of border crossings had obviously taught me more about importing foreign cars than he had been trained for), we crossed into Cambodia.

  It started to get dark when we were still 60 miles away from our destination – stuck in the middle of nowhere with no lights, no hotels and no mechanics. We had to keep going. Luckily, our trusty spotlights in the middle of the bumper were working, so I could just about see the road in front. The problem was that we looked like a motorbike to the trucks that were driving towards us. It was terrifying. I needed to find a way to let the trucks know that we were a 2 m-wide car and not a little bike that could pull into the side of the road. I searched the car for a solution. I found every torch and reflective item in the car and set about lashing them on to the front of Hannah. The cab looked very strange, but it just about worked.

  Three nerve-wracking and painfully slow hours later, having succeeded in not hitting any wayward pedestrians, wild dogs or articulated lorries, we arrived, triumphantly, in the town and I was introduced to the folks who lived in Ian's hostel. The town had a Wild West atmosphere to it, where traveller hedonism met the numbing poverty and rampant corruption of Cambodia. Add to this a wellstocked pharmacy with no prescription laws and beer that cost 30 pence, it very quickly became apparent that Sihanoukville was a bit of a party town. I spent a few happy days there before realising I had to move on; it was time to be reunited with the lads.

  Our long-term passenger Matt finally had to fly home so I met Johno and Leigh in Phnom Penh, the country's capital. Wanting to know a little more about the country's devastating history, and on the recommendation of numerous friends, we visited the S-21 Genocide Museum. Cambodia was ravaged by one of the most brutal regimes of the twentieth century from 1974 until 1979. Pol Pot and his Khmer Rouge cronies killed and starved to death nearly a quarter of the country's population, often for no apparent reason. They picked out anybody who posed a possible threat, famously killing everyone who wore glasses, for instance, which were seen as a sign of intelligence.

  The museum was an old school that had been used to interrogate and detain 17,000 prisoners. There were only seven known survivors. Juxtaposed against the decadence that has become the South East Asia backpacking circuit, this was a grim and sobering experience for all of us. It was disturbing to think that this wasn't distant history – it had happened only a few years before we were born.

  Our next destination was Angkor Wat, the eighth wonder of the world. However, we had no map of Cambodia – because, as previously mentioned, we're complete idiots – so it took much longer to get there than expected. On top of this it was still raining and it appeared as though the whole country was flooded – roads were becoming rivers, every field was underwater and torrents gushed off the roofs of every house.

  Holed up to avoid the rain in a dirt-cheap hotel in fuck-knowswhere, we were catching up online. Johno was, for once, the bearer of good news.

  'Erm, lads… I think we have a solution to our problems.'

  Our problems actually all boiled down to one single problem: money – or more accurately, the lack of it. What we had was rapidly running out. When we left England we had enough cash to pay for our visas, our fuel, our shipping, ourselves and maybe even for a few beers. We also had buffer money because we expected problems. The problem was, we were three months late. Delays, breakdowns and a hike in fuel prices left us running on fumes. Three extra months of personal living costs, multiplied by three, had eaten all the contingency money. Most of our arguments had been directly or indirectly related to money, and there was always a tacit worry simmering away that one of us was going to burn through his nest egg before the others and have to be bailed out somehow.

  'What are you talking about?'

  'Well, someone tried to add me as a friend on Facebook. He's called Nimrod, he's from Tel Aviv and dressed in a white suit like some mafia don… so obviously I thought it was spam and just ignored him. But he just sent me a message…'

  We all crowded round to read the message on t
he screen:

  * * *

  To: 'Johno Ellison'

  Dear Jhono, I would like to compliment you on your inspiring journey to break the GWR and I would like to use this opportunity to offer you and your team a sponsorship which will enable you to achieve your fundraising goals and more… Let me know if you find my offer interesting and relevant?

  * * *

  'Spam,' I replied.

  'Does he just need our bank details to free up a small fortune left to him by a Nigerian prince?' Leigh said.

  'That's what I thought, but I've spoken to him a bit more and they basically want to pay for us to drive Hannah back to London. I've done a bit of cyber-stalking and from what I can see his company is genuine,' grinned Johno. 'They're a taxi app startup company that has just raised millions of pounds in venture capital funding… I think this really is a real offer guys.'

  The following conversation went something like this:

  'Fuck.'

  'Fuck.'

  'You're kidding?'

  'No!'

  'Fuck.'

  'Fuck.'

  'I know!'

  'Shit.'

  'Fuck.'

  'Well, do you want to drive back?'

  The answer was unanimous.

  'GOD NO!'

  What happened next, strangely enough, considering that this was technically fantastic news, was a huge argument. Leigh and Johno had a major falling out. Although he never said it, I think Leigh was overly cautious and wanted to be extra careful with anyone hopping on the back of our recent world record triumph. Johno was characteristically obtuse about the matter and with no real ties back home, wanted to continue putting off getting a real job for as long as possible.

  Personally, I didn't want to drive back either – driving back through Asia was a trip we all feared neither the taxi or her team would survive – but this company clearly had money to spend and wanted in on our expedition. There was another option, it was expensive and difficult, but it would be a dream come true.

  I ventured, 'Why don't we ask what this company thinks about driving across the USA and doing a full circumnavigation of the globe back to London…'

  Negotiations began in full swing via email, staying up late into the night to allow for the Cambodian–Israeli time difference.

  GetTaxi were a company that ran a taxi-ordering app for smartphones in London and Israel and they thought we seemed like the perfect fit for their huge marketing budget. At first they were hesitant about our American proposal, especially seeing as they weren't yet launched in the States, but they started to come around to the idea when we described the photo opportunities of the taxi – draped in GetTaxi livery – in front of the Hollywood sign, or the Golden Gate Bridge.

  There was an issue, though; Nimrod had to have this all wrapped up by the end of the week because he was going on his honeymoon. We congratulated him and asked where he was going.

  'Ko Pha Ngan, it's a Thai island.' The island is home to the infamous Full Moon Party, something that can't be missed when driving through Thailand.

  'At the end of the week?'

  'Yes, it's going to be amazing.'

  'We'll be on Ko Pha Ngan, too… at the end of the week.'

  This must have been fate. We arranged to meet up on the island and discuss things from there.

  CHAPTER 41

  HOW TO NAIL A BUSINESS DEAL

  I stood in our hotel doorway, watching the monsoon rains that had relentlessly followed us ever since India, waiting for Leigh and Paul to check out. The entire drive from the capital up towards the ancient and impressive jungle ruins of Angkor Wat had been accompanied by pouring rain and it looked like most of the country was underwater.

  'I was going to go to Siem Reap and Angkor Wat but I think I will not bother because of this rain,' said a voice beside me.

  'Well, we're going soon and we have a car,' I told the tanned French guy, his mass of curly hair almost obscuring his face. 'If you want to come with us, you're more than welcome…'

  'Hmmm,' he pondered, 'you are going right now?'

  'In ten minutes, yeah.'

  We watched the sheets of water pelting the street for a few more minutes then he spoke. 'Yes, I will check out of the hotel and I will join you.'

  Kevin had an acoustic guitar and was even more chilled out than Anders the Swedish rockstar. He had worked for months in Australia and was making the most of the strong currency to travel around Asia and using his French charm to sleep with as many impressionable young backpackers as he could along the way. When I mentioned that we were aiming for Darwin in Australia he smiled to himself.

  'Oh, I had a funny time in Darwin,' he started, wistfully looking into the middle distance.

  'Oh, yeah? Go on…'

  He obliged with a graphic and entirely unrepeatable story involving his 'relations' with a local lady, a shopping trolley and his tripping on acid. His colourful stories certainly cheered up a dismal day, and the stunning ruined temples of Angkor Wat, nestled in the jungle amongst obese trees, vines and creepers, left us all in awe.

  As we were leaving the temples a boy of about seven ambushed me and set about trying to sell me some bracelets.

  'You buy bracelet!'

  'No thanks, I already have some.'

  'You buy for your girlfriend!'

  'I don't have a girlfriend…'

  'You know why you not have girlfriend? Because you not buy her bracelet!'

  Our next stop was Bangkok, the home of backpacker folklore. The very name conjured up visions of bustling, steamy backstreets where wizened old women sold fried insects on wooden skewers. In the smoky rooms above, people of questionable gender would be doing even more questionable things with ping-pong balls and hordes of short fat men would be betting wads of money on bare-knuckle boxers, fighting to the death.

  The ride into the sprawling city dragged on and on. We had been given some sketchy directions to stay with a friend, most of which related to a motorway and a tall building, both of which Bangkok has many of. We had been squabbling over which tower block was which, and driving up and down the same stretch of freeway for nearly an hour.

  Our plan was to head to Khaosan Road, the backpacker centre of South East Asia and meet up with some new friends we had met earlier in Asia. The packed, neon-soaked street seemed to suck in Western travellers from miles around and within a few hours we had bumped into three other groups we had met over the past two weeks.

  On the journey down the coast to the Full Moon Party, we thought about our options and realised we had none. Throughout the trip money had been a major issue for all three of us. The fact that we had worked so hard to save all of our pennies meant that each one was precious; squeezing nine months of existence out of our six months of budgeting was no mean feat.

  This was all before we had even considered how we were going to be able to pay to get both ourselves and Hannah back home from Australia. It was looking like we would all need a summer spent picking mangoes in Queensland in order to put away enough cash to fly cattle-class back to Blighty.

  Even Hannah herself was causing problems. Besides the money we had spent on repairs and the costs of importing her to China, the fee for shipping her across the sea to Australia was growing with each passing week. We couldn't even leave her Down Under because we would be hit with crippling vehicle-import fines so we had to either somehow ship her back home across 11,000 miles of ocean or completely destroy her in the Outback, 'by mistake' of course. We were even half-genuinely considering getting hold of some Australian mining dynamite and blowing our baby sky-high so we could get around the import fees that we couldn't afford. With so many issues to contend with, we were more than happy to hear out Nimrod's sponsorship proposal, even if we were suspicious that it definitely sounded too good to be true.

  'Leigh, you can't go like that, this is a business meeting,' lectured Paul, the business graduate, pointing to Leigh's freshly painted neon-pink and bright-green toenails.

  'Tsk! Don'
t worry,' replied Leigh, the design graduate, and we rattled and creaked over the island's lush interior and through the swish hotel gates.

  I immediately felt scruffy as Nimrod strolled up, flanked by his beautiful new wife in her designer bikini, and ushered us with smiles to an exquisitely laid table. The wine-and-dine experience was a little overwhelming, and we tried our best to remain serious as we told some of our calmer stories and listened to the proposal from GetTaxi.