Youth Not Wasted

Monday 22nd February 2010, 2.30am, Bamboo Island Beach - Koh Phi Phi

'In our dreams, we are always young.'
- 'Having Our Say', Sarah Louise "Sadie" Delany

I feel like a small child in a perfect Peter Pan Neverland today. Indulging in the kind of activities that are somewhat vestiges of the young, chance opportunities and wonders that, when time is on your side, can be easily exploited. Daniel and I have escaped the lure of Phi Phi's mainland and have come on an overnight camping trip to Bamboo Island. A tiny floating subsidiary sitting 50 minutes by longboat from our former home, strewn with palm trees and thick internal jungle, wide soft sands and tickling waves, you can walk the perimeter of the whole island in half an hour... and there are only 8 of us here. Just when you think you can't top paradise eh?

We arrived here this afternoon with Don and Mark, our island guides, and Victoria and Deborah, our fellow campers, and have met Alex and his Thai friend whose name I can't spell, here - they are the island's only current staff and temporary inhabitants. We've been swinging in hammocks, lighting campfires, jungle walking on the look out for spiders, gorging ourselves on rice and barbecued shrimp, and then this evening, we had a spontaneously competitive game of 4-a-side football, using flaming wooden torches as goal posts. Running around sweating in the dark and the humidity in our swimming costumes, adhering to the rule that 'player should always be holding a drink in at least one hand', we ducked and dived and defended, we cut our feet on coral and crabs and violent tackles, we celebrated our victories with braying abandon, we wrestled each other for possession, we invented team names, we fell about laughing in a heap on the sand, and, most noteworthy of all - I scored a goal (and made a couple of deal-breaking crosses that Beckham would be proud of, actually).

After our hour long spurt of energy the most magical thing happened. An experience, that along with the rest of this blessed evening I shall remember always. So bear with me here, they're called, 'bioluminescent dinoflagellates', in case you want to google. In English, this is plankton, single celled algae rarely found in the sea that emit a startling blueish glow, a more commonly used term is phosphorescence, the process by which a substance emits energy it has absorbed, through light. These rarities, they are here, away from people and buildings and nightlights and city pollution, you can see them incredibly clearly, in these shores that now lap at my feet.

We ran gleefully like excited 10 year olds in to the water, holding each others' hands over the rocks, and then crashed down in to the shallows, snorkel masks stuck to our faces to witness this miracle of nature. It's like fairy dust. As you touch the coral or move your hands about in front of your face under the water, hundreds of these tiny organisms light up like sea-fallen stars, ultra violet and blinking, living shielded from most human eyes in this oceanic Milky Way. We sat in the sea in a tight circle, whispering as though frightened to scare them away, and watched the water below us glisten brighter than the jealous black and starry sky above us. See, I told, you, Never Never Land. Tired from sunsets, fires, sport and happiness, we have thrown a few wicker mats on the beach, and neglecting the tents around us have chosen to sleep out here in a cosy mass.

The quotation at the head of this blog is from Sadie Delany, a civil rights pioneer in America in the 1920's, but more importantly for this reference, a woman who at 100 years of age wrote an autobiography detailing the lives of her and her sister from 1889 to 1989, a century of recorded history through the eyes of two women's lives. And I thought of these aged sisters and this beautifully haunting quote this evening. If they could be young again, if they had full health and able bodies with a generous share of adventure and excited, youthful recklessness, surely this is what they would dream of. This is where they might want to come, these are things they might want to do. Don't let me waste my youth, let me run round like a child in Neverland for as long as time will allow. Let me always be sleeping amongst wonderful people, in the night air and the sand, surrounded from head to toe with stars of planet and plankton.


P.S. To my Mum, who will always be young, brave and beautiful to me... Happy Birthday. x

Holiday Routines

Thursday 18th February 2010, 6.15pm, Princess Spa Poolside - Koh Phi Phi

This is a disaster. You know what I'm going to say I suspect, I've said it before, it's happened again, quelle surprise Grace you are quite the predictable layabout. I am blowing out the itinerary (schminery), I have been here a week, and I have no plans to leave for a good few days yet - I'm the epitome of "backpacking" traitor. Ella, as normal, is being superbly well behaved and is following standard travelling law procedure, she left for Sumatra yesterday morning with our impossibly cute and scrumptious Australian friend Kirk. (Sorry Kirk, I know 'scrumptious' wouldn't be on your top ten desirable adjectives to be described as, but you truly, truly are). Daniel and I, on the other hand, are exceedingly bad influences on each other, and have completely relinquished our fates to the hypnotic hold that Phi Phi has over us.

To make matters worse, we have met Patrick. A hedge-funder from Mayfair, practised holidaymaker and traditional English gent with cash to splash on enjoying oneself. Do you know what the three of us have done today, do you?! We have paid to use a hotel's infinity pool on the beach, we spent 3 hours sat at the bar in the pool and got pissed on Bacardi Breezers! Appalling isn't it. Even more appalling is our justification method for this behaviour. Every time Daniel or I feels encroaching guilt about nonsense such as budgets or timetables, one of us sings Madonna's 'Holiday' at the other, and we instantly feel that somehow this makes it all acceptable, because we're on holiday with our friend Patrick, after all.

I have little of substantial interest to divulge about our activities over the past few days. I will however give you an overview of A Day in The Life of Grace and Daniel....

9am - Wake up. Decide it's far too early to be conscious, go back to sleep.
11am - Wake up again, feeling like this is a more appropriate hour of the day for "activity".
11.10am to 12pm - Potter about our bungalow, watch TV, faff about getting ready, look for things we swear we've lost or had stolen only to find them under last night's dirty clothes.
12.10pm - Go to restaurant in town. Eat lunch for which no appetite has been worked up.
12.55pm - Go to beach. On way to beach I may try and indulge in some shopping at market stalls but Daniel has very little patience for me trying on clothes and then attempting to elicit an opinion from him, and so I have a very low success rate. I shall leave him behind one of these days.
1pm to 6pm - Stay on beach, drink fruit shakes, work on our tans, swim in the sea, write in our journals, read our books, sing to each other (because neither has an ipod). Alternatively, go to pool, meet Bad Patrick, float around whilst drunk on alcopops saying deep and meaningful things about the ocean, or the colour of the sky.
6pm to 8pm - Siesta. Watch old films back at the bungalow. Spruce up, try on each other's t-shirts, take photos of each other in said ill-fitting t-shirts.
8.10pm - Dinner at different restaurant. Normally restaurant has been picked by Patrick, one which we as travellers probably can't afford but consentingly go to anyway. We know we can't afford it because it has a complimentary salad bar and proper wine glasses. I had beef fillet and a Mai Tai last night. Steak and cocktails I tell you!
9pm to 10.30pm - Head to Banana Bar or Tiger Bar for early evening cocktail buckets, drinking games, warm-up dancing, and Connect 4 Championship League.
10.35pm to 1am - Go to beach party at Apache or Ibiza Bars. Dance like no one's watching, drink vodka with Red Bull for crazy shapes ammunition and stamina.
1.05am to 5am - Head to cushions on beach outside Stones Bar. Once there, drink some more, eat Thai street food, watch fire shows, attempt fire limbo then think better of it when flames are licking your chin, talk about destiny, and the stars, and the problem with politicians today, and Buddhism.
5.05am to 5.30am - Remember where we live. Find where we live. Try to fight effects of Red Bull and go to sleep.
5.30am to 9am - Dream about doing much of the same tomorrow.

Isn't it disgusting. Gloriously, decadently, fantastically and thrillingly disgusting. Holidayeeeeee.....

The Beach

Monday 15th February 2010, 4.30pm, Maya Bay Beach - Koh Phi Phi

I'm laying on the sand, in the sand, am the sand - that's the only way to lie on a beach properly, you have to give in to temporary grainy intrusion and let the sand become one with you, to fight it is futile. There are mossy cliffs framing the beach on either side that jut out in to the water in a semi-circle, horse-shoeing the cove symmetrically so that I rather feel like I'm laying on the stage of a proscenium arch theatre; the sea my undulating and attentive audience, the sharp coral beds in the shallows my first-night critics. I'm considering myself somewhat of an expert on beach vistas nowadays, having frequented as many as I could manage through South East Asia. Let me tell you this fact fans - Maya Bay is Mother Nature's Mona Lisa. Her Sistine Chapel, her Water Lilies, her Sunflowers, her unduplicated finest hour and supreme work of art. 'I don't care how you get here, just get here if you can.'

Ella and Daniel have gone off to do boisterous, lively things like playing frisbee and exploring the forest and climbing rocks. None of these activities are of any even remote interest to me. As per, I am happy to be left in peace, sunshine and stillness with my imagination. And oh, what a thing of beauty it is that I imagine today.

Despite my Valentine's tirade yesterday, as I lie here today, I'm thinking about a boy. A boy in an ironically chosen pale blue Hawaiian shirt, and khaki cut-off shorts. A boy with fair yet afternoons outside sun-kissed skin. A boy who lets a cigarette droop confidently from his rose pink and blossoming cupid bow lips. A boy with eyes like marbles, and corn coloured straight hair that falls reverently across his smooth forehead. A boy who runs through jungles, who fights off sharks. A boy who has lain in this spot where I now dream about him from.

Oh Leonardo, I'm on your beach. Won't you come join me?

Valentine's Day Massacre

Valentine's Day, Sunday 14th February 2010, 11.55pm, Hillside Guest House - Koh Phi Phi

'No time to marry, no time to settle down, I'm a young woman, and I ain't done runnin' round.'

- 'Young Woman's Blues', Bessie Smith

Singledom has worked very well for me on the whole. Dare I say it (oh, go on then, get this...) these past 3 years (yes, 3!?!) of boyfriendless existence have been the happiest and most fulfilling years of my life. I could not have asked or wished in my wildest dreams for better friends, a more doting family. These people have had the full focus of my love, affection and attention, and these relationships have thereby strengthened, prospered and deepened beyond breakability due to my lack of distraction in any singular male form. I've had more fun than should be legal, I've had the licence of selfishness, I've had time on my hands, and with this time I've begun to realise what it is that I want and do not want from any lucky future partner of mine.

Three years ago you know, I wouldn't have been able to write the word 'lucky' there. I wouldn't have even considered it in jest. But other people have spoken this word for me now through my pen, people who for 3 years have loved and cherished me, just for being me, without the complications of romance and sex and game playing, they love me because I deserve to be loved, because they want to without having to. And really, besides the obvious character flaws I would not want and would avoid in a man, this is the only thing I would genuinely ask for.

On Valentine's Day last year I received no flowers, no card, no jewellery, no professions of love; but that was OK, because I didn't have any of these things to offer anyone myself. What I did receive was a text message from a man I'd been on one date with recently, reading, 'Happy Valentine's Day gorgeous Gracie, thinking of you x.' This was unexpected, but welcomed, and I texted the sender back politely proffering similar good wishes on this (dubious) Saint's Day. That evening I went out on Brick Lane dressed as Lady Gaga with my friend Vikki (Gwen Stefani), my stalwart singleton friend from school and all round good time gal. Needless to say, we had an absolute ball. The next day I sent an inconspicuous text to ask my Valentine's Day messager if he had had a nice evening. I never heard from him again. Not once, and I certainly didn't attempt to contact him any more.

At the time my friends and I were baffled by this behaviour. Why contact someone on Valentine's Day if you had no intention of ever even speaking to them again? We were also baffled as to why someone else I completely clicked with would take me out on a fantastic date, only to realise later he didn't want to see me again because he was still hurting from his break up with his ex-girlfriend. We were baffled again when someone else whom I dated frequently for a month, someone who seemed head over heels for me and promised me the world, introduced me to his best friends, sang my praises from the rooftops, would then go AWOL, completely ignoring any phone calls. We are baffled time and time again when my friends themselves experience promises and declarations and whispered sweet nothings, only to always be let down. If I had the time or the energy I could tell you upwards of 50 doomed relationship stories. Last summer when a friend's little sister was unceremoniously and horribly ditched by an ungrateful boyfriend, we summoned her to London and three of us older, wiser and more jaded young women spent all afternoon and 3 bottles of wine relaying story after story of concrete proof that men are useless. I know so many of them, folklore tales passed from female to single London female, testimonies of what they've been put through and reasons to remain unsexed, or turn lesbian.

I hate to say it, because I know it makes me sound like a bitter, twisted old spinster, but men are failing us. I firmly believe this. I constantly meet women who deserve better than the scoundrel they're stuck with or the waster they're left to date. Smart, funny, interesting, charismatic, good looking women, and all that's on offer is a sea of sex-hungry, commitment-phobic, scruffy men with too high opinions of themselves and no consideration of any mere female's feelings. Ask around fellas, you won't just hear it from me.* For example, I've come home early from the Valentine's Party festivities tonight. Having already had to place my arm firmly in front of my body to prevent 3 would be "suitors" from forcibly attaching themselves to my face, I got sick of the meat market and needed to escape, come home, and write mean things about men, because clearly I'm in one of those 'hand me the castration knife' kind of moods.

Gloria Steinem once famously said, 'Some of us are becoming the men we wanted to marry', and I think this is what I've unconsciously been doing these past 3 years. To recompense for the deficit in suitable bachelors with good intentions, I have been becoming more than I ever could be as part of a couple. Being single for this amount of time, you have to make yourself be more, woman and man, both sides of the same coin, a whole person plus extra, not a half looking for another half. You have no one else's name on Christmas card sign-offs to reiterate your sentiments, no one to back you up or fight your corner, you have to stand resolutely alone, 'Merry Christmas, Love Just Grace - and Just Grace is enough.'

Today we went to a beach party booze cruise affair in honour of Valentine. On arriving we were told to pick up either a red or green armband - red if you're attached, green if you're single, so that, hideously, members of the opposite sex know whether you're viable meat, fair game. This kind of felt like rubbing salt in the wound. 'Yes, thank you very much you smart arse party organiser, yes I have been single for 3 years because I'm completely unattractive to men the world over, go ahead and slap a fucking green one on me and let's tell everyone about it shall we?!' Don't worry, I didn't say it, I may have thought it though. I'm not as angry as I sound, quite the opposite in fact. More... disenchanted. I'm a young woman, with no time to settle down, and absolutely no intention of doing so at the moment whilst my life is fleeting from one place and one priceless experience to the next. But I won't always be young, and I won't always be moving, and surely St. Valentine, there will be a day when this big mess starts to feel easy? When someone loves me effortlessly as my friends and I do for each other, because they want to but don't have to. It doesn't feel like a lot to ask.


*To the men reading... Damage Control. I would like to stress that I am aware of the sweeping generalisations in this blog and I would like to account for this due to my own personal shoddy treatment by men over the past 3 years, and indeed, this evening. I feel some Crazy Female Ranting licence should be provided me in this instance. I have many dear, wonderful male friends who would make any woman a very lucky girlfriend and I am not, in contrary to the tone of this blog, an ardent feminist or militant man-hater. I know many men who are model boyfriends and husbands and who are implicitly respectful and considerate of women. It's just, you see, none of these ones ever chat me up.

Warm Welcomes and Jelly Brains

Saturday 13th February 2010, 10am, Golden View Guest House - Koh Phi Phi

I'm on Koh Phi Phi. Internationally recognised paradise and King of Kings of beach utopias in Thailand, and well, the world over. Additionally, I'm writing this from a hammock, swinging in tree-strung greenery - it's proving difficult and my handwriting is barely legible, but hey, we all have our cross to bear.

Earlier on in the week whilst still surrounded by the mayhem of Bangkok, I discovered that this would be my wonderful Ella's next stop. If this wasn't reason enough to visit, my very charming and ridiculously handsome Swedish friend Daniel, whom I met in Sihanoukville at Christmas, messaged me to say he would be here, and why didn't I sort my life out and come to this idyllic island to see them both as soon as possible? Well. I'm easily persuaded, and on the scale of hard decisions I've had to make throughout my lifetime, this one featured at a pretty low deliberation level.

I arrived on the boat from Phuket yesterday afternoon to be greeted by these two much missed, unfairly photogenic faces. (Incidentally - Phuket: spent one day milling about waiting for my boat and concluded that yes, one day was quite enough. On the plus side, you'll love it if you're an ageing sex tourist with money to burn on women with gonorrhea). I'd instructed Daniel that I expected some sort of banner and fanfare welcome when I made my grand entrance on the pier, and I did get a banner of sorts. A piece of A5 paper, the back of an old receipt I think, scrawled lovingly by Ella on the back with the words 'Gracie Poo Face', stuck to Daniel's forehead with heat induced sweat. They had also bought me an ice lolly, which I promptly stuffed down my cleavage in an effort to stave off the 35 degrees heat. Well, I'm a sucker for a heartfelt gesture, and I fell in to Ella's arms like we'd been separated for 2 years, rather than 2 or so weeks.

They've been sussing out the lay of the land for the past few days while I've been city living with Mod, and yesterday afternoon they took me to the beach for sunset, fed me barbecued corn on the cob, and then instructed me to scrub up for a night on the tiles. The two angel faces are still sleeping off said night on said tiles whilst I write this. I'd like to say it's because I'm made of stronger stuff that I'm now awake and they're still deep in the land of nod, but I know that really it's because they've been practising for my arrival for the past couple of evenings by conducting a dedicated and comprehensive study of Phi Phi's bars. It's also probably because they're both at the grand old age of 25 whilst I am a sprightly 23, and that quarter of a century milestone will limit one's ability to hack the pace somewhat.

I'm writing this now as a premonitionary forewarning blog readers, knowing myself and my island living habits too well these days, I can tell you that being on the beach will do three things to me. These are as follows:

1. I will get lazier, quickly, and will imagine that simple tasks such as collecting my sarong because I left it in the bungalow/finding my camera in my bag/going all the way to the bar to order my next drink, are heinously difficult, near on impossible challenges which the universe burdens me with because of it's loathing of my efforts to relax.
2. I will get brown. Very, very, very brown. Thanks go to Ray Gillman, Father and benefactor of impossibly and inexplicably olive skin tone for one so thoroughly East London bred.
3. The one that may affect your reading pleasure over the next week... I get stupider. That's right, "stupider". There's no better word for it, real or invented.

There's something about white sand, aquamarine sea and Shepherd's Delight pink candy sunsets that completely addles my brain. I go numb, I lose clarity, forming cohesive sentences becomes a struggle. Last night I nearly had a row with a street vendor who had the audacity to try and sell me four 40Baht beers for 160Baht. I was convinced it should have totalled 120Baht! Ella had to step in. So accept my apologies now, next blog from this absolutely incredible island heaven may very well read: beach nice, (grunt), well hot, errr...cocktail?

The Giving Of Gifts

Thursday 11th February 2010, 3.30pm, Couch - Lounge - Apartment - Bangkok

The last time I was here in Bangkok I stayed for a night at a friend's condo in the city. Bear with me while I explain the link... my darling friend Hannah has an older brother, Daniel. Daniel is married to a gorgeous, funny, intelligent Thai woman named Mod, and it is Dan and Mod's apartment (well, specifically, their sofa), from where I now pen this blog. Friends with siblings with luxury Bangok apartments really are the best sort of friends I think. Much to Hannah's surprise it was I, not Dan or Mod, who answered the house phone when she rang earlier today, this was the first time in ages that we've been able to talk and it was such a wonderful treat to hear such a close friend's voice. Probably less of a treat for her given that I casually mentioned how I had taken her sweetheart of an innocent sister-in-law to an infamous Ping Pong show last night, I considered it a cultural flaw that Mod had never witnessed one, and I was curious. Corrupting her family in her absence - that's what friends are for. If you want details of said Ping Pong show you shall have to e-mail me I'm afraid, I have my limits about what I can comfortably vocalise in public.

I rang Mod on Wednesday morning to let her know I was in town. The last time I was here, after, ooh, a week of travelling, I managed to leave my ever so fabulous and frighteningly garish neon Nike hi-tops in the guest room, so Mod has been faithfully guarding them for me from the teeth of Benji - her aesthetically challenged, rat-resembling Chihuahua. It's alright, I'm allowed to talk about him this way, Mod says that he is 'too ugly to be alive'. This morning we spent about an hour dressing him up in the various costumes she has bought for him, taking photos and laughing about how equally grotesque and lovable he is - my particular favourite was the bumblebee costume, it has wings and antennae, just the right amount of ridiculous. He got his own back though; whilst I was reclaiming my trainers Benji was searching through my bag for a new object of desire. He is now the proud owner of my pink bikini top, which I surrendered to his clutches after walking in on him making love to it.

When she knew I was here wanting a night out with her as well as the recuperation of my 80's dream shoes, Mod, in a typically gracious and welcoming Thai fashion, demanded that I leave my hotel immediately and come and stay with her for the rest of the time that I'm here. Oh OK Mod, I think I can drag myself away from my windowless, expensive cell and come and live with you for free in 19th floor, rooftop garden, indoor swimming pool, leather sofa luxury. If I must. Dan is away on business in Malaysia and Mod has been in and out running errands for friends and family (so Thai), so I've been given my own key, instructed to come and go as I please, and have been swanning about like I own the place.

This was particularly in evidence yesterday when I had some friends round. Yes, that's right, I entertained guests at the condo. I'm a cheeky cow aren't I, but Mod, on learning I had 3 friends from Chiang Mai in Bangkok, insisted that I invite them over for early evening drinks. Monty, Cheryl and Claire joined me yesterday morning in town, and after some obligatory oohing and aahing tourist appreciation noises made at the Grand Palace, I told them I knew of a view they couldn't afford to miss, gave them the condo address, and ordered them in to a cab. The view from the rooftop garden on the 22nd floor of the condo was, back in early December on the King's birthday, one which reduced me to drunk, grateful tears. The real pleasures in life though, as I was intensely aware of last night, are the chances to share these experiences with others.

The first time I stepped out there and saw the metropolis of Bangkok; the river, the long boats, the palace, the fireworks, the skyscrapers, the temples, the markets and the parties, all spread out beneath me, I honestly believed that nothing would ever be able to top this view. I was wrong, being able to give it to someone else made it so much better. Watching my own remembered amazement in their eyes on stepping out in to that garden reinvigorated my awe for it, and gave me in turn an overwhelmingly warm feeling that I'd gone some way in contributing to the enjoyment of this, the last night of their 3 week Thailand holiday. It's true what they say you know, there's so much more joy in giving than receiving. Unless of course this is the giving of a perfectly nice bikini, to a randy little dog.

Save Yourself

Tuesday 9th February 2010, 2.15am, D&D Inn - Bangkok

'And all the roads we have to walk are winding,
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding.'

- 'Wonderwall', Oasis

'That's why God needs us. He loves to feel things through our hands.'
- 'Eat Pray Love', Elizabeth Gilbert

For the first time since being away I have returned to somewhere I've already been before. At 5am on Monday morning, after no sleep on a cramped 9 hour bus journey with a French guy lolling and snoring on my shoulder, a sore tattoo, a heavy bag (why is it heavier every time I pick it up?! I've not even been shopping... much), dripping with sweat from the sudden slap in the face of Southern humidity, I strolled down the Koh Saon Road to begin the arduous and too familiar early morning hunt for accommodation. I'm back in Bangkok.

It was hard being back here today, I think I expected it to feel like some long-awaited homecoming, a reunion with my first Asian citadel, the prodigal daughter makes triumphant and brave solo voyage back to the motherland. What I really felt though, was vulnerable, and lonely. The last time I was here I had friends around me to share the experience with, today, without the reflection of my joy mirrored in their faces, my one pair of tired eyes put everything into blunter focus. Bangkok is an incredible city, one I would urge everyone to visit in their lifetime, I say wholeheartedly and with complete conviction that I could quite happily live and work here for a while. What I was blinkered to before, or maybe what I was just too excited to spend any time noticing, is that underneath the raucous glitzy surface, this is a city of many vices, of underground ugliness.

It's probably easier to see this when at 6am, having still found no place to sleep after an hour of being told that there's no room at the inn, you wander into an overpriced, sub-standard hotel to find the pinched face, pouty little receptionist caterwauling at an American couple checking out that she doesn't care if they think they've been conned into extra charges because they're not at home now, they're in Thailand, and what are they 'gonna fucking do about it?'. Clearly she hasn't graduated from charm school just yet, or indeed any form of customer service training. The angry receptionist, her of too much lip liner and not enough manners, seemed thankfully to like me more than the unfortunately harassed Americans, and so I was spared a verbal bashing, but by this stage I already felt bashed around enough.

Lager louts, mascara-smeared drunk girls, con artists, taxi drivers with dodgy meters, drug pushers, pimps, ladyboys, prostitutes, rent boys, thieves, addicts, tramps, beggars, gangsters, fat, white men over the age of 50 looking for cheap thrills and sex, by the hour, with a price tag. I wish I could tell you that I'm exaggerating, that in the space of one hour in the early morning you can't see every one of these things unashamedly on display on the streets here, that one of my favourite cities in the world isn't so miserably failing to hide the colossal pile of smut and sin that pollutes it. There it is though, that's the truth of it, nightfall in Bangkok brings darkness that permeates deeper than that left by the mere setting of the sun.

Feeling in need of sanctuary, yearning for some comfort and solitude, I retreated this evening to a courtyard restaurant garden mercifully shielded from the monstrosities of the main streets, and a place I have been to before, with my friends. I also retreated to the safety of a good book, my lifelong foolproof method of escapism. For 4 hours I sat reading Elizabeth Gilbert's incredibly beautiful 'Eat Pray Love', devouring it from cover to cover and so thankful for the abundance of human goodness it breathed back in to my life when I so desperately wanted some restorative thoughts. The first third of the book is entirely dedicated to stories of how she began the healing process after a messy divorce by moving to Rome and gorging herself on pasta and pizza for 4 months solid - what a woman.

Just as I was about to pick up my pen to start writing a blog dedicated to Ms Gilbert and her moving literary testament of humanity and redemption, a fellow lone traveller sat at the next table asked if she could join me for a drink. I'm going to change her name, just because I'm about to tell you something which she told me which deserves protection of confidence. In May of last year, Julia was at a housewarming party for her best friend Rachel (who is also not really 'Rachel'). Rachel had just moved out of her family home, bought this flat, and was celebrating this new beginning in her life with her nearest and dearest. Julia told me that lots of the people at the party were frequent cocaine users, and this occasion was no exception. Rachel in particular had a practiced coke habit and set about enjoying herself. Everyone stayed over at the flat that night, probably too drunk or high to make it home.

In the morning, Rachel's pregnant sister rolled over in the bed they were sharing to find her younger sibling stiff and cold. Rachel had choked on her own vomit and died in the night, in a room full of her friends in their early twenties, who had to wake that morning and realise no amount of screaming or shoving was going to rouse this 21 year old girl with the new flat, with her whole life ahead of her. The family blamed the friends; of course their darling baby daughter wasn't a drug addict, it must be these girls who brought it to the party, who didn't hear her dieing while they were sleeping next to her. Julia herself was subjected to numerous abusive and threatening phone calls, had blame firmly placed on her already guilt-laden shoulders, and was banned from attending her best friend's funeral. Rachel's family hired police to keep all her friends away from the church and the cemetery.

Julia obviously wanted someone to talk to about this. Within 10 minutes of sitting at my table I innocently asked her why she had come travelling. Only 15 minutes later , after a mojito, an emotional book, a hard day, and her story about Rachel's tragic death, we were both sat weeping. She is here because she needed to leave her sorrow and her guilt behind her, because she wouldn't allow it to destroy her, and because a week after Rachel's death when all her other friends who had been there that hellish morning went on a big night out with the white powder and snorted through their grief, Julia looked at them, and realised she couldn't go back to that, she owed Rachel more.

So now she's doing something she never dreamt of before, removing herself by half a world's distance from this catastrophic event, determined to use it as a lesson and positive force in her own life rather than trap herself in the memory of the aftermath of that party, leaving herself in that brand new flat, abandoning herself to a dangerous and disgusting drug. Just as she had finished talking, Oasis' 'Wonderwall' began to drift out of the speakers. 'Now if anything can cheer us up', I said, 'it's a song written by a genius, performed by masters of their craft, sung with conviction.' (Oasis 'til I die). 'Yeah', she answered, 'this is kind of apt. I never got this song before and I couldn't understand it because of his weird English accent.' Julia is Canadian so we will forgive her for this blasphemous travesty against a Gallagher brother. She went on, 'He's talking about how the path to happiness is hard though isn't he? Like, the roads are windy or something. Damn windy road that brought me here sister.'

I was sadly reminded today of what an awful world this can be sometimes. How there is so much wrong with us, so much wrong with the planet, more tragedy and destruction, corruption and grief than we should be able to cope with as mere mammals. But we do cope. Sure, there's plenty of reasons to be depressed, many excuses to wave the white flag, curl up under the duvet and refuse to ever again leave the mattress or the foetal position. What the world does give us though, is ways of surviving it, tools of defence, means of slowly but surely saving ourselves. Eating plate after plate of Italian food with no thought as to the calorie contents, prayer, even when you're not sure anyone is listening, a book that touches your heart, a garden courtyard. A trip abroad to places you never needed a year ago, a new friend, someone who has to talk and someone who wants to listen, hearing another person say 'this was not your fault', and forgiving yourself. Strangers consoling strangers, feeling things through each other's hands, because sometimes, God just seems so far away.