Got my blog back.
posted by jasonthewolf at
5:42 AM
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Tuesday, October 23, 2001
Tues Oct 23rd
This is my last day in Thailand. Only one more day to breathe in that smoggy Bangkok air, and then back to Austin, to my own hearth and home. I have a flight on Korean Air (da cheapest!) at 1:20 am to Seoul, S. Korea. Only 7 months 'till World Cup 2002 Korea. That leaves plenty of time to shop for gifts and take advantage of the wild-on shopping here.
At the end of my trip, I am wandering around the (Zen) World Trade Center in Bangkok. But this one's a mere blot on the local landscape, just another mall.
Mon Oct 22nd
Last full day without plans to make. I take this opportunity to visit the legendary Bridge on the River Kwai. The trip involves a 2 hour minibus ride with 4 Dutch and a German Canadian woman travelling solo. Her name is Gertrude.
The trip involves mostly riding in the bus and watching our tour leader "Tom" get increasingly twitchy as his eyes get ever more bloodshot. But the Bridge itself spices up the trip, and the limited presentation in the museum adequately sums up the loss of human life during WWII.
One side note which Gertrude is acutely aware of: The shrine & museum pay tribute to the approx. 16,000 British, Dutch, and American lives lost, but scarcely mention the outrageous losses (100,000+) sustained by Asian slave laborers in the construction of the bridge and railway. While the POWs are exonerated, the others just *vanished*.
Sun Oct 21st
Accompany Julia to the airport at 5 am. She has a plane to catch back to the US at 7:20 am. When we arrive, the United Air personel begin scrambling to get the enormous travel bag we are dragging checked in. Then they calmly recommend that she run as fast as possible to the terminal. The lesson is clear: always arrive early for international flights - or else you will have to jog to the terminal. Oy vey!
After seeing Julia safely to immigration, I leave the airport and return to the Jatujak Weekend Market. It is a glorious achievement of mankind and probably houses more knock-off fake brands than anywhere else in Asia. In other words, more than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I had to wake up at 5 am this morning and am losing all my strength. Suddenly none of the clothes matter anymore, and all I want to do is take a nap. A quick glance at my Lonely Planet guidebook explains that the Weekend Market is only a name, and that it is actually open every day. That settles it, I am going back to bed for a while.
Sat Oct 20th
Since this is Julia's last day in Thailand (and practically my last day too), we stop in the Siam Center area only long enough to drop off our luggage. From there, we ride the Skytrain immediately to the Mo Chit station, where the Jatujak Weekend Market is taking place. This turns out to be the true ultimate shopping destination. Forget about the plastic junk at the MBK Center, this is a real flea market, with all the surprises and bargains you'd expect at such a place.
I find almost ten stalls that sell only used T-shirts. A few minutes browsing the racks and I realize something strange - these are all American t-shirts. It is an odd sensation being in a sweaty crowded stall in a Bangkok market and seeing t-shirts that proclaim "Houston Turkey Trot 1998. Sponsored by H-E-B." This is too domestic where a foreign experience should be. The more t-shirts I see, the greater the let-down. They are all from the US, and most seem to be from Texas. Halfway across the world, and these are the same shirts as your local neighborhood Goodwill. At least other items are more promising.
In addition to the bags of American t-shirts, there are bags of other American clothes that are harder to find. One stall specializes in vintage short-sleeve shirts, and sells them for about $2.20 each. This euphoric price is the same as the dregs of any thrift store in the US, but they are prime specimens, worthy of a specialty vintage pedigree. Even if I don't buy any, it is a bolstering discovery.
But where are all these good coming from? Brand names like Wrangler, Stetson, Sears, and JC Penney lay plain their genesis. They were once on a rack in an American department store, being sold for American dollars. But now, here they are halfway around the world in Bangkok. Vintage shirts by the giant bagful, such that bags are shoved under the racks to hibernate until there is more space to hang them up. How are these used clothes getting into sorted bags and to the Jatujak Weekend Market merchants? And who would bother to send them to Bangkok where they will fetch only $2.20 each, when the same shirts would easily fetch $8 or more at a vintage store in the US? I have a theory.
Initially, I thought there must be someone in the US, maybe a family member, who spends their time combing thrift stores for good shirts to send to their family in Bangkok. They send a bag of clothes to Bangkok, and the family makes money by selling the clothes at the flea market. This scenario is unfortunately impossible. The clothes would cost as much or more in American thrift stores than anyone in Thailand would be willing to pay, not even considering the cost of shipping.
So they are not coming from retail stores at all. No, there's another angle, and this is my theory, which I believe is true. Some organization is sending them as humanitarian aid. This is the only way clothes could make it to Thailand from the US and still be profitable. They are donated clothes collected by some non-profit organization and sent to Thailand as cheap clothing. Imagine, clothing by the cargo crate, tons of it, all unsifted and full of valuable vintage items. I would like to be there when it pops out of the cargo ship, fresh from the US, full of rare one-of-a-kind suits and shirts. That would be the ultimate treasure hunt.
The real treasure hunt is to take place in the evening. The Weekend Market is exhausting, and neither Julia nor I can imagine anything but sleep. We throw down the afternoon's purchases and nap for a while, but not too long. With so little time left, sleep is simply not an option. There are so many people at home counting on us to do what every traveller must do in Bangkok: we are obligated to go to Patpong and catch a sex show.
The guidebook is of little help in finding Bangkok's notorious red light district, Patpong. The book is second hand, over 10 years old. But by studying local maps, we soon find the district to the south of our hotel at the Siam Center. It is near some famous hotel called the Oriental Hotel. It seems we can reach the area by skytrain.
On the platform, we realize we don't know which station goes to Patpong. We approach a Thai security guard standing nearby. Instead of asking about the sex district, Julia takes a modest detour and asks "What station should we take to the Oriental Hotel?" Repeating, "Oriental hotel?" "Rama I?" He is confused. Probably doesn't get asked this very often. Finally, I just cut right to the sordid truth by asking "Patpong? Which station for Patpong?" Now he knows what we're on about and says "Ah, Patpong. Get off at ______ Station." Now he knows we're perverts, but at least we have directions.
Immediately upon arriving, the touts are swarming us, holding up cards with club acts on them. The cards say things like:
woman woman lesbian
pussy ping pong ball
pussy razor blade
pussy blowout candle
pussy blowup balloon
pussy write letter
to which we unenthusiastically reply, "fine, which way to the go-go bar?" Sign us up. We have to follow a young nervous Thai a few streets away to the seedier (is that possible?) area where a neon sign overhead brightly proclaims "Super Pussys."
At this fine establishment, we drink expensive long neck beers and wish to be elsewhere. The uninispired show the 8 or so women on stage are providing is a sad spectacle indeed. Revulsion I had expected, but this mechanical farce of a performance is just poor showmanship. They are besmirching what could otherwise become a respected art form, much like the Cirque de Soleil or the Jim Rose Sideshow. But the way these droopy-eyed nude bodies are tugging out ropes of razor blades, you would think this was an opium den rather than a nightclub.
The ping-pong woman isn't launching the balls, but merely letting them roll straight down into a water glass. The blowgun diva misses 2 out of 3 shots and lands the darts in customers' drinks or in their hair. Invariably, once they finish their lackluster act, the women shake down the audience, demanding a tip for their efforts. The ping-pong woman, who has already misfired on stage, is shaking a glass full of watery ping pong balls in my face until I give her 20 baht to sleepwalk on to the next punter.
After what seems an eternity, the meagre acts loop, and the birthday cake candles are being lit again. Indignant at the high drink prices and the total lack of entertainment value, Julia and I leave. To the management, I suggest that if you have even a shred of honesty (ha), you immediately change the name of your bar to Slumber Pussys. We have paid our tribute to Patpong. We have seen. To anyone else planning to visit Bangkok, yes, you have to do it too.
Fri Oct 19th
Thurs Oct 18th
Wed Oct 17th
At 8 in the morning Julia and I depart for Ko Phangan, an island 2 hours north of Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. This island is famous for something called the full moon party. As the name suggests, it is a party that takes place every full moon, approximately every 28 days. If you haven't heard of the full moon party on Ko Phangan, you are probably not European.
From the little hints I have uncovered, the parties seem to be geared toward rave goers of the beach combing variety. This means that if the names like Paul Oakenfold, Sven Vaeth, Ibiza, and Goa Trance mean PARTY TIME, then this is the place for you on planet Earth. It is the nexus of trance dancing, and the place to get your flourescent glowstick painted body shaking to the techno beat. It is cousin to more developed rave sites like Goa and Ibiza, in India and Spain.
On the ferry to Phangan, I am met by a woman who is going around showing pictures of her guesthouse on the beach. Since I have made no arrangements for the night, I agree to take a look at the bungalows. Also along for the ride, two Danish travellers named Stonheim and Jesper opt to ride out and see her place.
Upon arriving, we all decide to stay there. The island is undeveloped in most places, and most of the roads are made of sand. This is an improvement over the sprawling development of Ko Samui. Looking out at the beach and blue water reminds me what a good idea it was coming here.
They may be undeveloped, but there are roads to most places on Ko Phangan. We rent a scooter, and Julia and I decide to see the sights on the island. There is a tall hill in the center of the island with a waterfall that is supposed to be very beautiful. We set off.
Unfortunately, the road becomes extremely uneven. It is the rainy season and there are deep creases in the road from water runoff. This is made worse by the 4WD vehicles that have been driving over the path. It soon becomes obvious that we are driving on wet, unimproved, devastated road surfaces. Often there is only a 4 inch wide safe road with 2 foot craters on either side. More suited for a knobby-tire dirt bike than my too-civilized Suzuki scooter. Still, we have no idea of how far the road goes, and continue on the path regardless of the imminent wipeouts.
Due to incredible skill on the driver's part (that's me), there are no wipeouts today. Instead, we emerge from the jungle and the scarred dirt roads to find an incredible hidden resort at the opposite end of Phangan. This place is so remote and beautiful, no one can resist its rugged charms. We vow to return some day to stay forever more. It is inside a wildlife preserve. No roads, no electricity, and no discos. It is mercifully unimproved, and bungalows are perched along the proud cliffs to either side of the beach. I can only imagine how perfect a vacation spot this is. With a group of friends, dug in high up on the cliff, sitting on the porch of your bungalow with a candle to play cards by. And of course plenty of Thai beer to drink. No wonder the French woman who runs the restaurant (a hut) below has been in residence here for 7 years already. It draws you in like a riptide, but drowns you only in palm trees and warm salty air.
This is my last day in Thailand. Only one more day to breathe in that smoggy Bangkok air, and then back to Austin, to my own hearth and home. I have a flight on Korean Air (da cheapest!) at 1:20 am to Seoul, S. Korea. Only 7 months 'till World Cup 2002 Korea. That leaves plenty of time to shop for gifts and take advantage of the wild-on shopping here.
At the end of my trip, I am wandering around the (Zen) World Trade Center in Bangkok. But this one's a mere blot on the local landscape, just another mall.
Mon Oct 22nd
Last full day without plans to make. I take this opportunity to visit the legendary Bridge on the River Kwai. The trip involves a 2 hour minibus ride with 4 Dutch and a German Canadian woman travelling solo. Her name is Gertrude.
The trip involves mostly riding in the bus and watching our tour leader "Tom" get increasingly twitchy as his eyes get ever more bloodshot. But the Bridge itself spices up the trip, and the limited presentation in the museum adequately sums up the loss of human life during WWII.
One side note which Gertrude is acutely aware of: The shrine & museum pay tribute to the approx. 16,000 British, Dutch, and American lives lost, but scarcely mention the outrageous losses (100,000+) sustained by Asian slave laborers in the construction of the bridge and railway. While the POWs are exonerated, the others just *vanished*.
Sun Oct 21st
Accompany Julia to the airport at 5 am. She has a plane to catch back to the US at 7:20 am. When we arrive, the United Air personel begin scrambling to get the enormous travel bag we are dragging checked in. Then they calmly recommend that she run as fast as possible to the terminal. The lesson is clear: always arrive early for international flights - or else you will have to jog to the terminal. Oy vey!
After seeing Julia safely to immigration, I leave the airport and return to the Jatujak Weekend Market. It is a glorious achievement of mankind and probably houses more knock-off fake brands than anywhere else in Asia. In other words, more than anywhere in the world. Unfortunately, I had to wake up at 5 am this morning and am losing all my strength. Suddenly none of the clothes matter anymore, and all I want to do is take a nap. A quick glance at my Lonely Planet guidebook explains that the Weekend Market is only a name, and that it is actually open every day. That settles it, I am going back to bed for a while.
Sat Oct 20th
Since this is Julia's last day in Thailand (and practically my last day too), we stop in the Siam Center area only long enough to drop off our luggage. From there, we ride the Skytrain immediately to the Mo Chit station, where the Jatujak Weekend Market is taking place. This turns out to be the true ultimate shopping destination. Forget about the plastic junk at the MBK Center, this is a real flea market, with all the surprises and bargains you'd expect at such a place.
I find almost ten stalls that sell only used T-shirts. A few minutes browsing the racks and I realize something strange - these are all American t-shirts. It is an odd sensation being in a sweaty crowded stall in a Bangkok market and seeing t-shirts that proclaim "Houston Turkey Trot 1998. Sponsored by H-E-B." This is too domestic where a foreign experience should be. The more t-shirts I see, the greater the let-down. They are all from the US, and most seem to be from Texas. Halfway across the world, and these are the same shirts as your local neighborhood Goodwill. At least other items are more promising.
In addition to the bags of American t-shirts, there are bags of other American clothes that are harder to find. One stall specializes in vintage short-sleeve shirts, and sells them for about $2.20 each. This euphoric price is the same as the dregs of any thrift store in the US, but they are prime specimens, worthy of a specialty vintage pedigree. Even if I don't buy any, it is a bolstering discovery.
But where are all these good coming from? Brand names like Wrangler, Stetson, Sears, and JC Penney lay plain their genesis. They were once on a rack in an American department store, being sold for American dollars. But now, here they are halfway around the world in Bangkok. Vintage shirts by the giant bagful, such that bags are shoved under the racks to hibernate until there is more space to hang them up. How are these used clothes getting into sorted bags and to the Jatujak Weekend Market merchants? And who would bother to send them to Bangkok where they will fetch only $2.20 each, when the same shirts would easily fetch $8 or more at a vintage store in the US? I have a theory.
Initially, I thought there must be someone in the US, maybe a family member, who spends their time combing thrift stores for good shirts to send to their family in Bangkok. They send a bag of clothes to Bangkok, and the family makes money by selling the clothes at the flea market. This scenario is unfortunately impossible. The clothes would cost as much or more in American thrift stores than anyone in Thailand would be willing to pay, not even considering the cost of shipping.
So they are not coming from retail stores at all. No, there's another angle, and this is my theory, which I believe is true. Some organization is sending them as humanitarian aid. This is the only way clothes could make it to Thailand from the US and still be profitable. They are donated clothes collected by some non-profit organization and sent to Thailand as cheap clothing. Imagine, clothing by the cargo crate, tons of it, all unsifted and full of valuable vintage items. I would like to be there when it pops out of the cargo ship, fresh from the US, full of rare one-of-a-kind suits and shirts. That would be the ultimate treasure hunt.
The real treasure hunt is to take place in the evening. The Weekend Market is exhausting, and neither Julia nor I can imagine anything but sleep. We throw down the afternoon's purchases and nap for a while, but not too long. With so little time left, sleep is simply not an option. There are so many people at home counting on us to do what every traveller must do in Bangkok: we are obligated to go to Patpong and catch a sex show.
The guidebook is of little help in finding Bangkok's notorious red light district, Patpong. The book is second hand, over 10 years old. But by studying local maps, we soon find the district to the south of our hotel at the Siam Center. It is near some famous hotel called the Oriental Hotel. It seems we can reach the area by skytrain.
On the platform, we realize we don't know which station goes to Patpong. We approach a Thai security guard standing nearby. Instead of asking about the sex district, Julia takes a modest detour and asks "What station should we take to the Oriental Hotel?" Repeating, "Oriental hotel?" "Rama I?" He is confused. Probably doesn't get asked this very often. Finally, I just cut right to the sordid truth by asking "Patpong? Which station for Patpong?" Now he knows what we're on about and says "Ah, Patpong. Get off at ______ Station." Now he knows we're perverts, but at least we have directions.
Immediately upon arriving, the touts are swarming us, holding up cards with club acts on them. The cards say things like:
woman woman lesbian
pussy ping pong ball
pussy razor blade
pussy blowout candle
pussy blowup balloon
pussy write letter
to which we unenthusiastically reply, "fine, which way to the go-go bar?" Sign us up. We have to follow a young nervous Thai a few streets away to the seedier (is that possible?) area where a neon sign overhead brightly proclaims "Super Pussys."
At this fine establishment, we drink expensive long neck beers and wish to be elsewhere. The uninispired show the 8 or so women on stage are providing is a sad spectacle indeed. Revulsion I had expected, but this mechanical farce of a performance is just poor showmanship. They are besmirching what could otherwise become a respected art form, much like the Cirque de Soleil or the Jim Rose Sideshow. But the way these droopy-eyed nude bodies are tugging out ropes of razor blades, you would think this was an opium den rather than a nightclub.
The ping-pong woman isn't launching the balls, but merely letting them roll straight down into a water glass. The blowgun diva misses 2 out of 3 shots and lands the darts in customers' drinks or in their hair. Invariably, once they finish their lackluster act, the women shake down the audience, demanding a tip for their efforts. The ping-pong woman, who has already misfired on stage, is shaking a glass full of watery ping pong balls in my face until I give her 20 baht to sleepwalk on to the next punter.
After what seems an eternity, the meagre acts loop, and the birthday cake candles are being lit again. Indignant at the high drink prices and the total lack of entertainment value, Julia and I leave. To the management, I suggest that if you have even a shred of honesty (ha), you immediately change the name of your bar to Slumber Pussys. We have paid our tribute to Patpong. We have seen. To anyone else planning to visit Bangkok, yes, you have to do it too.
Fri Oct 19th
Thurs Oct 18th
Wed Oct 17th
At 8 in the morning Julia and I depart for Ko Phangan, an island 2 hours north of Samui in the Gulf of Thailand. This island is famous for something called the full moon party. As the name suggests, it is a party that takes place every full moon, approximately every 28 days. If you haven't heard of the full moon party on Ko Phangan, you are probably not European.
From the little hints I have uncovered, the parties seem to be geared toward rave goers of the beach combing variety. This means that if the names like Paul Oakenfold, Sven Vaeth, Ibiza, and Goa Trance mean PARTY TIME, then this is the place for you on planet Earth. It is the nexus of trance dancing, and the place to get your flourescent glowstick painted body shaking to the techno beat. It is cousin to more developed rave sites like Goa and Ibiza, in India and Spain.
On the ferry to Phangan, I am met by a woman who is going around showing pictures of her guesthouse on the beach. Since I have made no arrangements for the night, I agree to take a look at the bungalows. Also along for the ride, two Danish travellers named Stonheim and Jesper opt to ride out and see her place.
Upon arriving, we all decide to stay there. The island is undeveloped in most places, and most of the roads are made of sand. This is an improvement over the sprawling development of Ko Samui. Looking out at the beach and blue water reminds me what a good idea it was coming here.
They may be undeveloped, but there are roads to most places on Ko Phangan. We rent a scooter, and Julia and I decide to see the sights on the island. There is a tall hill in the center of the island with a waterfall that is supposed to be very beautiful. We set off.
Unfortunately, the road becomes extremely uneven. It is the rainy season and there are deep creases in the road from water runoff. This is made worse by the 4WD vehicles that have been driving over the path. It soon becomes obvious that we are driving on wet, unimproved, devastated road surfaces. Often there is only a 4 inch wide safe road with 2 foot craters on either side. More suited for a knobby-tire dirt bike than my too-civilized Suzuki scooter. Still, we have no idea of how far the road goes, and continue on the path regardless of the imminent wipeouts.
Due to incredible skill on the driver's part (that's me), there are no wipeouts today. Instead, we emerge from the jungle and the scarred dirt roads to find an incredible hidden resort at the opposite end of Phangan. This place is so remote and beautiful, no one can resist its rugged charms. We vow to return some day to stay forever more. It is inside a wildlife preserve. No roads, no electricity, and no discos. It is mercifully unimproved, and bungalows are perched along the proud cliffs to either side of the beach. I can only imagine how perfect a vacation spot this is. With a group of friends, dug in high up on the cliff, sitting on the porch of your bungalow with a candle to play cards by. And of course plenty of Thai beer to drink. No wonder the French woman who runs the restaurant (a hut) below has been in residence here for 7 years already. It draws you in like a riptide, but drowns you only in palm trees and warm salty air.
posted by jasonthewolf at
3:18 AM
Tuesday, October 16, 2001
First time checking email in about a week. Unlike some of my earlier travels, this portion has involved lots of moving around to more remote places. I will fill in the basic travels over the past week and add details as time permits.
Tues Oct 16
First full day on Ko Samui. This island is not going to make it to #1 in any category regarding Thailand. Except for monkeys. There is an abundance of domesticated monkeys here. They are fascinating, and I would like to take them all home. Is it legal to have a pet monkey in Austin? I probably wouldn't do it, but the idea is intriguing. A place with a yard would be perfect for a pet monkey to play with. To comb its downy soft fur, and to taunt with fruit. I would train it to make coffee using a french press in the morning. But since I already had co-ownership of a ball python once, and since that didn't work out well, I doubt I'm the best candidate for exotic pets. But there will be thrilling fotos. "Monkey Work Coconut. Play Baby." proclaims the shingle of wood along hi-way 2170. And it is all true.
THere is also a deluxe snake farm here on Ko Samui. This one is different from that described below (add jump) near Chiang Mai. What they lack in snake handling, they make amends for with the scorpions and centipede act. In this segment, a young Thai man jumps onto the stage with two yellow plastic buckets. One contains black scorpions, the other a poisonous and ill-tempered copper centipede. He procedes to put them all over his body and face, which is impressive but not too raw for the jaded among us. But when he puts one into his mouth for 15 minutes, it is worth the price of admission. The announcer explains how this handler has built up an immunity to the bugs. Sure enough, he has a road map of scars on his arms from previous chompings, and his thin head of hair is undoubtedly a side-effect of the venom. He allows the centipede to dig its jaw into his forearm until rivulets of blood drip onto the stage floor. He knows his audience well. For a finale, he drops about 10 scorpions and the centipede into his pants. Then for extra agitation, he does a hip gyration like a hula dance.
Monday Oct 15th
Morning completes the ride to Samui. Then a hut right on the beach, at a guesthouse called New Hut. Not much else today, other than exploration of the island and environs.
Sunday Oct 14th
Finish the safari at Khao Yai National Park. Transit occupies the day. From Pak Chang to Bangkok, then Bangkok to Surat Thani. It is a mere 10 hour bus ride. Massages at Wat Pho in Bangkok near the Royal palace. As the touts say "where you go?" Wat pho. "Oh, so sorry. Wat Pho closed." Yeah? And you think I would go when it's OPEN!? The Austrialian woman in line behind me professes her ill feelings for the fibbing lying tall-tale spinners of Bangkok. Train station. Your choice of bus or train. But train full. How about bus?
Saturday Oct 13th
Jiip and the safari through the Khao Yai NP. Leeches all over. See birds. Monkeys impossible to miss. Elephant. No wait. Elephant scorpion. Big brute too. Rains like crazy. Call off the night safari. Big pot barbeque instead. It is one of Thailand's best-kept secrets. Thanks to Paul and Jan, the Dutch odd couple.
Friday Oct 12th
Leave Siam Square. From Eastern Bus terminal to Pak Chong. Following a series of misadventures inaugurated by the placing of a bag of chilli bean sprouts on my bag by an old deranged woman. The cycle taxis apologize for her. Back finally for bat sighting. 2 million bats, on the same level as Austin.
Thursday Oct 11th
Wake up in filthy, horrible, vomitous Khaosan Road because someone with a Mediterranean accent is repeatedly screaming a vile fisherman song in the hallway. It is 8 in the morning, making this an inexplicably stupid thing to do. Except this is Khaosan Road, so it actually makes a perverse sense. Try to sleep, but someone has turned off the fan from the hallway. In a room where over 100 cigarettes have clearly been stubbed out on the dirty wall, nothing is too callous to be a surprise. I really don't like Khaosan road, and I vow never to sleep in this part of Bangkok again.
Today I meet Julia at the airport for the second time. This time for real, hopefully. Spend the day at National Stadium, at the 8 story mega-mall. The ruins and temples of Thailand are breathtaking, so steeped in history and religion as they are. But my favorite place in Thailand is this mall. It is 8 unfathomably giant floors of shopping mayhem. Even better is the fact that the merchandise is mostly junk. Watches, alarm clocks, the same Diesel knockoff shirts (it's a Thailand thing...you wouldn't understand). Simply mahvelous, dahling.
Meet Chan, a most cultured Thai fellow. It is obvious that he has a different perspective. He admits to having lived in London for 9 years, and in spite of the joy of this fact, I try not to hug him too much. Finally, Chan, an emissary for the people, a rosetta stone for this inscrutiable culture. I ask him all about Thai music, and he offers to go over to the music store and give me some tips. All I've found out about Thai music is that it lacks distinction almost completely, and is just MTV pop dribble. Chan points out something at least slightly different. It is hip hop in Thai, not that different, but at least it's in Thai. Also, a mix cd where the artist has made techno beats out of traditional Thai music. Kind of like what Nortec made out of Norteno. Thanks to Chan, I have something to show for Thai music, and won't have to buy a China Dolls cd after all.
Evening, meet Julia at the Don Muang Airport. I enjoy seeing her reaction to the same things I also found unusual here. I have planned our itinerary based on fun things to do which I haven't done yet. Also, since Julia has a full 11 long glorious days here in Thailand, the destinations have to be close to Bangkok. I don't envy the whalloping jetlag caused by the flight. It turns your biorythmic clock upside down and stomps down with an iron-heeled boot.
Wed Oct 10th
Finish the wonderful rafting trip down the Pai River. This river borders Burma to the north, so it is about as far north as Thailand goes before entering the turf of socialist dictatorship. The rafting trip will go down as a perfect experience during my trip. The coffee colored rapids move at a crisp pace, there are moments of adrenaline as we almost get thrown from the raft. During the calm stretches, Chai encourages us to swim alongside the raft in the swiftly moving rapids, which we do. We also throw Chai in when he isn't looking. The terrain is rugged, green, lush, thoroughly unspoiled. And after it rains for a while, the sun comes out and bakes us all. This is a perfect experience paddling down the Pai river.
Tues Oct 9th
Wake up early to join the Pai River rafting trip. There were only 2 already on the list last night when I signed up. Now there are 13 of us, which will take 3 full rafts to accommodate. At first, everybody is loath to get the fun train rolling. By camping time at night, the experience has thrown us all together. I meet 4 delightful Dutch women travelling together, Annemieke, Karin, Rose, and Anne, and Peter, who is officially the first Luxemburger I can recall meeting. We play uno until we get too tired. The forest rangers across the dining area continue gambling late into the night.
Monday Oct 8th
Roll on out to Pai early in the morning with Aik (pron. ache), whom I have been getting to know in Chiang Mai. He owns and operates the internet cafe at Daret's Guesthouse there. He also has another internet cafe in Pai, and offers to take me along. The ride is a sickening winding mess through the hills, but looks like the scenery from MASH at least.
Sunday Oct 7th
Enter the brutal long-distance bus trek that is the Golden Triangle Trek. This one takes everyone way up north to the Thai border with Laos and Burma, where the long-standing tradition of poppy cultivation once reigned the local economy. It is a thing of the past, and only the tourism and museums keep the opiate days alive. Officially, at least. Personally, I believe there is still cultivation a'plenty up here. I don't plan on doing research, as these are dangerous parts, but considering how allegedly 70% of the world's opium comes from around the Golden Triangle, where is it coming from? They must be growing the cash crop up in Burma somewhere. In any case, the trip is gruelling, and covers about 575 km. round trip. Meet Betty, the American who is taking a hiatus from her volunteer work in New Delhi, India. Also meet a very unusual French Canadian named _____. Not worth mentioning, but I think I will have to live in a French country for a while to understand Les Francois. I'm sure they are tres Magnifique, but it just isn't coming through.
Tues Oct 16
First full day on Ko Samui. This island is not going to make it to #1 in any category regarding Thailand. Except for monkeys. There is an abundance of domesticated monkeys here. They are fascinating, and I would like to take them all home. Is it legal to have a pet monkey in Austin? I probably wouldn't do it, but the idea is intriguing. A place with a yard would be perfect for a pet monkey to play with. To comb its downy soft fur, and to taunt with fruit. I would train it to make coffee using a french press in the morning. But since I already had co-ownership of a ball python once, and since that didn't work out well, I doubt I'm the best candidate for exotic pets. But there will be thrilling fotos. "Monkey Work Coconut. Play Baby." proclaims the shingle of wood along hi-way 2170. And it is all true.
THere is also a deluxe snake farm here on Ko Samui. This one is different from that described below (add jump) near Chiang Mai. What they lack in snake handling, they make amends for with the scorpions and centipede act. In this segment, a young Thai man jumps onto the stage with two yellow plastic buckets. One contains black scorpions, the other a poisonous and ill-tempered copper centipede. He procedes to put them all over his body and face, which is impressive but not too raw for the jaded among us. But when he puts one into his mouth for 15 minutes, it is worth the price of admission. The announcer explains how this handler has built up an immunity to the bugs. Sure enough, he has a road map of scars on his arms from previous chompings, and his thin head of hair is undoubtedly a side-effect of the venom. He allows the centipede to dig its jaw into his forearm until rivulets of blood drip onto the stage floor. He knows his audience well. For a finale, he drops about 10 scorpions and the centipede into his pants. Then for extra agitation, he does a hip gyration like a hula dance.
Monday Oct 15th
Morning completes the ride to Samui. Then a hut right on the beach, at a guesthouse called New Hut. Not much else today, other than exploration of the island and environs.
Sunday Oct 14th
Finish the safari at Khao Yai National Park. Transit occupies the day. From Pak Chang to Bangkok, then Bangkok to Surat Thani. It is a mere 10 hour bus ride. Massages at Wat Pho in Bangkok near the Royal palace. As the touts say "where you go?" Wat pho. "Oh, so sorry. Wat Pho closed." Yeah? And you think I would go when it's OPEN!? The Austrialian woman in line behind me professes her ill feelings for the fibbing lying tall-tale spinners of Bangkok. Train station. Your choice of bus or train. But train full. How about bus?
Saturday Oct 13th
Jiip and the safari through the Khao Yai NP. Leeches all over. See birds. Monkeys impossible to miss. Elephant. No wait. Elephant scorpion. Big brute too. Rains like crazy. Call off the night safari. Big pot barbeque instead. It is one of Thailand's best-kept secrets. Thanks to Paul and Jan, the Dutch odd couple.
Friday Oct 12th
Leave Siam Square. From Eastern Bus terminal to Pak Chong. Following a series of misadventures inaugurated by the placing of a bag of chilli bean sprouts on my bag by an old deranged woman. The cycle taxis apologize for her. Back finally for bat sighting. 2 million bats, on the same level as Austin.
Thursday Oct 11th
Wake up in filthy, horrible, vomitous Khaosan Road because someone with a Mediterranean accent is repeatedly screaming a vile fisherman song in the hallway. It is 8 in the morning, making this an inexplicably stupid thing to do. Except this is Khaosan Road, so it actually makes a perverse sense. Try to sleep, but someone has turned off the fan from the hallway. In a room where over 100 cigarettes have clearly been stubbed out on the dirty wall, nothing is too callous to be a surprise. I really don't like Khaosan road, and I vow never to sleep in this part of Bangkok again.
Today I meet Julia at the airport for the second time. This time for real, hopefully. Spend the day at National Stadium, at the 8 story mega-mall. The ruins and temples of Thailand are breathtaking, so steeped in history and religion as they are. But my favorite place in Thailand is this mall. It is 8 unfathomably giant floors of shopping mayhem. Even better is the fact that the merchandise is mostly junk. Watches, alarm clocks, the same Diesel knockoff shirts (it's a Thailand thing...you wouldn't understand). Simply mahvelous, dahling.
Meet Chan, a most cultured Thai fellow. It is obvious that he has a different perspective. He admits to having lived in London for 9 years, and in spite of the joy of this fact, I try not to hug him too much. Finally, Chan, an emissary for the people, a rosetta stone for this inscrutiable culture. I ask him all about Thai music, and he offers to go over to the music store and give me some tips. All I've found out about Thai music is that it lacks distinction almost completely, and is just MTV pop dribble. Chan points out something at least slightly different. It is hip hop in Thai, not that different, but at least it's in Thai. Also, a mix cd where the artist has made techno beats out of traditional Thai music. Kind of like what Nortec made out of Norteno. Thanks to Chan, I have something to show for Thai music, and won't have to buy a China Dolls cd after all.
Evening, meet Julia at the Don Muang Airport. I enjoy seeing her reaction to the same things I also found unusual here. I have planned our itinerary based on fun things to do which I haven't done yet. Also, since Julia has a full 11 long glorious days here in Thailand, the destinations have to be close to Bangkok. I don't envy the whalloping jetlag caused by the flight. It turns your biorythmic clock upside down and stomps down with an iron-heeled boot.
Wed Oct 10th
Finish the wonderful rafting trip down the Pai River. This river borders Burma to the north, so it is about as far north as Thailand goes before entering the turf of socialist dictatorship. The rafting trip will go down as a perfect experience during my trip. The coffee colored rapids move at a crisp pace, there are moments of adrenaline as we almost get thrown from the raft. During the calm stretches, Chai encourages us to swim alongside the raft in the swiftly moving rapids, which we do. We also throw Chai in when he isn't looking. The terrain is rugged, green, lush, thoroughly unspoiled. And after it rains for a while, the sun comes out and bakes us all. This is a perfect experience paddling down the Pai river.
Tues Oct 9th
Wake up early to join the Pai River rafting trip. There were only 2 already on the list last night when I signed up. Now there are 13 of us, which will take 3 full rafts to accommodate. At first, everybody is loath to get the fun train rolling. By camping time at night, the experience has thrown us all together. I meet 4 delightful Dutch women travelling together, Annemieke, Karin, Rose, and Anne, and Peter, who is officially the first Luxemburger I can recall meeting. We play uno until we get too tired. The forest rangers across the dining area continue gambling late into the night.
Monday Oct 8th
Roll on out to Pai early in the morning with Aik (pron. ache), whom I have been getting to know in Chiang Mai. He owns and operates the internet cafe at Daret's Guesthouse there. He also has another internet cafe in Pai, and offers to take me along. The ride is a sickening winding mess through the hills, but looks like the scenery from MASH at least.
Sunday Oct 7th
Enter the brutal long-distance bus trek that is the Golden Triangle Trek. This one takes everyone way up north to the Thai border with Laos and Burma, where the long-standing tradition of poppy cultivation once reigned the local economy. It is a thing of the past, and only the tourism and museums keep the opiate days alive. Officially, at least. Personally, I believe there is still cultivation a'plenty up here. I don't plan on doing research, as these are dangerous parts, but considering how allegedly 70% of the world's opium comes from around the Golden Triangle, where is it coming from? They must be growing the cash crop up in Burma somewhere. In any case, the trip is gruelling, and covers about 575 km. round trip. Meet Betty, the American who is taking a hiatus from her volunteer work in New Delhi, India. Also meet a very unusual French Canadian named _____. Not worth mentioning, but I think I will have to live in a French country for a while to understand Les Francois. I'm sure they are tres Magnifique, but it just isn't coming through.
posted by jasonthewolf at
8:07 AM
Friday, October 05, 2001
Wake up to the sound of pouring rain. It's another humid day in Thailand's second-largest city. Can't sleep anyway.
Julia gave me this book, From Beirut to Jerusalem, to read. It has been a truly excellent book, but not without side effects. Among them is a strong craving for pita and hummus. All I can picture is that creamy plate full of pureed chick peas. That's probably why I can't sleep. So I go to the Jerusalem Cafe here in Chiang Mai. It's closed.
Instead I spend the afternoon cutting up posters that I have found at the local art supply store. Still not sure what I am going to do with them. Hopefully it will be something visually offensive and disgusting. I also have colored tape rolls and presstype to add to the stew. It is a challenge.
One poster has His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand on it. It's a good picture of him wearing heavy black plastic mod glasses. Looks like Peter Sellers' character in What's New Pussycat. But cutting it into a collage is simply too dangerous. It would be a stupid way to end up in jail for defacing an image of the king. There is no sense of humor when it comes to King Bhumibol.
Evening, Inka, Anu, and I are bound for the THC bar to see what's new since 2 days ago.
Julia gave me this book, From Beirut to Jerusalem, to read. It has been a truly excellent book, but not without side effects. Among them is a strong craving for pita and hummus. All I can picture is that creamy plate full of pureed chick peas. That's probably why I can't sleep. So I go to the Jerusalem Cafe here in Chiang Mai. It's closed.
Instead I spend the afternoon cutting up posters that I have found at the local art supply store. Still not sure what I am going to do with them. Hopefully it will be something visually offensive and disgusting. I also have colored tape rolls and presstype to add to the stew. It is a challenge.
One poster has His Majesty King Bhumibol Adulyadej of Thailand on it. It's a good picture of him wearing heavy black plastic mod glasses. Looks like Peter Sellers' character in What's New Pussycat. But cutting it into a collage is simply too dangerous. It would be a stupid way to end up in jail for defacing an image of the king. There is no sense of humor when it comes to King Bhumibol.
Evening, Inka, Anu, and I are bound for the THC bar to see what's new since 2 days ago.
posted by jasonthewolf at
7:59 AM
Thursday, October 04, 2001
I had written all this content about being here in Chiang Mai. I had nourished it with the juices of my own stomach. But a power loss cut that life short, never to again to feel the joy of being. Now, I must bring back the life that was taken away. As General Boy would say, "Bombs away!"
Thursday Oct 4th
Just had a look at the Best of Austin 2001. Congrats to Angela for being part of KUT, and for being able to get so close to John Aielli in the picture.
Sick today. Just sitting in the courtyard of the guesthouse. Coughing and sneezing. Whatever cold-like affliction Juho had is highly contagious. I am taking lots of Amoxicillin to knock it out. It allows me to catch up on other things.
Wednesday Oct 3rd
Happy birthday Dadums! Let's celebrate soon!
Today, a visit to a temple near town. The Temple of 300 Steps, with Juho and Inka, 2 Finns. As everyone knows, Americans and Finns have nothing in common. Not so! Inka lived in Dallas for 6 years. Her friend Anu lived in Waco for a year. We are practically neighbors, or were anyway. Sorry about Waco, though. A tough break. At least Anu and I can share Dairy Queen jokes. I have no plans of visiting Helsinki any time soon, but who knows.
In the evening, we go to the Rasta Bar - not my choice. Too much rasta music can cause permanent brain damage, shingles, and god knows what. By 11:30 the Texas faction prevails, and we ferry over to Bubbles for dancing. Bubbles has a "space theme." The Dj mixes it up from his seat inside the spacepod. Add to this the fact that the women are trying "make business" with us, and it is a fun(ny) place indeed.
The Bubble pops at 2 am. Spat outside, we run into friends of the people who own the THC bar. Damn the curfew, they say, they know of a speakeasy in town. And away we go to a storefront with the metal curtain closed. But when we knock, it opens to reveal a dimly lit pool table and bar, and about 8 people inside. Once inside, we all share a feeling of being bad and having more fun than we should. Life's little privileges are nice indeed.
The owner keeps shushing everybody in the bar, but with rising alcohol levels, it is a losing battle. Soon enough, my pool playing friend is shoving me in the back, saying we have to go upstairs - the police are outside.
We all trample up the stairs into the dark room, which after adjusting to the dark appears to be the owner's bedroom. There are about 12 of us, equal measures tourists and locals, sitting on the bed or the floor, trying to keep still. Below, sounds can be heard, and we are still sipping our whiskey and coke up here.
A couple of dark figures, overcome with curiosity and drink, begin lifting the blinds to look out the window. They are slapped away with a hiss from another more practical dark figure.
One woman can't take the strain, and begins yelling inexplicably at one of them in a stage whisper "How many packets of heroin have you got?". Before they can answer, she proclaims "That's 4 years in jail for you." Then she asks someone else. "How much heroin have you got? That's 4 years in jail for you!" She is convicting everyone of heroin possession in the owner's 2nd floor bedroom. I don't know what's going on in the bathroom, but all I've seen them serving here is alcohol.
Luckily for us all, the coast is soon pronounced clear, and we go back to our previous routine, talking and playing pool. It turns out to be a late night.
Tuesday Oct 2nd
Sleep late. Perspire a lot. Humid as hell here. Juho, he of the throat infection, keeps swigging out of everybody's bottles (foreshadowing). Why he do that? Just remember, never trust the Finns. Unless it's the Split Enz Finns. Then run for your life.
THC bar this evening. It's the full-moon party up on the roof. They cut the lights at 1 am but break the law by keeping open until after 3 am. More money for the law breakers! Same crew as last night. Chang, Singha, and Heineken bottles litter the table.
Monday Oct 1st
Always wanted to try quackers, and finally get my chance. Finally know what the back of my head looks like. I see a slug crawling across the edge of a razor blade. Crawling and twitching. Now everything makes sense. Bow ties. Hot pockets. Michael Jackson. Everything. Material things are but an illusion. My home is here in the jungle. I am building a shelter for you. Just sell everything you have and come to Chiang Mai. You will have to work hard, but that is the nature of the One True Path. Like me, you will realize that life begins not at the hop, but here in the jungle. Chiang Mai needs you. Soon you will need Chiang Mai.
Go to womb to get more quackers.
Wake up late. Go to the mall. Buy a shirt. Go to the THC bar with Juho, Antti, Tamara, and Sonja. Two Finns, two Dutch, one world, one Jah.
After THC bar, go to Bubbles at 2 am. Bubbles is a dance club, but is closed. Two loud French are yelling about the "stupide premier ministre" in Thailand. They say he has spent too much time in America, the stupid prime minister. Whatever the reason, the PM has put a 2 am curfew on club and bar going in Thailand. We are all victims of his decree. Instead, we all pile into a Suzuki Kick, about 9 of us, and go to the Ping river. The Thai go there after hours to chill out, so we sit and drink for a while.
Sunday Oct 30th
Last night was lots of drinking. The only way to recover. Juho and I go bowling. Antti hates bowling and won't go. And it's...bowling, like anywhere else with any other name, just as spherical. What Antti doesn't know is, if you go to Thailand and don't go bowling, you have missed the essence of Thailand. It is the most important part of the trip. Antti has missed his chance to go bowling in Thailand. But maybe he will come back someday and really see this land. One difference with bowling here is the drankin' - in Thailand bowling means getting a bottle of whiskey and sucking it down between frames. And there's no bar car driving around.
Saturday Sept 29th
Happy birthday, Nikolai. My brother just hit the big 3-0. I will drink a toast to my elders, as is the Asian custom. If you haven't seen the nikolai.org website, now's your chance!
Finland is very close to Russia. It is only 50 km from the border to St. Petersburg. I ask Juho if he has any advice for my friend in Austin, who is planning to teach English in Russia. He asks if my friend is crazy. You have to keep on your toes when the Finns are around. Juho says Russia would be a nice place to conquer if you have the right stuff. But problems with the infrastructure, economy, and corruption are formidable challenges there. In conclusion, if you can settle in Russia, you have to have "big balls."
Chiang Mai is pretty. It's unique. It's like other cities, but different. In Chiang Mai, there are many ultra fine Italian scooters on the road. That makes it a real nice place in my book. The shiny paint jobs and chrome accents. The zip of a 2-stroke engine. If tourist dollars equate to more Vespas on the road, then c'mon everybody. Get on up and go to Chiang Mai.
The hotel is called Daret's. It's the type of place you feel comfortable in immediately. Luckily that comfort doesn't cost much. In Chiang Mai you can keep your mind on your money.
My room is a mere 120 baht. About $2.50. I could go another $1 for a room with a hot shower, but I didn't come this far to take the easy road. I've been making sacrifices all along, and I'm not about to stop now. What many people don't understand is, once you take up the hard life of the Bedouin, the road becomes your only companion. Some might go without the hot shower because they have something to prove. With a seasoned traveler like myself, it's just that things like hot water don't provide any comfort. Once you are on the road, your only companion is the sound of a bus engine. The road can be a fickle bedmate, that's true. Sometimes she leaves you a pothole in the dark. Perhaps the red lights won't quit. That's when you have to grit your teeth and slam on through. It's not glamorous. Much like a Shaolin monk, it's only a lifestyle.
So much of Thai culture involves the street. Street hawkers sell their food there. Tuk-tuk drivers work their hustle there. The constant noises enter your dreams at night. THe smoke sticks in your lungs. Even getting around on foot involves constant navigation with road traffic. As such, there seems only one way to understand this thing called Thai culture. You have to look at it through the side view mirror of culture. You have to join the culture. With that in mind, Juho, Antti and I realize where our respective ambassadorial missions will take us. We rent some cheap scooters and dive into the mess. There is a snake farm up the road that needs some business.
Snake farm involves announcer and four handlers. THere is a king cobra which one of the handlers fights with his bare hands and legs. Time and time again, the cobra strikes, but he is a cobra too. Their dance is poetry. Then he presses his finger on the cobra's head and it goes to sleep. Most of all, the snake show involves the handlers outsmarting the snakes in order to kiss them. All the while, the announcer chants "And now a kiss. Kiss me, my beauty. I love you. Will you marry me?" His accent is perfect. The best part of the performance, aside from the death-defying tricks, is the soundtrack, one of the best songs ever written. The Final Countdown by Europe.
A waterfall.
At night, the THC bar, this time with Cindy and Jonathan from Aingland - Brighton ways. Substanital drinking.
Friday Sept 28th
Bus ride ends at Chiang Mai at 5 pm. It is a new personal record - 36 hours of almost constant bus riding. At bus station, run up to two guys with backpacks, offer to share a ride into town.
Get to know the two Finns, Antti and Juho. First night in Chiang Mai, the three of us go to a rooftop bar called the THC until late at night. Meet some Amis there.
Thursday Sept 27th
Entire day spent in minibus next to Thai woman who's friendly but doesn't speak English. At least the seats recline nicely.
Thursday Oct 4th
Just had a look at the Best of Austin 2001. Congrats to Angela for being part of KUT, and for being able to get so close to John Aielli in the picture.
Sick today. Just sitting in the courtyard of the guesthouse. Coughing and sneezing. Whatever cold-like affliction Juho had is highly contagious. I am taking lots of Amoxicillin to knock it out. It allows me to catch up on other things.
Wednesday Oct 3rd
Happy birthday Dadums! Let's celebrate soon!
Today, a visit to a temple near town. The Temple of 300 Steps, with Juho and Inka, 2 Finns. As everyone knows, Americans and Finns have nothing in common. Not so! Inka lived in Dallas for 6 years. Her friend Anu lived in Waco for a year. We are practically neighbors, or were anyway. Sorry about Waco, though. A tough break. At least Anu and I can share Dairy Queen jokes. I have no plans of visiting Helsinki any time soon, but who knows.
In the evening, we go to the Rasta Bar - not my choice. Too much rasta music can cause permanent brain damage, shingles, and god knows what. By 11:30 the Texas faction prevails, and we ferry over to Bubbles for dancing. Bubbles has a "space theme." The Dj mixes it up from his seat inside the spacepod. Add to this the fact that the women are trying "make business" with us, and it is a fun(ny) place indeed.
The Bubble pops at 2 am. Spat outside, we run into friends of the people who own the THC bar. Damn the curfew, they say, they know of a speakeasy in town. And away we go to a storefront with the metal curtain closed. But when we knock, it opens to reveal a dimly lit pool table and bar, and about 8 people inside. Once inside, we all share a feeling of being bad and having more fun than we should. Life's little privileges are nice indeed.
The owner keeps shushing everybody in the bar, but with rising alcohol levels, it is a losing battle. Soon enough, my pool playing friend is shoving me in the back, saying we have to go upstairs - the police are outside.
We all trample up the stairs into the dark room, which after adjusting to the dark appears to be the owner's bedroom. There are about 12 of us, equal measures tourists and locals, sitting on the bed or the floor, trying to keep still. Below, sounds can be heard, and we are still sipping our whiskey and coke up here.
A couple of dark figures, overcome with curiosity and drink, begin lifting the blinds to look out the window. They are slapped away with a hiss from another more practical dark figure.
One woman can't take the strain, and begins yelling inexplicably at one of them in a stage whisper "How many packets of heroin have you got?". Before they can answer, she proclaims "That's 4 years in jail for you." Then she asks someone else. "How much heroin have you got? That's 4 years in jail for you!" She is convicting everyone of heroin possession in the owner's 2nd floor bedroom. I don't know what's going on in the bathroom, but all I've seen them serving here is alcohol.
Luckily for us all, the coast is soon pronounced clear, and we go back to our previous routine, talking and playing pool. It turns out to be a late night.
Tuesday Oct 2nd
Sleep late. Perspire a lot. Humid as hell here. Juho, he of the throat infection, keeps swigging out of everybody's bottles (foreshadowing). Why he do that? Just remember, never trust the Finns. Unless it's the Split Enz Finns. Then run for your life.
THC bar this evening. It's the full-moon party up on the roof. They cut the lights at 1 am but break the law by keeping open until after 3 am. More money for the law breakers! Same crew as last night. Chang, Singha, and Heineken bottles litter the table.
Monday Oct 1st
Always wanted to try quackers, and finally get my chance. Finally know what the back of my head looks like. I see a slug crawling across the edge of a razor blade. Crawling and twitching. Now everything makes sense. Bow ties. Hot pockets. Michael Jackson. Everything. Material things are but an illusion. My home is here in the jungle. I am building a shelter for you. Just sell everything you have and come to Chiang Mai. You will have to work hard, but that is the nature of the One True Path. Like me, you will realize that life begins not at the hop, but here in the jungle. Chiang Mai needs you. Soon you will need Chiang Mai.
Go to womb to get more quackers.
Wake up late. Go to the mall. Buy a shirt. Go to the THC bar with Juho, Antti, Tamara, and Sonja. Two Finns, two Dutch, one world, one Jah.
After THC bar, go to Bubbles at 2 am. Bubbles is a dance club, but is closed. Two loud French are yelling about the "stupide premier ministre" in Thailand. They say he has spent too much time in America, the stupid prime minister. Whatever the reason, the PM has put a 2 am curfew on club and bar going in Thailand. We are all victims of his decree. Instead, we all pile into a Suzuki Kick, about 9 of us, and go to the Ping river. The Thai go there after hours to chill out, so we sit and drink for a while.
Sunday Oct 30th
Last night was lots of drinking. The only way to recover. Juho and I go bowling. Antti hates bowling and won't go. And it's...bowling, like anywhere else with any other name, just as spherical. What Antti doesn't know is, if you go to Thailand and don't go bowling, you have missed the essence of Thailand. It is the most important part of the trip. Antti has missed his chance to go bowling in Thailand. But maybe he will come back someday and really see this land. One difference with bowling here is the drankin' - in Thailand bowling means getting a bottle of whiskey and sucking it down between frames. And there's no bar car driving around.
Saturday Sept 29th
Happy birthday, Nikolai. My brother just hit the big 3-0. I will drink a toast to my elders, as is the Asian custom. If you haven't seen the nikolai.org website, now's your chance!
Finland is very close to Russia. It is only 50 km from the border to St. Petersburg. I ask Juho if he has any advice for my friend in Austin, who is planning to teach English in Russia. He asks if my friend is crazy. You have to keep on your toes when the Finns are around. Juho says Russia would be a nice place to conquer if you have the right stuff. But problems with the infrastructure, economy, and corruption are formidable challenges there. In conclusion, if you can settle in Russia, you have to have "big balls."
Chiang Mai is pretty. It's unique. It's like other cities, but different. In Chiang Mai, there are many ultra fine Italian scooters on the road. That makes it a real nice place in my book. The shiny paint jobs and chrome accents. The zip of a 2-stroke engine. If tourist dollars equate to more Vespas on the road, then c'mon everybody. Get on up and go to Chiang Mai.
The hotel is called Daret's. It's the type of place you feel comfortable in immediately. Luckily that comfort doesn't cost much. In Chiang Mai you can keep your mind on your money.
My room is a mere 120 baht. About $2.50. I could go another $1 for a room with a hot shower, but I didn't come this far to take the easy road. I've been making sacrifices all along, and I'm not about to stop now. What many people don't understand is, once you take up the hard life of the Bedouin, the road becomes your only companion. Some might go without the hot shower because they have something to prove. With a seasoned traveler like myself, it's just that things like hot water don't provide any comfort. Once you are on the road, your only companion is the sound of a bus engine. The road can be a fickle bedmate, that's true. Sometimes she leaves you a pothole in the dark. Perhaps the red lights won't quit. That's when you have to grit your teeth and slam on through. It's not glamorous. Much like a Shaolin monk, it's only a lifestyle.
So much of Thai culture involves the street. Street hawkers sell their food there. Tuk-tuk drivers work their hustle there. The constant noises enter your dreams at night. THe smoke sticks in your lungs. Even getting around on foot involves constant navigation with road traffic. As such, there seems only one way to understand this thing called Thai culture. You have to look at it through the side view mirror of culture. You have to join the culture. With that in mind, Juho, Antti and I realize where our respective ambassadorial missions will take us. We rent some cheap scooters and dive into the mess. There is a snake farm up the road that needs some business.
Snake farm involves announcer and four handlers. THere is a king cobra which one of the handlers fights with his bare hands and legs. Time and time again, the cobra strikes, but he is a cobra too. Their dance is poetry. Then he presses his finger on the cobra's head and it goes to sleep. Most of all, the snake show involves the handlers outsmarting the snakes in order to kiss them. All the while, the announcer chants "And now a kiss. Kiss me, my beauty. I love you. Will you marry me?" His accent is perfect. The best part of the performance, aside from the death-defying tricks, is the soundtrack, one of the best songs ever written. The Final Countdown by Europe.
A waterfall.
At night, the THC bar, this time with Cindy and Jonathan from Aingland - Brighton ways. Substanital drinking.
Friday Sept 28th
Bus ride ends at Chiang Mai at 5 pm. It is a new personal record - 36 hours of almost constant bus riding. At bus station, run up to two guys with backpacks, offer to share a ride into town.
Get to know the two Finns, Antti and Juho. First night in Chiang Mai, the three of us go to a rooftop bar called the THC until late at night. Meet some Amis there.
Thursday Sept 27th
Entire day spent in minibus next to Thai woman who's friendly but doesn't speak English. At least the seats recline nicely.
posted by jasonthewolf at
9:24 AM
Wednesday, October 03, 2001
Wednesday Sept 26th
See Southeast Asia's largest reclining Buddha. Then go to the mall.
What this mall has is 8 stories of pure shopping bliss. Guess what, though. Nothing is real. Not that it matters, what with styles changing so quickly as they do. But the Prada, aint. The Addidas, nuh-uh. The Nike, nope. All fake as a 9 Ringgit note. There is a bowling alley on the 7th floor, bumper cars on the 8th floor, a video arcade on 8 as well, and something called the Fantasy Island water park on the roof. Is nothing sacred?
It is a trend that has long overtaken many of the cities that benefit from the semiconductor revolution. Is this the silicon belt? There are about 4 of these mega-gorilla-malls that I have seen, and I suspect there may be more that I have not seen. All vying for consumer bling bling by outdoing each other in opulence and variety.
About the merch. The stores are full of information storage implements. CDs, y'all. Compact discs. The future of our world on a plastic disky. You can buy anything that exists digitally in these malls. Music, programs, applications, games, movies. Lots of movies. I see VCDs of movies for sale with titles I don't recognize. Movies I've never heard of from Hollywood. There are movies here that are not out on DVD, not out in theaters yet, I think some of them haven't even been filmed yet, y'all. They are cheaper than the popcorn at your local megaplex, usually about 2 to 3 dollars. Can you believe this brazen piracy, me matey? In the malls, in broad daylight, with names signed, storefronts leased, and the mall taking in rent. An entire corrupt bizness from tip to toe. There may be Amazing Thailand, but this is really amazing, and it's Malaysia.
Just for fun, I enter a store and buy the entire suite of Marcomedia products. All on one cd, crammed as full as the Amistad, y'all. It contains everything they have released, tried to release, or will release within the next month. About $4000 in software retail for a cool $2. You do the math - it's a good clearance sale.
Even better is the video arcade on 8. Here is a list of the better games Malaysians can play there:
Super Bishi Bashi
Hyper Bishi Bashi
DDR 3rd Mix
Guitar Freaks 3rd Mix (X2)
Para Para Dancing (X2)
Percussion Freaks (X2)
Sega Tambourine game (name is in Japanese)
Para Para Dancing seems pretty easy by the second game. It's more about showing your moves than being technical. The funniest game is the Bishi Bashi series, which is like Track N Field of old. You tap the buttons to do things like click the lead out of a mechanical pencil and build a hamburger. That's why I came to Malaysia in the first place.
Enough fun at the mall. This is to be my last full day in Malaysia. I book a minibus to Krabi, departing at 5 am. Eat. It's late already. Just for fun, check the bank balance again and --- HOLY FLYING FUCKWADS! --- someone has raped my credit card to little shreds. There are charges and more charges. Looks like helter skelter, asian style. This has to be an inside job. No one who's Malaysian has a Bank of America account.
Who would do an American peacekeeper like this? Also, I am running low on cash. I go to the hostel worker for some information, but he is a moron. He says go to Telecom. This is like telling someone to go to the Southwestern Bell administrative office to make a phone call. Or to go to the White House to vote. Ignoring him, I go to a Chinese-owned store across the street, and ask to make an international phone call.
The owner introduces himself as Steve. Upon my insistence, we hop on his scooter to a hotel down the street. There, I make the call, and he waits patiently for me to go through all the menus and red tape. "Press 1...Press 2." The joy of automated menus at a time like this.
I assume Steve is waiting around to sell me something, but it is not the case. Steve turns out to be a thoroughly cool guy. After the calls, we ride back to his store. He shows me a room behind his store that is a dimly lit speakeasy of sorts. He explains that people come here all the time for drinks, regardless of ethnicity or religion - it's a Shangri La for drinkers. Muslim Malayans and Buddhist Chinese drink alongside Indian Hindus in Steve's hidden bar. Over the next 3 hours, I see representatives of many groups go in for a drink. Muslims are strictly forbidden to drink, after all.
We hang out at the bar until the wee hours. Steve's friend Chong is especially tight this evening. His approach to me being there is a combination of broken English sentences and slaps on the back. Very cool place to be when paranoia sets in. Steve really saves my life, won't even let me pay for the drinks. Finally, we all go to the Muslim hawker stand for some fish cakes and tissue candy before saying goodbye. Feeling somewhat ironed out now. And in only 3 more hours, the hos, rats, and thieves of Chulia Street, Georgetown, Penang Island, Malaysia will be long gone.
Tuesday Sept 25th
First day without Teik as local friend and tour guide. One more day and I fear he would start in with the mushrooms again. Get lost in the backpacker district. The old district is a maze. I get lost. Find familiar ground...the temple where Teik and I went yesterday. A good time to have lunch too.
Up to the hawker stand strolls a woman who is definitely Western, but orders food in Hokkien. She is wearing a Chinese traditional dress and carrying a Chinese umbrella. We talk at the folding table curbside. She is Lindsey, an artist from Colorado. She's a nontraditional person. She has blue and yellow oil paint spots on her hands. She taught at Pratt in New York, but now - now she's married into a Chinese Malaysian family and living in Malaysia.
We are right outside the Dao/Buddhist temple where yesterday I lit a candle in support of the US. Lindsey lives right next to the temple, where she keeps her studio space. She offers some advice that changes the course of my travels. I explain that I am heading east to the Perhenian Islands on the east coast of Malaysia. She travels there often and was there recently (since the terrorist attacks). The people who live there are strict fundamentalist Muslims, and they are agitated right now.
Lindsey explains how the Muslims were shoving her around in the marketplace there. If you are a woman without a head covering in Muslim areas, you tend to stand out. She says she accidentally bumped into a man, and said "sorry," but he got in her face and started yelling "sorry! sorry!" in a menacing way. She is the third person to tell me such things about the Perhenian Islands. And Lindsey's a local, not a student from Cali. Reason enough to change my plans. Penang is also Malaysian and has Muslims in it. You can often hear the prayers to Mecca. The city is 55% Chinese, however, and we all know how loveable those Buddhists are - in theory at least.
Evening, I leave for the desolate west side of Penang. A bus clears the cliffside roads at speeds that would make the Beach Boys proud. On the bus, I look into my wallet. Didn't I have about 6000 baht more than this last time I checked? And didn't I have a credit card in there? Krapp, must have left the card in the ATM last time. Also, I need to stop spending so much money. Still, this wallet seems awfully light. And my room is only $1.50 per night, not very expensive.
Once there, adolescents are fighting with sticks in the twilight. A fishmonger boy on a folding bike "helps me" find my destination, Miss Loh's Guest House at the end of the world. Loh meets me at the gate, quietly saying the boy is an "addict." She gives him 2 ringgit coins to go away.
It is at this point that I am going over the edge. Terrorism in the US, antagonistic Muslims yelling "Sorry!", drug addicted fishmongers, my unusally light wallet, and Miss Loh at the end of the world. When she asks me "England?," I feel defensive and stupidly say, "No, I'm German." She starts yelling about "Oh German! You speak such good english for a german!" And she runs around shouting "There's a German here!" to no one in particular, since the guests are mostly still at the beach.
First comes a tattooed Brit. She introduces me to him as German, and we look at a local map together. I feel the need to put on a German accent, but it is pointless. Ridiculous. Miss Loh promises me that two Belgian girls are coming back from the beach, and that I can talk to them too. They probably speak German, and mine is not that great. The outcome is obvious. I use these moments to pack up and leave.
The German returns to Georgetown under the cover of night. Luckily, Georgetown is a town that doesn't sleep. Getting a meal at 2 am is no problem here. There are always hawker stands open and an extra chair on the street. I'm starting to get paranoid about my missing card. If I lost it in the ATM, maybe someone grabbed it out and went shopping. I check my online balance using the internet. No mysterious charges. Guess the machine in Krabi sucked it in. Then that will be my next destination.
Monday Sept 24th
I'm at Teik's house in Penang. I meet his brother, mother, and grandmother. Soon thereafter, his father and older brother show up. Also, a friend whose name I cannot remember. Conversing for a while, it comes up that we should go to the karaoke bar. She was classically trained in opera, and won some awards in Malaysia for her singing. We talk for at least an hour. Can't remember what it was all about, but a good conversation. Their house is like most houses in Penang. Open to the outside weather, and with geckos everywhere. Not unlike Austin in that respect.
Earlier we visited a giant Buddhist statue, this one is of Kuan Yin. Zounds, it's tall. We went up to the top of Penang Hill, which is about 750 meters high. It affords a most panoramic view of the city, I can tell you. Got some real nice fotos too. Mega-developments are big biz here. Both giant malls and giant condominiums for Penang Peeples. The condominiums are symbolic. They are both physically and monetarily out of reach for dee peeples here. So they are actually tongues sticking out of the ground in a constant frozen razz. NYYaaaaahhh, I can afford to live here, but you on the other hand cannot. You are an insignificant little ant peeple. I can hardly even see you in your diminutive nature. Maybe I will drop some rotten vegetables on your tiny insignificant head. Oh wait, its too small even for my bag of rotten vegetables. Razzz.
The malls on the other hand are sort of great and awesome, and sort of stupid too. This one that Teik and I go to has the Songbird karaoke bar in it, where we order beer from a man in a cheap malt-shop tux-iform. He is the iceman. Very cool - even has an eyebrow maneuver like WWF's The Rock. He is too cool to touch money, and puts it on a felt paddle that kind of resembles his tux-iform. Due to the felt, you cannot slide your change off of the paddle into your hand, as you could an American change dish. After all these years, this is a Malaysian change paddle. It requires some dexterity, some intelligence, a little depth perception, and lots of class. You have to reach for it and pinch it off of the felt paddle.
This is such a classy place! How classy? Well, there's a glass cabinet against the wall full of bottles. The bottles contain some fine aged cognac. Cognac is amber in color, contains alcohol, can be quite expensive, and is made in France-land, Europe. Most of all though, cognac is very exclusively classy! Each of these bottles, tastefully lined up like school wrestling trophies in a glass cabinet, has the name of some very suave karaoke singer of the dark urban night, who can come in and order it from the cabinet, just as classy as you please. I don't need to tell you this, but sitting back at the karaoke bar with a glass of Camus VSOP cognac is probably the only thing in this world better than self-actualization.
Teik and I are there to sing some karaoke. As it turns out, he is not. He backs out of the deal, leaving me to choose the two songs myself. But it's ok by me. I find plenty of English songs, though that's only the beginning. There are songs in Mandarin, Malay, English, Cantonese, and Hokkien, which is a local Chinese dialect much like Cantonese is a Hong Kong dialect. I would like to go ahead and dedicate the first song I did to Jessica, for her bold karaoke party, and because she turned off the machine when Scott and I were singing the very same song. It is the one and only Hello by Lionel Richie. The second song was Bend Me Shape Me by the American Breed, which I discovered is harder than one would think - on the ears.
Sunday Sept 23rd
Things have gotten way out of hand
I finally manage to leave Hat Yai on my second day there. I find someone with good enough English skills to explain the unique but manageable experience of crossing over into Malaysia. It is done in a minibus, aka minivan. The traveller 2 inches from my ear keeps staring at me on the minibus, or staring at my notebook, at least. We start talking. He is Malaysian. Specifically, he is an ethnic Chinese, one of the many ethnicities in this melting pot of a country.
Tan Sheng Teik
Teik is very talkative, and we talk throughout the 4 hour bus ride. Since I am trapped next to him, it's a lucky thing that he is an interesting person. With pride, he introduces himself as a multi-level marketer. This bears out the blind spot to American culture that other countries live in. He doesn't know that multi-level marketer fits comfortably in the same sentence as racketeer or spirit channeler. Not so in Malaysia. At least he sells a product that "no home should be without," some ancient Chinese mushrooms ground up in pill form. Does that come in Snake-Oil flavor? I change the subject, but it will come up again.
Sheng Teik verifies a story originally told to me by Tai, my Hong Kong friend. Yes, it is true that there are strong prejudices attached to the numbers 4, 8, and 9 in Chinese culture. According to Tai, people in Hong Kong will pay large sums of money to have lots of 8's in their lives. This applies to phone numbers, license plates, maybe even street addresses. In addition, if you have a number with lots of 4's in it, you probably won't be able to give it away. The reason behind this is the phonetic sound of 4, 8, and 9 in Chinese. When you say the number 4, it sounds like the word meaning "death." The number 8, luckily, sounds like the word "wealth." And 9 is harder to make out, but it means a "long time." As a result, if you have a business selling baby food, and you want it to succeed, what will people think of you if you are on 144 Happiness Lane, which is "Certain Death Death" Happiness Lane. Or you could have the phone number 8888888888, the absolute best phone number to have. You could sell it to Bill Gates for some good scratch. But thats 2 much funn with numbers 4 1 day, kidz.
I ask Teik about the culture of his Chinese family. Does he live at home with the family? Yes. Is that the normal way people live in Penang Malaysia? Yes. Do people really live in treehouses and eat Li'l Smokies out of their shoes? No. His defensive denial seems most suspicious (and more than a little auspicious). Teik, if you are 31 years old, and you are 31 years old, and you live with your parents and sister and brother and grandparents all in one house, will everyone think you are a greenhorn who's hiding from the big adult world and lazy besides? No. Oh wait, that's American culture I was thinking of. Yes, we all strike out on our own at the age of 18, lest we never learn to fly out of the nest at all. Is Malaysia like that, Teik? Not really, but I eat the hell out of these fungi pills and and I'm a multi-level marketer, too. OK Teik, tell me more about your strange ways.
Teik proved himself to be full of useful information. If you live in the same house as your parents, don't they try to tell you what to do all the time, Teik? He says he doesn't have to listen to them. Or he could put up an argument, and if it stood upright, they would respect his decision. Seems like a supportive environment to me. Still, I wonder if this sort of lifestyle insulates a person from the outside world. The fact that Teik has never left SE Asia in all his 31 years supports this. In fact, only within the past 2 years has he ever left Penang Island. How is that possible? How could he care if the World Trade Center blew up? For him, that's in Narnia, past the land of black angels and ghost galleons. But he is a very nice person, both curious and friendly. And his English is quite good. So when the minibus finally emerges from the ferry onto Penang Island and the streets of Georgetown, we say goodbye. He says I should call him once I get settled, and he will show me the town. Probably he's just being polite, but I go ahead and call him after dinner.
Driving around with Sheng Teik proves interesting. The city has a colonial history, and many English buildings stand as a reminder of colonialism. But the real attraction is the hawker stands, where you can get food from all over. Yes indeed. That Teik, whatta guy. I discover what is important to an ethnic Chinese Malaysian. Like in most places, it is mostly *prospects for the future*, *money*, and *career*. Teik wants to succeed. In fact, he asks me: What are the principles upon which one should live? This is a good question, but what I don't yet know is that Teik has the answers already. I say something about poetry and love being the dual foundation of a life well lived. It is a poignant moment, which Teik maneuvers by telling me his principles. Something like work, leisure, assistance, and self-actualization. For a fleeting moment, we both see a vision of a better world. A place where man exists to better his fellow man. Etc. But those words are obviously printed between the shiny covers of a multi-level marketing workbook somewhere. Somewhere, probably in Kuala Lumpur, there is a fatly ornamented penthouse where a master salesman has set up his brothel of brain pimpery, and this is his mantra. Work, leisure, assistance, and self-actualization. Sounds like hokum -> flapdoodle -> bunkum -> *presto* mystical enlightenment. As Teik mentally runs his reading finger along the trade publication's sales philisophy, I realize that we are not in the same place. I really like this guy Teik, but I am annoyed with his marketing company. It is spoiling the moment in MY vacation.
By 1 am, after seeing much of old colonial Georgetown, Teik and I say goodbye. I expect no more from him, but he insists on coming by to hang out tomorrow after he stops by his office. We agree to meet at 1 pm, Maylasia time.
See Southeast Asia's largest reclining Buddha. Then go to the mall.
What this mall has is 8 stories of pure shopping bliss. Guess what, though. Nothing is real. Not that it matters, what with styles changing so quickly as they do. But the Prada, aint. The Addidas, nuh-uh. The Nike, nope. All fake as a 9 Ringgit note. There is a bowling alley on the 7th floor, bumper cars on the 8th floor, a video arcade on 8 as well, and something called the Fantasy Island water park on the roof. Is nothing sacred?
It is a trend that has long overtaken many of the cities that benefit from the semiconductor revolution. Is this the silicon belt? There are about 4 of these mega-gorilla-malls that I have seen, and I suspect there may be more that I have not seen. All vying for consumer bling bling by outdoing each other in opulence and variety.
About the merch. The stores are full of information storage implements. CDs, y'all. Compact discs. The future of our world on a plastic disky. You can buy anything that exists digitally in these malls. Music, programs, applications, games, movies. Lots of movies. I see VCDs of movies for sale with titles I don't recognize. Movies I've never heard of from Hollywood. There are movies here that are not out on DVD, not out in theaters yet, I think some of them haven't even been filmed yet, y'all. They are cheaper than the popcorn at your local megaplex, usually about 2 to 3 dollars. Can you believe this brazen piracy, me matey? In the malls, in broad daylight, with names signed, storefronts leased, and the mall taking in rent. An entire corrupt bizness from tip to toe. There may be Amazing Thailand, but this is really amazing, and it's Malaysia.
Just for fun, I enter a store and buy the entire suite of Marcomedia products. All on one cd, crammed as full as the Amistad, y'all. It contains everything they have released, tried to release, or will release within the next month. About $4000 in software retail for a cool $2. You do the math - it's a good clearance sale.
Even better is the video arcade on 8. Here is a list of the better games Malaysians can play there:
Super Bishi Bashi
Hyper Bishi Bashi
DDR 3rd Mix
Guitar Freaks 3rd Mix (X2)
Para Para Dancing (X2)
Percussion Freaks (X2)
Sega Tambourine game (name is in Japanese)
Para Para Dancing seems pretty easy by the second game. It's more about showing your moves than being technical. The funniest game is the Bishi Bashi series, which is like Track N Field of old. You tap the buttons to do things like click the lead out of a mechanical pencil and build a hamburger. That's why I came to Malaysia in the first place.
Enough fun at the mall. This is to be my last full day in Malaysia. I book a minibus to Krabi, departing at 5 am. Eat. It's late already. Just for fun, check the bank balance again and --- HOLY FLYING FUCKWADS! --- someone has raped my credit card to little shreds. There are charges and more charges. Looks like helter skelter, asian style. This has to be an inside job. No one who's Malaysian has a Bank of America account.
Who would do an American peacekeeper like this? Also, I am running low on cash. I go to the hostel worker for some information, but he is a moron. He says go to Telecom. This is like telling someone to go to the Southwestern Bell administrative office to make a phone call. Or to go to the White House to vote. Ignoring him, I go to a Chinese-owned store across the street, and ask to make an international phone call.
The owner introduces himself as Steve. Upon my insistence, we hop on his scooter to a hotel down the street. There, I make the call, and he waits patiently for me to go through all the menus and red tape. "Press 1...Press 2." The joy of automated menus at a time like this.
I assume Steve is waiting around to sell me something, but it is not the case. Steve turns out to be a thoroughly cool guy. After the calls, we ride back to his store. He shows me a room behind his store that is a dimly lit speakeasy of sorts. He explains that people come here all the time for drinks, regardless of ethnicity or religion - it's a Shangri La for drinkers. Muslim Malayans and Buddhist Chinese drink alongside Indian Hindus in Steve's hidden bar. Over the next 3 hours, I see representatives of many groups go in for a drink. Muslims are strictly forbidden to drink, after all.
We hang out at the bar until the wee hours. Steve's friend Chong is especially tight this evening. His approach to me being there is a combination of broken English sentences and slaps on the back. Very cool place to be when paranoia sets in. Steve really saves my life, won't even let me pay for the drinks. Finally, we all go to the Muslim hawker stand for some fish cakes and tissue candy before saying goodbye. Feeling somewhat ironed out now. And in only 3 more hours, the hos, rats, and thieves of Chulia Street, Georgetown, Penang Island, Malaysia will be long gone.
Tuesday Sept 25th
First day without Teik as local friend and tour guide. One more day and I fear he would start in with the mushrooms again. Get lost in the backpacker district. The old district is a maze. I get lost. Find familiar ground...the temple where Teik and I went yesterday. A good time to have lunch too.
Up to the hawker stand strolls a woman who is definitely Western, but orders food in Hokkien. She is wearing a Chinese traditional dress and carrying a Chinese umbrella. We talk at the folding table curbside. She is Lindsey, an artist from Colorado. She's a nontraditional person. She has blue and yellow oil paint spots on her hands. She taught at Pratt in New York, but now - now she's married into a Chinese Malaysian family and living in Malaysia.
We are right outside the Dao/Buddhist temple where yesterday I lit a candle in support of the US. Lindsey lives right next to the temple, where she keeps her studio space. She offers some advice that changes the course of my travels. I explain that I am heading east to the Perhenian Islands on the east coast of Malaysia. She travels there often and was there recently (since the terrorist attacks). The people who live there are strict fundamentalist Muslims, and they are agitated right now.
Lindsey explains how the Muslims were shoving her around in the marketplace there. If you are a woman without a head covering in Muslim areas, you tend to stand out. She says she accidentally bumped into a man, and said "sorry," but he got in her face and started yelling "sorry! sorry!" in a menacing way. She is the third person to tell me such things about the Perhenian Islands. And Lindsey's a local, not a student from Cali. Reason enough to change my plans. Penang is also Malaysian and has Muslims in it. You can often hear the prayers to Mecca. The city is 55% Chinese, however, and we all know how loveable those Buddhists are - in theory at least.
Evening, I leave for the desolate west side of Penang. A bus clears the cliffside roads at speeds that would make the Beach Boys proud. On the bus, I look into my wallet. Didn't I have about 6000 baht more than this last time I checked? And didn't I have a credit card in there? Krapp, must have left the card in the ATM last time. Also, I need to stop spending so much money. Still, this wallet seems awfully light. And my room is only $1.50 per night, not very expensive.
Once there, adolescents are fighting with sticks in the twilight. A fishmonger boy on a folding bike "helps me" find my destination, Miss Loh's Guest House at the end of the world. Loh meets me at the gate, quietly saying the boy is an "addict." She gives him 2 ringgit coins to go away.
It is at this point that I am going over the edge. Terrorism in the US, antagonistic Muslims yelling "Sorry!", drug addicted fishmongers, my unusally light wallet, and Miss Loh at the end of the world. When she asks me "England?," I feel defensive and stupidly say, "No, I'm German." She starts yelling about "Oh German! You speak such good english for a german!" And she runs around shouting "There's a German here!" to no one in particular, since the guests are mostly still at the beach.
First comes a tattooed Brit. She introduces me to him as German, and we look at a local map together. I feel the need to put on a German accent, but it is pointless. Ridiculous. Miss Loh promises me that two Belgian girls are coming back from the beach, and that I can talk to them too. They probably speak German, and mine is not that great. The outcome is obvious. I use these moments to pack up and leave.
The German returns to Georgetown under the cover of night. Luckily, Georgetown is a town that doesn't sleep. Getting a meal at 2 am is no problem here. There are always hawker stands open and an extra chair on the street. I'm starting to get paranoid about my missing card. If I lost it in the ATM, maybe someone grabbed it out and went shopping. I check my online balance using the internet. No mysterious charges. Guess the machine in Krabi sucked it in. Then that will be my next destination.
Monday Sept 24th
I'm at Teik's house in Penang. I meet his brother, mother, and grandmother. Soon thereafter, his father and older brother show up. Also, a friend whose name I cannot remember. Conversing for a while, it comes up that we should go to the karaoke bar. She was classically trained in opera, and won some awards in Malaysia for her singing. We talk for at least an hour. Can't remember what it was all about, but a good conversation. Their house is like most houses in Penang. Open to the outside weather, and with geckos everywhere. Not unlike Austin in that respect.
Earlier we visited a giant Buddhist statue, this one is of Kuan Yin. Zounds, it's tall. We went up to the top of Penang Hill, which is about 750 meters high. It affords a most panoramic view of the city, I can tell you. Got some real nice fotos too. Mega-developments are big biz here. Both giant malls and giant condominiums for Penang Peeples. The condominiums are symbolic. They are both physically and monetarily out of reach for dee peeples here. So they are actually tongues sticking out of the ground in a constant frozen razz. NYYaaaaahhh, I can afford to live here, but you on the other hand cannot. You are an insignificant little ant peeple. I can hardly even see you in your diminutive nature. Maybe I will drop some rotten vegetables on your tiny insignificant head. Oh wait, its too small even for my bag of rotten vegetables. Razzz.
The malls on the other hand are sort of great and awesome, and sort of stupid too. This one that Teik and I go to has the Songbird karaoke bar in it, where we order beer from a man in a cheap malt-shop tux-iform. He is the iceman. Very cool - even has an eyebrow maneuver like WWF's The Rock. He is too cool to touch money, and puts it on a felt paddle that kind of resembles his tux-iform. Due to the felt, you cannot slide your change off of the paddle into your hand, as you could an American change dish. After all these years, this is a Malaysian change paddle. It requires some dexterity, some intelligence, a little depth perception, and lots of class. You have to reach for it and pinch it off of the felt paddle.
This is such a classy place! How classy? Well, there's a glass cabinet against the wall full of bottles. The bottles contain some fine aged cognac. Cognac is amber in color, contains alcohol, can be quite expensive, and is made in France-land, Europe. Most of all though, cognac is very exclusively classy! Each of these bottles, tastefully lined up like school wrestling trophies in a glass cabinet, has the name of some very suave karaoke singer of the dark urban night, who can come in and order it from the cabinet, just as classy as you please. I don't need to tell you this, but sitting back at the karaoke bar with a glass of Camus VSOP cognac is probably the only thing in this world better than self-actualization.
Teik and I are there to sing some karaoke. As it turns out, he is not. He backs out of the deal, leaving me to choose the two songs myself. But it's ok by me. I find plenty of English songs, though that's only the beginning. There are songs in Mandarin, Malay, English, Cantonese, and Hokkien, which is a local Chinese dialect much like Cantonese is a Hong Kong dialect. I would like to go ahead and dedicate the first song I did to Jessica, for her bold karaoke party, and because she turned off the machine when Scott and I were singing the very same song. It is the one and only Hello by Lionel Richie. The second song was Bend Me Shape Me by the American Breed, which I discovered is harder than one would think - on the ears.
Sunday Sept 23rd
Things have gotten way out of hand
I finally manage to leave Hat Yai on my second day there. I find someone with good enough English skills to explain the unique but manageable experience of crossing over into Malaysia. It is done in a minibus, aka minivan. The traveller 2 inches from my ear keeps staring at me on the minibus, or staring at my notebook, at least. We start talking. He is Malaysian. Specifically, he is an ethnic Chinese, one of the many ethnicities in this melting pot of a country.
Tan Sheng Teik
Teik is very talkative, and we talk throughout the 4 hour bus ride. Since I am trapped next to him, it's a lucky thing that he is an interesting person. With pride, he introduces himself as a multi-level marketer. This bears out the blind spot to American culture that other countries live in. He doesn't know that multi-level marketer fits comfortably in the same sentence as racketeer or spirit channeler. Not so in Malaysia. At least he sells a product that "no home should be without," some ancient Chinese mushrooms ground up in pill form. Does that come in Snake-Oil flavor? I change the subject, but it will come up again.
Sheng Teik verifies a story originally told to me by Tai, my Hong Kong friend. Yes, it is true that there are strong prejudices attached to the numbers 4, 8, and 9 in Chinese culture. According to Tai, people in Hong Kong will pay large sums of money to have lots of 8's in their lives. This applies to phone numbers, license plates, maybe even street addresses. In addition, if you have a number with lots of 4's in it, you probably won't be able to give it away. The reason behind this is the phonetic sound of 4, 8, and 9 in Chinese. When you say the number 4, it sounds like the word meaning "death." The number 8, luckily, sounds like the word "wealth." And 9 is harder to make out, but it means a "long time." As a result, if you have a business selling baby food, and you want it to succeed, what will people think of you if you are on 144 Happiness Lane, which is "Certain Death Death" Happiness Lane. Or you could have the phone number 8888888888, the absolute best phone number to have. You could sell it to Bill Gates for some good scratch. But thats 2 much funn with numbers 4 1 day, kidz.
I ask Teik about the culture of his Chinese family. Does he live at home with the family? Yes. Is that the normal way people live in Penang Malaysia? Yes. Do people really live in treehouses and eat Li'l Smokies out of their shoes? No. His defensive denial seems most suspicious (and more than a little auspicious). Teik, if you are 31 years old, and you are 31 years old, and you live with your parents and sister and brother and grandparents all in one house, will everyone think you are a greenhorn who's hiding from the big adult world and lazy besides? No. Oh wait, that's American culture I was thinking of. Yes, we all strike out on our own at the age of 18, lest we never learn to fly out of the nest at all. Is Malaysia like that, Teik? Not really, but I eat the hell out of these fungi pills and and I'm a multi-level marketer, too. OK Teik, tell me more about your strange ways.
Teik proved himself to be full of useful information. If you live in the same house as your parents, don't they try to tell you what to do all the time, Teik? He says he doesn't have to listen to them. Or he could put up an argument, and if it stood upright, they would respect his decision. Seems like a supportive environment to me. Still, I wonder if this sort of lifestyle insulates a person from the outside world. The fact that Teik has never left SE Asia in all his 31 years supports this. In fact, only within the past 2 years has he ever left Penang Island. How is that possible? How could he care if the World Trade Center blew up? For him, that's in Narnia, past the land of black angels and ghost galleons. But he is a very nice person, both curious and friendly. And his English is quite good. So when the minibus finally emerges from the ferry onto Penang Island and the streets of Georgetown, we say goodbye. He says I should call him once I get settled, and he will show me the town. Probably he's just being polite, but I go ahead and call him after dinner.
Driving around with Sheng Teik proves interesting. The city has a colonial history, and many English buildings stand as a reminder of colonialism. But the real attraction is the hawker stands, where you can get food from all over. Yes indeed. That Teik, whatta guy. I discover what is important to an ethnic Chinese Malaysian. Like in most places, it is mostly *prospects for the future*, *money*, and *career*. Teik wants to succeed. In fact, he asks me: What are the principles upon which one should live? This is a good question, but what I don't yet know is that Teik has the answers already. I say something about poetry and love being the dual foundation of a life well lived. It is a poignant moment, which Teik maneuvers by telling me his principles. Something like work, leisure, assistance, and self-actualization. For a fleeting moment, we both see a vision of a better world. A place where man exists to better his fellow man. Etc. But those words are obviously printed between the shiny covers of a multi-level marketing workbook somewhere. Somewhere, probably in Kuala Lumpur, there is a fatly ornamented penthouse where a master salesman has set up his brothel of brain pimpery, and this is his mantra. Work, leisure, assistance, and self-actualization. Sounds like hokum -> flapdoodle -> bunkum -> *presto* mystical enlightenment. As Teik mentally runs his reading finger along the trade publication's sales philisophy, I realize that we are not in the same place. I really like this guy Teik, but I am annoyed with his marketing company. It is spoiling the moment in MY vacation.
By 1 am, after seeing much of old colonial Georgetown, Teik and I say goodbye. I expect no more from him, but he insists on coming by to hang out tomorrow after he stops by his office. We agree to meet at 1 pm, Maylasia time.
posted by jasonthewolf at
6:03 AM
Tuesday, September 25, 2001
Saturday September 22nd
Stuck in Hat Yai following a minibus mixup that may be my fault. Everything is the travelers fault. You have to ask about every possible eventuality, or pay the price when there are no english speakers around. Once communication gets hopelessly misleading, I get out of the minibus and walk into town for a room. Buy ticket but leave my seat empty. I hope this fits within my $15 daily budget. Go to the public hospital briefly to have my ear looked at. Still feels muffled 4 days after diving. Minor infection - given antibiotics & painkillers. And the nurse likes me. And it only costs 130 baht, thats 3 dollars for the diagnosis and pharmaceuticals. No wonder they offer professional sex-change operations in Phuket for the amazingly low price of $4999.99.
I look forward to a room that has a TV. And boot marks, lipstick, and a hole punched in the wall. Its called the Aparnaporn Guest House. Best not to think about it. The market here is bountiful. For being such infamous consumers, we Americans have nothing on Thailand. This medium-sized town has London's Camden Town beat for shopping. There are bubble drinks here. I'm getting signs from my surroundings. Live hogs tied to a wooden scaffold on the highway in the hot sun.
Saturday Sept 22nd con't
This evening in the streets of Hat Yai, I collide with some religious ritual that unfortunately no one can explain to me. It involves two things. One is very tame and uninteresting, the other macabre and morbidly interesting. The tame part involves these monks that are not Buddhists, they aren't wearing the gold-colored robes of Buddhists. I think they were Tao/Dao monks. The monks had set up a scaffold in the middle of the street. Imagine this: two parallel 30 foot ladders going straight up. A board 10 feet long connecting them at the top. That is the scaffold setup.
They climb all the way up and collect a few of the colored flags that are planted all along the safety railing. Then they go down the other side and collect a few of the flags on the descending side of the ladder. This goes on for way too long, and I am about to depart to my retirement chambers when suddenly...a tiger jumps off the scaffold and starts mauling one of the monks. And he pulls off his mask and it's Lee Harvey Oswald wearing a nehru suit strapped with dynamite. No, that's not it. Just a little harmless funnin'.
What happens was, the flags are finally all collected and placed on a table. All the while, a musician plays some Percussive Music For Worshipping Spirits By. Then, out of the bristling darkness of ancient mercantile Hat Yai, the grimacing monks all pull out and brandish swords. Some of them small, some larger. None are as large as the one the guy shot by Indiana Jones was swinging. Smaller than that. Then they all grab hold of the swords, and they're all sticking out their tongues. Faster than you can say Jim-Jones-did-not-tell-the-Truth, they plumb put the knives to their tongues and start sawing away like Oregon lumberjacks.
At first there is nothing. I call their bluff. The knives aren't that sharp. This is a joke. But just as the tension threatens to ebb, there it is, just as beautiful as in the movies, real horrorshow, blood coursing down their chins, just deep dark red and crimson and flowing real good. What they're doing is letting it flow onto the variously colored flags on the table. They are hunching over the table, cutting like mad and letting the blood dribble onto the flags. One monk is a genuine midget, about 3 feet tall, and he knows how to work the crowd. He has a small knife with a serrated edge. He is putting everything he's got into it, and grimacing with the blood coursing down his face. It looks like the B movie by Ken Russel, chilling.
Even as I write this, over a week after the bloodletting, I am still skeptical about this ritual. It's impossible not to ask if maybe they could have used blood capsules. But I got up real close, this was a genuine act of mass self-mutiliation. And I have the pictures to prove it. Also, people were paying over 100 baht for the flags, which is a Texas-sized wad of change in Thailand. I got the pictures, but I didn't want one of the flags. The filth at that point was really starting to get oppressive, and the last thing I wanted was a blood soaked flag next to my toothbrush. The END
Friday September 21st
Accompany Will to Krabi in a longboat, where he heads back to Bangkok. Then get a room there.
Hotel room in Krabi closes in on me. There is a distinction in Krabi that a hotel room can come with or without windows. Windows cost extra. Seems like a superfluous choice to me until I am in the room without windows for a few hours. For ventiliation only a tiny fan in the ceiling like the ones you see in the walls of british pubs. I see a bug on the bed that looks like a little crab spider. I haven't had to identify crabs before, but this could be one on my pillow. I use the hostel sheet I brought along and sleep on top of the bed. That's when the karaoke music through the wall reminds me of serial killers. It merges with a book I have read about the Gainsville Ripper, and I find myself in a room choked with the feel of death. It also reminds me of the recent court case against the Berkeley landlord that friend Brooke was once a tenant of. Seems he was importing girls from India and sticking them in his ratty apartments (Brooke likes this type of ambience). Unfortunately one of the girls died of suffocation in a heater incident. That's what this room is like. On top of that, this is the most expensive room I have rented thus far. It costs 400 baht, or almost $9, which I paid for in order to have a TV to catch up on the news coverage. But claustrophobia and bugs with no windows becomes much worse when CNN keeps declaring WAR ON TERRORISM! Just when I think it's all over and can sleep, I remember that Perry Farrell is writing music again, and all is horror...
At sidewalk cafe for dinner: meet Thai who speaks good english. He is fifth Thai to say to me "new yaahhk. boom boom. ha ha." remember, there are cultural differences.
Thursday Sept 20th
Last evening on RayLai for a while. RayLai is what vacations should be. A day of rock climbing with partners-in-leisure. Skip dinner but head right on into the buckets. The buckets are metal pails full of ingredients banned in the US. $4 gets you and friends a bucket with 6 straws in it. Simon is a one-time roofer from England who is already juicing up on creotene, and tonight is PUMPED UP. He challenges strangers to Thai Boxing, but gets knocked into the water. Then starts a dance that looks more like police interrogation. Here's how to do The Simon: put your hands at waist level, palms down, like you're pushing down on the trunk of a car. Then twitch your arms at the elbow very quickly, like you're shaking a blanket. If you do this like a a one-time British roofer on Creotene and Red Bull, then you are Doin' The Simon. I am the last guest there because the bad techno & U2 songs won't quit. Sleep late. Very late. RayLai is what vacations should be. Last evening on RayLai for a while. Thurs.
Tuesday Sept 18th
Diving today. Only the second time for me. If you aren't PADI certified, you have to go through orientation & pay more. I am not Padi certified. Poor visibility in the water, but it doesn't matter. Diving allows you to fly like that bloke Superman. That's entertainment enough. Blowfish, urchins, no sharks. Later meet some other travelers for drinks. Mutual interest in climbing has made us an international drinking clan. It is a group of 2 Australians, 2 Brits, and 2 Americans.
Monday Sept 17th
Explore the island. Go snorkelling through an island channel and see a giant sea turtle. Meet a couple who watches my bag while I snorkel (one of the inconveniences of solo travel). She is a talkative Czech, he a quiet Kiwi who steps on my sunglasses while I am out swimming.
Sunday Sept 16th
Spend the morning returning to Krabi for ATM funds. This remote beach is run on generator power - no ATMs. Afternoon - rock climbing with M. This is so much fun, I can't believe it. Rock climbing is like shopping. You prod hand and foot holds for purchase. Also, since there is a rope to keep you from falling 90 feet down, it's a video game set on free play. Meet other climbers, including Will, who has a web site and is often in Austin. The total lack of Americans here makes this remarkable.
Saturday Sept 15th
Saying goodbye to friend Tai at the bus station. We have traveled together for 5 days and recount the mighty adventures. I meet a group of 5 headed for a place called Krabi and say goodbye. Tai is bound for Bangkok, the opposite direction. The trip to Krabi and then to RaiLay beach takes all day, and it is dark when I arrive. Meet some of the rock climbers and other travelers at the restaurant. It is the off-season, and rooms with fan welcome you for 150 baht, about $3.50, per night.
Friday Sept 14th
Last full day in Phuket.
Other travelers' titles shed new light on the meaning of travel:
Hello there my Beautiful Rotem
HI From Phuket
I missing you so much!!!
still at it the cunt
RE My Degree Certificate from University of Surrery (my alma mater!)
now have no boyfriend
Fucking motorbike!
and of course
Greetings from Fuckit ...sorry Phuket
Phuket is not a city. It has a town in it, but the name Phuket refers to a very large island on the west coast of Thailand where its "my way or the Thai way." The most popular tourist destination in Phuket – the one that generates the most lurid sex tourism stories (the banana stuck to the wall) – is a place called Patong Beach. It is highly commercialized and developed. In order to see Patong Beach for what it is – an annoying resort town – you have to go there for a while.
Along the beachfront street is a hotel called Paradise, where I stay for two nights. I also spend some time at the Australian-themed bar up front, where they pour Carlsberg beer on tap. I choose this bar for the clear view of the TV, which is running CNN coverage during the day. Sitting next to me is a middle-aged man drinking whiskey on the rocks and muttering something I can’t totally hear. Sounds like "….bastards…oughta….kill the fucker..." We get to talking – global disasters have a way of uniting even those who mutter – and I find he is an American named Bob. He’s lucid but seething with rage over the attacks. He confides in me his suspicions that the mastermind behind the attacks is Bush Senior's Public Enemy #1, Saddam Hussein. It’s speculation at this point, but I see no reason to disagree. It could be Hussein. No one knows yet.
With a candor that is one-American-to-another, he tells me the solution to this madness. US Green Berets, the top troops in the world, should go on a covert op to capture Saddam Hussein. Only then could the US see that justice is truly done. Bob has been thinking about this. He says Hussein should be put on a global CNN broadcast with George Bush. The Green Berets carry him out in shackles to center stage and throw him to the floor. They put a boot on his throat to hold him down, and hand a service revolver to George Bush. Bush looks the camera straight in the lens, says “this is what happens to people who fuck with America,” and pulls the trigger, blowing Hussein’s brains all over the stage. Maybe he takes out a hankerchief to wipe some of the gray matter off his lips. It’s a natural reaction.
Bob is a self-employed high tech worker who spends as much time as possible in Patong Beach. He has an apartment in the hills around Patong where you can stay month to month for under 300 dollars. It is fully furnished and has cable tv. He spends most of his time with Thai women, either in town for food and drinks, or at his apartment. I gather information about the ho trade – prices, availability, customs. Prices are low, availability is high, and the party sometimes goes all night, says Bob. Cell phones are easy to get, and Bob and his girlfriends usually communicate by cell. He keeps getting calls from one of his girlfriends who wants to stay at his apt with him for the evening. I am reminded how Patong is one beach with many faces. I see Bob around town a few times. He seems to be having a good time.
And now, some filthy thoughts that I took down in my horsey notebook. Whatever you do, avoid reading it. It's "political." Above all, it's very stupid. Also, I want to send love love love to all my global brothers and sisters. Please enjoy le Big Mac with me.
Traveling during the US crisis of terrorism has allowed me to play the man-on-the-street game. I have observed things. I have noticed that the Americans who happen to be in town are coming apart with concern and grief. I have also noticed that non-American Western folk (henceforth referred to as NAWFs) don't seem quite so stricken by recent events. The Australians in one bar were yelling for that CNN shite to be turned off, as there was a football game on. Is it possible that NAWFs feelings do not reflect the intensity of statements like that of England's PM Tony Blair? In fact, if people are an indication of a country’s position, is it possible that our leaders' vows of solidarity don't run as deep as we would hope? Even in the US, there is no 100% consensus, even as regards a polarizing event like terrorism.
Let's take the schoolyard approach to this. The West (NATO) is a schoolyard, and each child is a country. The terrorists have not singled out any of the NAWFs, who like little Bobby are 5 years old and have a curb weight of 45 pounds. Maybe Germany is more like Lars, who has a glandular condition and weighs 95 pounds. No, they have chosen to antagonize the US. They are throwing rocks at Toxie from the Toxic Avenger, who is a very frightening 180 pound (and mutated) kindergartener.
Remember that this is all happening on one schoolyard (can you smell the metaphors brewing?). The other kids could say “all for one!” as their leaders have said to varying degrees, and come to Toxie’s aid. Conversely, they could choose the “are you going to take that, Toxie?” approach, which does not acknowledge the burden of responsibility.
I think the ambivalence that some NAWFs may be experiencing is the result of acquired popular opinions, or as they are called in Spain, opiniones populares. Perhaps, deep down, some portion of their opinion falls along the line of "deserved karma" as regards the US.
This phenomenon is unfortunate but, due to the nonobjective self-serving media conglomerates that dominate much of Europe, it is also unavoidable. It is perhaps a worthwhile issue to delve into, but luckily for us all, it simply doesn't matter. That's right, the issue of just how perniciously the European media giants are patting viewers on the back with an "America's Craziest Politics" style of news reportage is unimportant. It is fodder for a dull master's thesis that will be socked away in a basement somewhere. That is a lucky thing for us all, indeed. Because the real solution to this issue is just as simple as a sunshiny summer afternoon in Brisbane.
All we need to do is reform the US as a giant neutral lassiez faire territory. Then we can designate one tiny portion, probably Laramie Wyoming, and call that the Watchdog Province. It would be the source of all global meddling, the “Great Little Satan.” It is the area that sends envoys to investigate human rights violations and prop up the market when it sags.
New York, California, Texas, and everyone else can say “We don’t approve of all this Laramie meddling. All we want to do is provide services and consumer goods for the regional and global markets. We just want to make cars, kitchen appliances and fine art. We want to grow produce and build housing for our people. It’s the decision makers in Laramie who keep interfering with human rights issues in countries where they don’t work, sleep, or eat. They’re the ones you should talk to, blow up, etc. Their headquarters is a shack in downtown Laramie, the one with the red corrugated roof.” By drawing all our fire of international meddling in the affairs of others, we could politically Europeanize the entire US. Then Americans could, as they say in the Middle East, have the egg and the shell.
Gullible Excess
Why are so many Israelis coming to RaiLay beach? According to the locals, within a month they will be all over this place. I have not met any Americans here. Just the expat who's been living in Taiwan for 4 years. Surely this place is no more remote for Americans than Israelis. Even if the fellow I met today is bound for Nepal as a seasoned traveler, that is not the usual Israeli one would meet here. Naw y'all. The Israelis are as reliable as the seasons, they are here. They descend on this island not like most Americans would. They aren't sporting the REI full-body mosquito net and box of malaria pills. No machete and punji-resistant jungle boots to be found in this crowd. Instead, they are dressed for a party. Clubwear and delicate dry-clean only shiny shirts. So why don't people in the US know that this is a civilized place? This beach in Thailand is not full of savage beggars and swindlers. There are no headhunters on RaiLay beach, but if REI sold headhunter repellant, I am certain that American travelers would bring along a can (or two). The young woman in the violet rayon dress is better informed than that. And yes, she is traveling solo through this untamed land. Only Americans, due to preconceptions from somewhere, arrive like Lewis & Clark with flint rifles and camouflage paint. The eco tourist gone mad. There is something to appreciate about it at least, and that is the sense of adventure. Once again, Americans prove themselves slightly gullible and capable of excess. The Americans, come to settle a land feud with F16s. Or come to put out a campfire with a fire truck.
Wednesday Sept 12th
Patpong beach, Phuket by 8:30 am. McDonalds opens at 9. We ask the energetic manager what wages we could expect to work here. He says 25 baht per hour - about 60 cents an hour. He didn't say what a manager makes. Due to tourism, economics here are completely warped. McDonalds employees get 25 baht an hour, and tuk-tuk drivers can easily earn 200 baht per hour by overcharging fares. (A tuk-tuk is a chintzy mini-taxi with no meter and a reputation for gouging tourists, and the only form of transportation on Patpong beach.) They tend to charge tourists at least 4 times the local rate. So we talk to the McDonalds manager about where we're from, and he says, "you american. very bad. 4 planes blow up. boom boom. ha ha. new yawwk in flames. very sorry." Which, considering the boom boom ha ha, seems like a joke.
Who would possibly say, "your city, all blown up, everybody dead, boom boom, ha ha, very sorry"? While smiling? The Thai communicate that way. It doesn't mean they're oblivious. It means they're Thai , to laugh about things rather than pull a long face. That is how Thai people communicate. I would like to hear how traffic cops call mothers when there are lethal car crashes. "Ms Chandrasekhar, ha ha, your daughter and her boyfriend are, ha ha, very very dead. Boom boom, twisted metal, fought for hours, dead anyway, ha ha. very sorry." Maybe that's a better test of the ha ha part than a terrorist attack? Within an hour, I see the footage on CNN at a Phuket bar. All TVs in Phuket are set to CNN. I feel the sense of vertigo that swept over the US 12 hours ago. A global wave of horror. The fireballs over NY have made Phuket a shadow in midday.
Tuesday Sept 11th
First destination this morning is the Cambodian Embassy. I will need to get a visa for Cambodia from the embassy. They are not available at the border, from what I have heard. But no luck today. The embassy is only open from 9 to 11 am, and it is noon. Tai and I spend the day wandering around the city. You have to hold your breath to avoid the clouds of oil and petrocarbons in the air. A bus bound for Phuket island departs from the Bangkok bus station at 6:30pm. It is a 13 hour bus ride.
Monday Sept 10th
Arrived in Bangkok 12:30 am, without the benefit of a traveling companion or prearranged ride to no idea where anyway. Advice for the shoestring traveler: never take a taxi alone to a popular destination - huge waste of money. Instead, I spent an hour attempting to drum up a companion to split the cost of a ride into town. Stopped asking and was asked the same by another traveler from Hong Kong. Excellent. Meet a third, this time a business traveler from Taiwan, and the fare is made manageable.
My newly acquired friend from Hong Kong is also a budget traveler, so we agree to split the room he has booked for the night. It is in the bowels of Bangkok. The sweaty smelly ratty cemented bowels of Bangkok. Bangkok has intestinal problems.
Spend the day exploring the smoke and pollution choked city. Here there is a bare refusal to succumb to the lethal hydrocarbons in the air. Bangkok stands as proof that a city cannot be suffocated...it would have expired long ago. Probably decades ago. The average speed of traffic here is something like 6 km/hour, as measured by the transit department. In the absence of a helicopter, the skytrain is the only effective way to get around town. Skytrain - elevated train above the city. Among other places, it goes to the zoo, which was an initial destination. Too many attendants make the Bangkok zoo decidedly less fun than the Budapest zoo, which I had the pleasure of visiting a few years back. There, no attendants means that everybody can do what they bloody well please - which when I was there was a game of "feed the camel." I saw pursefuls, handfuls, and shopping bagfuls of food thrown at the camel. Bread loaves, peeled and unpeeled vegetables, packages of bologna, bricks of marshmallows, whole cones of cotton candy. All of it pitched in a constant cascade of junk food into the camel's mouth. I can't be sure, but I think the camel was happy about all the food he was getting. He never let any of it fall to the wayside, at least. So, the Bangkok zoo offers less interaction between the animals and the visitors.
Next is the official quarters of town where a protest is underway. I would be glad to relate it if I knew the subject matter, which I can't make out. Thai people have plenty to complain about. Next the golden palace. Take some fotos.
Next, a typical scam for tourists befalls us (Tai and me). I won't go into the details, but it involves being herded into a jewelry shop, where they put the hard sell on you. We aren't their big fish today. That's about it except for dinner in Chinatown, Bangkok, which proves very elusive in the haze of this smelly, dirty, smoky, and very smelly smelly city.
Sunday Sept 9th
Stuck in airport for 13 hours in Seoul. How to spend 13 hours in airport quarantine? Video arcade, of course. Found 2 in the mausoleum-like inner berth of the airport - both closed for "under construction" and none too promising in any case. The only reomaining option is to leave the bonded area by passing through immigration. I need batteries for my camera in any case, as the shops in the bonded area say batteries are "too dangerous" to sell. Hmmm. Even finding the immigration desk a daunting task, but an elevator finally leads out.
As a reward, the mother of all airport arcades (shy of tokyo perhaps). There are no less than 6 bemani type games, all reasonably priced at Korean equivalent of about 40 cents a game. They have 3rd mix of Dance Dance Revolution, as well as others i've never before seen: Fighting mania, a whack-a-mole type punching game, keyboard heaven, which you can guess, 2 of a game called pump it up, which is by a korean company called andamiro, and has 4 diagonal dance pads and a central one for 5 total. Then there was EZ2DJ 2nd Trax, a sample machine simulator much like a keyboard game. A Korean teen is showing a friend his mad dj skills. Finally, my new favorite bemani game, Percussion Freaks, where you play a drum kit to popular songs like Bad Medicine (heavy metal) or You Oughta Know. This one rocks, and you do the rockin'. Long live Konami!
So I spend a good 4 hours playing these games until good and sweaty, in the stuck-in-the-airport sense. I pity those seated next to me on the flight to Bangkok.
Kimchi and coffee are good for keeping awake.
Fashion Report! A Short Account of Who's Got Seoul at Incheon Airport:
This pertains to fashion from mostly Asian countries as witnessed in Incheon Airport. There are 2 main styles I noticed.
Group 1 have an internationally recognized look of Detroit Rock City straight from the streets of the urban stirfry. Jerseys with jeans, retro sneakers, buttons on paratrooper bags. They are ready to put some KISS on the walkman. This is a Japanese look, or at least a "big city hip" look.
Group 2 is strictly made in Korea. Maybe they run lost episodes of Charles in Charge in Korea? If not that, then some similar 80s indoctrination is involved in the Incheon look today. They sport the "preppie" style with such total reverence that it is impossible to doubt their dedication. I imagine an incense-filled temple, gilded Izod on the dais flanked by a sapphire Polo rider and emerald Le Tigre. There in a stained-glass window is the Shirt-Pocket Penguin. There are many modes of preppie look to be seen. The waffle-weave sport shirt in soft pastel yellow, with pink stripes. The Designer fetishist, with D&G and DKNY tucked next to Prada. Socks match shirts to pastel perfection. The United Colors of Bennetton is alive and well. One dandy outfit remains clear in memory, Korean man in putty-colored linen, slouch hat, and navy mirco polka dot shirt, with, and this the mark of a true connisseur who knows his haberdasher by name - a walnut cane hooked to his right forearm. Is he real? Is he a phantom of A-Ha videos doomed to walk the earth? Desperately seeking Kurt Loder? Fashion speaks volumes about a culture.
My flight finally departs for Bangkok. I wish the preppies a nice day.
Stuck in Hat Yai following a minibus mixup that may be my fault. Everything is the travelers fault. You have to ask about every possible eventuality, or pay the price when there are no english speakers around. Once communication gets hopelessly misleading, I get out of the minibus and walk into town for a room. Buy ticket but leave my seat empty. I hope this fits within my $15 daily budget. Go to the public hospital briefly to have my ear looked at. Still feels muffled 4 days after diving. Minor infection - given antibiotics & painkillers. And the nurse likes me. And it only costs 130 baht, thats 3 dollars for the diagnosis and pharmaceuticals. No wonder they offer professional sex-change operations in Phuket for the amazingly low price of $4999.99.
I look forward to a room that has a TV. And boot marks, lipstick, and a hole punched in the wall. Its called the Aparnaporn Guest House. Best not to think about it. The market here is bountiful. For being such infamous consumers, we Americans have nothing on Thailand. This medium-sized town has London's Camden Town beat for shopping. There are bubble drinks here. I'm getting signs from my surroundings. Live hogs tied to a wooden scaffold on the highway in the hot sun.
Saturday Sept 22nd con't
This evening in the streets of Hat Yai, I collide with some religious ritual that unfortunately no one can explain to me. It involves two things. One is very tame and uninteresting, the other macabre and morbidly interesting. The tame part involves these monks that are not Buddhists, they aren't wearing the gold-colored robes of Buddhists. I think they were Tao/Dao monks. The monks had set up a scaffold in the middle of the street. Imagine this: two parallel 30 foot ladders going straight up. A board 10 feet long connecting them at the top. That is the scaffold setup.
They climb all the way up and collect a few of the colored flags that are planted all along the safety railing. Then they go down the other side and collect a few of the flags on the descending side of the ladder. This goes on for way too long, and I am about to depart to my retirement chambers when suddenly...a tiger jumps off the scaffold and starts mauling one of the monks. And he pulls off his mask and it's Lee Harvey Oswald wearing a nehru suit strapped with dynamite. No, that's not it. Just a little harmless funnin'.
What happens was, the flags are finally all collected and placed on a table. All the while, a musician plays some Percussive Music For Worshipping Spirits By. Then, out of the bristling darkness of ancient mercantile Hat Yai, the grimacing monks all pull out and brandish swords. Some of them small, some larger. None are as large as the one the guy shot by Indiana Jones was swinging. Smaller than that. Then they all grab hold of the swords, and they're all sticking out their tongues. Faster than you can say Jim-Jones-did-not-tell-the-Truth, they plumb put the knives to their tongues and start sawing away like Oregon lumberjacks.
At first there is nothing. I call their bluff. The knives aren't that sharp. This is a joke. But just as the tension threatens to ebb, there it is, just as beautiful as in the movies, real horrorshow, blood coursing down their chins, just deep dark red and crimson and flowing real good. What they're doing is letting it flow onto the variously colored flags on the table. They are hunching over the table, cutting like mad and letting the blood dribble onto the flags. One monk is a genuine midget, about 3 feet tall, and he knows how to work the crowd. He has a small knife with a serrated edge. He is putting everything he's got into it, and grimacing with the blood coursing down his face. It looks like the B movie by Ken Russel, chilling.
Even as I write this, over a week after the bloodletting, I am still skeptical about this ritual. It's impossible not to ask if maybe they could have used blood capsules. But I got up real close, this was a genuine act of mass self-mutiliation. And I have the pictures to prove it. Also, people were paying over 100 baht for the flags, which is a Texas-sized wad of change in Thailand. I got the pictures, but I didn't want one of the flags. The filth at that point was really starting to get oppressive, and the last thing I wanted was a blood soaked flag next to my toothbrush. The END
Friday September 21st
Accompany Will to Krabi in a longboat, where he heads back to Bangkok. Then get a room there.
Hotel room in Krabi closes in on me. There is a distinction in Krabi that a hotel room can come with or without windows. Windows cost extra. Seems like a superfluous choice to me until I am in the room without windows for a few hours. For ventiliation only a tiny fan in the ceiling like the ones you see in the walls of british pubs. I see a bug on the bed that looks like a little crab spider. I haven't had to identify crabs before, but this could be one on my pillow. I use the hostel sheet I brought along and sleep on top of the bed. That's when the karaoke music through the wall reminds me of serial killers. It merges with a book I have read about the Gainsville Ripper, and I find myself in a room choked with the feel of death. It also reminds me of the recent court case against the Berkeley landlord that friend Brooke was once a tenant of. Seems he was importing girls from India and sticking them in his ratty apartments (Brooke likes this type of ambience). Unfortunately one of the girls died of suffocation in a heater incident. That's what this room is like. On top of that, this is the most expensive room I have rented thus far. It costs 400 baht, or almost $9, which I paid for in order to have a TV to catch up on the news coverage. But claustrophobia and bugs with no windows becomes much worse when CNN keeps declaring WAR ON TERRORISM! Just when I think it's all over and can sleep, I remember that Perry Farrell is writing music again, and all is horror...
At sidewalk cafe for dinner: meet Thai who speaks good english. He is fifth Thai to say to me "new yaahhk. boom boom. ha ha." remember, there are cultural differences.
Thursday Sept 20th
Last evening on RayLai for a while. RayLai is what vacations should be. A day of rock climbing with partners-in-leisure. Skip dinner but head right on into the buckets. The buckets are metal pails full of ingredients banned in the US. $4 gets you and friends a bucket with 6 straws in it. Simon is a one-time roofer from England who is already juicing up on creotene, and tonight is PUMPED UP. He challenges strangers to Thai Boxing, but gets knocked into the water. Then starts a dance that looks more like police interrogation. Here's how to do The Simon: put your hands at waist level, palms down, like you're pushing down on the trunk of a car. Then twitch your arms at the elbow very quickly, like you're shaking a blanket. If you do this like a a one-time British roofer on Creotene and Red Bull, then you are Doin' The Simon. I am the last guest there because the bad techno & U2 songs won't quit. Sleep late. Very late. RayLai is what vacations should be. Last evening on RayLai for a while. Thurs.
Tuesday Sept 18th
Diving today. Only the second time for me. If you aren't PADI certified, you have to go through orientation & pay more. I am not Padi certified. Poor visibility in the water, but it doesn't matter. Diving allows you to fly like that bloke Superman. That's entertainment enough. Blowfish, urchins, no sharks. Later meet some other travelers for drinks. Mutual interest in climbing has made us an international drinking clan. It is a group of 2 Australians, 2 Brits, and 2 Americans.
Monday Sept 17th
Explore the island. Go snorkelling through an island channel and see a giant sea turtle. Meet a couple who watches my bag while I snorkel (one of the inconveniences of solo travel). She is a talkative Czech, he a quiet Kiwi who steps on my sunglasses while I am out swimming.
Sunday Sept 16th
Spend the morning returning to Krabi for ATM funds. This remote beach is run on generator power - no ATMs. Afternoon - rock climbing with M. This is so much fun, I can't believe it. Rock climbing is like shopping. You prod hand and foot holds for purchase. Also, since there is a rope to keep you from falling 90 feet down, it's a video game set on free play. Meet other climbers, including Will, who has a web site and is often in Austin. The total lack of Americans here makes this remarkable.
Saturday Sept 15th
Saying goodbye to friend Tai at the bus station. We have traveled together for 5 days and recount the mighty adventures. I meet a group of 5 headed for a place called Krabi and say goodbye. Tai is bound for Bangkok, the opposite direction. The trip to Krabi and then to RaiLay beach takes all day, and it is dark when I arrive. Meet some of the rock climbers and other travelers at the restaurant. It is the off-season, and rooms with fan welcome you for 150 baht, about $3.50, per night.
Friday Sept 14th
Last full day in Phuket.
Other travelers' titles shed new light on the meaning of travel:
Hello there my Beautiful Rotem
HI From Phuket
I missing you so much!!!
still at it the cunt
RE My Degree Certificate from University of Surrery (my alma mater!)
now have no boyfriend
Fucking motorbike!
and of course
Greetings from Fuckit ...sorry Phuket
Phuket is not a city. It has a town in it, but the name Phuket refers to a very large island on the west coast of Thailand where its "my way or the Thai way." The most popular tourist destination in Phuket – the one that generates the most lurid sex tourism stories (the banana stuck to the wall) – is a place called Patong Beach. It is highly commercialized and developed. In order to see Patong Beach for what it is – an annoying resort town – you have to go there for a while.
Along the beachfront street is a hotel called Paradise, where I stay for two nights. I also spend some time at the Australian-themed bar up front, where they pour Carlsberg beer on tap. I choose this bar for the clear view of the TV, which is running CNN coverage during the day. Sitting next to me is a middle-aged man drinking whiskey on the rocks and muttering something I can’t totally hear. Sounds like "….bastards…oughta….kill the fucker..." We get to talking – global disasters have a way of uniting even those who mutter – and I find he is an American named Bob. He’s lucid but seething with rage over the attacks. He confides in me his suspicions that the mastermind behind the attacks is Bush Senior's Public Enemy #1, Saddam Hussein. It’s speculation at this point, but I see no reason to disagree. It could be Hussein. No one knows yet.
With a candor that is one-American-to-another, he tells me the solution to this madness. US Green Berets, the top troops in the world, should go on a covert op to capture Saddam Hussein. Only then could the US see that justice is truly done. Bob has been thinking about this. He says Hussein should be put on a global CNN broadcast with George Bush. The Green Berets carry him out in shackles to center stage and throw him to the floor. They put a boot on his throat to hold him down, and hand a service revolver to George Bush. Bush looks the camera straight in the lens, says “this is what happens to people who fuck with America,” and pulls the trigger, blowing Hussein’s brains all over the stage. Maybe he takes out a hankerchief to wipe some of the gray matter off his lips. It’s a natural reaction.
Bob is a self-employed high tech worker who spends as much time as possible in Patong Beach. He has an apartment in the hills around Patong where you can stay month to month for under 300 dollars. It is fully furnished and has cable tv. He spends most of his time with Thai women, either in town for food and drinks, or at his apartment. I gather information about the ho trade – prices, availability, customs. Prices are low, availability is high, and the party sometimes goes all night, says Bob. Cell phones are easy to get, and Bob and his girlfriends usually communicate by cell. He keeps getting calls from one of his girlfriends who wants to stay at his apt with him for the evening. I am reminded how Patong is one beach with many faces. I see Bob around town a few times. He seems to be having a good time.
And now, some filthy thoughts that I took down in my horsey notebook. Whatever you do, avoid reading it. It's "political." Above all, it's very stupid. Also, I want to send love love love to all my global brothers and sisters. Please enjoy le Big Mac with me.
Traveling during the US crisis of terrorism has allowed me to play the man-on-the-street game. I have observed things. I have noticed that the Americans who happen to be in town are coming apart with concern and grief. I have also noticed that non-American Western folk (henceforth referred to as NAWFs) don't seem quite so stricken by recent events. The Australians in one bar were yelling for that CNN shite to be turned off, as there was a football game on. Is it possible that NAWFs feelings do not reflect the intensity of statements like that of England's PM Tony Blair? In fact, if people are an indication of a country’s position, is it possible that our leaders' vows of solidarity don't run as deep as we would hope? Even in the US, there is no 100% consensus, even as regards a polarizing event like terrorism.
Let's take the schoolyard approach to this. The West (NATO) is a schoolyard, and each child is a country. The terrorists have not singled out any of the NAWFs, who like little Bobby are 5 years old and have a curb weight of 45 pounds. Maybe Germany is more like Lars, who has a glandular condition and weighs 95 pounds. No, they have chosen to antagonize the US. They are throwing rocks at Toxie from the Toxic Avenger, who is a very frightening 180 pound (and mutated) kindergartener.
Remember that this is all happening on one schoolyard (can you smell the metaphors brewing?). The other kids could say “all for one!” as their leaders have said to varying degrees, and come to Toxie’s aid. Conversely, they could choose the “are you going to take that, Toxie?” approach, which does not acknowledge the burden of responsibility.
I think the ambivalence that some NAWFs may be experiencing is the result of acquired popular opinions, or as they are called in Spain, opiniones populares. Perhaps, deep down, some portion of their opinion falls along the line of "deserved karma" as regards the US.
This phenomenon is unfortunate but, due to the nonobjective self-serving media conglomerates that dominate much of Europe, it is also unavoidable. It is perhaps a worthwhile issue to delve into, but luckily for us all, it simply doesn't matter. That's right, the issue of just how perniciously the European media giants are patting viewers on the back with an "America's Craziest Politics" style of news reportage is unimportant. It is fodder for a dull master's thesis that will be socked away in a basement somewhere. That is a lucky thing for us all, indeed. Because the real solution to this issue is just as simple as a sunshiny summer afternoon in Brisbane.
All we need to do is reform the US as a giant neutral lassiez faire territory. Then we can designate one tiny portion, probably Laramie Wyoming, and call that the Watchdog Province. It would be the source of all global meddling, the “Great Little Satan.” It is the area that sends envoys to investigate human rights violations and prop up the market when it sags.
New York, California, Texas, and everyone else can say “We don’t approve of all this Laramie meddling. All we want to do is provide services and consumer goods for the regional and global markets. We just want to make cars, kitchen appliances and fine art. We want to grow produce and build housing for our people. It’s the decision makers in Laramie who keep interfering with human rights issues in countries where they don’t work, sleep, or eat. They’re the ones you should talk to, blow up, etc. Their headquarters is a shack in downtown Laramie, the one with the red corrugated roof.” By drawing all our fire of international meddling in the affairs of others, we could politically Europeanize the entire US. Then Americans could, as they say in the Middle East, have the egg and the shell.
Gullible Excess
Why are so many Israelis coming to RaiLay beach? According to the locals, within a month they will be all over this place. I have not met any Americans here. Just the expat who's been living in Taiwan for 4 years. Surely this place is no more remote for Americans than Israelis. Even if the fellow I met today is bound for Nepal as a seasoned traveler, that is not the usual Israeli one would meet here. Naw y'all. The Israelis are as reliable as the seasons, they are here. They descend on this island not like most Americans would. They aren't sporting the REI full-body mosquito net and box of malaria pills. No machete and punji-resistant jungle boots to be found in this crowd. Instead, they are dressed for a party. Clubwear and delicate dry-clean only shiny shirts. So why don't people in the US know that this is a civilized place? This beach in Thailand is not full of savage beggars and swindlers. There are no headhunters on RaiLay beach, but if REI sold headhunter repellant, I am certain that American travelers would bring along a can (or two). The young woman in the violet rayon dress is better informed than that. And yes, she is traveling solo through this untamed land. Only Americans, due to preconceptions from somewhere, arrive like Lewis & Clark with flint rifles and camouflage paint. The eco tourist gone mad. There is something to appreciate about it at least, and that is the sense of adventure. Once again, Americans prove themselves slightly gullible and capable of excess. The Americans, come to settle a land feud with F16s. Or come to put out a campfire with a fire truck.
Wednesday Sept 12th
Patpong beach, Phuket by 8:30 am. McDonalds opens at 9. We ask the energetic manager what wages we could expect to work here. He says 25 baht per hour - about 60 cents an hour. He didn't say what a manager makes. Due to tourism, economics here are completely warped. McDonalds employees get 25 baht an hour, and tuk-tuk drivers can easily earn 200 baht per hour by overcharging fares. (A tuk-tuk is a chintzy mini-taxi with no meter and a reputation for gouging tourists, and the only form of transportation on Patpong beach.) They tend to charge tourists at least 4 times the local rate. So we talk to the McDonalds manager about where we're from, and he says, "you american. very bad. 4 planes blow up. boom boom. ha ha. new yawwk in flames. very sorry." Which, considering the boom boom ha ha, seems like a joke.
Who would possibly say, "your city, all blown up, everybody dead, boom boom, ha ha, very sorry"? While smiling? The Thai communicate that way. It doesn't mean they're oblivious. It means they're Thai , to laugh about things rather than pull a long face. That is how Thai people communicate. I would like to hear how traffic cops call mothers when there are lethal car crashes. "Ms Chandrasekhar, ha ha, your daughter and her boyfriend are, ha ha, very very dead. Boom boom, twisted metal, fought for hours, dead anyway, ha ha. very sorry." Maybe that's a better test of the ha ha part than a terrorist attack? Within an hour, I see the footage on CNN at a Phuket bar. All TVs in Phuket are set to CNN. I feel the sense of vertigo that swept over the US 12 hours ago. A global wave of horror. The fireballs over NY have made Phuket a shadow in midday.
Tuesday Sept 11th
First destination this morning is the Cambodian Embassy. I will need to get a visa for Cambodia from the embassy. They are not available at the border, from what I have heard. But no luck today. The embassy is only open from 9 to 11 am, and it is noon. Tai and I spend the day wandering around the city. You have to hold your breath to avoid the clouds of oil and petrocarbons in the air. A bus bound for Phuket island departs from the Bangkok bus station at 6:30pm. It is a 13 hour bus ride.
Monday Sept 10th
Arrived in Bangkok 12:30 am, without the benefit of a traveling companion or prearranged ride to no idea where anyway. Advice for the shoestring traveler: never take a taxi alone to a popular destination - huge waste of money. Instead, I spent an hour attempting to drum up a companion to split the cost of a ride into town. Stopped asking and was asked the same by another traveler from Hong Kong. Excellent. Meet a third, this time a business traveler from Taiwan, and the fare is made manageable.
My newly acquired friend from Hong Kong is also a budget traveler, so we agree to split the room he has booked for the night. It is in the bowels of Bangkok. The sweaty smelly ratty cemented bowels of Bangkok. Bangkok has intestinal problems.
Spend the day exploring the smoke and pollution choked city. Here there is a bare refusal to succumb to the lethal hydrocarbons in the air. Bangkok stands as proof that a city cannot be suffocated...it would have expired long ago. Probably decades ago. The average speed of traffic here is something like 6 km/hour, as measured by the transit department. In the absence of a helicopter, the skytrain is the only effective way to get around town. Skytrain - elevated train above the city. Among other places, it goes to the zoo, which was an initial destination. Too many attendants make the Bangkok zoo decidedly less fun than the Budapest zoo, which I had the pleasure of visiting a few years back. There, no attendants means that everybody can do what they bloody well please - which when I was there was a game of "feed the camel." I saw pursefuls, handfuls, and shopping bagfuls of food thrown at the camel. Bread loaves, peeled and unpeeled vegetables, packages of bologna, bricks of marshmallows, whole cones of cotton candy. All of it pitched in a constant cascade of junk food into the camel's mouth. I can't be sure, but I think the camel was happy about all the food he was getting. He never let any of it fall to the wayside, at least. So, the Bangkok zoo offers less interaction between the animals and the visitors.
Next is the official quarters of town where a protest is underway. I would be glad to relate it if I knew the subject matter, which I can't make out. Thai people have plenty to complain about. Next the golden palace. Take some fotos.
Next, a typical scam for tourists befalls us (Tai and me). I won't go into the details, but it involves being herded into a jewelry shop, where they put the hard sell on you. We aren't their big fish today. That's about it except for dinner in Chinatown, Bangkok, which proves very elusive in the haze of this smelly, dirty, smoky, and very smelly smelly city.
Sunday Sept 9th
Stuck in airport for 13 hours in Seoul. How to spend 13 hours in airport quarantine? Video arcade, of course. Found 2 in the mausoleum-like inner berth of the airport - both closed for "under construction" and none too promising in any case. The only reomaining option is to leave the bonded area by passing through immigration. I need batteries for my camera in any case, as the shops in the bonded area say batteries are "too dangerous" to sell. Hmmm. Even finding the immigration desk a daunting task, but an elevator finally leads out.
As a reward, the mother of all airport arcades (shy of tokyo perhaps). There are no less than 6 bemani type games, all reasonably priced at Korean equivalent of about 40 cents a game. They have 3rd mix of Dance Dance Revolution, as well as others i've never before seen: Fighting mania, a whack-a-mole type punching game, keyboard heaven, which you can guess, 2 of a game called pump it up, which is by a korean company called andamiro, and has 4 diagonal dance pads and a central one for 5 total. Then there was EZ2DJ 2nd Trax, a sample machine simulator much like a keyboard game. A Korean teen is showing a friend his mad dj skills. Finally, my new favorite bemani game, Percussion Freaks, where you play a drum kit to popular songs like Bad Medicine (heavy metal) or You Oughta Know. This one rocks, and you do the rockin'. Long live Konami!
So I spend a good 4 hours playing these games until good and sweaty, in the stuck-in-the-airport sense. I pity those seated next to me on the flight to Bangkok.
Kimchi and coffee are good for keeping awake.
Fashion Report! A Short Account of Who's Got Seoul at Incheon Airport:
This pertains to fashion from mostly Asian countries as witnessed in Incheon Airport. There are 2 main styles I noticed.
Group 1 have an internationally recognized look of Detroit Rock City straight from the streets of the urban stirfry. Jerseys with jeans, retro sneakers, buttons on paratrooper bags. They are ready to put some KISS on the walkman. This is a Japanese look, or at least a "big city hip" look.
Group 2 is strictly made in Korea. Maybe they run lost episodes of Charles in Charge in Korea? If not that, then some similar 80s indoctrination is involved in the Incheon look today. They sport the "preppie" style with such total reverence that it is impossible to doubt their dedication. I imagine an incense-filled temple, gilded Izod on the dais flanked by a sapphire Polo rider and emerald Le Tigre. There in a stained-glass window is the Shirt-Pocket Penguin. There are many modes of preppie look to be seen. The waffle-weave sport shirt in soft pastel yellow, with pink stripes. The Designer fetishist, with D&G and DKNY tucked next to Prada. Socks match shirts to pastel perfection. The United Colors of Bennetton is alive and well. One dandy outfit remains clear in memory, Korean man in putty-colored linen, slouch hat, and navy mirco polka dot shirt, with, and this the mark of a true connisseur who knows his haberdasher by name - a walnut cane hooked to his right forearm. Is he real? Is he a phantom of A-Ha videos doomed to walk the earth? Desperately seeking Kurt Loder? Fashion speaks volumes about a culture.
My flight finally departs for Bangkok. I wish the preppies a nice day.
posted by jasonthewolf at
8:26 AM
About Me
- Name: jasonthewolf
- Location: Philadelphia, Pa, United States
I'd like to live off the grid in a geothermal shipping container.
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