My Heaven

The day after fallen bird day, Bryson and I went on a motorbike excursion across the northern part of the island. Only five minutes from our beach, we discovered a whole cluster of temples, dominated by a sky-high sculpture of a Hindu God-- Shiva, I believe?-- with arms in every direction.



A wide, still river ran through the area, crisscrossed by bridges. The water was teeming with more fish than I'd ever seen. For ten baht, or a quarter, we could buy a bag of fish food, and when we dumped the kibbles in the water it resulted in an insane feeding frenzy, with catfish and oscars and who knows what else flopping all over each other.



Barefoot, we strolled from temple to temple. There's nothing more delightfully paradoxical than an Asian temple. The decor can be squintingly garish, yet there's no denying the exquisite peace hanging around such places. All were set among gardens, alive with flowers and butterflies. Walking back to the Hindu shrine, we suddenly heard a yapping. Skipping around our ankles were four or five puppies of every color. It reminded me of The Lovely Bones by Alice Sebold, where the narrator explains that in your heaven, anything you desire poignantly enough will eventually appear. When she misses her dog, she wakes up the next morning to a garden filled with puppies.



I don't know about multi-armed plaster gods, but in my heaven might look something like this: gardens and butterflies, a river bubbling with fish, sun glinting off the mosaics, and puppies. Definitely puppies.

For Under a Dollar

Next stop was Maenom, a beach Bryson found so familiar I had to follow him from bungalow to bungalow, in hopes of finding the one he'd stayed in four years ago. It must be an odd feeling, coming back when you never knew you would for certain.

The beach was narrow, shaded by coconut palms nearly up to the edge of the water. These palms were the low, Belizean kind. I'm terrified of the tall ones, littered around the roots by fallen coconuts. What if one fell on your head? It would crack your skull. When I was younger I read about Brazil nuts in the Amazon falling and cracking people's skulls, and I've had a phobias ever since.

Anyway, it was a nice place to lay out and attempt to eradicate the burn stripes I'd developed in the last couple hours at the temple and on the motorbike, when I was wearing a small backpack, a bikini top, and a tank top. Not a pretty picture. The water was perfectly warm, and when we sifted our feet underwater we discovered all kinds of things to dive and get. Most of all, there were sand dollars. The purple, hairy, living kind.

I remember a time a friend of mine gathered some from the ocean floor in Carpinteria, and set them down on her towel. Despite my protests she didn't throw them back, and I watched as they turned from purple to grey as they suffocated. Bryson and I have always been the throwing back type. We won't even kill most bugs, except mosquitoes and ants that won't be shaken out of backpacks.

They All Come to Me

Bryson says I'm like Snow White. All the animals come straight to me, especially the wounded or broken ones. There was that wounded crow I rescued on campus. Then there was that hurt pigeon under the pier being attacked by a seagull, which I chased away so I could save the pigeon.

In California, we have sparrows and seagulls (nice ones as well as the bastards). In Thailand, they have these largish black birds with bright yellow beaks and feet, and white patches on their wings. They're everywhere, and I find their song quite pleasant. It's varied, like that of a mockingbird.



The other day I was walking back to our room to change into my bikini when I heard an outraged squawking from above. I looked up, then down. A baby bird was at my feet, flailing around, and the squawker must have been his parents. He was nearly a fledgling, but was still to young to be on his own. I stood there, unsure of what to do, but then an approaching dog made the decision for me. I scooped it up, and went to find Bryson.

The owner of the place we were staying was the compassionate sort, and he helped us determined what to do. He said that the nest wouldn't be on the roof, but way up high in the palm tree, an impossible climbing distance. We ended up putting him in a box full of leaves, with a dish of water and half a banana, and placing him on the roof of a hut in viewing distance from his parents.

We cheacked on him a few times, but yesterday, when we left to go here, to Koh Tao, the box was gone. I was wary, but pretty certain that a nice old man had decided it would be better to bring the box inside and take the bird under his wing.

Speaking of Blackouts

So I was halfway through episode two, and my worst fears were realized: the flippin' computer shut off for no apparent reason. Luckily I hadn't written that much. But I was discouraged enough to wait until today and so here we go again.

Bryson Ate Bugs!!

This actually occurred the evening before the events relayed on my last post. We had decided to have dinner in downtown Lamai, which turned out to be sot of a hooker-haven: pink lights everywhere. There was one outdoor club that was really a series of nine or twelve bars built to look like bungalows, with a girl dancing on a pole in each one. Extremely popular, as you might assume.



After a dinner of steamed sweet and sour snapper (yum), we somehow ended up across from this club, among a clump of food carts and stalls posed opposite the free show. While Bryson was gazing you-know-where, I was itemizing the food carts. Suddenly I saw it. . .



. . . the deep fried bug cart.

"Eeeuww," I said to Bryson. "Bugs." That got his attention. The guy was selling deep fried water bugs, grasshoppers, mole crickets, normal crickets, silk worms, and pork. Naturally I dared Bryson to try something. But instead of turning away, he expressed a level of tentative interest. I goaded him on, and when we finally walked away, he got up the nerve to walk back. The merchant was pretty good-natured about it. I'm sure that kind of thing had happened before, and besides, you have to be pretty indigent to be selling deep fried bugs out of a pushcart in the first place.



When he cracked the legs and wings off a grasshopper and handed it over, Bryson popped it right into his mouth. Together, they went down the line: silkworm, cricket, mole cricket. No waterbugs, because they were huge and the guy probably wasn't sure if we were going to pay him. For bug-lovers, his price was 20 baht, or fifty cents, for a bag of one's chosen crawly thing with chile and lime sauce added.





I can't say I wasn't proud. Although sure, I was disgusted, especially when he spoke of the silkworm's repugnant aftertaste. But mostly proud. Afterwards, I bought him a popsicle.

Blacked Out

Over the last two days on Koh Samui, they've been experiencing rolling blackouts in order to conserve power, and thus I've been timorous to post in case the power shuts off before I've saved a lengthy essay. Now there's too much to write about. I'll attempt to do this episodic, and I'll have pictures up tonight--- or by the time you wake up in the U.S.

Stupid Little Island

Two days ago, Bryson and I decided to switch beaches. We settled upon Choeng Mon, which, according to Rough Guides, encompassed a small, spectacular bay with plenty of nearby rocky coves to explore. The place was indeed beautiful, like something out of The Beach. Our hut was set back from the beach and fifty percent more expensive, but the owner provided us with towels, postcards and bottles of water, as well as toilet paper and little soaps. Room goodies are unheard of when it comes to Thai budget accommodation.

Back on the beach we rented snorkels. We had pondered purchasing them, but they seemed shoddy and would have been a bitch to tote around. To the right was a windy little island, a thicket of trees and boulders, and we decided to swim there and explore it.

Yet the stretch of water between the mainland and the island was never more than knee deep, and so we waded the whole way. Unfortunately it wasn't smooth going. The ocean floor was cobblestoned with rocks of various levels of evilness, and we kept our flip flops on the whole way. Although it had seemed a snorkeling paradise back on the beach, the island and everything around it was so damn rocky it took ages to reach water that was deep enough to snorkel in. And when we did reach it, the visibility was so bad I couldn't see Bryson's foot until it kicked me in the nose. After about three minutes I skinned my fifth piggy on a rock. Then I started thinking about blood. Then I started thinking, it's so murky here, I wouldn't even see a shark until it chomped into my side. Then I turned and swam back to shore.

There weren't any fish, anyway.

Un-scammed

OH MY GOD THEY EVEN MENTION BRAD

This is the craziest I've felt in a long time. Thank God we're college educated.

Gem Scams
Scroll down to latest news, and you'll discover Brad.

Every DAY is the last day of the sale.
Everyone is in on it, including the mafia.
Our instincts are more priceless than the lucky buddha.

Deflated Pig Faces and Other Goodies

When we woke up this morning, the tide had sucked away so much of the sea that the coastline was littered with rocks. The wind came by in big shaky gasps, sending leaves and sand painfully biting at our ankles, rendering the beach no good to lay out in. We assumed a storm was brewing.

It still hasn't come. However, the sea is thoroughly churned, and our hopes of snorkeling today have been blown away. So we rode out motorbike to Chaweng, which is so touristy I feel claustrophobic. Many parts of Lamai are just as busy. Yet it's with a half-half locals/tourists amalgamation, and that way there's a surprise every few minutes.

Yesterday Bryson and I strolled through a outdoor local market. Much of it was carts laid out with fruits and vegetables, ranging from bananas and lettuce and standard green Asian mangos, to brilliantly fuchsia dragonfruits and other things I can't even name. Further in, we were stuck in the meat section for a bit too long. That deflated pig face will haunt me in my nightmares.

Back to the front were the grills and food carts, and Bryson risked a barbequed chicken stick, while I tried some Thai pancakes. The latter were fried crispy pastries filled with coconut cream and corn. Not bad.

On to the Food

I'm getting a little sick of Thai food, mainly because it's getting repetitive. The menus are usually triple the length of those you'd find in an American restaurant. However, all two hundred items remain the same from place to place. That still wouldn't seem like a problem, but for a few things.
1. Í don't eat any meat other than fish. That narrows my choices to about thirty, or even less when we're away from the fish-infested islands.
2. Both of us are trying to stay away from fried food. Thai menus are full of fried food. Fried onions, shrimp, noodles, rice, and potatoes, which most places call "french fried".
3. We're straying from any uncooked vegetables, so there goes all the salad options.
As a result, at most places my choices are tomato or vegetable soup, eggs and toast, white rice, and fish. Not bad, but not so good after a week and three more to come.



As for snacks, there's a better variety here than there was in Central America, land of deep fried pork skin and Pringles. Franchised 7-Elevens are everywhere here, and just like home, they're three-fourths snacks. Bryson and I go to town in those places. Thai Oreos and sodas are even better than home, and Thai Cheetos are delicious, although we haven't braved the hot dog flavor yet. Or these:



Red Bulls are immensely popular here, but they're not the same. They taste more syrupy-sweet, with no carbonation. In addition, rumor has it drinking one bottle of the tonic packs seventeen times the caffeine punch.



All the cigarettes packages in Thailand feature distasteful photographs right on the front. I love this cultural twist. There are about five different picture choices available, from the Thai daddy blowing a nebula of smoke into a baby's face, a frazzled woman with a hole in her neck, to a cancerous lung. I haven't seen too many smokers here that aren't tourists, although that's probably because the people here are poor and cigarettes are still expensive, comparably. I'll try and get a better picture.

Luckily, everything else is cheap.

Getting Scammed

I really don't want to write about this because it annoys me to even think about it, but it's a good lesson to all you greenhorns out there. Although it sounds like I'm setting you up for a tragic tale about Bryson and I being duped, that's not the case. But we might have been.

Kao Sahn Road, crossroads of the backpacking galaxy, is also a Mecca for swindlers. Backpackers, although many are better traveled than a wind-battered albatross, are always looking for the best deal possible, and thus are obvious targets. One of the biggest conspiracies is that of the tuk-tuk drivers. Tuk-tuks, if I haven't previously described them, are basically motorcycles with carts attached to carry a pair of passengers. They're not the safest method of transportation, but they're quick and cheap and they're everywhere. On Kao Sahn Road, they constantly batter passersby with deals: "Five baht each! I take you around for one hour!"

Since Bryson and I had to wait around yesterday for our Koh-Samui-destined nightbus, we decided to hail a tuk-tuk to take us to the Grand Palace. As usual, the guy pressed it upon us that he'd take us around for an hour, to the Grand Palace, to the Lucky Buddha, to the Golden Buddha, to the reclining Buddha, all for ten baht total. However, there was a catch, and he was frank. We'd have to be taken to an export establishment, one dealing in either suits or jewelry, and all we needed to do was hang out in there for fifteen minutes. We didn't need to buy anything, he claimed. But that way, he'd get free gas coupons.

This had happened to Bryson during his last trip, and although it had been a hassle, we didn't have a problem with a stroll through a store, just to help the guy out. We knew it was scammy. But it was only for fifteen minutes.

The guy insisted on taking us to the Lucky Buddha first. When we climbed out, he said we couldn't enter through the left; we had to go around the right and enter that way. A simple request, and so we obliged. Inside was a complicated altar fuzzy with incense smoke, and we took a photo or two with the Buddha.

Standing on the steps outside, I was accosted by a thirties-ish Asian traveler. "Peaceful in there, isn't it?" he said. We spoke for a while, and I discovered he was Canadian. Soon Bryson and the guy's friend Brad (I forget the Canadian guy's name) joined in the conversation. Brad, who looked exactly like a Brad, turned out to have attended high school in San Diego, and his mother still resided in La Mesa.

Soon the conversation swung course, and the Canadian guy asked if we were going to any of the export shops. We said we might, but just because our tuk-tuk driver requested so. However, this opened up a jumbo-sized can of worms. Turns out both Brad and Canada have been coming to Thailand for years, apparently buying jewelery from acclaimed Thai Exporters and reselling it at Ben Bridges for two hundred percent. They explained the law, which was that a foreigner could only purchase three pieces, totaling under 5,000 US, per year to avoid export taxes. But the profit from those three pieces paid for their Thai vacation, each year.

Bryson, master investor, was all about this, and I admit it sounded good. We wrote down the name of the jeweler they recommended, and handed it to our tuk-tuk driver after we had climbed back in.

We were there for an hour, perhaps, perusing the wares. It was as nice of a jeweler as you'd find in an American mall, basically, and had a government-run tourist agency adjoined. Supposedly there was this twenty percent deal limited time only going on, that was ending that day. But buying one piece entitled the buyer the become part of a club, and could purchase two more pieces later in the year, if they so desired. We were thisclose to buying a sapphire ring and matching pendant, one under each of our names, so we'd both be allowed to buy more that year, if things turned out to be legitimate. So close that we had filled out the paperwork, and had received our certificates of authenticity.

But right there at the desk, we chickened out. We weren't about to spend an obscene amount, only about three-twenty an item. It was mostly the exchange policy that switched on Bryson's radar: to exchange or to enact the 80% refund, we had to be there in person. Not exactly convenient.

I must say right now that my reservations don't stand with the jeweler. Thailand is indeed famous for their precious jewels and craftsmanship, and purchasing such items at a place adjoined by a government agency would probably be the way to go. In addition, when we verbalized our misgivings, the man who had been helping us nicely ripped up the papers we had filled out in front of us, and wrote, "20% off" on the business cards he gave us, to be used when we got back to Bangkok in October. There was no pressure at all.

However, our tuk-tuk driver was more than a little peeved. Although he had said we didn't need to buy anything, he seemed to go back on it when we caught up with him. Truly, he was waiting around the entire time, all for the American equivalent of a quarter. But we didn't want to deal with him, and so we handed him double his request, hopped out, and hailed a different tuk-tuk to take us back to Kao Sahn Road.

But the fishy thing, the thing we're still trying to figure out, was Brad and Mr. Canada. It was a little strange, a little too perfect, that we had to be brought to the lucky Buddha first, and we had to enter on a certain side, the opposite of where we met them, these two guys who were a little two enthusiastic about buying jewels from a certain exporter. Are we being paranoid? Who knows. But everything goes in Bangkok, and nothing is what it seems.

Scam #2

Before we left the jeweler, we had a nice little chat with a Thai former Texan from the government-run tourist agency. When he learned about the nightbus/ferry tickets to Koh Samui we had already bought for 300 baht, that were going to be executed in two hours, he went into this long-winded harangue about how the ferry alone costs 280, and not even the savviest local could get to Koh Samui for so cheap. He sat us down at his desk and practically begged us to exchange our tickets for different ones, 900 baht-ers for the government busses that were apparently much safer. On private nightbuses, they went through your stuff, he said.

That was the same thing the agent we'd bought our tickets from had said, which we though was a cipher of trustworthiness. However, Thai Texan did succeed in making us nervous that our tickets were going to be bogus.

But they weren't. Thai Texan was bogus. because here I am, typing from Koh Samui. We zip-tied our backpacks, unbreakable seals, and nothing was stolen. Except my trust! Sob, melodrama. It all makes my stomach hurt. It's nearly too much to handle.

Enough writing now. Goodnight to me, good morning to you.

Super Most Grand Waterfall of the World

Today Bryson and I arrived on Island #2, Koh Samui. It's a pinch smaller than Koh Chang, but much more congested. In some ways, it's like a Bangkok with palm trees, although the ever-presence of the sea tones things down a notch. The topography is vastly different as well: instead of overpowering rainforesty cliffs, it's flatter, with more of a Caribbean feel. The majority of development has been crowded along the coastline, as usually the case, and there's still a good deal of woodsy hills and hinterland in the middle of the island.

After settling in our spectacular Lamai beachfront bungalow, fifteen yards from the luminous waves for four hundred and fifty baht, or about eleven dollars, we rented another motorbike and set off to find Chaweng, a more tourist-oriented town. Our mothers will be glad to know we were two of the very small handful of people actually wearing helmets (apple-red ones, to be precise). The roads, especially around the ferry and anywhere in Bangkok, simply exude treachery, and every time I see a helmet-less child wedged in front of her mother on a motorbike seat, I feel my womb pain in protest.

We ended up going the wrong direction, but when we saw a turnoff supposedly leading to a waterfall, we decided to be impulsive and ventured inland. After sputtering up a windy road we reached a gravel parking lot, and after paying twenty baht were motioned to a trail leading downhill and into the trees.

I was expecting a two-minute descent. But the trail turned out to be a convoluted treasure map, taking us deep into the soggy jungle. Following sporadic signs and a cheerful length of rope, we rock hopped and mud-slid, climbed over roots and dodged low branches, all in cheap Old Navy flip flops. Every time we reached a waterfall, we'd find a sign, announcing, "Bigger Waterfall, 10m", with "m" meaning minutes, as we came to learn. Then the next would say, "Bigger Waterfall, 15m". Eventually we came accross one that said, "Giant Waterfall, 20." They was endless, like those stackable Russian dolls. I wouldn't have been surprised if the signs had continued, "Super Grandest Waterfall of the World, 45m" and "Most Spectacular Universe-sized Waterfall of God, 2h".



Some of the boulders we scaled were slippery with moss, and a couple bits of trail were rather steep, but overall it was a worthy journey. Everything was damp and beautiful. I also came to realize, for future reference, that I am a bottom-hiker. That means, whenever my next move is questionable, I slide along on my bottom.

This Dog is Very Ugly



Like in Central America, there are dogs everywhere here, and they all look related. In Central America they tended towards a short-legged, squat-bodied Welsh Corgi appearance, but in Thailand they look mostly like Dingoes. Sure, occasionally I'll see a mop-like Lhasa Apso or two, and once we saw a yellow lab that resembled Bryson's dog Snickers, doubled. There was even a fluffy collie mix trying to hump her, like Sky. But usually, they've got that same wild, golden or rust-colored, fox-eared appearance. And they're always chewed-up looking.

Smack on topic, I love this blog:

Bangkok Street Dogs

I found it back in the states, serendipity, and it's incredible. Check it out.

Some Lesbian Porn For You

So a couple days ago, I experienced my first Thai massage. Bryson has been lauding them for as long as I've known him, branding them the most pleasurable thing this side of existence. I was a little skeptical, solely from the weirdness factor of a girl my age getting paid below minimum wage in American standards to, as Bryson calls it, "give me squeezes". However, on Ko Chang we puttered around a bit on the motor bike until we found a "clinic", if you wish, that was cheap but not too janky.

They had me exchange my jeans for a pair of loose drawstring pants, what many of the locals wear, and lie face down next to Bryson. My girl wasn't even there when we had arrived, and when she got there, I only saw her face for a split second. Thus, the entire time, I was being squeezed and pulled by these mysterious girl-hands, as if they belonged to an apparition. There was a good deal of stretching and bending involved. At one point, they have you lie on your back and they bend your legs up into your body, leaning over you. I was sort of embarrassed. It was the closest thing to a homosexual experience I've ever had.

Unfortunately, this damn fan beside me was on rotate, which is something I despise. It was nothing nothing nothing some air ICY COLD BLAST some air nothing nothing nothing the entire time, and by the end I was actually shivering. I can't say it wasn't an enjoyable experience overall, and that I won't have another, but it better be stronger next time. That girl must have had fingers of glass.

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