May contain traces of nut.

This is the ninth of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

The day of the fight I keep Dave occupied. I’m keeping him busy to prevent him from dwelling on it. I’ve a good idea that he knows I’m doing this too, but he seems grateful for the distraction and says nothing.

The training camp is not quite what I expected. Neither is the neighbourhood. I was half expecting something rather more along the monastic lines. Lots of monks, children running around a village of bamboo huts, that sort of thing. Perhaps a scene from Heart of Darkness or Swimming to Cambodia. This… this is suburbia! Houses with SUV’s outside mark it as a reasonably well-to-do area too. The Muay Thai gym is not so different from boxing gyms back home. Except that it’s outdoors!

The fighters work to their own schedules but most keep up punishing regimes. Dave is the most committed fighter in the camp according to the bossman. “Pompui”, he points at Dave “Heart Of Champion!” he declares, pumping his fist. Each suburb has its own Muay Thai camp and pride in their fighters is considerable. Chai-Yo gym is reknowned for the quality of its fighters and its training. Dave isnt training today because he has a fight this evening so we wake up late and he takes me up the road to the house which acts as the local shop. Each house performs its local function and offers a service. 28 is the restaurant house. 44 is the internet house whose front room has 12 battered IBM machines in it.

The local shop is run by a woman who even by Thai standards is friendly. Dave recommends an iced coffee and since I’m quite partial to them and its 35 degrees in the sun today I decide its a good idea. This woman charges me 40 cent for about a half litre of carefully prepared iced-coffee. We walk up the road as I sip it and I stop and look at Dave in wonder. “This is the most delicious thing I have every drunk!” Its not an opening line in a discourse or treatise. Its a bald statement of fact. Dave gives me a big cheeky grin, a nod and says “I know!”.

As it gets closer to the fight, time seems to smear. We stroll down to the gym where the fighters are gathering to travel into Chiang Mai to support Dave. Its a major statement of solidarity between the fighters. Many are living on budgets as tight as that of the average Thai, stretching their money as far as it will go to maximise their time here training. They earn 1500 bhat for a fight but its 300 for the ticket to spectate and support, but almost the whole camp is going to cheer him on.

First we have to get there. This involves Num, the local fixer who can get you anything you want (with a little on top for his services) and his pickup truck. 12 guys pile into the back of it and hang on tight as we ride into town. Oh, and one cyclist, hanging on to the side. Isnt this illegal? Man, in a country where I have already seen entire families of 5 on a single *scooter*… it isnt even unusual.

We arrive en masse and flanked by a burly international phalanx of Muay Thai fighters I walk into the stadium with Dave. As we enter the lady-boys are cat calling from the sidelines and one or two wave at particular fighters. One squezzes my biceps and winks. Its all done in a very camp humourous way and its a testament to the Thai approach to life that while such things would trigger violence back home “Bleedin fags, dywantchaheadinamess”, here everyone laughs and its all just a bit of fun. The only real crime in Thailand is getting shirty. Its just not allowed. Can you imagine a bunch of trannies hanging out at the national stadium?

The fight is staged in a small stadium but there is no problem with the general public milling around the ring and shouting support through the ropes. First its the kids fight. Yup, 12-14 year olds. Now before you think “awww cute”, this is a real fight. In fact it turns out to be a cracker of a fight as the two lads go hammer and tongs at each other. I have momentary qualms about paying to see kids beat the lard out of each other but this is a cultural thing and the kids train just as hard as the adults and take it very seriously. They’re damned good at it too!

8 fights progress, some of them boring as the contestants hardly seem interested, others highly charged and entertaining. This is not a show for the tourists, its the real deal. Its interspersed between bouts by the announcer who is obviously reading from a script in english extolling the merits and moral virtues of Muay Thai. Its really quite weird and disturbing, sounding like something from Bladerunner she drones on and on, deadpan and flat about the Gods and the paths to heaven that Muay Thai can enlighten you to. Coupled with the roaring of the crowd and the shouting of the unofficial book makers it makes for aural overload!

Dave is the main event and arrives with what he later described as his “yer leavin’ the pub, mate” face on. He looks more determined then I have ever seen him before. A bunch of Paddies have arrived and are cheering for Ireland which makes me laugh. Dave does his Wai Kru, the ceremonial dance before the fight much to the admiration and amusement of the ref. Not many foreigners attempt it but Dave pulls off a decent version of it and then the fight starts and Dave comes out swinging. Dave has the weight advantage but the management have switched his opponent at last minute and instead of facing a relative newbie, he’s fighting an experienced professional. Good luck to him as it takes Dave about 45 seconds to flatten him. Dave looked shaken by a kick to the head but shrugged it off and the face on the Thai fighter was hilarious. He clearly expected it to floor his opponent but still the celtic juggernaut pressed on and a swift knee to the head later its a first round knockout.

This is the eighth of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

Dave is a bit of a headcase. He’s always been a bit of a headcase for as long as I’ve known him which is about half my life. He’s a big nerd stuck in a jock’s body. In the department of “deciding to do very odd things”, he and I are something of kindred spirits so when Dave rolled over on the couch, looked over at me chatting with Mr B and announced “You know I’m going to Thailand to train in Thai-boxing for a year” it wasnt an entirely unlikely thing for him to say. A sex change op would have been considerably more unlikely for example.

Dave has a blackbelt in martial arts already and works the doors in Dublin so, in his own vernacular, he’s not exactly a soft cunt. Definitely gynacologically robust. I have to give him credit though, that night I thought he was just high. I’m not going to deny that possibility but I didnt think he was, you know, serious.

4 months later, Dave is in Chiang Mai and I’m in a plane, somewhere over central Thailand, on my way to see him. I’m glad to be leaving Bangkok but staying in Thailand. Bangers is a contorted city, contorted by western wealth, eastern poverty, explosive population growth and a government that is corrupt (and has just been removed from power by the King).

Changers is different. While its the second largest city in Thailand, it is surprisingly sparsely populated with only 400,000 inhabitants. Life is a lot less hecktic here and more traditionally Thai.

A guy who looks a lot like Dave but half the weight greets me at the airport. My first thought is “I didnt know Dave had a brother”. 3 months of training has tightened Dave’s profile considerably. He doesnt have the traditional Thai-boxer six pack but its no longer two kegs and a family sized bag of pork scratchings. The Thais who are uniformly fit and thin cannot get their tongues around “Dave” so have taken to calling him “Pompui!”. This translates pretty much directly to “fat bastard”. Charming! However the promoter of Dave’s first fight took a look at the recently transformed Irishman and declared he would have to have a new nickname. “Pompui Noi”. Little fat bastard.

Dave has signed up for a professional fight in time for my arrival. It means he gets paid to fight in front of a crowd in Taphe Stadium, the biggest stadium in Chiang Mai. Seen the film Ong Bak? well, not a million miles off! As we are walking around the next day, I spot a big banner that says “Ireland vs Thailand!!”. Thats a bit of a coincidence, I think. Bit TOO coincidental for us in fact and we wander over to what transpires to be a ticket booth. Starring back out at us from the posters on either side is Dave’s face, posing with the biggest pillow-looking gloves I’ve ever seen. On the right of the poster is a picture of his opponent. Knocking someone out with a kick to the head. Dave and I turn and look at each other. I can’t stop laughing (not to mention pointing). The more Dave looks a little shell-shocked the more I’m in convulsions until both of are bursting with laughter like schoolgirls. Oh my God…. What are either of us doing here?!

But evening draws in and it is warm, with a slight cooling breeze as we sit on big broad cushions on the floor of a roof-top bar. The moon looks different here I notice idly. I cant read the label on my beer but its cold and its tastes good and I conclude that there are worse places in the world to find yourself…

This is the seventh of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

Patpong is the infamous red-light district where a brave man can find just about everything they could possibly want. For a price. Personally I have never paid for sex. I’m not prudish about it and I support initiatives like they have in Amsterdam where the women are in control. But I just can’t imagine it, its just not me. Its certainly not me in a place like this! Aids and STD’s affect a large number of the sex trade here and like just about everything in Thailand, regulation is, well… lax.

Patpong is also the night market area, though you could say that about any flat surface in the city. Its about 9pm and the working day is just beginning for the stalls-keepers. The place is packed full of every conceivable knockoff and imitation product along with a lot of traditional Thai clothing. I love the Thai dress sense, its light airy and very comfy to wear. At about 12-14 euro each its also incredibly good value and thats before you start haggling.

Cos ya gotta ‘aggle!!

Yes, in a bizzarre Monty Python manner, Bangkok (indeed, all of Thailand) is based on haggling. Now its another quirk of my personality that I really dislike haggling. Don’t ask me why, I just dont like confrontation and I dont like arguing over money either. In Thailand, its a national sport. I am “falang” (tourist/foreigner) which means I pay Falang-Price. This is generally about 3 times Thai-Price

You can’t actually *pay* Falang-Price. The Thai wouldnt have it. I tried, I tried to accept the first price I was shown on the ubiquitous calculator (a universal platform for showing prices to Falangs). I got a horrified look from the vendor. What? Are you nuts? No no no no, yah gotta ‘aggle! The calculator is produced again and she says “For you, special price!”. Ehh? I just agreed to pay you 14 euros for this oriental shirt. She press 12.00 “Yes? Very nice shirt!?”, “Um, yes, I know its a nice shirt, I would have thought my opinion was evident from my agreement to give you currencyf or it”
I laugh, she beams a 1000-watt smile at me and clearly hasnt a clue what I just said but I look happy and I’m offering her money, which generally makes the Thais happy too.

She takes the money but with a moments hesitation. She looks at me and then pulls out a linen Thai-style t-shirt and puts it on top of the one I’m buying and points at it and then taps my chest with the palm of her hand in a very maternal way. This makes her exceptionally happy and more relaxed. This woman is almost 5 foot tall. Almost. I try to explain to her that I am not in the market for more shirts. It transpires that this shirt is free. I’m not very good at haggling so she decided she couldnt let me leave paying that for a shirt and so haggled with herself to drive a better bargain. Thai service is such that you arent expected to do anything for yourself, not even haggle.

There are things I love about traveling and one of them is the number of times you are slapped in the face by a cultural difference that stops you in your tracks and makes you just stand there, slack jawed and staring. Sometimes it something big like someone prostrating themselves in front of you in the street, sometimes its something small. In this case, when I have had my shirts meticulously wrapped, change precisely counted out and bows exchanged with palms pressed together… she folds the notes I have given her in half and explodes into action shouting something Thai and vigourously slapping the bejaysus out of every article of clothing on her stall with the money. This even involves climbing up to reach the ones high at the back. I stand there looking dumbfounded, starring at her wide-eyed slightly embarrassed. “err… yeeeeah.” My first thought is “She has OCD, this is a compulsion she’s driven to perform.” then I think “Ah, this is a prearranged signal to convey ‘we’ve got a live one here who doesnt haggle and is loaded’ to the other stall owners”. Turns out, its for luck.

“You want boom boom??” “No, falang no want boom boom”. The Thai pimps are the least threatening, politest pimps I’ve ever been hassled by. In case you havent got the idea yet they show you some of the most explicit “menu’s” you will ever be presented with. Completely without warning someone you are walking past may whip out an A5 booklet and present it, 2 foot from your nose. “Girl? Girls?” “Yes, I can see that. In fact, its about all I can see, thank you!” “Boom boom?” “No, sorry” patting my tum, I cheerfully reply, “I’ve had my daily quota. No more boom boom for me!”. He looks at me confused. I smile at him. He beams a smile back in return.

“Boys?”

“Taaaaaxi!”

This is the sixth of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

Bangok by night is a ride. A riot. A trip. An experience. Awful and wonderful at the same time. Its heartbreaking and exhilarating but ultimately I wanted to hide from its unrelenting intensity, the constant unstoppable flow of stimuli. Its just too much too fast and it never ever relents. I’ve travelled far and wide from Vegas to Tokyo but never encountered something like this. Its not an enjoyable city but it is a singular experience that is difficult to turn away from and impossible to accept.

The city is built without rhyme or reason. Certainly planning was not a concept that featured greatly at any stage of its construction. This is not an urban centre, it feels more like a place where lots of people happen to be. There is a distinct two tier feel about the city both physically and economically. The Skytrain is a huge monorail that sweeps into and around the city centre. Shiny and new on top, it blocks out the sun for the streets over which it runs. On occasion I stood on streets wider then Grafton street and 90% of the sky was the dirty underside of the Skytrain. It gives the impression of almost permanent twilight which seems to fit the grubby lower area.

The poverty is astounding. After being intimidated on the first night into eating in my hotel, the second night I force myself to go and see Patpong, the infamous red light district. But first I want to walk the streets and see the city without glass between me and it. I jump off the Skytrain at my stop and descend like Orpheus.

The first beggar I meet is just sitting there. In fact, its a stretch to use the verb “begging”. The word insinuates some form of activity, movement even. He is just *there*. An old frail, Indian looking man, he accepts coins without acknowledgement or comment. In a country where “face” is paramount he has lost everything and no longer seems to care. His bare, spindly legs are stretched out on the pavement and due to the constant press of people I’m forced to step over him. I just cant walk by and I reach into my pocket, picking the first note there and hand it to him. I dont care what it is, almost certainly its more then he has in the entire world. Its about 20 euro, a fortune and he looks slowly at me, the first time I’ve seen him acknowledge the world around him. His eyes are clear, he’s not junkie or a nutter, he looks straight at me like a blowtorch and says…. nothing. I say nothing too because I have no idea what to say and quite upset I back up a step or two, turn and escape.

Unfortunately this is no isolated incident. Walking down the street is akin to doing the 110M beggar-hurdles and after a while I’ve become bizarrely selective about my charity. I have about 200 Euros in Thai Bhat in my pocket and I’m playing santa claus with it. I’ve turned it into the equivalent of 5 euro notes and I’ve decided to distribute them until I’m as broke as they are. I wouldnt make it down half the street if I gave one to every beggar so I become selective. Mothers with babies are a shoe-in because I’m pretty sure the mother will spend the money as best as possible for her family. Mothers are like that the world over. Kids have a pretty good chance too because while I’m sure they wont get to spend the money, it might save them a beating. Middle aged men… good luck mate. Maybe if you had crutches or an eye patch…. I mean, you gotta give me something to work with here!

The selection process is ugly but what can you do? Not give them money? People who talk about not making them dependant on hand outs have never seen this. These people are one step away from just lying down and dying. Help them, or dont. You choose. Dont give me philsophical lectures on macro-economics. I really dont want to hear and they don’t care.

And so I proceed down the street and feel like Neo from the matrix when he steps out of the lift to be greeted by the faithful. I’m walking down the street simply handing out fivers. But I dont feel powerful, I feel helpless and a little hopeless. I feel ugly. I’m here and they’re there because I was born into a middle class Irish family and they got hit by a freak wave. I do not inately deserve more then they do. Or more accurately, they dont deserve to be this fucked. I’ve a 7 star hotel room, they have a lamppost. Its not fair, but while I’ll help I’m glad its them and not me. For all my catholic-bred guilt, I’m glad I’m the one on this side of the fivers. I’m not sure if I’m doing this to help them or assuaging my conscience. I’m fuckin’ certain they dont give a shit…

I’m walking down the road towards the night bazzar, freshly broke and feeling introspective when a man sees me and a big american in front of me, coming down the street. He lowers himself to his knees, touches his hands and head to the ground, stretchs himself forward to his full length and spreads his hands out directly away from his sides. And lies there, face down. The american steps over his arm and after a brief pause, I do too. I have no money left and frankly have no frame of reference, of etiquette, with which to deal with this. What the fuck is the polite response to that?

I’ve made Bangkok sound like a wasteland and a depressing hole. Its not and I’ll describe its vibrant *life* shortly but the overbearing impression I will take home with me is smell of sewage and people just sitting on dirty ground in permanent twilight.

This is the fifth of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

Ping! Pong! Bounce off Malaysia. I’m in Bangkok. Its night. I am not sure what day it is. I think its Wednesday. Another airport, another carousel of luggage. If I meet Brad Pitt I’m flying home for a month off and my apartment better not be on fire.

I’ve been recommended a hotel by a doctor I met in Singapore and I’ve booked myself in for 3 nights before heading north again, inexorably towards Dave and his martial arts training camp. But first I have work to do in Bangkok and for long time I have always wanted to see this city. Singapore is clinically clean, Kuala Lumpur hides its poverty like an embarrassment but Bangkok, oooohh, Bangers (as its known locally by the ex-pats) is different.
It is a glorious, wildly exciting, fascinating, incredible, breath-takingly alive…fucking shit hole.

The city is a dump. It is over populated, filthy and the sewage system (only created a decade or two ago) has completely failed it seems. But my God, its alive and vibrant. This, this is Asia, cockrel festooned markets of exotica and all. This is more like it.

The drive in from the airport is a shock. Its night time and thats when Bangkok wakes up. I’m riding in a luxury chauffeur driven limo that cost me about 16 euro for 45 minutes of driving. I’ve given him the address and already paid so I’m pretty sure I wont be taken for a ride around town. I’m staying in an area called Sukhumvit, its a main artery of the city and I’m staying on one of its side streets.

So far, I’m not impressed. Its populated by every conceivable dodgy looking street vendor, pimp and junkie/hooker. Shockingly we turn off onto one of these roads and my driver announces that we are nearly there. I’m a little panicy as I have about 2000 euro on me for a start and this area looks like the bronx of Bangkok. I keep telling myself that this hotel was recommended to me by a top flight doctor so there is either some mistake or things are going to take a sharp turn for the better soon. Some locked gates and armed guards would be a good start. “Intimidated” isnt a word I find applicable to me too often but I have a terrible feeling that if the driver tosses me out here the locals will go very quiet and turn, as one, in my direction with the distinct attitude of “Mmmmmm…Fresh White Meat!”

It turns out that this ISNT a bad area of Bangkok. This is the way Bangers is, all over. And I needn’t be worried because while its true that you can buy just about anything on the streets and see just about anything in the go-go bars, the hookers and pimps wont hassle you because that wouldnt be, you know, *polite*!

We turn a corner and my hotel appears. It has a similar welcoming service as that of the Malaysian hotel but I’ve long since ceased to be impressed by that and indeed find myself thinking (rather sniffingly) that these guys dont have those little curled up, cold damp face cloths. (I’m going to be one very dissappointed and frustrated fella when I get back to Irish service!). However, they do have a militaraily precise lift-button-pusher. This man (who never spoke to me once) is dressed from head to toe in what appears to be a cross between a security guards uniform and that of a Major General. As I approach the lift (my bags having already been whisked away) he looks at me gravely, slowly draws himself to his full height, snaps his heels together with a loud metalic click… and salutes me. It is so unexpected, so incongruous and performed with such solemnity that I am stopped in my tracks.
Did that guy just give me a perfectly executed salute? Yep! And he’ll do it every single time I enter or leave the lift. Thats what he does. He’s the salute guy. Having performed his duty he quickly nips over and presses the button to call the lift for me with a smile.

My room is presented and while I struggle to find words to over come the shock of what I’m seeing, the entertainment system (that is, the DVD, VideoCD and CD players) are explained and demonstrated on the biggest plasma screen I’ve seen in a hotel room. I can’t believe that this is my hotel room. It is far nicer then any apartment I have ever lived in and shockingly it cost 85 euro a night. Words fail me so I had to video it…

This is the fourth of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

The conference passes uneventfully and as the final speaker I am keen to give a good presentation and not make a fool of myself. I am the only speaker who doesnt have a string of letters after his name. Thankfully it passes off well. Very well in fact and I feel invigourated and alive. Pulling off something that out of the ordinary is a total rush.

Unfortunately there is no time to dally or sightsee and that evening I am on a plane to progress my really small adventure. Singapore is what I expected it to be. Clean, organised, excellent in every manner. But ultimately it isnt South East Asia. Its the very best approximation Asians can make of what they think the West is like. If only they knew the truth, because the truth is that they are much much better at immitating us then we are. But there is something souless about Singapore too. Nowhere should be this clean, this perfect, this organised. It feels… unnatural.

Kuala Lumpur is more like what I expected from Asia. Its noisy and its busy. Its packed full of people and it mixes sparkling newness with on-the-verge-of-poverty conditions. As a westerner I am at the top of the food chain. I am “Sir” to everyone. White equals money. Malaysians make Singaporese look lazy. Kuala Lumpur isnt as clean as Singapore nor as overtly rich but they make up for it in sheer determination and by throwing manpower at any job.

I arrive at my hotel, the impressively named “Prince’s Hotel and Residence”. With a name like that I’m expecting something fairly elaborate but not quite what is awaiting me. My taxi sweeps up the drive and draws to a halt infront of an impressive set of stairs leading to an equally impressive row of 20 glass doors. Like a Formula 1 car pulling into the pits, a team of crack Malaysian hospitality workers descend on my taxi. One to open my door, another to bow to me, a third to open tbe boot and a fourth to take my bags therefrom. A fifth, older and clearly the boss, stands back a little and greets me formally with a bow and a flourish to present his pristine workplace. Behind him stands a sixth and seventh holding cold wet face clothes on a tray and the ubiquious glasses of cha respectively.

Another taxi arrives behind mine and a second team appears and kicks into action. This entire operation is executed with military precision. There is no communication, no orders barked. Each knows his role. All involved in an act with a single, collective purpose; to welcome you to their hotel. This is carried on 24 hours a day, 7 days a week.

Since I have been formally welcomed, attention shifts to the new arrival. I am left with a young porter who is struggling with my luggage. I am not travelling light. My main suitcase is a whopping 28 Kilos and my hand luggage weighs in at about 15. My laptop never leaves my sight nor grip; thats just the golden rule. To be helpful (and because my luggage looks like it weighs about the same as this poor Malay porter) I grab the sports bag that contains all my ancilliary tech gear. Its got my PSP, Camera, power cables, Videocam amongst other stuff. I’m not *just* being helpful…

I turn to mount the stairs and hear a plaintive “Sir!?” that draws my attention. There is something in the way he said it that made me turn around. My porter looks horrified. “Sir?” he says again, reaching out for my sports bag. I get the feeling that “sir” is one of the few words of English he has. He is at the bottom of the hospitality rung and has no need to converse with the patrons you see. He is already struggling under the weight of my stuff and I reassure him “Its ok, I’ll take this one”. I turn towards the doors again. “Please!” he blurts. Its an octave higher, plaintive and pleading. I’m now certain I’ve heard his entire English vocabulary. He looks absolutely forlorn and desperate. I am his ward. Its unthinkable that I should carry anything on his watch. I’m caught in the headlights of cultural difference for a moment before handing my bag to a man a good half foot shorter and two stone lighter then I, who is already weighed down carrying my luggage. Thus encumbered he transforms into the happiest person I think I have ever seen, beams me a huge white smile and picks up my suitcase. (I explain with charades that my suitcase has wheels and can be towed with an extendable handle. This is greeted with a great deal of smiling and nodding but no actual usage).

I walk accross a concourse as big as a basketball court made from marble and featuring a grandiose sweeping staircase. There are no less then 20 staff working on the floor either waiting to check people in, waiting to carry their bags, waiting to greet them or just waiting in case someone should, you know, need something. Anything. Anything at all. Because by god, when they do, they’ll be ready to spring into action. I check in and get my room number and keys, turn to my porter but… he’s gone. No sign of him anywhere. I’m fairly sure he hasnt run off with my stuff, I’m fairly sure he isnt running anywhere with it in fact. But he’s not here. He’s been replaced by another man, almost identical, who smiles broadly, indicates the lifts and says “please!”. Disturbed and uneasy about my luggage I head towards the lifts and review my room number while my new attendant nips ahead to press the button. He guides me to my room, bows deeply as I open the door and backs out having presented my room with a silent flourish.

The room is large and immaculate it but the bed has no pillows. As I havent slept properly for days and have an early start tomorrow this is not good news. A note informs me that my wardrobe contains pillows of 5 different levels of firmness for my selection. My wardrobe indeed contains various pillows.

Neatly stacked, it also contains my luggage.

This is the third of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

Perhaps I should elaborate why I have put myself in a metal tube and had myself flung across the planet. Why I’m presenting to surgeons and doctors about the internet and why I find myself pinballing around South East Asia. The reason, in a nutshell, is www.revahealthnetwork.com.

In case you hadn’t noticed, our healthcare system is pretty much shagged. That’s not a criticism of the doctors and nurses who work in our hospitals. Indeed the dam-burst of incompetence that passes for a Health Department here is being plugged by the fingers of those nurses and junior doctors working a hard job for long hours without adequate material support.

That’s not my problem. If I’m sick and need an operation, I don’t care how underfunded the hospitals are; how much tax I pay in PRSI. I want the best treatment conceivable and I want the undivided attention of the physician and his team in the best equipped theatre possible.

In case you are wondering, the sky on my planet is a deep shade of purple.

I have as much chance of getting decent, attentive treatment here as monkeys flying out of my butt. Come to think of it that might actually attract decent attentive medical care! But short of such an anomaly, I can kiss that idea goodbye.

I have experienced medical care outside of Ireland when I broke my leg in Canada and I thought perhaps it was a peculiarly Canadian thing that they were so much more efficient, organised and *caring* then the Irish equivalent. Working with Revahealthnetwork.com has opened my eyes to a world of healthcare that is streets ahead of ours. Not streets; avenues, *boulevards*, indeed if the metaphor were to be anything close to scale, *motorways* ahead are they.

I’m in Singapore to talk to the assembled doctors and surgeons about how patients in the West can find out about their options in the East which is a growing field (called Medical Tourism). Right now it is manifesting itself in trips to places like Hungary for dental treatment and cosmetic operations (like face lifts), but more and more people are considering it for serious operations like orthopaedic and cardiac surgery. The next two legs of my trip are fact finding missions to hospitals in Malaysia and Thailand to see it for myself.

I have previously written about the hospitality of the South East Asian hotels. Consider then that the hospital care makes their hotel attendants seem shabby and lax. In doing the rounds of the medical clinics and hospitals I have taken to playing a game with them in my head. I call it “Lost in Trans-Asian”.

Here’s how it works. I walk into the hospital reception and stand in the lobby looking a little lost and confused. I mentally start to count the seconds before I am approached by someone (usually a nurse) looking to help. My current longest time is 7 seconds. Try that in A&E in Beaumont or The Mater. You’re result might also be 7. Hours.

I took a tour of hospital after hospital in both Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok and not once did they fail to blow my mind with the incredible attention to detail and quality. They operate on a completely different premise then we do, so different that often we had to clarify the basis of communication.

For example, when I asked them how many semi-private rooms they had they looked at me askance. What’s a semi-private room? You know, a room where only two patients sleep. They titter, another cultural difference I’ve picked up on. Laughter can mean embarrassment, even sadness. They look at each other. Then look at me. “Why would we put sick people in the same room?”. Yes, of course, Why would you indeed. Later, while on a tour of the hospital I’m taken on a tour of the patients rooms. I notice there are two beds in this one and say “Like this, this is a semi private room.” It turns out (after more tittering) that this bed is for the patient’s partner or family to sleep over should they want to keep their loved one company through the night. Of course it is, how silly of me. I didnt ask about such a concept as “visiting hours”, I dread to think the guffaws it would raise.

So the company I work for is basically a Google for Medical treatments. Want to find a dentist in Hungary? Hit us up. Want to find a cardiac hospital in Malta? They’re under M. You have options, you don’t need to accept substandard care and underfunded, understaffed hospitals nor over priced private clinics. If you are a nurse or a doctor in the Irish system, I’m sorry. I really am. Hand me a petition I’ll sign it. Bring it up at election, I’ll vote for it.

What I *wont* do any more…. is put up with it.

This is the second of a series of blogs called “My Really Small Adventure”, you may want to read it from The Start

So whats Singapore like? Well it has a minibar over there, a TV in the corner and the entire country’s bed linen is changed everyday. Beyond that, I have little idea. Oh, it rains too. Not like home, no here it rains a brief, torrential but disconcertingly warm rain. It seems somehow…. wetter too.
Rain isnt supposed to be like this, its just one more thing that is almost like home. But isnt.

Despite my brief and secluded stay in this city-state, I’ve come to love it. It’s clean, green and full of smiling people who do their jobs as well as is humanly possible and take an enormous amount of justified pride in that fact. Consistently I have been blown away by the service levels here.

Take for example, my internet connection. I have a problem with my laptop network card so I can only use wireless at the moment. Not to worry, plenty of wireless places to be found here. But my room is on the 8th floor and cant get signal, it does have an ethernet cable though. Not realising my card is b0rked I ring reception and tell them I have a problem. They tell me they will have an IT person ring me back. I hang up. I fully expecting never to hear from them again.

Returning to my seat, I notice that my network card isnt flashing and the device isnt installed. Before I can double-click it, the phone rings. Its the IT guy. He’s full of suggestions but I explain it is my laptop network card thats at fault. I apologise for having wasted his time and hang up. I crack a beer from the minibar, but before I can get back to my seat, the phone rings. Its the IT guy again. He says he has rung the hotel, confirmed that my room doesnt have wifi but has found out that there are two public places in the hotel where its available. Hang on… “rung the hotel?” “yes sir, I’m in an office in Singapore”.

Whats most surprising about all of this? It all takes place at 4am on a Sunday.

I decide to play around with their systems. I want to see how far this excellence of service will go (jetlag can make you think funny things!). I will admit that part of my motivation is the idea of breaking it. In some rather grotesque way I want to know that they can fuck up with the rest of us humans. At 6am I go to the reception and tell them that the wireless is asking me for a password which it wasnt an hour ago (this is true). They go straight for the standard “someone will phone you shortly with an answer” routine but I tell them I want to go to the bar for my breakfast coffee and ask them to get a message to me there.

I deliberately seat myself away from the bar partly because I want to plug into the wall-socket for power, partly to be a c*nt and make it difficult to stretch a phone over to me. Yes, I’m a grade A wanker, I know. I order a coffee and then to really rachet up the complexity, I disappear to the bathroom. I arrive back to be beckoned over to the bar. “There is a call for you sir!” “I need to take it at my laptop” “No problem!”. He disconnects the handset and hands it to me, its wireless. “And my coffee?” “There is something wrong with it?” Before I can look back at my table I already know that the finest coffee, most likely with dainty biscuits, is waiting there for me.
“Its on my table, isnt it?” I dejectedly ask an increasingly confused barman.

He looks at me like he cant work out what the fuck is wrong with this disgruntled Irishman. Its not a look of “wtf?!” its a look of “wooah! what have I missed that I can correct immediately to make things better?”. I pay him, tip generously and take the phone whereon my IT support guy has been waiting patiently with a permanent login which will work for the duration of my trip. Sorry for causing me trouble. Sorry for YOU causing ME trouble??

My coffee is there as predicted but since I wasn’t, the coffee-pot has been wrapped in a high-tech tea-cosy to keep it warm awaiting my return. Of course.

I’m either going to grow to hate this kinda thing or love it…

London looms suddenly, the pilot starts a steep descent and we dive through a thin but opaque layer of cloud, transitioning from a glorious dying sunset to a dark view of city lights in the near-night. As he banks and carves into Heathrow like a space port, I am reminded that I have 4 episides of Lost on my laptop for the next leg of my journey.

My life can be strange to say the least. I dont go out of my way to make mine strange, it gets that way all on its lonesome. I’ve been making a living from poker and poker companies for nearly 2 years so when a mate asked me to join his company I said no. I had ditched the office lifestyle and never looked back. Its not you, honey, its me. We’ve outgrown each other. You deserve someone better…. (now fuck off)

So why the hell would I go back? The story of how I got from that point to sitting in a 5 star Singapore hotel, preparing to give a presentation to some of the top surgeons and doctors in Asia about the internet, is a long one.
One I will, perhaps, explain on a day when nothing particularly interesting happens.
Until then lets pretend I have and move on.

Suffice it to say that that is exactly where I find myself. This is something that happens to me a lot. I find myself doing the most ridiculous of things, things that seemed perfectly reasonable at the time I agreed to do them. Its like there are two people who take turns running my corporeal body and during what alcoholics call a moment of clarity, they switch and I realise the extent of the trouble I’ve got myself into this time. 4 Months ago I knew nothing about international medical travel, today I’m to be introduced as one of the worlds experts in the field. As my boss says, thats not much to claim, the field is so new anyone who has read a book on it is an expert.

The planned trip is that I start in Singapore, travel on to Malaysia (specifically Kuala Lumpur) and hop over to Thailand (Bangkok) which will be my final departure point home. However, I have a friend training in a martial arts camp outside Chiang Mai in the north of Thailand near the Burmese border and I intend to visit him for 5 days.

So while I currently enjoy the manicured, pristine environment of Singapore I am well aware that, like Kurtz, I’m heading up the river. I have no idea of what to expect when I get there, but I’m fairly sure that I wont be sipping Singapore Slings while three waiters tend to my every need.

If I find Dave has gone native and is slaughtering sacred cattle, I’m outta there!

Over the next 3 weeks I’m going to keep a blog and hopefully shoot some video too to put up here.
This is the start of… “DeV’s really small adventure.”

**** You Univershill Music!

I’ve stayed in the finest hotels money can buy. I’m talking 7 star Monte Carlo suites. I’ve also stayed in some of the dodgiest scumbag dives you can imagine. In one of the latter I had to make my own bed (handed a bundle of sheets and blankets at reception… that kind of place). Lifting the mattress to tuck the bed sheet
under it, I discovered a nest of, well… creepy things. I didn’t examine them to, you know determine their
*phylum* or anything.

Its the stuff of horror, something safe and warm and comfortable being infested with parasites or vermin. Suffice it to say I slept on the floor.

I can’t escape the similarities of the situation we find ourselves in on Boards. Some good detective work and great diligence by Gordon the cmod of the Music Forums discover this *nest* of creepy shills that were hired
by Universal to shill their lousy music on our system in an underhanded way. This is the list:
caliyute02
chelleshopsx
DJTrey313
Evil_Ash78
goldenburden
groovewithjamie
lawdy_da
metalgrunt
open2classics
playforchrissy
popnfresh175
ramblinjam
rockinfingers23
rollnondubz
sassy_tasi
shortwavez
silygirl35
soundselectah
strictly4rockin
sunsetsoldier25
suthernbuck82
theinfluence1
thugnation213
tunepeg35
Vanessa6959
waxwizzard
WcMoney99

All of these people sold their opinions for a few coppers. Every word that falls from their lips or is typed on a keyboard is suspect.

Whats a shill? Its the same as a Wombat. Its a person from a company who specifically target sites like ours and ingratiates themselves into the community by making 50-60 posts on general topics; seemingly innocent users who have an interest in Music or whatever. Once they have estabilished their persona and thrown off suspicion they start to promote their master’s products, whatever that may be. In this case it was Universal Music’s talentless pop idles. And thats not a typo.

Obviously they don’t believe that their products are good enough to generate the kind of word of mouth “buzz” their Marketing Managers crave. So they targetted us and pretended to be real users in order to dupe and delude us into thinking that they are our “friends” who all just happen to REALLY like Universal Music’s souless talentless tasteless crap.

We can’t be complacent about these people. They’ve destroyed Usenet and countless Google, Yahoo and MSN groups, they’ve wrecked mail with spam advertising and if we allow them to continue they will piss in the information stream that makes Boards such a useful interchange.

What REALLY boils my bunny though, is that for 5 years or more we have operated a NO TORRENTS rule on Boards.

We played nice, we promoted honest interaction and respected copyright laws, even though I think there are
MUCH better options for the artists concerned. I thought really really hard about reversing that policy. The only thing stopping me *promoting* torrents, indeed the only thing stopping me from find a torrent for every single album they have shilled on our site and posting it as an announcement on every music forum we HAVE is the threat of legal action and I’m not willing to give them an easy win on us like that. Hitting back while staying inside the law is tough. We may bill them for the costs of advertising that they have *theived* from us. I dunno yet.

I don’t know what our response it going to be. I’m not even sure I want to spend any of my very precious time on this underhand gits. I’m so angry about this, I feel this way because of our no torrents policy that we’ve strictly kept to since the start. As I said, I’m sticking to that because its right but I want to hurt these guys SO MUCH I swear its tempting. As far as I am concerned right now, I’m firmly cheering for the file sharers in the courts now. I hope Univershill loses the fight.

The one thing that calms me, that makes me feel all warm and cuddly, is the thought… no, the *certain knowledge* that the internet will win. They might win a few court battles but BitTorrent traffic now exceeds Web traffic online. They are the boy with a finger in the dam. But just beyond that dam is a tsunami. They live on the fat of other peoples creativity, on hyping their products, on using other people’s platforms to shill their crap.

But I’m going enjoy watching the internet rip their music/film distribution industry into pieces. Bye Bye Univershill, you may be a mega-corp able to throw your weight around in the courts but we’re angry nerds.

And there are *millions* of us.