Diary of a VAV

It had all been going so well. I'd even managed to stretch an extra four months out of an already lengthy decade by returning to Thailand ten years on just in time for New Year. They call it Song Kran out here and make sure celebrations go with a splash by having the biggest waterfight I've ever been involved in. What turned out to be an epic day started with DIY sunlounger waterslides on the beach, progressed to the town-wide delugingม then drunken beach volleyball before being rounded off by another night on the buckets.


Prior to that we'd snuck a in few days on Koh Tao where the highlights included Pitcairn screaming like an excitable teenage girl when a Trigger fish looked in his general direction and JT having a, sadly unwitnessed, comedy fall to cap off a lamentable kayaking performance. There was a very short game of killer pool on a snooker table, a very long night drinking buckets of Sang Song and much fun had by all.

But the main event and raison d'etre for the trip was the day before Song Kran: the nuptials of Claire and Dave, back to exchange rings on the island where they first met in a ring, at a Muay Thai training camp. Both were taking the occasion seriously and were well prepared having spent the last three months working on their tans. They were beautiful, the setting was beautiful and as the sun set on their engagement and a honeyed moon rose on their married life a strange mood fell upon the gathering. Maybe it was the romance in the air, probably it was the alcohol in the system, but by the end of the night most of the guests had given themselves up to naked revelry in the sea. There were some who thought this a good photo opportunity, should any of them be unwise enough to distribute the resulting images I ask only that you bear in mind that the sea out here is much colder than you'd imagine.

The fun continued into Song Kran the next day, a night at the boxing the day after and then it was time for the party to start breaking up. Premature as ever, Ned was the first to leave, like a thief, in the dead of night. Well actually, bucketed-up after a night out, in the dead of night. And then, amid fond farewells from friends old and new, I took my leave of the group and headed for home.

Two days later I was meeting Pitcairn and the Physio Crew at Bangkok airport and heading into town to meet up with the wedding refugees spread across Bangkok. We joined other Volcanic Ash Victims in a hotel near the Koh San Road, huddled together round the rooftop pool exchanging information and rumour. In keeping with our stranded predicament there was a considerable Dunkirk spirit, everyone with reasons to be home, but determined to make the best of things while we waited not for the small boats, but the big planes to come to our rescue.

This unexpected reunion prompted an impromptu night out with about ten fellow wedding guests before it was time for the fellowship to break up again. Some waited in Bangkok for updates, the PPC flew off to Malaysia to do their waiting there and I made a speculative phonecall to a longlost cousin.

Joel and I seem to meet up about once every fifteen years, the last time being the day Gazza score that goal against Scotland in Euro '96, but he didn't let that get in the way of his hospitality and I spent a very pleasant couple of days chez Harding recuperating, monitoring the situation and taking advantage of his expert local knowledge. A visit to the airline office on the second of those days revealed that I was unlikely to be going anywhere for a week so, ever the pragmatist, I resigned myself to a few days on the beach and headed for Koh Samet.

Proving either that great minds think alike or that fools seldom differ, I was greeted on arrival by Jo and John who had grown tired of waiting in Bangkok and had the same idea. They were lured back to the city by the (sadly incorrect) possibility of a flight yesterday and so I now keep a lone vigil in my room overlooking the sea, watching the boats come and go, wondering when my ship will come in.

Hasta… no se quando

Don Simon.

Photos as usual at: www.don-simon.smugmug.com

Ten Years None the Wiser

This blog was going to be about all the amazing flights I've had, but it's been suggested to me that paragliding stories are boring. So you won't be hearing about how I've thermaled to the height of the world's tallest buildings, flown into a football stadium or even how I managed to land on the back of a moving motorcycle. Instead, ever a slave to the whims of my public, I took a break from flying so I could report on goings-on outside of the paragliding world. It's been tough but here's the story so far.

Having left my hilltop home I headed once more for the eternal spring of Medellin and the eternal party of the Pit Stop hostel. There I met an interesting cast of characters who forced upon me a fortnight of indulgence. Crammed into an action packed, yet strangely languid, couple of weeks were two days flying, two football matches, a Tiesto set and, for once, some decent beer, courtesy of the local microbrewery.

After that too much beer had us drifting into the arena of the unwell and thus in need of harmony, fresh air, stuff like that. We decamped to Rafa's house and headed off for a delightful mid-week break in the country.

Rafa's house is in the beautiful mountains surrounding Medellin where each finca sits atop its own little hill and commands magical views. There I spent a lot of time sitting down and enjoying my holiday and the excellent food (mostly salchipapas) on offer. The serenity was interrupted only by the presence of a rottweiler called Wanda who had not a bad bone in her body, but did have a pathological addiction to chewing absolutely anything she could get her jowls on. The sunglasses we managed to save, the headlamp met with a slobbery end.

We didn't quite manage to go fishing whilst there, but we did go on a hugely interesting, if slightly unusual, nature ramble in the company of Hernan, a wise man native to those parts. His moated house was straight out of Gabriel Garcia Marquez, full of oddities and souvenirs of a long and interesting life and his knowledge of the flora and fauna thereabouts almost uncanny.

Refreshed and rejuvenated by our sojourn we all returned to the city and headed in our separate directions. For me this meant a few days of Colombian hospitality in Medellin and then a return to Las Aguilas for Christmas.

Following a festive period where the food fell well short of normal standards, but the paragliding was good, I was joined for two weeks by a weather refugee. Forced from his own country by biting cold and ungritted roads, Mizan quickly adapted to the pace of life at Las Aguilas and after some initial misgivings even took to the skies on a couple of occasions. The second occasion being a New Years Eve trip to the Chicamocha canyon. The scenery was as stunning as ever, the thermals were good enough and the post-flight beer in the glacier-fed swimming pool was as refreshing as it felt well-earned.

And so, farewell to the noughties. A decade whose beginning was heralded like no other, marked by domes and wheels, and whose end crept up almost unnoticed, marked only by lists of the best films and albums of the period. It's hard to believe ten years of the best and the worst of times have passed under the bridge since the world somehow survived the millenium bug, but the calendars are unequivocal on the subject and actually, when I come to think about it, for me it has been a very long decade; almost certainly longer than this one will be, even if the world doesn't end in 2012.

In 1999, by cunningly positioning myself in Thailand for the start of the decade I got a seven hour headstart on proceedings and by seeing out its end in Colombia I snuck an extra five hours in just before it finished. Thus giving myself an extra half-day as bookends for the noughties. And it was a half-day well spent.

The first part was spent on a beach in Ko Phangan, expanding my horizons in the company of friends old and new; the second on a hill overlooking Bucaramanga, expanding my horizons in the company of friends old and new. Same same, but different.

So what will the next decade hold? Well so far it’s just been same same, not different: ten days partying on the coast and now a paragliding competition. But it’s very early days and anything could happen. One thing we can be sure of though is that, however you pass those ten years, it always comes to nought in the end.

Don Simon.

Photos at www.don-simon.smugmug.com