But Commandment No 3 was shot down when a tuk-tuk driver grabbed my backpack at Sanam Luang.

I may have been a novice, but definitely NOT averse to breaking rules.

“Get off my back, you little prick.”

This followed another, more demanding event.

Before I could plant a sharp kick on the rear end of the tuk-tuk wallah, something small and powerful knocked into me. A small and very powerful atom it was, knocking me backward.

“Oh f…k,” I snarled, ready to launch a counter attack, but my timely recollection of my hastily coined Commandments prevented a physical altercation with the object, which turned out to be diminutive woman who managed to retain the starch in her maroon suit despite colliding with my larger and sturdier frame.

“Hullo, sorry,” said the atom with enthusiasm, reaching out to smoothen my T-shirt rumpled from the long flight.

“Your first time in Bangkok? Welcome. Where are you going?”

Not quite the apology one expects after being assaulted thus, but her eagerness caused anger to dissipate and make me slave to her charm. Besides, I saw her as an ally who could be depended upon to point out a toilet in the vicinity.

Under these circumstances, I began my journey of belief, for I had begun to realize that the goddess of fortune in her heavenly abode was spinning very precisely on her wheel. Planting me in Sanam Luang and letting lose an atom on me when I was one swing short of an attack on the tuk-tuk wallah was her divine way of throwing me a helpline.

The atom, it came about, was the Public Prosecutor of Ayutthaya Province. Trust Fortune to fling a PP at you—I mean, it could easily have been a shoe.

Public prosecutors, whichever way you looked at them, are not the sort of people you expect to bump into you when you are looking for a toilet, unless your lucky stars are particularly active that morning. Assured by the fact that luck was with me, I offered my hand and a very friendly smile. And after even more friendly smiles and handshakes expected of women, Mrs Supawadee Maspong and I were speeding away on the Expressway towards Ayutthaya in what I called a Providential Escape.

Mrs SM, she told me later, was in search of an optician when she witnessed my distress and came charging.

It is hard not to stare at the Buddha head in the bodhi tree at Wat Phra Mahathat because it is one of those sights that defy reason, although like every other tourist, I posed against the peculiar Buddha head, little knowing the whys and wherefores, while Mrs SM stood solemnly, lips moving in a silent prayer.

“As the tree grows, it will take the head of the Buddha to the heavens,” she whispered when I came to stand by her side.

Blame it on the aura or her unshaken faith, I nearly believed her. It was possible, I mean, why not? It was only a matter of time.

“Did the tree grow around the head or did someone stick the head into the tree?

“It’s been so for years,” she replied firmly. “It is sacred.”

That, while being hard to digest, was her truth, which she conveyed with a movement of her eyes.

Faith moves mountains.

I don’t suppose I would ever see her point of view, even if I agreed that Ayutthaya, regardless of being a faith centre, had definitely turned into a centre for disaster tourism. The ruined temples and headless statues that once presided

over the execution area and sacrificial altars created a morbid atmosphere, which, if you were easily spooked, would give you nightmares for a long time.

Mrs SM had not lost her curiosity to the legal machinery, wanting to know what made a qualified lawyer give up courtroom antics to become a journalist-cum-road bum.

Who was I? Why was I alone? How long did I intend to stay in Thailand? Was I satisfied with what I saw? Was I married? Did I have a boyfriend? Pretty standard questions, but they get asked nevertheless.

On that life-changing train journey to New Delhi a few years ago, Vinny had managed to induct me into the world of Q and A, and at the end of that trip, I had sort of resigned myself to answering questions without snapping, though every question made me want to fling a branch at the questioner. But when Mrs SM asked me these questions, I felt more a newbie ignorant of local culture and language than an angry hornet. She had a way about her—like a mother coaxing her offspring into spilling the truth about the vanished cookies.

And she, like those people who, upon gauging the limits of your intelligence, become very eager to tell you a lot more than if they have pegged you down as a wiseass, broke into a torrent of questions, answers, suggestion, jokes and advice. When Public Prosecutors take it upon themselves to be your mentor and guide, you should grab the chance with both hands. There was no way in hell that I was going to give up my meal ticket for the day. Besides, I liked her too.

I had only ten days to discover Thailand, and much of that time would be spent alone, eating local food and bargaining with tuk-tuk drivers, avoiding touts and lady boys while remaining safe from the infamous traffic. And every bit of information I could scrape together would make my stay a little more comfortable. Every free ride or free meal

would help stretch my tourist dollar a little longer. I had no idea how expensive the trip was going to be, but I realized that the sooner I learnt to ease the pressure on the wallet, the better my chances of surviving till the end without financial burnout.

In the evening, I returned to Bangkok on a mini-bus, wiser than when I arrived—all courtesy Mrs SM, her wisdom and her generosity. Ayutthaya was in ruins, but the bonds of friends were indestructible.

It was she who instructed the mini-bus driver to drop me off at Khao San Road—just in case I missed the signs. The driver, a friendly Thai perhaps used to the ways of new visitors to Thailand, nodded in agreement.

Khao San Road looked to be a place that exemplified the Thai fondness towards the backpacking community. My familiarity with Thai hospitality had begun with Mrs SM earlier that morning, but one look at Khao San Road was enough to convince me that the entire nation took it upon themselves to entertain tourists. Further exploration of the area packed to the hilt with tourists showed how dirty, unwashed, clueless or purposeful tourists impacted the community. I was a small part of that bandwagon, but definitely a proud one.

They even had a street dedicated to a certain class of traveller—The Backpacker. And what would The Backpacker do? Look for cheap places and go about enjoying whatever was there on offer—street food, cheap hotels, women, makeshift street bars—in short, everything. It seemed that the entire backpacking population of the world converged on Khao San Road or the Backpackers’ Street, which could be the only explanation for why the night was going strong in this part of Bangkok, when I assume the rest of the city dared to snooze a little.

I watched in amazement as small, pretty Thai women with milky white skin showing up to their panty line gig

gled when bigger, intoxicated men from the West did something strange—like pinching their behind and staring down their spaghetti top. I did find that hard at first, but after downing a few at the makeshift bar outside my hotel and tolerating a pass at me by another drunk, I had ceased to be offended at anything I saw or heard. I had the choice of saying NO and I was going to exercise that.

The horny man had been blunt. “Wanna have sex? I have a room right up there.”

I didn’t care where “right up there” was, but I wasn’t going to bed with a complete drunk—not so early in my travel anyway. However, the cheap vodka (and encouragement from the horny drunk) had bucked me up enough to seek Thailand’s exotic culinary experience before I hit the proverbial sack at the 150 THB room. (Overpriced, I thought, but the towels were clean and the bed, despite signs of some recent activity, was sturdy and didn’t sink in the centre.)

There has never been any shortage of information on Thai cuisine, but what was the fun in sticking to tourist-oriented restaurants and staying away from street food? Not much, I thought. For along with taking big strides as a backpacker, there was a sudden desire for ‘parallel adventure’—tasting local cuisine that did not get served at restaurants.

Braving my way through the busy streets and winding around necking and partially-naked couples, I plodded on, deter- mined to fulfil my mission. The drunk had not offered me any advice on the correct way of eating mopane worms and locusts, but then he had his mind on more exciting activities.

I was going to have to overcome practical difficulties and squeamishness before munching on deep-fried protein-rich worms, but really, that was my lookout. Theoretically speaking, anything that moves on four or more legs can be eaten, whether it is the ant, scorpion, spider or

cricket, or the larvae of all the above. And with determination that can be seen only in newbie travellers seeking unusual gastronomical pleasures, I came upon a push cart in the backstreets of Bunglamphu, a short walk from Khao San Road, from which a man filled out plastic bags with the crispy critters.

On my list of “100 Things to do before I Die”, Mt Everest is listed on the 99th position for obvious reasons. I might be a sucker for difficult things, but even I am aware of the dangers and hardships of climbing it. But that has not stopped me from dreaming about it when there is a pressing need to remind myself of harder things to come. But staring at a cartful of insects I had set my mind to eat, summiting the world’s highest peak seemed easy in comparison, and like every first-timer staring at piles of worms and winged insects, I held down the vomit, breathed in the rancid oil and took the plunge.

As someone aiming to scale mountains and trek through the Amazon later in life, it was all the more essential to become part of the insect-eating bandwagon, for only the Almighty knows what the Amazon would throw at me. Around me, locals snacked through little mounds of fried locusts— bamboo worm (Non Pai) being the hot favourite; its popularity and Cheetos-like appearance made it less revolting, and, as a peace offering, it came with some fiery local sauce, which I hoped, as I bit one end of the wok-fried worm, would disguise the real taste.

I was right about the Cheetos bit. Grasshoppers, however, required their legs to be taken off before being loaded into your mouth, field rats tasted as good as any fowl, and nausea was a thing of the past, although it took a few tries to ignore the crunching and popping. Following in the footsteps of an imaginary, adventurous backpacker, I munched on, drawing nutrients from the soft, fibrous bodies.

Tips on eating fried insects:

1. Snip off the wings.

2. Avoid the head and shell directly behind it is too hard.

3. It is okay to eat the pincers.

4. Fried critters, Non Pai in particular, taste great with beer.

5. Beer, anyway you looked at it, always made everything tolerable. No wonder it was so popular. Plus, I realized that there was no need to get all knotted up on the issue of insect-eating—it may have initially made me squeamish, but I was glad to have braved the retch to experience this rich culinary adventure.