Did I just say that I loved Bangkok? Only 24 hours ago?? What a difference a lonely Christmas day makes. Actually what a difference getting hit by a pick-up truck on a super smoggy ride downtown makes! Cut off, and with minimal time to react I grabbed my brake handles too hard. And as my rear wheel went up in the air and I had no choice but to let off the brakes and plow into the side of this guys truck. I grabbed onto the side of the truck bed to prevent hitting the pavement and held on until he realized he was dragging me and stopped. This time I did leave a dent, but only in his car. I came out with a small scratch but more importantly my bike is fine!! The time for selective helmet wearing is over as I got a good scare today. But that isn't what I wanted to blog about...no, that is boring. I want to talk about one of my favorite topics (not bugs), my neuroses!
My close friend Cary sent me and email the other day about these blogs. She is scratching her head (acually banging it against the wall) once again in response to my whining about trying to "find myself" on this journey. She's had to put up with these rants for 28 years now and she's just about had it. Reading her comments I could almost hear strains of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Judy Garland crying, "There's no place like home". And that isn't because I'm gay, or sectretly craving those ruby red sequined slippers (actually those slippers are kind of hot and I think I may declare my heterosexuality a little too often and maybe even too loudly). Maybe I am a little gay...actually I think I might just be...no...I'm gay dammit and proud to wear the colors of the rainbow!! Especially the softer, yet bright pastels that bring out my summer tones...um, sorry about this Sheryl but what a great forum for me to come out and tell the world! This does explain the face creme and hair gel that occupy my toiletries kit (as well as the fact that I call it my toiletries kit instead of a shaving kit)... because I have been discarding any non-essentials from my panniers all along S.E. Asia to lighten my load. The roads of Malaysia and Thailand are strewn with my non-essentials. You know, things like toilet paper...and underwear...although as I write that I'm thinking that one or the other of those two things, doesn't matter which really, would be considered essential. Especially if I were gay. So that sort of trends me toward straight. And wait, when I have sexual thoughts or fantasies every 20 to 30 seconds (and who doesn't) there is always a woman invoved! OK, good, you know what? I'm straight dammit. Straight and narrow path for me...sorry David.
Good God are you still reading this blather? Got a bit off track...oh, right. The reason I hear Dorothy "...and Toto too? Yes, and Toto too" is because I know that Cary is right. Why go looking for yourself in far off lands when the answer is right here in your own backyard. (Cue the music and roll credits). But a quick explanation of Cary is in order. She is not only my very first girlfriend/true love, she is also a life long friend who keeps popping up after long abscences and tells it to me like it is. Very strange to have a connection so deep after all these years that cuts out all the crap and filler (maybe she could be my editor) and goes straight to the point. She is pragmatic, I'm obviously not, and thinks all this naval gazing is a waste of time. Like at the end of the day all I will discover in there is a sweaty ball of lint and no enlightenment (other than I need to find some Q-tips). In a way she's got a point. What did I expect to find over here in the back roads of Asia that I wasn't finding at home (besides crotch rot and blisters on my ass)? Is the answer to "Who am I" or "Why am I" more likely to be found in some overly ornate Buddhist temple than it is at home? I mean, the Buddhist temples are so dazzling and beautiful and gaudy that I really don't want to close my eyes and travel inward. I want to look around! But if I do close them, the whir and click of a thousand cameras competes with the constant clanking of baht coins landing in the brass donation boxes. Hardly ideal for inner journying.
Or am I going to discover "The Real James"cycling in the middle of nowhere sweating out my electrolytes faster than a San Francisco bath house workout? (Hey, is that another gay reference?...because I'M NOT...really...although my face creme is by L'Oreal which is not a good sign...but I've tried Nivea and I just find it too greasy, you know?) God, sorry...I was, yeah, finding the real James. By now, if Cary has made it this far into this mess of a blog entry then she has bloodied her monitor with her forehead. (Ibuprofen my friend, 800mg three times/day is the max dose but take it with food.) Because even asking that question has her thinking (and emailing) "Shut the hell up and live your damn life instead of wondering how to live it!" "Instead of asking 'who are you', just be you and enjoy that you are you for f***'s sake!" (She can swear like a sailor if she wants to.) It's a great wake-up call every time we talk or email and I find myself nodding my head in agreement. Then I look down at my belly button again and ask, "But how can I just be me or enjoy being me if I don't know who I am"? The naval never answers. So I keep staring at it and think about the next days ride into the boonies in search of some far off Buddhist temple...sorry Cary.
Hey it's Christmas day in the real world...Merry Christmas everyone!!!
Monday, December 25, 2006
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Christmas Eve in Bangkok
Hey New Bangkok Photos!
In one corner of Santi Chai Prakan park near where I am staying, eight people on a makeshift stage (nine if you count the white guy listening) are playing traditional Chinese instruments and singing. It is sad, occasionally raucus, beautiful, rhythmic and reminiscent of howling cats, sitars and dulcimers. It is not Jingle Bells. In the opposite corner a Thai Capoera group is singing and clapping around two dancers/fighters who spar in flowing slow motion. Along the sidewalk an old white hippie teaches a "George-of-the-jungle" rhythm to a young Thai woman wearing a tie-dyed headscarf. Three stoned dread-lockers lie in the grass as a stunningly beautiful and tattood mother chases the toddler that just rebounded off of me like a diapered bumper car. The silver-blue and pink sunlight reflected from the Chao Phraya river has faded and the dim light remaining comes from flourescent tubes tied to sticks that are hammered into the grass. Some ambient light reflects off of the moldy and once-white castle like walls of Phra Sumen Fort and a small Buddhist shrine. Old men sit on benches watching the tuk-tuks speed by billowing massive amounts of blue smoke as bright ferries, lit up like Christmas trees, float by on the now black water. Above it all are the illuminated suspension cables of Phra Pinklao Bridge, asymetrically lighting up the sky like a giant broken harp...with...cars on it. I'm alone on Christmas Eve and I don't care. I kind of hate to say it, but I've just fallen in love with Bangkok.
In one corner of Santi Chai Prakan park near where I am staying, eight people on a makeshift stage (nine if you count the white guy listening) are playing traditional Chinese instruments and singing. It is sad, occasionally raucus, beautiful, rhythmic and reminiscent of howling cats, sitars and dulcimers. It is not Jingle Bells. In the opposite corner a Thai Capoera group is singing and clapping around two dancers/fighters who spar in flowing slow motion. Along the sidewalk an old white hippie teaches a "George-of-the-jungle" rhythm to a young Thai woman wearing a tie-dyed headscarf. Three stoned dread-lockers lie in the grass as a stunningly beautiful and tattood mother chases the toddler that just rebounded off of me like a diapered bumper car. The silver-blue and pink sunlight reflected from the Chao Phraya river has faded and the dim light remaining comes from flourescent tubes tied to sticks that are hammered into the grass. Some ambient light reflects off of the moldy and once-white castle like walls of Phra Sumen Fort and a small Buddhist shrine. Old men sit on benches watching the tuk-tuks speed by billowing massive amounts of blue smoke as bright ferries, lit up like Christmas trees, float by on the now black water. Above it all are the illuminated suspension cables of Phra Pinklao Bridge, asymetrically lighting up the sky like a giant broken harp...with...cars on it. I'm alone on Christmas Eve and I don't care. I kind of hate to say it, but I've just fallen in love with Bangkok.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
The Boring Blog
My God, I think I've been in Bangkok too long. I'm starting to like it and today was even a little boring as I took a very enjoyable water taxi to a very enjoyable sky train to a very hot and crowded weekend market that was half tourist trap and half locals flea market. Bargained for some goodies (used down jacket and a used coat. So much for Kauai...back to WA state for me) and then went to the ultra modern mall The Siam Paragon and drooled over Maseratis and Ferraris before watching a lame movie called Aragon. Sounds like a sleeper of a Seattle day except for the heat. The only excitement came when once again I tried to order some food. There is some weird vortex of energy that surrounds my ability to order food. Actually I order it just fine I think, but what comes to my table is without exception not quite what I ordered. Point to a menu item, butcher the Thai pronunciation, repeat myself two more times and when I think the waitperson has it down, I close the menu and smile. The smile isn't because I just successfully ordered something but because I enjoy trying to guess what exactly will come from the kitchen. Somtimes it's just a question of volume like when I ordered a beer and two big fourty ouncers showed up opened and ready to drink. Do I look like that much of a lush that the waiter didn't stop to think for a minute that maybe I didn't want two monster beers right out of the gates? But then again this is Bangkok where you can walk by a table and a couple will be trying to make eye contact around a two foot tower of beer equalling 5 liters or so. So OK maybe he didn't think twice about my alcoholism. But the odds of getting it wrong every single time are kind of astonomical. I try to keep all extraneous words out to simplify things but forgot today and said "No rush, I'll just sit here and watch some soccer". The blank look I received was uncomfortably long but was then followed up with "one minute sir". He brought over another waitress to translate the fact that I "wasn't in a hurry so no rush" but it was sort of a moot point by then. The soccer match was brilliant by the way, as neither team scored. And in England that means it was a good match. In America it's called boring. Another reason it's good to not be in the U.S. right now...I can enjoy a boring soccer game. So that is all I have for now...I'll try and do something stupid and suicidal tomorrow so I can be a bit more "edgy". Merry Christmas to everyone, and to everyone a good night.
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Khao San Road
OK I just posted a few more pics on flickr.com so hit the link button if you're interested.
Is every western man in his 40's and wandering alone in Bangkok lazy, perverted or hungry? It's not like I am (well, 1 out of 3 maybe and you have to guess which one). If not, then why are the only people who talk to me wanting to sell me food, a ride on a tuk-tuk, or some sort of sex show that has women doing things that I don't want to see them doing. If curious about sex shows, ask my sister (again you'll have to guess which one) as she got "roped into it" the last time she was in Bangkok. Oops, sorry Samantha! Yesterday a tuk-tuk driver got all excited as I was walking down the street alone. And when I refused a ride he furtively glanced around then asked if I was interested in a sex show. Again I refused (yes really) and wondered if he was going to pull some food out from under the seat and try his luck a third time. I wouldn't have noticed if he had because my attention was now on the "food" stall next to his tuk-tuk. Fried bugs. How many times do I have to embarass myself here and tell you how much I hate bugs? They were dead, which is how I like them the most, but they were definitely cooked and ready to eat. As in "to ingest"...which is how I like them least...even less than in my pillow and hair. And these were not the same as some cute little worm floating at the bottom of a mescal bottle. You know, the bottle you pounded while on holiday in Mexico and got so drunk that you didn't care anymore and swallowed it whole. No...these were big and ugly and deep-fried. COCKROACHES for Pete's sake...huge ones! And praying mantises and yes even some worms in the mix. Why, I tried to imagine, would anyone not living in the deepest reaches of Borneo or maybe Ohio (that was for you Wheelz) ever pop one of those silver dollar sized things in their mouth and start grinding. It really can't taste that good. And if it tastes just like chicken then just eat a freakin' chicken! It's all exoskelton, dammit, which means shards of wings and legs will have you begging complete strangers for a tooth pick or some floss. Is it the protien lacking in ones diet that drives them to it? Is it too much reality TV that is normalizing the most abberent behavior? Or is it just drunk, bored, and stupid over tattoo'd/dread-locked/pierced 20 somethings looking for the next story to tell back home to their friends that smoked up the money they were saving for their Bangkok trip?
Because they are all here and they are starting to get on my nerves. The freaks I mean, not the bugs (well them too). I never realized that in order to travel out of the European continent/England and under the age of 23 you had to tattoo your face, or at least puncture it a few dozen times. I have been travelling with a German couple for a few days and it seems that once you're in your late 20's this travel restriction is lifted. Niether of them have spikes coming from their cheeks nor can you see behind them through dime-sized holes in their 'tribal' earlobes. But I hope they make it home alright. Apparently in order to be admitted back into your Euro country of choice you have to look even worse than when you left. That is the only explanation I have for the dozens of white people sitting in chairs in the street getting horrible hair extensions or worse the ubiquitous (and ultra cool only if you're from Jamaica and too stoned to find a comb) dreadlocks. Don't get me wrong, I love Bob Marley as much as the next white guy (AFRICA UNITE!) but I draw the line at dreadlocks. Actually I draw the line a lot closer than dreadlocks, which makes me old, and a target for the aforementioned sellers of food, sex and motorized transportation. But that seems a small price to pay to have my hair smell like shampoo rather than stale cigarettes and sweat (and bugs if they have an odor). I don't really care what people do to their own bodies of course. It just seems sad and kind of desperate to be 19 years old and trying to be so different than everyone else (just like all your friends) that you permanently out-do Michael Jackson...permanently. As in full-sleeve tattoos that run up necks to behind ears. Or facial tats, or gaping earlobes, or spikes all over the face. Whatever, I guess it makes me appreciate being an old boring guy. An unemployed-cycling-around-SE Asia-homeless-having-the-time-of-my-life-meeting-awesome-people-and-making-lifelong-friends-full-of-life-old-boring-guy. But at least I have two tattoos so I'm not that boring! Whew, thank god for ink.
Is every western man in his 40's and wandering alone in Bangkok lazy, perverted or hungry? It's not like I am (well, 1 out of 3 maybe and you have to guess which one). If not, then why are the only people who talk to me wanting to sell me food, a ride on a tuk-tuk, or some sort of sex show that has women doing things that I don't want to see them doing. If curious about sex shows, ask my sister (again you'll have to guess which one) as she got "roped into it" the last time she was in Bangkok. Oops, sorry Samantha! Yesterday a tuk-tuk driver got all excited as I was walking down the street alone. And when I refused a ride he furtively glanced around then asked if I was interested in a sex show. Again I refused (yes really) and wondered if he was going to pull some food out from under the seat and try his luck a third time. I wouldn't have noticed if he had because my attention was now on the "food" stall next to his tuk-tuk. Fried bugs. How many times do I have to embarass myself here and tell you how much I hate bugs? They were dead, which is how I like them the most, but they were definitely cooked and ready to eat. As in "to ingest"...which is how I like them least...even less than in my pillow and hair. And these were not the same as some cute little worm floating at the bottom of a mescal bottle. You know, the bottle you pounded while on holiday in Mexico and got so drunk that you didn't care anymore and swallowed it whole. No...these were big and ugly and deep-fried. COCKROACHES for Pete's sake...huge ones! And praying mantises and yes even some worms in the mix. Why, I tried to imagine, would anyone not living in the deepest reaches of Borneo or maybe Ohio (that was for you Wheelz) ever pop one of those silver dollar sized things in their mouth and start grinding. It really can't taste that good. And if it tastes just like chicken then just eat a freakin' chicken! It's all exoskelton, dammit, which means shards of wings and legs will have you begging complete strangers for a tooth pick or some floss. Is it the protien lacking in ones diet that drives them to it? Is it too much reality TV that is normalizing the most abberent behavior? Or is it just drunk, bored, and stupid over tattoo'd/dread-locked/pierced 20 somethings looking for the next story to tell back home to their friends that smoked up the money they were saving for their Bangkok trip?
Because they are all here and they are starting to get on my nerves. The freaks I mean, not the bugs (well them too). I never realized that in order to travel out of the European continent/England and under the age of 23 you had to tattoo your face, or at least puncture it a few dozen times. I have been travelling with a German couple for a few days and it seems that once you're in your late 20's this travel restriction is lifted. Niether of them have spikes coming from their cheeks nor can you see behind them through dime-sized holes in their 'tribal' earlobes. But I hope they make it home alright. Apparently in order to be admitted back into your Euro country of choice you have to look even worse than when you left. That is the only explanation I have for the dozens of white people sitting in chairs in the street getting horrible hair extensions or worse the ubiquitous (and ultra cool only if you're from Jamaica and too stoned to find a comb) dreadlocks. Don't get me wrong, I love Bob Marley as much as the next white guy (AFRICA UNITE!) but I draw the line at dreadlocks. Actually I draw the line a lot closer than dreadlocks, which makes me old, and a target for the aforementioned sellers of food, sex and motorized transportation. But that seems a small price to pay to have my hair smell like shampoo rather than stale cigarettes and sweat (and bugs if they have an odor). I don't really care what people do to their own bodies of course. It just seems sad and kind of desperate to be 19 years old and trying to be so different than everyone else (just like all your friends) that you permanently out-do Michael Jackson...permanently. As in full-sleeve tattoos that run up necks to behind ears. Or facial tats, or gaping earlobes, or spikes all over the face. Whatever, I guess it makes me appreciate being an old boring guy. An unemployed-cycling-around-SE Asia-homeless-having-the-time-of-my-life-meeting-awesome-people-and-making-lifelong-friends-full-of-life-old-boring-guy. But at least I have two tattoos so I'm not that boring! Whew, thank god for ink.
BIKER DOWN!!!
It finally happened. And in the most likely place it could have...downtown Bangkok. Hit by a car for the first time ever. Actually I've been hit before, in Seattle and Singapore, but never actually went down until a few hours ago. Today however I left my mark on a late model Mercedes-Benz before hitting the hot pavement. Hey, at least it wasn't a crappy old Toyota or even worse a sub-atomic little Proton made in Malaysia! And my mark was just really just a smudge as my hand wiped clean a section of the passenger door covered in dirt. The thing is, and I hate to admit this, I totally deserved it. I deserved getting creamed really but I got lucky (that or the Buddha is watching out for me). Today I was craving a hard ride and in Bangkok there is only one way to get it. By riding with no regard to rules or laws or personal safety...mine or anyone elses (I smacked down a jaywalker stepping between two cars today as well but he'll have to blog about that on his site). Traffic in Bangkok is legendary and today the only difference was I got to play in it instead of being stuck in it. Lane splitting, riding between lanes of non-moving cars, is legal here (I think!). As the hundreds of cars are jammed into parking lots of narrow lanes, the thousands of mopeds drive wrecklessly between them. When the space between the cars fills up with mopeds it becomes fun and adventurous to ride on the yellow line separating the opposing lanes. Like a game of chicken with potentially disastrous results, the oncoming cars swerve just enough to let my handlebars breeze by their rearview mirror. The first few times is nerve wracking and sphincter challenging but after a while it is a crack-up and I end up laughing out loud or occasionally "whooping". Take note if you want to try this sometime...when passing a bus and there is a bus in the oncoming lane...brake hard and swerve behind bus number one. Buses don't play chicken. Underpaid drivers working long hours don't really care a whole lot about me. It's nothing personal. Now, if I were driving a car I would be cussing at the absolute idiot riding like he has terminal testicular cancer that has metastisized into the reasoning section of his brain. All testosterone and no thinking (as I write that I realize it describes about 97% of men between the ages of 18 and 45 but you get my point). I can't even blame suicidal thinking as I stopped taking my anti-malarials two weeks ago. It's just adrenaline. Some people ski, some rock climb...I ride into traffic head long passing everything in my way with no regard for my life. It is immature I know and I'm not really proud to describe my behavior, but it's brilliant. And all was going great until I mis-judged a bumper by a millimeter or so and hit it with my pannier. The swerving out of control didn't last long as I went down fast using the Mercedes as a way to slow my descent. Water bottles and concerned looks were all over the place but the only thing bruised was my pride as I suddenly realized what a complete asshole I had been. I picked up my scattered gear from the middle of the road, pulled over to the side, put the headphones back into my ears (I know I know...) and thought about what a jerk I can be sometimes. Then I jumped back on my bike and passed everything in sight, laughing like a maniac at the oncoming traffic.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Food
I'm not sure why I'm having such difficulty with food these days. It's not like I'm not trying. Thai food can be some of my favorite in the world so am finding myself continually surprised at how boring some of it seems to be. I guess when the Thai waitress sees how white I really am (by just looking at my american fanny pack and noticing I can only say "hello" and "rice" and "thank you") she tells the cook to make my dish milder than my moms homemade Campbell's Cream of Mushroom soup. Sorry Mom. Phad Thai, red curry and noodles, green curry and rice, yellow curry and shrimp...all sounding mouthwateringly delicious and above all HOT. But... close my eyes, forget the consistancy, and I can hear my mom calling me to the table with "soups on!" And if she were here, I'd ask her to pass the Wonder Bread and "I can't believe it's not butter" spreadable margerine to spice it up a bit. But it's not just the subtle flavors and hot spices I miss from the "authentic Thai food" from the U.S., I also want to explore all the options of "real" Thai food that are available to a vegetarian...both of them. It can be difficult to find, and most of the time I don't worry about the things that at home would have me calling the waiter over to the table faster than you can say "organic, non-GMO, locally grown, free-range tofu". Things like fish sauce or oyster sauce... or even fish or oysters! Shrimp is now once again a staple and even though I love it and it tastes just as good as I remember it 25 years ago, I prefer to eat more simply ( like Snickers bars and corn chips). So I guess it isn't that strange when I freaked out half way through my banana pancakes this morning upon finding they weren't totally vegetarian. If you consider that the ants I had been chewing on are actually some form of meat that is. The pancake arrived on the plate looking beautiful, fluffy and rich, with bananas on top cooked to perfection. And if you look closely at a banana, you'll see little seeds throughout just about the size of tiny ants, won't you. So I didn't really notice that the specks were ants until I put a second helping of honey on my plate. The honey came out of the bottle kind of chunky style and sure enough full of ants. Breakfast was done for the day as the thought of how many I had actually eaten destroyed my appetite.
The rest of the day was awesome fun with a beautiful swim in the Andaman Sea under a 300 foot cliff face, swimming into caves, taking a long-tail boat ride and soaking up some sun with friends. And I actually forgot about the bug breakfast for most of the day until I crawled into bed and sat there for a while relaxing. A small black bug walked across the sheets and I flicked it off like a booger as I lay down. Another one came my way and I flicked it off as well. Looking up at the ceiling while on my back I felt a bite on my leg and noticed another small black insect burrowing into my skin. As one who leans toward Buddhist beliefs I usually try not to kill anything. Bugs included. As the welt started to form on my calf, I ground that bug into just another stain on the dirty sheets and noticed with alarm the number of small moving spots that were now crawling toward my body from the head of the bed.
I am no fan of bugs (recall the leeches story) and actually have of a phobia of them. Spiders are OK (as they eat other insects) but I have to catch them in a glass to let them outside when I find them in the house. The other night in Bangkok while eating at a food stall I looked down at my feet for some stupid reason and noticed the ground wriggling with cockroaches...not just one or two but ground wriggling numbers of cockroaches! I looked really stupid eating my soup with my feet up on my chair but I was wearing flip flops...and the bugs were everywhere! Over here the roaches grow really big and the thought of them all around me on my feet wrecked my dinner as I crammed down my food in record time. But last night was even worse. The number of little black bugs kept increasing until I looked inside the pillow case and saw a writhing mass of bedbugs. Pushing back the thought that my head had recently been on that pillow I let out a kind of girly squeek and threw pillows out the bedroom door. More bugs kept coming from under the sheets and from between the mattresses and I was lamenting the fact that the guest-house management had left for the night. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep more than anything after a long day in the sun. But by 3:00am I gave up the battle, after the slaughter left hundreds dead, and went out in search of another hotel. I found one for twice as much and happily paid the $7.00 (US dollars I'll have you know) for a bug-bite free nights sleep. It was too late to see the humor in the fact that I had started this day eating bugs and ended it being eaten by them.
The rest of the day was awesome fun with a beautiful swim in the Andaman Sea under a 300 foot cliff face, swimming into caves, taking a long-tail boat ride and soaking up some sun with friends. And I actually forgot about the bug breakfast for most of the day until I crawled into bed and sat there for a while relaxing. A small black bug walked across the sheets and I flicked it off like a booger as I lay down. Another one came my way and I flicked it off as well. Looking up at the ceiling while on my back I felt a bite on my leg and noticed another small black insect burrowing into my skin. As one who leans toward Buddhist beliefs I usually try not to kill anything. Bugs included. As the welt started to form on my calf, I ground that bug into just another stain on the dirty sheets and noticed with alarm the number of small moving spots that were now crawling toward my body from the head of the bed.
I am no fan of bugs (recall the leeches story) and actually have of a phobia of them. Spiders are OK (as they eat other insects) but I have to catch them in a glass to let them outside when I find them in the house. The other night in Bangkok while eating at a food stall I looked down at my feet for some stupid reason and noticed the ground wriggling with cockroaches...not just one or two but ground wriggling numbers of cockroaches! I looked really stupid eating my soup with my feet up on my chair but I was wearing flip flops...and the bugs were everywhere! Over here the roaches grow really big and the thought of them all around me on my feet wrecked my dinner as I crammed down my food in record time. But last night was even worse. The number of little black bugs kept increasing until I looked inside the pillow case and saw a writhing mass of bedbugs. Pushing back the thought that my head had recently been on that pillow I let out a kind of girly squeek and threw pillows out the bedroom door. More bugs kept coming from under the sheets and from between the mattresses and I was lamenting the fact that the guest-house management had left for the night. I was exhausted and wanted to sleep more than anything after a long day in the sun. But by 3:00am I gave up the battle, after the slaughter left hundreds dead, and went out in search of another hotel. I found one for twice as much and happily paid the $7.00 (US dollars I'll have you know) for a bug-bite free nights sleep. It was too late to see the humor in the fact that I had started this day eating bugs and ended it being eaten by them.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
The Birthday Party of a King
Arriving in Bangkok at 4:30 am and assembling my bike and panniers after the night of sleepless halitosis was bad enough. But riding into the downtown darkness of the 8 lane highway, over rutted and cracked shoulders strewn with glass, while avoiding the traffic inches from my rear view mirror just topped off my 24 hour day. Crossing over Phra Pin Klao Bridge the blackness of the water below matched my mood. The city was darker than I expected it to be and I felt lost and alone as I wound my way toward Khao San Road and Backpacker Central. This is the area of Bangkok full of cheap accomodation and the type of people that like cheap accomodation. I definitely fit into that category even if I'm no stranger to an occasional shower and some soap. I knew I was getting close when I saw a white guy fully tatooed riding his skateboard down the middle of the street (dreadlocks flowing like snakes from his head) as the three wheeled tuk-tuks avoided his drunken gyrations. Khao San Road was full of trash, beer bottles and a few drunks but not much more. I rode over to Rambuttri Road which still had one bar full of young Europeans drinking hard in the never ending party of Banglamphoo district. It was 6:00am.
After a long nap I awoke to a sea of yellow polo shirts all heading toward Sanam Luang which is a huge central park near the Royal Palace and the Wat Phra Kao. By the time I got to the park there was a mass of yellow like I've never seen. Hundreds of thousands of Thais had come out to celebrate their beloved king's birthday. Almost all of them wore the kings color yellow. It was hot and humid and dusty and packed with people jostling through the narrow spaces between stalls selling any and everything. I could feel myself getting that "Oh my god let me out of here before I go ballistic" feeling. You know that one, where for football fields around you in every direction there are thousands of sweating people bumping into you until you can no longer breathe. And to get a breath of fresh air here you will have to fight your way through them all. Sweat was dripping down my legs and back and trying to get to the edge of the masses was agonizingly slow. My bike was wider than the shifting yellow path ahead. It was then that I realized that going ballistic wasn't an option. Everyone in this crowd was relaxed and cordial and polite and CIVIL to one another. My claustrophobia and ensuing panic attack was apparently not being exerienced by anyone else here. The Thais were all relaxed and patiently having a nice day at the park. I was feeling my sanity being tested and noted that it was barely passing that test...C- at best. Long yellow lines that stretched for maybe a half mile led to mystery places...bathrooms?, juice stands?, I never found out. Smaller yellow lines led to the ever present water stands, and meat-on-a-stick stands, and fake yellow Izod shirt stands, and furry-brightly-colored-animals-that-squeak-or-pop-out-their-tongues-when-you-squeeze-them-stands. I edged to the perimiter and got on my bike and merged (continually avoided being run over) into the madness of buses and tuk-tuks and mopeds...all adorned with yellow passengers. Weird to see entire city buses filled with yellow shirts and not imagining some sort of summer camp or football team outing. The city was one big lemon chiffon custard...or else I was getting really hungry. Even though yellow has never been my favorite color, it was quickly becoming one I could hate.
After another nap it was dark and mercifully cooler. Wandering aimlessly I noticed that everyone was watching TV. Store fronts were crowded for blocks with people all looking inside at the same channel. Live coverage of the big celebration. The King of Thailand was being driven down the Main streets of Bangkok as hundreds of thousands of Thais held candles. White lights dripped from the trees along the way. It was all occuring only a few blocks away and I ran toward the massive crowd. A yellow ocean lay in front of me as I came to the main boulevard. Lights and candles and a calm patience were everywhere. Then, as the white Cadalac slowly approached, blocked from my line of sight by the thousands in front of me, the crowd began standing and undulating and calling out "hello!" in very polite but excited tones as the candles were waved up and down. It was sweet to see so many people that excited yet so composed and quiet. I tried to imagine a similar experience but couldn't. Ghandi wandering through a throng of adoring Thorazine addicts gets close but that's just a weird visual.
Fireworks are nice, sure, and who really doesn't like them? But after seeing many years of fireworks displays, they have rather lost their ability to amaze or really excite me. Of course, this is only true in the event that they are detonated at safe distances from myself or large crowds. But here in Bangkok they do things a bit differently. The closer things that have the potential to kill or mame get to me personally, the less boring they become. Trucks on a freeway for example are rather boring. When they come within a foot from my bike it can be thrilling actually. Psychopaths are another example. Back home, on the fourth of July, a barge would be set up, out on the water away from people, and the fireworks would be launched a thousand feet up into the air so all could watch in safety. Risk of injury usually reduced to sparkler burns or an occasional misfired bottle-rocket. So it really did surprise and scare me when the first explosions from just across the street began. I looked over to see 15 foot columns of flames and sparks shooting up from just over the heads of the crowd on the sidewalk. The concussions from every shot could be felt deep in my chest. The proximity alone would have contituted this as one of the most exciting fireworks shows I've seen. Then, as the colorful explosions above appeared, I thought that they seemed lower in the sky than I'd ever seen. Surely there are standards and codes for the height that explosive fireworks need to be launched. That is obvious. Why then did these seem to be going off way lower than what I thought that should be? Different codes? Indifferent operators? Maybe it was just me. "Maybe not", I realized as a big green spark trail from a huge explosion fell onto some guys yellow windbreaker and set him to jumping around patting his shoulder. Every laughed at that and it was infectious. For the next half hour I was staring into the sky howling with laughter like a madman as explosions were all around me and sparks rained down, occasionally causing someone to momentarily panic. It was madness. With a wall of fire to my right and brightly colored sparks raining from the sky it was absolutely the best fireworks show in the world. Near the middle of the show, however, in mid howl, a big piece of shell casing from one of the bombs hit me in the face. I stopped laughing then and noticed that the ground was covered with coconut-shell shaped casings that were falling with alrming regularity. Then someone else almost caught on fire and we all started laughing again. Happy Birthday King Adulyadej... and many more!
After a long nap I awoke to a sea of yellow polo shirts all heading toward Sanam Luang which is a huge central park near the Royal Palace and the Wat Phra Kao. By the time I got to the park there was a mass of yellow like I've never seen. Hundreds of thousands of Thais had come out to celebrate their beloved king's birthday. Almost all of them wore the kings color yellow. It was hot and humid and dusty and packed with people jostling through the narrow spaces between stalls selling any and everything. I could feel myself getting that "Oh my god let me out of here before I go ballistic" feeling. You know that one, where for football fields around you in every direction there are thousands of sweating people bumping into you until you can no longer breathe. And to get a breath of fresh air here you will have to fight your way through them all. Sweat was dripping down my legs and back and trying to get to the edge of the masses was agonizingly slow. My bike was wider than the shifting yellow path ahead. It was then that I realized that going ballistic wasn't an option. Everyone in this crowd was relaxed and cordial and polite and CIVIL to one another. My claustrophobia and ensuing panic attack was apparently not being exerienced by anyone else here. The Thais were all relaxed and patiently having a nice day at the park. I was feeling my sanity being tested and noted that it was barely passing that test...C- at best. Long yellow lines that stretched for maybe a half mile led to mystery places...bathrooms?, juice stands?, I never found out. Smaller yellow lines led to the ever present water stands, and meat-on-a-stick stands, and fake yellow Izod shirt stands, and furry-brightly-colored-animals-that-squeak-or-pop-out-their-tongues-when-you-squeeze-them-stands. I edged to the perimiter and got on my bike and merged (continually avoided being run over) into the madness of buses and tuk-tuks and mopeds...all adorned with yellow passengers. Weird to see entire city buses filled with yellow shirts and not imagining some sort of summer camp or football team outing. The city was one big lemon chiffon custard...or else I was getting really hungry. Even though yellow has never been my favorite color, it was quickly becoming one I could hate.
After another nap it was dark and mercifully cooler. Wandering aimlessly I noticed that everyone was watching TV. Store fronts were crowded for blocks with people all looking inside at the same channel. Live coverage of the big celebration. The King of Thailand was being driven down the Main streets of Bangkok as hundreds of thousands of Thais held candles. White lights dripped from the trees along the way. It was all occuring only a few blocks away and I ran toward the massive crowd. A yellow ocean lay in front of me as I came to the main boulevard. Lights and candles and a calm patience were everywhere. Then, as the white Cadalac slowly approached, blocked from my line of sight by the thousands in front of me, the crowd began standing and undulating and calling out "hello!" in very polite but excited tones as the candles were waved up and down. It was sweet to see so many people that excited yet so composed and quiet. I tried to imagine a similar experience but couldn't. Ghandi wandering through a throng of adoring Thorazine addicts gets close but that's just a weird visual.
Fireworks are nice, sure, and who really doesn't like them? But after seeing many years of fireworks displays, they have rather lost their ability to amaze or really excite me. Of course, this is only true in the event that they are detonated at safe distances from myself or large crowds. But here in Bangkok they do things a bit differently. The closer things that have the potential to kill or mame get to me personally, the less boring they become. Trucks on a freeway for example are rather boring. When they come within a foot from my bike it can be thrilling actually. Psychopaths are another example. Back home, on the fourth of July, a barge would be set up, out on the water away from people, and the fireworks would be launched a thousand feet up into the air so all could watch in safety. Risk of injury usually reduced to sparkler burns or an occasional misfired bottle-rocket. So it really did surprise and scare me when the first explosions from just across the street began. I looked over to see 15 foot columns of flames and sparks shooting up from just over the heads of the crowd on the sidewalk. The concussions from every shot could be felt deep in my chest. The proximity alone would have contituted this as one of the most exciting fireworks shows I've seen. Then, as the colorful explosions above appeared, I thought that they seemed lower in the sky than I'd ever seen. Surely there are standards and codes for the height that explosive fireworks need to be launched. That is obvious. Why then did these seem to be going off way lower than what I thought that should be? Different codes? Indifferent operators? Maybe it was just me. "Maybe not", I realized as a big green spark trail from a huge explosion fell onto some guys yellow windbreaker and set him to jumping around patting his shoulder. Every laughed at that and it was infectious. For the next half hour I was staring into the sky howling with laughter like a madman as explosions were all around me and sparks rained down, occasionally causing someone to momentarily panic. It was madness. With a wall of fire to my right and brightly colored sparks raining from the sky it was absolutely the best fireworks show in the world. Near the middle of the show, however, in mid howl, a big piece of shell casing from one of the bombs hit me in the face. I stopped laughing then and noticed that the ground was covered with coconut-shell shaped casings that were falling with alrming regularity. Then someone else almost caught on fire and we all started laughing again. Happy Birthday King Adulyadej... and many more!
Monday, December 04, 2006
Beam Me Up...
It's so weird. I stepped onto the transporter, fell "asleep", and the next thing I knew I was in Bangkok. On TV it always looked so fast as they dematerialized and then reappeared somewhere else almost instantaneously. In Thailand it took 11 hours and my body is feeling the effects. The bus was amazing however and the attendant served drinks, snacks and a moist towlette at the end of the ride. The only problem was that I had to sleep with a man last night to make it happen. And listen, kudos to all the women of the world. Sleeping with a man absolutely sucks. I mean, most Thais are really thin even though there are food stalls every 15 feet or so on every street in the country. Anytime you want a bowl of noodles or a plate of rice or mystery meat on a stick, you don't have to go far to find it. So how is it that everyone is so thin? Everyone except Jabba the Hut sitting next to me. It must take him forever to go places as he has to be stopping at every one of these stalls to grow this big. He's actually not that huge. I'm just being mean after a long night of snoring and oozing onto my seat. At one point I almost elbowed him hard in the ribs and yelled "Hey Stinky, shut the hell up and get back onto your seat if you can fit in it!" But I didn't, as losing face in Thailand is not something done lightly. Being a good steward of my good nation I sat quietly and hated him in a seething molten pool of hatred and disgust. Let me explain. It's 7am and I've been up almost all night so I've earned this rant.
First of all there was the way that this guy slowly encroached into my space. I first noted the warmth of his sking through my clothes and was really creeped out by the fact that somehow his flank had seeped under my right ass-cheek. "Like liquid", I thought, "he is spilling onto my seat!" Then his left arm started to rest on mine as the chain-sawing of his open mouth startled me from non-sleep to full awakeness. There is only one guy on the bus snoring, why god... But that wasn't the worst of it...by far. I wasn't going to yell "stinky" for nothing. This guys breath had me leaning my head as far as out into the isle as I could and my neck still has that "slept wrong on it all night" feeling. The sheer lack of oxygen was bad enough but the stench that emitted from that hole! It was a mixture of old cigar breath, a beer drank maybe an hour ago, and fish. Really. I sat there and had the time to figure it out like a wine-taster discerning the specific "nose" of some horrid liquid brewed at the local slaughterhouse. Then someone behind me broke out some durian fruit roll-up and started chewing away on it. Back in Malaysia I met a very sweet retired couple who gave me a bite of their durian fruit roll-up. "The good stuff, from Thailand" they assured me. They were dying to see my reaction I could tell. Durian fruit is amazing. If you've never had it then you've missed the experience of eating a solid fart. From the first bite the sensation hits from deep inside your nasal passage like wasabe mustard. But instead of the hot pain of wasabe you get the smell/taste of a fart (someone elses mind you) that stays with you long after you swallow. The old couple laughed as I smiled weakly and lied "not bad". "Westerners think it taste like toilet" he said said to his wife and they laughed even harder. As the durian gas filled the bus I was almost grateful. But it didn't actually hide the halitosis of Jaba, it just added another layer to the cacophany of odors.
It was then that I came up with the idea of dropping a breath mint into his guano-emitting cave of a mouth. A tic-tac might do it, but being rather small it might go down his trachea and deep into a lung. More than the ensuing coughing fit resulting from such and act, I worried that a tic-tac lodged deep in a lung would do absolutely nothing about his breath. "A mento's, my kingdom for a Mento's". If that got lodged in his airway it would stick in the trachea and kill him. I smiled at the thought. Suddenly I remembered that I had bought some Juicyfruit gum at the bus station! I pulled out the pack and shoved several pieces into my mouth and for 15 joyous minutes all I could smell was gum. I laughed thinking of William Shattner overacting into his communicator. "Scotty... Scotty, get me out of here Scotty!"
First of all there was the way that this guy slowly encroached into my space. I first noted the warmth of his sking through my clothes and was really creeped out by the fact that somehow his flank had seeped under my right ass-cheek. "Like liquid", I thought, "he is spilling onto my seat!" Then his left arm started to rest on mine as the chain-sawing of his open mouth startled me from non-sleep to full awakeness. There is only one guy on the bus snoring, why god... But that wasn't the worst of it...by far. I wasn't going to yell "stinky" for nothing. This guys breath had me leaning my head as far as out into the isle as I could and my neck still has that "slept wrong on it all night" feeling. The sheer lack of oxygen was bad enough but the stench that emitted from that hole! It was a mixture of old cigar breath, a beer drank maybe an hour ago, and fish. Really. I sat there and had the time to figure it out like a wine-taster discerning the specific "nose" of some horrid liquid brewed at the local slaughterhouse. Then someone behind me broke out some durian fruit roll-up and started chewing away on it. Back in Malaysia I met a very sweet retired couple who gave me a bite of their durian fruit roll-up. "The good stuff, from Thailand" they assured me. They were dying to see my reaction I could tell. Durian fruit is amazing. If you've never had it then you've missed the experience of eating a solid fart. From the first bite the sensation hits from deep inside your nasal passage like wasabe mustard. But instead of the hot pain of wasabe you get the smell/taste of a fart (someone elses mind you) that stays with you long after you swallow. The old couple laughed as I smiled weakly and lied "not bad". "Westerners think it taste like toilet" he said said to his wife and they laughed even harder. As the durian gas filled the bus I was almost grateful. But it didn't actually hide the halitosis of Jaba, it just added another layer to the cacophany of odors.
It was then that I came up with the idea of dropping a breath mint into his guano-emitting cave of a mouth. A tic-tac might do it, but being rather small it might go down his trachea and deep into a lung. More than the ensuing coughing fit resulting from such and act, I worried that a tic-tac lodged deep in a lung would do absolutely nothing about his breath. "A mento's, my kingdom for a Mento's". If that got lodged in his airway it would stick in the trachea and kill him. I smiled at the thought. Suddenly I remembered that I had bought some Juicyfruit gum at the bus station! I pulled out the pack and shoved several pieces into my mouth and for 15 joyous minutes all I could smell was gum. I laughed thinking of William Shattner overacting into his communicator. "Scotty... Scotty, get me out of here Scotty!"
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Language #3 Talking in Fluent American
After practicing my Thai all morning on my 110km ride, I flawlessly ordered my vegetarian lunch. It was delicious! And by about the third bite into it noticed the hunks of dead chicken. Dammit! So much for flawless. The after lunch ride was a bit painful as my colon was reintroduced to the muscle tissue of another animal. How do you meat eaters do it? I'll spare you the soap box and politics of meat and just cop to the fact that it really was tasty. Maybe the meat showed up on my plate because I'm out of practice. And I'm out of practice because I've been speaking American! And I've been speaking American because I randomly bumped into the American couple here in Krabi that I originally met in Malaysia (OK another shameless plug for their website www.northstarjourneys.com). It was a great reunion and we hung out continuouslyfor the past two days. There is something that happens while travelling that makes friendships more immediate and more intense than at home. Maybe the knowledge that you only have a short time together condenses the experience and makes you cut out the filler that normally occupies most friendships. There is something more to this connection, however, as we all acknowledge that it feels like we've been friends for years.
I said speaking American and I meant it. I first realized it when Paul gave me the measurements of something big in football fields. I instantly understood the size of it without having to convert meters to feet to yards to football fields. The metric system is lame. I mean, sure it's logical. Sure it's neat and clean. Sure everything can be divided by 10 or multiplied by 10 which is really efficient. But if someone says "that is probably 450 meters long", I'm too busy converting that length into football fields to hear what comes next. Everything should be measured in football fields, it just makes life easier. Then late one night sitting on the curb in front of their guest house we had the inevitable conversation that every real American has. I realized that even though I haven't missed it, the topic hadn't come up until now. Of course I'm talking about Gilligan's Island. I haven't owned a TV now for over 15 years and yet there we were discussing the personalities of Mary Ann and Ginger. The relationship between The Skipper and Gilligan or...well you get the idea. That part of growing up, the afterschool television experience, is such a huge part of our collective psyche that many years later we have a common bond that, as silly as it sounds, runs deep. We barely touched on Star Trek (the Captain Kirk and Spock years of course) and for the first time having this discussion I didn't mention the Brady Bunch...which is probably just as well. In Kuala Lumpur I had tried to describe to my German friend the concept of a situation comedy about WW2 Prisoners of War but her horrified look of distaste kind of quieted me down. Paul and I just cracked up recalling Hogan's Heros' Schultz and Colonel Klink. Kelly was sweetly smiling but not as animated and I found out that she was more of a PBS kid. Sesame Street and The Electric Company were more her role models for TV and it sounds so much healthier to me now as I write it down. That led later to a discussion of the best kids album (and most aggregiously politically correct) Free to Be You and Me. After our discussion I now have a deeper under standing of why Kelly is one of the most mellow and gentle people I've met in a long time. We're all going to meet up again in Bangkok and I'm stoked. Not just because they're so fun to be around, but also there is a huge part of that topic that we left out, and need to complete. Sure we might have broken out a short verse of "It's alright to cry" from Free to be... but none of us sang a theme song from one of our beloved shows and that is an American birthright.
I said speaking American and I meant it. I first realized it when Paul gave me the measurements of something big in football fields. I instantly understood the size of it without having to convert meters to feet to yards to football fields. The metric system is lame. I mean, sure it's logical. Sure it's neat and clean. Sure everything can be divided by 10 or multiplied by 10 which is really efficient. But if someone says "that is probably 450 meters long", I'm too busy converting that length into football fields to hear what comes next. Everything should be measured in football fields, it just makes life easier. Then late one night sitting on the curb in front of their guest house we had the inevitable conversation that every real American has. I realized that even though I haven't missed it, the topic hadn't come up until now. Of course I'm talking about Gilligan's Island. I haven't owned a TV now for over 15 years and yet there we were discussing the personalities of Mary Ann and Ginger. The relationship between The Skipper and Gilligan or...well you get the idea. That part of growing up, the afterschool television experience, is such a huge part of our collective psyche that many years later we have a common bond that, as silly as it sounds, runs deep. We barely touched on Star Trek (the Captain Kirk and Spock years of course) and for the first time having this discussion I didn't mention the Brady Bunch...which is probably just as well. In Kuala Lumpur I had tried to describe to my German friend the concept of a situation comedy about WW2 Prisoners of War but her horrified look of distaste kind of quieted me down. Paul and I just cracked up recalling Hogan's Heros' Schultz and Colonel Klink. Kelly was sweetly smiling but not as animated and I found out that she was more of a PBS kid. Sesame Street and The Electric Company were more her role models for TV and it sounds so much healthier to me now as I write it down. That led later to a discussion of the best kids album (and most aggregiously politically correct) Free to Be You and Me. After our discussion I now have a deeper under standing of why Kelly is one of the most mellow and gentle people I've met in a long time. We're all going to meet up again in Bangkok and I'm stoked. Not just because they're so fun to be around, but also there is a huge part of that topic that we left out, and need to complete. Sure we might have broken out a short verse of "It's alright to cry" from Free to be... but none of us sang a theme song from one of our beloved shows and that is an American birthright.
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