Many would argue that my most frequently used method of transport is far from being the worst in the world. I’m sure travelling across a never-ending desert on the back of a camel comes close. Or imagine being the front seat passenger in a car whilst a woman is driving; that’s got to be up there too. These are not the worst though. I can assure you.
The worst, in the world, is travelling by coach. I’m not talking about those super comfortable coaches that footballers travel on, or those sleeper coaches they use throughout parts of Asia. Oh no. I’m talking about a long haul journey in a bog standard, filled to the rafters with sweaty old-people, mobile phones blaring and children crying type of coaches. The kind where you’re squeezed in with your bags around your ankles, your personal space shared with the world’s smelliest man and your own personal massage-back-rest, provided by the same little scotum that is as fed up as you are. If the whipper snapper finally decides to hush, you’ll be lucky to get your head down anyway; due mainly to a suspension system that makes going over pebbles feel like your on a fisherman’s boat in the middle of a stormy Pacific.
If you do manage to make it through the trip, the stone seats will leave your arse feeling like you’ve just spent 16 years inside prison, the aircon will have blasted your face so hard that you’ll be wishing you’d have spent your 8 hours crossing the desert on that camel’s back instead. And when you do finally exit your journey from hell, you’re hoping to God that the trip was worth it; that you’ll be welcomed by an oasis of bleached sand and the greenest coconut palm trees. No. Smelly Bangkok, riddled with old American men too pissed up on Chang to know that white socks and sandals are unacceptable, wherever the fuck you are in the world. At least the taxis are cheap.
Happy travelling people.