thailanding

2006-10-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

girl meets monkey

This is the travelogue from my 2005 trip through Thailand and Cambodia. The madness began on September 6th and continued through October 5th (the final post below).

2005-10-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

Little Bits

This may be my last post from Thailand. What a wild trip it's been, just packed with colors and insanity. There are many little things here that I'm not sure I've mentioned.

You can buy fresh-squeezed orange juice right off the street, did I mention that? They bottle it for you and it's the perfect mix of sweet and tang.

There are dogs everywhere, just like in Central America, although most of the ones I've seen are happy and well-fed, unlike in Central America. Although a good many are mangy and sticky with Bangkok grime. They're never kept on leashes, and patrol the street or the beachfront, whichever they claim as their territory. I've seen a number of dogfights when these invisible lines are breeched. It's interesting to watch. The dogs are half wild pack animals and half beloved pets. I wonder what would happen if I threw Sky in the mix. He's probably be chewed up in minutes.

Every restaurant, shop, and most homes have their own altar, shaped like a tiny temple. They're usually garish, gilded and painted bright colors, draped in fresh flower wreaths. The figurines inside vary. I've seen tiny men and women, rotund Buddhas, slim and handsome Buddhas, and pictures of the king and queen. On the platform before the shrines food is set out daily: bananas, noodle soup, bottles of Fanta soda with straws for ease in sipping. Usually whatever is set out swarms with ants. Once I even saw a cat surreptitiously slurping from an offering bowl.

In Koh Samui there was a place where quite a few such altars were clustered beside the main road. Whenever a car or motorbike sped by, they gave their horn a honk. There and only there, some kind of sign of respect. Honk if you love Buddha.

Everything here is Same Same, But Different. That's what all the merchants say. They even have shirts that say that.

There are tailors selling Armani knockoffs custom-made spotted through the tourist areas, all dealing out of nice, air-conditioned shops. At last Bryson broke down and allowed himself to be fitted for a suit. It's grey with faint pinstripes, Italian wool and cashmere, and he looks damn sexy in it if I do say so myself. The guys who made it were Indian and Burmese. Thus, it's a Thai Italian Indian Burmese suit. Can you beat that?

Speaking of Indians, the Indian food here is superb, and I've developed a real taste for it. More than just curry. I love the paneer, which is homemade cheese, baked in a whole wheat tandoori roti.

The cats here all have gimpy tails. It's as if a few tail-less manxes bred into the mix somehow. They range from stubby jokes to thick knobby nightmares, though the cats themselves are cuties. They also like to munch on enormous Thai bugs like spiders and cockroaches.

When I worked as a server at Red Robin, we were required to drop a table's check before the first person had finished their last bite. It's was all about turnover, hustle and bustle. Here they never, never, never drop your check unless you ask for it. They allow you to sit and enjoy yourself as long as you want, no rush. But in all the Thai shops, there's always someone following you around, eagerly quoting a price for anything you even show a smidgen of interest in. I absolutely despise it, actually. I hate being pressured, and if someone is following me too closely or pushing too adamantly, I'll leave the shop entirely. It's not that I don't understand; they're trying to make a living. But let me breathe, okay?

There's a pigeon family living outside our bathroom window. The children are obnoxious, hooting querulously far too early in the morning, but I wish them well. When I was little the gardener knocked a swallow's nest off our wall. We found the crushed babies on the ground, a tragedy. You can never trust people where compassion is concerned.

There's one smoothie cart on Soi Rambuttri claiming, on a big yellow sign, that they offer smoothies with "Safe Ice for Delicate Foreign Digestions." I love it. I love Thailand.

2005-10-04T06:38:00.001-07:00

Sleepy Now. Bangkok Smells.

Yesterday we spent most of our daylight hours at the largest shopping monstrosity in Thailand, MBK. It's about ten stories, and when you peer down a shop-crammed corridor surging with human beings you can't make out the end. It's kind of gross. Good buys, though.

Today we went to Chinatown, which is a lot like every other Chinatown in every major city: a hodgepodge of stink, voices, and raindrops; piles of chestnuts, roasted duck and pig faces, dried shrimp in sacks, tea, baubles; an aching overload on the senses. For some reason buying streetside junk was more expensive than elsewhere in Bangkok, and when the rain came we were the first to leave. I'd heard this week was the Chinese-Thai Vegetarian festival, and although most restaurants did promote their vegetarian selections prominently, I didn't see any bold monks impaling their cheeks with spikes or walking on coals, as I'd heard was the story. No fun.

Back to Khao San. We're always here, avoiding buying anything usually, but now we get to spent money. Lots of fun. I'll be going now.

2005-10-04T06:38:00.000-07:00

Son of a bitch deleted my post.

2005-10-03T10:10:00.000-07:00

Underwater

While I was in the internet cafe constructing my last couple of posts, it began to monsoon. It rained so hard that the soi flooded ten inches deep right outside. Although the cafe was a step up, every time a taxi passed by it sent a wave of foul water rolling under the door.

The girl manning the cafe freaked out, understandably so, and began to use a dustpan to scoop water into a large bucket and then dump it down the bathroom drain. Bryson and I helped her lift a few ground-level computers on top of a desk. We stayed inside until I started having electrocution fears. Then we ventured outside.

The rain had subsided some, but we had to splash through water well over our ankles to get back to our hotel, a ten minute slosh away. Periodically a great clap of lightning would shatter through the sky, in a fabulous jagged arc, triggering shouts and hollers from all the late-night backpackers. Brilliant night. I'm glad I've had both my hepatitis shots; that was some nasty water.

2005-10-03T07:31:00.000-07:00

For You!!

2005-10-02T20:52:00.000-07:00

I Promised: Some History.

This isn't a research paper. My sources are only three: The opening chapter on Cambodia in Lonely Planet's Southeast Asia on a Shoestring; a book I bought from a slick-talkin' boy called Children of the Killing Fields; and our tuk-tuk driver, who works for the guesthouse where we stayed, and who rode beside us on the bus into Siem Reap.

After an extended period of poverty and civil war in Cambodia, the Khmer Rouge subjugated their opponents and took ultimate power. They asserted that the new Cambodia would be an agrarian communist society, led by the people, and at first the country was in a state of celebration. Unfortunately, the party didn't last long. What soon became apparent was that the Khmer Rouge was a bloodthirsty regime with zero regard for human life, who believed the only way for their ideal society to succeed was to murder every former soldier or military officer and their entire families, every intellectual, everyone with any level of education, every writer, artist, poet, everyone who spoke out or didn't quite follow orders. They murdered people with smooth hands, merchants, even people who wore spectacles-- people they considered "parasites".

Because the Khmer Rouge wanted no loyalties to anyone but themselves, they severed families, "adopting" children and placing them in labor camps by the thousands. Children and adults alike were forced to work in the snake-infested rice patties in the broiling heat, with as little as two cups of watery rice a day to sustain them. Many of those who weren't shot, smothered or bludgeoned to death died of starvation. Some estimates claim that a third of Cambodia's entire population died in those wretched years, from 1975-1979.

In 1979, Cambodia was liberated by Vietnam, which had formerly been its mortal enemy. Yet after being so tragically and thoroughly devastated, the country has been able to recover.

To make matters much, much worse, Cambodia is absolutely littered with mines left over from the Vietnam war, a disproportionate amount placed by American soldiers. Nearly every day, someone steps off a path and is gravely wounded or killed by a lingering mine. There are people everywhere with limbs missing, scarred or blinded, unable to find work because of the explosion's stigma, reduced to shaking plastic cups on the street with the nubs of their elbows and hoping for strangers' change.

"Pol Pot killed my father," the man beside us called Beebee said, the man who would be our tuk-tuk driver, as we clattered down the road. "I was only two. Whenever I take people to his grave, I piss on it."

Later he told us about the bus driver, a man of about fifty. We learned he made the excruciating journey either to or from the border every single day. He rarely saw his wife, and often made as little as one hundred and fifty US dollars a month.

"He used to be soldier for Khmer Rouge," Beebee said. "Tank driver. So now he is happy. He is happy because he is free."

There's so much we take for granted, it's incomprehensible. What a heavy weight that knowledge is.

After we left the lake, Beebee took us to a Land Mine museum. It wasn't much; just a series of huts around a muddy courtyard far off the beaten path. Yet the piles and piles of rusty old mines were affecting, and the scrap of field spotted with mines half-buried was powerful. There were several volunteers working there, and I spoke at length with an English girl. She told me many of the children about were orphans (though most were in school) whose parents had been killed by mines, and who the man leading the mine relief organization had adopted. Others had heard about the free English lessons being offered by the volunteers, and were eager to learn. If I had known about that place, I would have spent some time there. Compare the kids I get paid to tutor in San Diego to these kids, and there's no comparison.

2005-10-02T20:37:00.000-07:00

It's Like We Never Leave

We're back in Bangkok, for the final shopping stretch before our long flight home. To journey back we sprung for a cab instead of the clanky old busses, because we're spoiled, but it was semi-hellish anyway. The driver crowded four of us in the back and three up front. Bryson--I love him-- but he's a large man, and he took up nearly half of the bench seat, shoving me crooked and awkward into two Cambodian passengers beside me. And naturally, the road hadn't smoothed out any over the last two days, although we were riding in a Camry that had shocks, so it wasn't nearly as jarring. And we arrived in half the time.

We heard from a couple Cambodians that it's corrupt politics that have prevented the road from being paved, more veritably than lack of funds. Bangkok Airways has a monopoly on the small airport, and thus a ticket for the short by-air trip from Bangkok to Siem Reap is $150, or $300 there and back. To fly to Chiang Mai from Bangkok, which is a similar distance, cost about $50. Thus, even though it's a Thai airline, the Cambodian government is making riches of affluent tourists, or those who aren't so wealthy but dread the torturous overland trail. If they paved it, a good portion of tourists would go by road.

It's sickening, because you just know that flight money isn't even touching the people at all. But if the overland journey was more popular, it would be the people making the money, with cabs and busses and tuk-tuks, and it would be one of the best things possible for the people of Siem reap.

2005-10-01T06:06:00.000-07:00

Lake Living

Today we woke up at the semi-decent hour of eight to visit the mouth of the nearby lake, which happens to be one of the largest sources of freshwater fish in the world. Or so Sean's guidebook said.

We paid for a boat to take us around, and our tuk-tuk driver gave us flimsy fishing poles to bring with us. Any fish we catch, we cook at guesthouse, he said.

The water is shallow for quite a while, dotted with water foliage like clouds. The people there make their living straight from the lake. All the fishermen and their families live right on the water, in raised huts only accessible by boat. The huts vary from sad shaky structures that looked like they'd soon topple in, to sturdier years-weathered structures with multiple stories. Everywhere there were children, jumping off their porches naked into the water, or fishing with bamboo poles. Longtail boats with shuddery motors as well as old canoes floated by in every direction.

For a short while, the boat drivers turned off the engine and let us drift in a deeper part of the lake, which is so large the other edges can't be seen. Peace, halcyon stillness. Then a handful of children rushed up to us in the strangest contraptions, really half-buckets with a single paddle. They sat in these cross-legged. The boat driver explained that they were Vietnamese children. They wanted money, and since they had worked so hard paddling over to us we gave them some change.

Our destination after that was a sort of floating restaurant/souvenir shop/fish farm. There the guys fished with some little Cambodian boys, for fish that were really far too small to reel in. We also enjoyed peering in a crocodile pen, and watching a man scoop tiny shrimp into a pen teeming with two foot-long catfish. That lake was one of the most relaxing places I've ever been. It seems good for the people to live on a constant source of protein, in a place where the children can play and fish and swim, and even attend classes on one of the floating schools back towards the village.

It was hard to leave the lake. Afterwards our driver took us to a land mine museum. I want to get into that, but then I'd have to get into the history of the Khmer Rouge. That's for tomorrow's blog.

2005-10-01T05:01:00.000-07:00

It was worth it. And you know it must be pretty amazing here, if I can make that kind of statement.

So Much More

Cambodia overwhelms the senses, five-plus. I have never seen a more shattering discrepancy between those who have and those who have nothing. Sure, I've been all over Central America, and outside Tegucigalpa there were villages like human hives caked on the hillsides. I live in paradisiacal San Diego, a twenty minute drive and five minute walk to the slums of Tijuana, where dirty children sell chewing gum instead of attending school.

I knew Cambodia was one of the poorest countries in the world. I never could have fathomed the obscene number of five-star hotels. They are glowing behemoths that cater to the most prodigal in the world, those who jet-set from nations away to sleep away hundreds per night, while men and women slashed by puckered scars, missing one, two or more limbs, beg in the street with tears in their eyes less than one block away. These jetsetters must come in to take pictures of Angkor Wat and feel well-traveled, unless, of course, they come to buy women and children. And their money doesn't even touch these people at their feet; instead, it fattens the pockets of foreigners or men who made themselves rich by pillaging the heads from ancient Buddha statues.

We're white and obvious, and we're not fooling anyone about our means, but at least we're staying in guesthouses, eating at local restaurants and food carts, buying items only at the local shops. We are doing the best we can to give, and yet even when I buy a souvenir I wonder if I should just be giving the money away, or at least buying from a person who needs my money even more.

Angkor Wat

Despite our pastiche of aches and pains, yesterday our new Canadian friend Sean, Bryson, and I woke up at five am and climbed on a tuk-tuk to see Angkor Wat at sunrise. Apparently several hundred other people had the same idea, because the expansive stone steps facing the best postcard shot was overrun with tourists, mainly of the Asian persuasion, although a number were westerners like us.

Yet as soon as the bright dawn-colors faded to blue, the crowd dissipated. And when we shouldered through and began walking towards the temples, and very few people followed. They must have come only for that early money shot, and not to tramp around in the endless ruins.

But that's the best part. Bryson and I visited Tikal in Guatemala, the ancient Mayan ruins. Angkor is even larger, and much more complex. Every wall, every pillar, every fallen stone is impossibly intricate, a masterpiece of lost languages, warriors, stories and faces. There are stairs so steep the top step holds the sun, and deep dark passages squealing with bats. Broken artifacts with insurmountable histories lay strewn like pieces of rubbish. And behind every temple is another, and another, silent, musty with centuries.

Although yes, there were other people. Herds of Asian tourists looped with cameras seemed to filter by at the most inopportune times, like in the exact moment I'd lined up the perfect picture. When the rain began, their colorful umbrellas coming into passageways stung my eyes. But there were many moments in which we were alone, or the boys had climbed up something to high for me and I was alone at the bottom, with only the echo of my footsteps.

The rain was every monsoon we'd been lucky to miss before, and there the run to shelter was a long, wet one. I have never been rained on so powerfully. The water ran into my eyes, and I spit it out as I ran. Shelter was a string of cafes underneath an aluminum and bamboo roof, filled with Cambodian restaurateurs and their children. A few minutes after we sat down, the rain increased with a particularly potent blast of fury, and everyone screamed and ran as a tree crashed into the roof of the cafe directly across from us, all the way through to the ground.

Every child had something to sell, and some spoke English slicker than an American car salesman. "You look like Movie Star! You from USA? I from Washington D.C! (they knew the capital of every single country, it seemed) You only buy one from me, I make special discount just for you, for the beautiful lady," and so on and on and on. Of course we relented here and there, and at long last the rain let up and we hurried to our tuk-tuk.

The driver is quite a guy. I'll tell his story later.

2005-09-30T06:15:00.000-07:00

Cambodia

There's too much to say.

We'd heard again and again the roads were bad, but we remained optimistic. In Honduras we'd ridden ramshackle school buses down cowpaths, and so we thought we were up for anything. We never knew we were embarking on a gut-scrambling migration along a mountainous disaster, eight hours in a brokendown bus-van over a road like a field of boulders caked with mud.

I have never experienced anything like that overland journey, that sweatsopped rattling chaos. One traitorous knob of my spine jabbed into a hard spot, no matter how I shifted. It was too hot to close the window, but two hours in we were coated in fine red dust that became a paste when it mulled with our sweat. The hair around my face sprung loose from my ponytail and framed my face in a ticklish halo. The effort of keeping my body tense to lessen the impact seized my muscles with a constant, maddening ache. During the whole first third, I had to pee.

And there was nothing, nothing, nothing to do. Once I attempted to read, but the letters shook like agitated ants, and my brain scrambled crosswise. Every time we checked, there were hours and hours to go, and yet the minutes only strolled. There are only so many corners a mind can wander into before a treacherous buzz of madness begins. Nothing to do, nothing to do but look.

The entire stretch of country we crossed was soaking wet. Everything was water, in lilied pools spiky with pink flowers, or in still dim ponds, or in furred checkers, the golden-green rice paddies. Every hut was built beside or over a pond. Some were hiked up on stilts, with rickety staircases leading to higher ground. Beneath overhanging trees, children swam naked in the shady water, or stirred the bottom muck with crooked sticks.

Each hut we rambled by was a flash of lamplight among the trees, a fragment of indigent life. Women flocked by children held peaked hats to their heads against the wind. Seal-slick toddlers bathed in jugs. Older boys play-fought while small ones watched. Farmers hung exhaustedly in hammocks like sacks of grain, and among dangling bunches of bananas and cans of American soda, merchants patiently peddled their meager wares.

In the evening there were fireflies. There are no fireflies in Southern California, and we watched until they faded. Later there were bigger spots of light, flashlights, sway-dancing over the fields. The man beside us said they were looking for frogs, just another thing to sell.

By the time it was too dark to see, there were still two hours left. Two hours banging in the blackness. Purgatory must be like this, I thought to myself. Restless discomfort, a relentless twilight. A road with no end. A grey place in between somewhere and elsewhere, dotted with moonlit ponds, choked in dust.

There was one stop towards the end, a restaurant with open walls and overpriced beverages. As soon as I stepped inside two Cambodian girls ran towards us. The older one showed us a monkey they kept on a length of chain, and the younger caught a pugnacious praying mantis and brandished it with pride. Before we left, she tied a yellow string around my wrist.

"For free," she said, and the praying mantis flew away.

There's too much to say, but it's dinnertime. We went to Angkor Wat today, and it was a near-God experience (near-Gods?). So more tomorrow.

2005-09-28T06:48:00.000-07:00

Me Versus The Monster

Ahhh, yesterday was hell on wheels. When I woke in the morning the oscillating pressure, the tingle behind my eyes, the painful sensitivity to light, all had already begun. My evil nemesis, MIGRAINE.

The first four hours in the minibus from Phuket to Surat Thani were hellish enough. Minibuses are cramped and sweaty nightmares, lacking in air conditioning and body space. I was half-psychotic by the time we arrived. Then came a two hour wait at a sort of way-station in the middle of nowhere, and then came the VIP bus.

VIP busses aren't that bad, usually, as long as we're not on them for too long of a time, and we're sitting up high and away from the bathrooms. They're double-decker and they play movies (last night was Apollo 13). However, they're no good to sleep in, even when the person next to me is my boyfriend. There' was just no comfortable position any way I contorted myself, and anytime I felt myself drifting off, Bryson would shift and suddenly my head would slide down his knee, or he'd attempt to lay his double-my-weight body across my lap, or some body part would begin to ache-- a kneecap, a shoulder. And these three friggin' Israeli guys were rattle-a-tatting Hebrew in their outdoor voices as late as three in the morning. And even though we were far from the bathrooms, a fine miasma of sewage began to permeate the air.

But worst of all was my headache. Banging, pounding, glass and tears. All I had was Tylenol, and four didn't even begin to assuage my agony. Using Tylenol for a migraine is like attempting to douse a forest fire with a squirt gun. The creature only laughs.

Hours and hours of misery. Praying, even. Bangkok, city of stench, became a mental Mecca. All I wanted was a hotel room, where I could sleep supine. Sleep is the only thing that makes the headache pass, and sometimes I even wake to find it hasn't passed entirely. And the terrible nausea that comes with it. It doesn't relinquish its hold on my gut until I've thrown up everything inside.

At five-thirty in the morning we arrived on Khao San road. With tears in my eyes, I followed Bryson to the first hotel that had a vacancy. As soon as we received our key I dashed upstairs and into the bathroom headfirst, then on my knees. Throwing up is the worst when you've got a headache. We slept for about six hours, and when I woke up it was still there. However, it was dormant enough for me to go down and have a meal and a popsicle before going back to bed. Bryson went for a massage.

Now all that's left is a strange tenderness, a shadow of the beast, a reminder that I have to get my ass to a doctor and figure this thing out.

This evening, we walked up and down Khao San road. There's so much to buy it's incredible, and not like Central America, either. The clothing here is American quality and an American quality of cuteness. It's all we can do to restrain ourselves, because tomorrow we're going to Cambodia for a few days, but when we get back we're going to buy as much as we can carry. Khao San at night is like a second-rate Vegas strip, a revolucion without the three-story nightclubs and painted donkeys. Like TJ, some people despise is here, but I embrace the craziness. It's an explosion of humanity. Although not the best headache remedy.

I'm not sure how readily internet will be available in Cambodia, although Siem Reap, where Angkor Wat is, is the most touristy place in the country. I might possibly disappear for a while. But this place is supposed to be one of the most fantastic in creation, and so I'm bubbling over to see it.

2005-09-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

Same Same, But Different

Many things here are lost in translation. For example, they have this new energy drink here, with banner ads plastered hugely on billboards and flapping from mini-mart overhangs. It's called "Shark", and its catch phrase is, "It Goes Up." I've been trying to figure it out and I still down get it entirely. Is it a pun that refers to a shark surfacing, and maybe the effervescence, the carbonation? Or maybe a drinker's heart rate? Any way you look at it, it's not very clever.

2005-09-26T07:36:00.000-07:00

Goodbye, Sweet Beach

After gobbling a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or two, Bryson and I hailed a tuk-tuk to take us to the beach a few miles south of Patong, Karon. When we didn't know anything more about Phuket than the few paragraphs from Rough Guides, that's where we were going to stay, assuming it was less touristy than the larger and busier Patong. Yet we chose Patong anyway, capriciously, when we read that Karon often has a treacherous undertow in the rainy season. I'm so glad we did.

There's nothing wrong with Karon. That's a lie, there's a couple major things wrong with Karon, and a medley of other things which Patong overshines. It's more expensive, with less local color, and the undertow did indeed seem treacherous. Despite the sunshine, the ocean was churning as if God had turned on a dozen undersea blenders at conflicting speeds. Red warning flags everywhere. I only waded in up to my knees, to splash the sticky sand off my skin. The whole time Bryson was splashing around belly-deep, I was gritting my teeth anxiously, praying he wouldn't be swept off into the Andaman Sea and the Indian Ocean beyond. Food for the fishies, like they say.

We tried our best to cook ourselves, knowing it was our last day at the beach, and possibly our last sunbathing day all year. I'm not expecting glorious sun when we get back to San Diego. The rain came only after a couple crispy hours, so I'm not complaining. We gathered our things and fled for one of the benched, roofed, gazebo-like structures right off the beach I believe are placed for that very purpose, to protect people from the short but furious rainstorms. Like being stuck in a stalled elevator, it was interesting to see who was accompanying us. One group of Thai guys in particular made us laugh; they kept making smart-assed, facetious remarks about Bryson's shoe size, which is a monstrous thirteen. I made them laugh in turn when I put his shoes on.

Then we took a tuk-tuk back to Patong and showered (glorious, glorious hot water, I love you). When the rain let up we wandered back to the beach and played dominoes over bowls of Thai soup. After that, a little more wandering, and then smoothies, Thai pancakes, and massages. No embarrassing mishaps this time around. The girls called Bryson very handsome, and it's not the first time. We're a hit in Thailand, it seems.

It's funny how we nearly left Phuket in the beginning without even an explore-through, and now I'd certainly say this has been one of the best legs of our trip. However, we must be moving onward, although the journey smacks of Our minibus/bus ride to Surat Thani and then Bangkok starts at one p.m. We arrive at five a.m. You do the math.

Bryson is a good helper.

This one was less pornographic.

2005-09-26T07:03:00.000-07:00

He's Haunting Me

This was on the ceiling of a tuk-tuk I rode in today. I thought it looked like Sky.

2005-09-25T04:51:00.001-07:00

What A Day

Our hotel room in Patong, Phuket, is far too comfortable. For seven dollars each a night, we've got air conditioning, hot water, clean sheets, and a television with HBO. It was difficult to get up in the morning, especially when we looked outside and saw our precious sunshine had vanished, and trees all chaotic in the wind. So we wandered downstairs to 7-eleven, bought some of this and some of that for about three dollars, and went back upstairs to watch School of Rock.

After, we felt guilty and cabin-feverish, and so we took an hours-long walk through the city and along the beach. We realized out hotel is in a much quieter and more local part of Patong. We found shopping malls with wares ranging from tacky souvenirs to forty dollar Nautica shirts, arcades filled with shops, and rows and rows of go-go bars. I always wonder what would happen if Bryson and I sat down together to have a drink. Plenty of shit-talking in Thai, possibly, depending on the type of girl.

Thai people, in general, have been some of the friendliest I've ever encountered, unless they're trying to sell something, in which case they're just aggressive and irritating. Central American people were friendly too. It often seems like the less people have, the nicer they are. Even if, theoretically, they have more of a reason to be bitter and crabby. Although I don't speak Thai, so I never know for sure if there's any aspersions being muttered.

They call this place the land of smiles. It's true I've been smiling much more frequently, at almost every stranger I see (or at least the women and children). What I usually receive, especially with girls my age or younger and children, is a great big grin in return. I've smiled down from bus windows at schoolgirls, and they've reacted in such obvious delight that I've felt warm all over. What a way to spread goodwill from country to country, smiling.

In the basement of one of the malls we encountered our first supermarket, although it was maybe a fifth the size of a Ralph's or Von's back home. Bryson had a craving for peanut butter and jelly, randomly. So we spent a couple bucks on sandwich makings and took them to some steps beside the beach. It was still windy, sand flying everywhere, sand in our peanut butter, but relaxing in a strange sort of blustery way.

We watched people go by, and a good deal of them were white-guy/young Thai girl couples. Each pair was fascinating, and we couldn't help but check them out.

When I look at the guy, I'm observing exactly what type of guy he is, to pay for a hooker. How old, how young, how ugly, how normal. Is he wearing a wedding ring, an emblem of someone betrayed? Is he acting furtive, as if he's ashamed? When I look at the girl, I'm asessing how pretty she is-- how lucky is he to have nabbed her? What is the difference in their ages? And most of all, does she look happy?

Usually, it's hard to tell.

2005-09-25T04:48:00.000-07:00

Internet Cafes

I love backpacking in the twenty-first century. I get to go home for a little bit every day.

2005-09-24T09:06:00.000-07:00

I Laughed for Entire Minutes

Today, we had massages. It was my fourth, Bryson's sixth. You'd think he'd have better decorum.

The girls usually pull a curtain around the mattresses, and then offer a pair of loose Thai pants. The better to massage you with, my dear. These girls handed us the pants and hung around. Bryson dropped his jeans and began to pull the pants on over his boxer-briefs, but one of the girls stopped him, motioning him to take off his underwear too.

Bryson paused a second. Then right there, in front of God and everybody, he pulled off his underwear.

And let me tell you, his shirt was not long enough, if you know what I mean.

The girls shrieked. I shrieked. "Bryson, what are you doing!?" Pink-faced, Bryson hid his stuff while the girls yanked the curtain shut. Then he pulled on his Thai pants, as I pounded the mattress on my hands and knees, tears burning my eyes, arrested by peals of insatiable laughter. Every five minutes during my massage, I'd remember and my stomach would pain with the effort of keeping the giggles down.

You had to be there. But you're probably glad you weren't.

2005-09-24T09:03:00.000-07:00

Speaking of Islands

Speaking of islands, I can only think of ten that I've been to. In backwards order, they are as follows: Phuket, Koh Phi Phi, Koh Tao, Koh Samui, Koh Chang, Caye Caulker, Utila, Catalina, Victoria, and Grand Bahama. I'm not counting the British isles, or anything small and uninhabited. It just doesn't seem like that many, although they span six countries. Anyone else have a tally they'd like to offer?

2005-09-24T08:21:00.000-07:00

Island Number Five

Bryson and I arrived on Phuket, Thailand's largest island and most touristy, yesterday afternoon. The boat we'd voyaged in on turned out to be an enormous tour boat, peopled by vacationers who had only come to Phi Phi for the half-day and were then returning to their resorts on Phuket. Thus, the port we docked upon turned out to be small and specifically oriented towards these richer tourists. There were no songtaews, the pickup taxis, or anything of that sort. Only expensive taxis and busses pre-filled with tour groups. We were being accosted from every side, and for a stressful half-hour we even considered finding a boat to take us to another island.

But there weren't any leaving from that stupid port, and so at last we relented and climbed in a taxi to one of the big beaches, Patong. This was an American-caliber taxi, and its cost was comparable as well. In Central America, me and my posse rode in shuddering jalopies with springs poking out of the cushions, swaying crucifixes, and machetes under the seats. Not that I prefer that, but we're budgeting here, dang it.

Patong turned out to be quite lovable, however, and I'm glad we didn't hightail it out on a boat to wherever. It was also crash-banged by the tsunami, most devastatingly, because there's so much crammed right onto the beach. Beautiful bungalows, high-rise resorts, seafood restaurants, pushcarts selling deep-friend you-name-it, and everywhere, tourists and Thais, on beach towels, beach chairs, wandering.

Most of the seafront buildings are in stages of part-built, but the beach itself is as lively as ever. We happen to be here during a tsunami-art celebration weekend, and all the grass beside the beach is decorated by sculpture. Some of it's odd and even questionable, but some pieces are thought-provoking. All the onlookers seemed jarred by the abstract collage of tsunami photos, thick with gesso and shades of brown, and by the clips from post-wave emails on the other side.

Today, after spending an unforgivable fifteen dollars on last night's meal, decided to try and only spend 500 baht today on food. Combined. That's about $12.50. Six bucks each. And you know what? it's ten-thirty in the evening now, and I thing we made it. Patong may be touristy, but among the resorts and tourist pubs there's a bustling local sphere that's even more enticing. It's like reading between the lines.

All day we doffed the restaurants for the pushcarts, and we tried many things we might never have. Plus, we gave our money to the people who need it most. Many of the people touting fare on the beach don't even have pushcarts; they balance a contraption on a wooden beam across their shoulders, with something heavy on either side, even the women. It must be horrendous. Over the course of the day we ate boiled peanuts, fresh mango with salt and sugar and chile, cream corn pastries, Thai pancakes, Tom Yam soup with fish, and an eclectic seafood-noodle salad. Bryson also ate chicken sausage, and a grilled chicken thigh with the foot still attached.

Tomorrow, I have no desire to go back to the restaurants. Our culinary adventures are too much fun, and much cheaper too.

2005-09-22T23:08:00.000-07:00

Hot

Waiting for the ferry to take us to Phuket. it's hellishly hot out today, and my tender skin can't take it. I just had an Ovaltine shake, which sounds gross but is actually really refreshing. Now we're killing time. That's about all there is to say.

2005-09-22T07:30:00.000-07:00

I Love This Dog

Look At What We Do For You People

2005-09-22T07:02:00.000-07:00

Okay, This Time I Really Dove

Today was our big diving day, and to our grand appreciation the sky was perfect, even more cloudless than yesterday. We made sure to saturate ourselves with sunscreen and stayed under the canopy. Skin cancer just ain't our thing, and we're still pinkish from the snorkeling trip.

Although visibility wasn't as clear as I had hoped, the coral was teeming with life, and thus there was no dearth of joys to behold. Our first dive, around the Koh Phi Phi Le cliffs, included a swim through a narrow cavern. It was incredible, though just a tad claustrophobic. When we came out, there was a strong current inundating in the opposite direction, and we had to swim into it. After yesterday's swimming my thighs were complaining, and we all used up a good deal of air with our panting.

The second dive, off a couple cliffy islands a little farther out, was even better. There were so many fantastic varieties of fish, I can't even begin to describe. When you're down there, you're soaring over universes and universes, made up of worlds that go on infinitely. Your eyes are zooming in on little event-fragments: a school of silvery fish swimming from something; a clown fish dipping in and out of its anemone host; a needly field of sea urchins; a vast page of fan coral, rooted by giant clams; two sea-green parrotfish, swirling around each other as if they're dancing. Fragment after fragment, and they goes on and on, and they're going on endlessly all over the bottom of the ocean.

We saw a scorpionfish, or stonefish, the most venomous thing on earth, so I've heard. We saw a cuttlefish, which are funny guys when they're living. The beach at Koh Tao was strewn with their corpses, the oblong bone that remains, which we buy at Petsmart for our birds to gnaw at. We saw lionfish, those fascinating poisonous wonders, striped with tragic spikes. In quick instants, we saw a moray eel and a manta ray. Best of all, we saw our first shark. Not a common reef shark, but a beautiful leopard shark, reclining in a sandy place. We hovered over him for a few minutes, in awe.

Even though there was mayonnaise on my sandwich, the dive shop was great, and the second dive, my ninth overall, was the best I've ever done. That shark. I wonder what he's doing now, or whom he's eating.

Tomorrow afternoon we leave this heavenly place for Phuket, which might be the most touristy place in Thailand, after the sex trade capital of Pattaya. We plan on doing a jungle trek in the national park opposite the island, if possible. Then, back to Bangkok, and then, off to Cambodia for a few days. Then shopping in Bangkok. Then, Sky.

That was a pun, if you didn't get it. You might not.

2005-09-21T07:13:00.000-07:00

What You Like?

There's this guy with a grill cart in between here and our room, and it's the most absurdly stocked thing ever. Besides your usual chicken, fish, beef and pork kabobs, there's fish cakes, fried calamari, deep fried chicken wings, whole charred catfish, hot dogs, and a good deal of stuff I can't even recognize. All on sticks. And there are two new developments from yesterday evening:

1. Grilled squid. The entire squid, head and beak and tentacles and all. On a stick, naturally.

2. Little roasted birds. They actually look exactly like plucked, roasted chicken, the kind you buy at Vons under the heater for about seven bucks. However, these guys would fit in the palm of your hand. Upon seeing them, Bryson exclaimed, "Look! Mini chickens!" Then he looked at me. "Not chickens," he concluded. We think it's unfortunate but likely that they might be roasted black and yellow pesty birds, the kind we enjoy looking at and not eating.

2005-09-21T06:53:00.000-07:00

Kick It

Last night Bryson and I ordered a whiskey bucket, which consisted of a smallish bottle of Song Sem (Thai whiskey), two cokes, two glasses, and a bucket of ice, and we sat ringside for a kickboxing match at a local club. The two Irish guys sitting with us convinced us that it was all fixed, but it was fun to watch. No blood.

One Fish, Two Fish

Today we splurged fifteen dollars each on a day-long snorkeling trek that was exceedingly worth it. It took us all around this island and the next, pausing for snorkeling breaks at a variety of sensational places. We did get to see Maya Beach, and the beach itself is just a tiny strip of sand, although the lagoon is lovely. Apparently The Beach filmmakers must have shot a different beach, and then shot the lagoon as if the two were connected. Hollywood is magical, yes?

Back on the dock we were lucky enough to realize that the fish here go wild for banana fragments, and so we stuffed some small ones in the pocket of Bryson's swim trunks before we jumped in. While other snorkelers merely hovered over the elusive fishies, they literally swarmed around us, in beautiful arcs, dozens of different species nipping our bananas and our fingers. We had purchased an underwater disposable camera that almost cost as much as one snorkeling ticket, but that'll be worth it as well if the pictures turn out.

The sky was perfect all day, bright blue with billowy clouds, and despite our sunscreen we both left the boat with stinging sunburns.

2005-09-20T06:08:00.000-07:00

Going and Going and. . .

Bryson and I survived a cross-peninsula trek that turned out to be pretty insane. We didn't know what to expect of the night boat, and if the boat had been full, they would have been horrendous. The entire upper story of a medium-sized boat was wall to wall with mattresses, in two rows on the floor, with a pathway towards the bathroom in between. The mattresses were really foam pads covered by sheets, about half the width of a typical twin bed. Edge to edge. Which means if the boat had been full, we would have been hips to heads to elbows with stinky strangers. I can't even sleep on a bus or plane if I'm facing a stranger, even if it's more uncomfortable to turn away.

But luck was on our side, and the boat was half empty. Bryson slept across from me, and we took up two flimsy mattresses each. We doped ourselves silly with Thai Dramamine and fell into restless sleep.

Eight hours later, we were woken in still-darkness to clamber off the boat. Next came a bus that, following several long and dilatory hiatuses, took us to the dock just in time to miss the boat to Koh Phi Phi. It was three hours until the next. We waited it out in a cafe, which wasn't so bad. I read an entire book, House of Sand and Fog, this morning (depressing as all get out). after that. a pickup taxi took us to a different dock, although I'm unsure why, and we zipped in a stuffy boat cabin with dozens of other people out to Koh Phi Phi.

This Beach

I might of mentioned this earlier, but Koh Phi Phi is where The Beach was filmed. Not on the larger island where we're staying, Koh Phi Phi Don, but on the smaller, uninhabited and more spectacular one, Koh Phi Phi Le. KPP Don was absolutely devastated by the tsunami. Most of the newsfeed we Americans got from Thailand came from here, or from the enormous neighboring island, Phuket.

I've been drawn to this island ever since I heard of it, curious to see both its legendary beauty, and the aftermath of the tsunami. It's been nine months now, and word on the street was that it's all been cleaned up rather well by now.

This coast is strewn with islands that look far different than those on the other coast. There they were more volcanic looking, cone-shaped and woodsy. Here they're big rocky, rectangular wedges jabbing out of the sea, often at impossible angles. It's a dreamworld. As the boat pulled up to dock at KPP Don, everyone on the boat was in awe. The beach itself is littered by rocks, and the sand is more tan than white. But it was the sheer immensity of the cliffs that was so jarring, the improbable shapes, the contrast of limestone and granite and blue water and green forest.

We dodged all the people at the dock accosting us and touting guesthouses, as we always do, preferring to find our own. The Island is a crazy amoeba-blob with a thin part in the middle that is the main village. It only takes a couple minutes to cross it. When we reached the far side, hoping for a pretty beach, all we found was a sort of wasteland, of garbage and rocks, debris and buildings that looked bombed out. We looked and we knew. We knew it had to be.

Walking back through town, it was obvious that many of the shop-strips were brand new. The roof shingles were perfect, the cement freshly poured.

We hoped, of course, that the jewelry (not the Brad kind) here would be less expensive than elsewhere, but unfortunately that's not the case. I bought my sister a gorgeous bracelet I probably could have purchased for half the price in Bangkok. Yet we know that this island needs the money, and spending here is the best thing we can do. Some of the shopkeepers even have signs pleading in English, "Please, I just reopened my shop, I have three children and nothing else, the tsunami took everything."

The tide was startlingly low this evening, and we took a walk out on the crunchy seafloor rocks to look for living things. There were little fish that clung to the bottom, little crabs, and little else. As I walked over crumbled shells and fragments of pale coral, I couldn't help but think of bones.

2005-09-19T03:12:00.000-07:00

So on and So Forth

Halfway through this shaken-out grey sheet of a day, and I'm back on the internet while Bryson's having a massage.

We were afraid that the sea would be too rough for the boat, but fortunately the wind has died down and the boat will indeed be departing. Bryson has a cold and so he's been in a pretty rotten mood.

The forecast for Krabi and Phuket, where we were heading in hopes of sunshine, have scattered thunderstorms for their five-day forecasts. We knew this might happen when we made the decision to come during rainy season. I'm trying to be thankful for the three days of beach-sun we got to enjoy.

2005-09-18T23:09:00.000-07:00

Ouch

I miss my dog so much it hurts. I was doing okay, but last night he padded into my brain and now I can't stop thinking about him. I know he's fine where he is, and he's being loved by human and dog alike, but I can't help but feel guilty that my leaving caused him any level of pain and distress.

Besides that, I'm bored senseless. It's mucky and windy outside, and the sea is a mess. Bryson and I don't leave until this evening; however, we had to check out at ten am. Now it's only one, and we've got our backpacks with us, and we're running out of things to do. Everything in this small island town is oriented towards the outdoors. If it was sunny and the sea was safe, we'd be kayaking or snorkeling, maybe diving again, or hiking the length of the island. Instead, we're stuck hopping from restaurant to restaurant, drinking fruit shakes until we feel sick. Internet here is also triple the cost it is on the big islands, or on the mainland, and so I can't even putter around on here very long. Bleh.

I'm just hoping the Andaman coast is experiencing a delightfully dry spell. We've already missed out on a number of things we wanted to do because of the weather. And who knows when we'll ever get back.

2005-09-18T07:44:00.000-07:00

This Blog is Crawling With Photos!!

Scroll and Scroll and Check the archives!!

2005-09-18T07:29:00.000-07:00

I Dove I Dove I Dove

Today we went scuba diving! It's been far too long. We sprung for the refresher course, which was taught half in a boat and half underwater, at a place called Japanese Gardens swarming with fish. By the end the sea was too choppy to dive a second time, and so we're saving to dive on the Andaman coast. And yes, that's where the tsunami hit. We're taking a night boat there tomorrow.

The boat back to shore was the craziest kind of adventure, nearly capsizing over and over. But it was all in goodfun, right? It's difficult to be scared when you can see the shore the whole time, and when you've just gotten out of the water anyway.

Tonight is the night of the full moon party, on the next island over. We're not there. But everyone else is, and thus this island is quiet. Bryson looked over at me at dinner tonight and said, "I feel like an old couple. Everyone else here is old."

But really, any regret I feel is contrived. I don't like that kind of thing unless I'm with my girlfriends, and even then I'm not into tons of strangers, into being hit on by dreadlocked stinkers, into psychedelic drugs. So it's okay that I'm here, in this internet cafe, instead of at one of the biggest parties in the world. Really.

2005-09-18T07:28:00.000-07:00

Scary

2005-09-18T07:07:00.000-07:00

Forever and Ever and Ever

It's tragic, what I'm forgetting. It's all happening so fast! No, but seriously. After we'd spent a few hours at Maenom, we rode homeward and stopped halfway at Big Buddha Beach. By then we weren't interested in the beach. Big Buddha is an enormous golden sculpture of Buddha, even larger than the Shiva shrine. At the base was a Buddhist monk in mustard-colored robes offering bricks and tiles to write on, for a donation. Since the temple around the Buddha was in a continuous state of construction, the bricks and tiles would be used in the building of it, and the messages upon them would forever be part of something holy. Bryson and I were in a very sweet mood.

Kirsten Loves Animals

After that, we decided to visit the crocodile farm by the airport. Since the admission was the equivalent of about six American dollars, I was skeptical at first, but then I saw monkeys in the distance. Since I'm a sucker for monkeys (just ask Bryson), I forked over.

The show itself was worth it. We sat behind a fence around a pool of water, with a cement island in the center, inhabited by five crocodiles. The rest of the audience consisted of two backpacker girls, and three white man/hooker couples. We proceeded to shout, squeal, and joyfully applaud as an ebullient Thai guy dragged the crocs around by their tails, rode them, reached in and opened up their throats (odd), and finally stuck his head inside the largest one's mouth.

Afterward, I was allowed to touch its tail.

The rest of the place was set up like a zoo. A dingy, sad zoo, although probably a nicer one by Thailand standards. The monkeys were housed in smallish cages, although the swingers, the ones with prehensile everythings, seemed to be having a grand old time. The other were crab-eaters, the exact kind that carried the Ebola virus into Washington and had to be put down by the hundreds. I'm not obsessed with Ebola, I swear. Anyway, for a couple of baht we could reach into a bin filled with bananas and lychees, and then offer them to the monkeys. They'd accept anything right out of our hands. They were so human they made my stomach lurch.

2005-09-17T18:42:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-17T18:30:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-17T18:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-17T01:39:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-14T01:32:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-14T01:02:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-13T07:38:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-13T07:24:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-11T23:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-11T23:17:00.000-07:00

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.

2005-09-11T23:10:00.000-07:00

Check This Out

2005-09-10T20:19:00.000-07:00

This Crazy City

We're back in Bangkok, because it seems you can't get from one place to another without a pit stop in Thailand's uproarious crossroads. Tomorrow evening, we'll embark on a night bus down the narrow southwestern strip and ferry across to Ko Samui, an island Bryson had been to. It's a much wilder, more boisterous place than Ko Chang, but luckily Ko Tao, a simple hop over and our subsequent stop, is more relaxed.

I Can't Stop Looking

The prostitutes here absolutely fascinate me. Before arriving in Thailand, I had this vision of Thai girls dressed in provocative outfits, gyrating under red lights for the pleasure of Western soldiers. Muggy hotel rooms, rushed couplings.

I'm sure there are places like that, many of them, littering crowded Bangkok streets I have not been to. However, the business is far more intricate and emotionally complex than I had realized.

On the night of our arrival, when Bryson and I were camping out in the downstairs bar and waiting for daylight, I saw my first hookers. They were startlingly normal-looking. Dressed in outfits much less showy than anything you'd find in a Gaslamp nightclub, two or three of them were hanging around a nearby table with several European guys. The whole group was talking and laughing, and all present seemed to be having a hell of a great time. Yet on our way to bed that night, I noticed a handwritten sign dictating: No Thai Peoples Allowed In Hotel Rooms.

On Ko Chang Bryson and I rented a motorbike, and we sped up and down the hilly road that loops the island, stopping for views and taking loads of pictures (below). On our way back home from our massages (another story), we passed by a large nightclub, ringed by blazing pink lights. "Did I tell you?" Bryson called back to me, over his shoulder. "Pink means go-go bars. Pink means hookers." I glanced back and my eyes hooked around the face of one girl in particular. She was gazing out at the road, expressionless.

Last night I came down with the migraine that had been threatening me all day. There's a monster living inside my skull, I explained to Bryson, and sometimes he wakes up. When he does, he's furious.

In accordance with my requests for the most subdued evening activity possible, we sprawled on our backs in the sand while the sun began to set over the water. Whenever anyone went by, I'd prop myself up on one elbow to watch, clutching my temple with my free hand. Eventually. group of four approached, kicking a soccer bar along the edge of the surf. There were two white guys and two Thai girls, skipping and slapping up footfulls of water, throwing their arms around each other, laughing. I pointed them out to Bryson, and together we watched the show.

"I get it," I said suddenly. "But it's so much different than I'd thought."

"What is?" Bryson asked.

"The hookers," I said. "They're just like girlfriends, for a time. They're having so much fun, they both can fool themselves that the girl's not getting paid."

Walking to dinner that night, I noticed several other white men coupled up with Thai girls, always walking hand in hand, or with their arms around each other. Then, this morning I witnessed a poignant moment. We were waiting at the side of the road for a pick-up taxi to offer us a ride down to the dock. Beside us were an Irish guy, about our age, and a pretty Thai girl with high cheekbones and a short skirt. The guy had his backpack at his feet and his hand curved around her waist. The girl looked as if she was about to cry. We couldn't make out their words, but it was obvious they were exchanging difficult goodbyes. If we had been anywhere besides Thailand, I'd have thought they were simply a parting late summer fling, not a hooker and her john.

When we finally hailed a taxi, we were crammed in beside three white guys, each sitting beside a Thai girl. One guy, with a garish tattoo of Wales on his arm, was sharing a loudmouthed monologue with the others.

"I come back as much as possible," I heard him say. "We have a little girl together."

There's a story here. There's a whole book of stories, a whole shelf of novels. And they're different books than I'd thought they were.

2005-09-09T20:39:00.000-07:00

Bryson finished The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, and now he's well into The Hot Zone. I'm so proud. He's even suggested, "tonight, why don't we just lay around somewhere and read?" This coming from a boy who's read nothing but computer code and emails over the year since our last trip. Hooray!!

2005-09-09T00:11:00.000-07:00

Attacked!!

Yes, Bryson and I were attacked last night.

It all started when the ferry docked on Ko Chang and left us to the clutches of island taxis, which are pickup trucks with benches and roofs, that the drivers squeeze unearthly numbers of sweaty backpackers inside. Our particular brood of sweaty backpackers were unanimously eager to ride halfway around the island to Lonely Beach, and stay at an "extremely basic" backpacker paradise called Treehouse.

Bryson and I were up for anything, and so we went along. The road runs along the beachfront developments on one side and these enormous, volcanic mountains craggy with rainforest on the other. By the time we pulled up, it was raining again.

We followed the other backpackers down a muddy, puddle-pocked path to the Treehouse, which was indeed extremely basic. The cabin offered to us was constructed mainly of bamboo, and the single weak light bulb did little to make it feel accommodating. A bright blue sheet of mosquito netting guarded the mattress, which was slightly greyed, set one step up from the floor. We accepted the room, for by then it was dark and we had no choice. It was absurdly cheap: 100 baht, which is two dollars and fifty cents. For the both of us.

The common area was amazing, albeit rustic, with low tables, rugs and mats to sit on, and hammocks to read in while the rain shattered down. There were no walls, and a large wet deck overlooked a rocky stretch of sea and a fraction of the archipelago beyond. The food was the cheapest and best I've ever had while traveling. That night we shared barbequed red snapper, corn on the cob, and garlic bread with melted cheese--- not very Thai, I'm afraid, but so good---and the next morning, after our ordeal, we shared deep fried tofu with sweet and sour sauce, curried vegetables with more tofu (I'm turning Bryson away from meat, I swear) and a "Treehouse Pancake", which was more of a crepe wrapped around pineapple and bananas, with nuts, fresh coconut, and sweet milk on top.

We sat and had a conversation after dinner with two Australian girls, who had been volunteering in Sri Lanka during the tsunami. They spoke about it as if their words were programmed (which they admitted), although their story was very affecting. They were on a bus, and they first report they heard from the driver was that there had been a small tidal wave and one person had died. Understatement of the year. Their town was devastated, and they thought the end of the world had come; at least, when they could think--- at first, all they felt was shock, or vomit-shock, as one girl said.

Anyway, we decided to go to bed around nine. We hiked back to our cabin, unexcited about the prospect of sleeping in it, especially because the light bulb was so dim that we couldn't see the bugs. In addition, the bathrooms were quite a hike away.

Luckily, w slept okay, although we did have to brave it to the bathrooms a couple times. By five I was wide awake, although Bryson was still sleeping. I had no light to read by, and so I played games in my head. First, I went through the alphabet, naming and animal for every letter. They I did it with countries. Then cities. Yes, I was extremely bored.

I decided to get something out of our smallest backpack, and so I reached under the mosquito netting and hauled it in. All of a sudden, I was being bitten. I smacked at my forearms, my shoulders, my feet. Whatever they were, they were even biting my fingertips. I screamed Bryson awake. "There's mosquitoes everywhere!" I yelled. He sat up and began slapping at his ankles.

"Did you open the mosquito netting?" he demanded.

"Only enough to bring in the backpack," I cried.

He looked at the backpack. "They're all over it!!"

We hurled it off the bed and outside the netting. However, where the backpack had lain, our sheet was swarming---with ants.

It turns out we had set the backpack, filled with snacks, as well as my camera and both our money belts, upon an easily accessible shelf. The ants were in every pocket, in every crevice, and swirled over the shelf in a hungry black sheet. Our big backpacks were on the ground, and to our relief, none got inside those, as well as our clothing that had been hanging from bamboo spikes. But cleaning the backpack by the pale dawning light was a painful (literally) ordeal. The thing was filled with four different types of ants, devouring our food in an endearing symbiosis.

1. Grease ants, or what my mother calls piss ants (because they are yellowish and trails of them look like you-know what), the absurdly tiny ones that can squeeze into sealed jars.

2. Weird, medium-sized ants with long spidery legs, that lift their butts up in the air and wiggle them when you look close.

3. Red ants.

4. Giant ants of terror!! Black, at the minimum half an inch long, with vicious-looking mouth-talons and curvy claw-like legs.

By eight, after lots of shaking and slapping and the implementation of a good deal of DEET, we had salvaged our possessions and the backpack as well. But immediately after breakfast, we fled to the main road and hailed a ride to take us back to the touristy beach, packed with bungalows, and for the most part, ant-free.

You'd think this place was paradise. Sadly, we forgot to take picture of the inside.

Stormy

After a six hour bus ride yesterday, we were rained in at the ferry station for an hour. The monsoons are so powerful, at times, that they render everyone around us speechless, even people who are Thai and who must be used to the storms by now. Luckily, the weather is usually decent in between, and today Bryson and I got to swim in the bathwarm sea under a partially cloudy sky.

Thai Toilets

The basins are on the ground. You drop your pants, place your feet in the grooves, and squat. There's never any toilet paper, and to flush, you dip a bowl of water from a trough beside the toilet and pour it in repeatedly. Also, mosquitoes.

2005-09-07T17:38:00.000-07:00

Jet Lag Can Kiss My Ass

Immediately after my last post, Bryson and I went back to our room and fells asleep for four hours. Then we forced ourselves to get up and go to dinner. I had tomato soup, intensely flavorful. This was no Campbell's. Thai people seem to prefer foods designed to electrocute your taste buds.

Afterward, we forced ourselves to sleep though the night, which was a strenuous endeavor, since it was daytime in the states, and there was that boisterous club/cafe below us. Halfway through the night we remembered to take our malaria pills. An hour later, I woke up and scurried to the bathroom to throw it up. No fun at all. I hope I had already absorbed most of it.

Now we're catching a bus (air-conditioned. . . we're not the truest of true backpackers, really) to Ko Chang, as I mentioned before. I'm going to run right in the ocean.

2005-09-06T22:43:00.000-07:00

We Made it

I am feeling very loopy right now. My circadian rhythms have gone bonkers. It's one in the afternoon here, but it's eleven in the evening back in California.

We arrived at Kao Sahn Road, the madcap backpacker's ghetto, at about two-thirty in the morning. Because it was noon at home, we weren't sleepy enough to pay extra for a room that night, and so we sat around eating weird deep fried won tons wraped around American cheese, tofu soup, and rum and super-sweet cokes. We hung out with our waiter and thought he was a swell guy until he threatened me with a knife---jokingly, of course, ha ha, yeah--- and then overcharged us. At six in the morning Thai time, four in the afternoon Cali-time, we got a room and slept until nine. Now, because it's bedtime at home, our bodies are winding down, protesting the sunlight.

So my writing isn't at its best, but damn if I'm going to pimp this thing out and not write in it like mad. So here's some bits and pieces of our experience so far.

The Plane

Although I have flown many times, I have never flown west from California. I thought immediately after takeoff it would be sea forever, but I forgot about the strange topography of the coastline around LA. Going west from LAX meant following an outcrop of coastline that I'd usually thought of as north. After the mountains around Malibu, there came a flat valley unfurling out to sea, patchworked by crops. A nice surprise: it was Oxnard, my hometown, something I haven't seen by air in my memorable memory.

We flew on EVA, the Taiwanese airline with the highest safety rating.

The airplane kept feeding us dinner. I had requested special vegetarian meals upon booking the tickets, and that meant steamed vegetables and rice. Over and over. They woke us up in the middle of the night to feed us. Nearly everyone on the plane would be slumbering peacefully, and then the flight attendants would flick on all the lights. Time for another dinner!

The sunset chased us all the way to Taiwan, our transfer. Daylight was remarkably long. When the sunset caught up with us, it was a brilliant strip of color along the horizon, brightening and then fading with night. The flight attendants requested we keep our windows closed, but periodically I'd risk a peek to see what the day was doing. "Ocean, huh?" Bryson joked every time, as if there was anything else. I never knew how vast the Pacific was until I flew over it.

The Airport

Flying red-eye was a great idea. Bryson kept on about the tumultuous airport lobby, packed with tourists and taxi drivers herding you into their tuk-tuks. However, upon our arrival there the place was nearly empty. We exchanged ourselves some greenbacks for a little baht. After nearly being double-charged, we found ourselves a safe taxi to Kao Sahn road.

Bangkok

Driving through Bangkok at night was much like driving through San Jose in Costa Rica, except for the swirly Thai letters on everything. It's the loveliest language I've ever seen, although it somehow reminds me of ebola.

As I mentioned above, we weathered out the night in our hostel bar/restaurant. But this morning we had the chance to walk around. Our hostel is right on the corner of Kao Sahn road and the real Thai world. Walk one way and it's ultimate backpackersville, peopled by grungy western kids in flip flops, dreadlocks, headrags, and baggy Thai pants. Walk the other and it's urban Bangkok, filled with Thai people, peddling an immense variety of unrecognizable food, nearly running each other down in taxis and tuk-tuks, yelling, laughing, going about their everyday business.

Back in California, I had mistakenly ordered contact lenses pf the wrong prescription for my left eye, and thus I came to Thailand with only one spare. The one in my eye I had already worn twice as long as recommended. Luckily, Bangkok had everything, and everything is absurdly cheap. A block from out hostel, I passed at least four eye shops advertising contacts, and the one I went into had my prescription right there. I bought two monthlies for about two-fifty each. As in two dollars and fifty cents. I have one on now, and Thailand is bright and beautiful and deliciously clear.

We had lunch on Kao Sahn Road, in a cafe that was a jungle of dark wooden beams. It was full of kittens. They were all the docked-tail type, minxes or manxes, and looked like kitty-bunny hybrids.

Bryson ordered Pad Thai, a dish which San Diego is overrun with. However, it was honestly the best I'd ever had. Nothing's like cultural dining in the place of origin. I had these thick pancakes with hot pineapples and bananas cooked right inside. How come Americans never think of that? No dish was over a dollar fifty, and bottles of water are usually around fifteen cents. It's all I can do to keep from shopping, but anything I buy I have to lug on my back for a month.

And. . .

The bathrooms have no toilet paper. It's all about keeping a couple napkins in your pocket.

Tomorrow we'll be headed to the first of the islands: Ko Chang. It's the second biggest after Phuket but not nearly as touristy, which is exactly how we like it. My last backpacking trip was much more rigid in its itinerary-- it had to be, since we were visiting six countries--but this one's so quiveringly open-ended. How exciting.

2005-09-05T12:58:00.000-07:00

A Funny Story to Tide You Over While I'm on the Plane

At Target, Bryson thought the peppers were pretty. I dared himto eat one.

After he chewed and swallowed, his expression began to change.

"My stomach's on fire!" he exclaimed.

Is this any indication of how Bryson's going to fare in Thailand, land of smiles and of notoriously spicy dining? You be the judge.

2005-09-03T12:22:00.000-07:00

A Disgrace

Gasp! Preparations, chaos, Bryson-directed irritation. And then, this interview (Thanks, Danielle). Listen to it and see if you aren't choked up by the end. Pay special attention to what he says about God, and to the name, "New Orleans" sparking international recognition.

At least all the Americans I'll meet on this trip will be my kind of people. Nearly all backpackers are open-minded. They have to be, to do what they do.

2005-09-01T17:24:00.000-07:00

This brought tears to my eyes. ..
http://neworleans.craigslist.org/vol/

And have you seen this yet? I'm astounded! Appalled!

"The images below are screen shots of two different 'Yahoo! News Photo' pages posted on Tuesday. Although the captions are provided by two different services (the one on the left by the Associated Press, the one on the right by AFP/Getty Images), I found the wording used to describe two identical scenarios (with one obvious variable)... 'interesting.'"

1st Image- http://img358.imageshack.us/my.php?image=blackloot7wf.jpg

2nd Image- http://img361.imageshack.us/my.php?image=whitefind3hi.jpg

Wow, is really all I can say. Wow, wow, wow.

2005-09-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

One of the headlines on MSN today announced, "Gas Prices Leap 50 Cents in a Single Day".
I saw it and freaked out. I hurled Sky(my dog) in the car and took off to my trusty Arco station, expecting the worst. Luckily, unleaded prices were still under three dollars, hovering in the mid three-nineties. It's very sad to consider those prices "lucky", but that's where we stand today.

Luckiest for me: I ain't payin' for gas for an entire month! I just hope I don't arrive back in California faced with five dollar gallons.

My next car will be a hybrid. I'm such a hypocrite, with my SUV. I have these boycotts I take so seriously (only cage-free eggs; only spayed pound mutts, like Sky; no meat other than fish and free-range chicken; no killing of anything that's not directly biting me or my dog; no leather; no Procter and Gamble; no WalMart) but I'm still contributing to global catastrophes in my own quiet ways. I drive an Explorer. I only buy organic if it's inexpensive or more convenient. The other day, I bought a cheapie watch to take to Thailand. It's leather, and it came from WalMart. Strike one, strike two. Although I did visit Target, Savon, BigLots and Longs before I entered the devil's doors---all in the same day---the sinister whistling happy face got me in the end.

And I just learned, within the same minute than I am typing this, that Proter and Gamble now owns Iams dog food. I just bought a big sack of it. If you don't know what these guys do, click here. They own about half of everything, from Clairol to Pantene to Vidal Sassoon; from Cover Girl to Max Factor to Oil of Olay; From Pampers to Secret to Gillette; from Folgers to Pringle to Sunny Delight; from Tide to Febreze to Mr. Clean; from Scope to Ivory to Crest (full list). They own so many brands that the only way to truly boycott them is to remember to check the back of every single product you buy. There is always an alternative, and I mean that in multiple ways.

All this madness can seem so overwheming cumulatively that I want to go crawl in a cave, somewhere, and shrug it all out of my existence. Then again, maybe we should all crawl back in caves, initiate a new cave-culture. Maybe the entire world would be better off.

2005-08-29T11:49:00.000-07:00

Did I Tell the Potatoes Story Yet?

Because the digital camera I recieved for christmas last year is malfunctioning, and I have about twenty-five bars to shoot pictures of for AOL before I leave in one week, I went to staples.com a couple days ago and bought myself a brand new digital camera. It's one of the nicest things I've ever owned. I'm serious. I'm a Target Clearance shelf/ Buffalo Exchange/ coupon clippin' shopper for the most part, and I never purchase anything state-of-the-art. I usually think it's a waste of money to do so, since everything tends to depreciate. Plus, I'd rather work that much less and write that much more.

This is also the first time I've ever owned some kind of electronic that beats out Bryson. Bryson, although he has what I consider a very good attitude about money (he saves, budgets, invests, and only splurges on stocks and sushi), is spoiled more rotten than a six-month old sack of potatoes. True, he has worked since age sixteen, serving pizzas, handing out fliers, dancing to "Wild Wild West" and handing out bibs at Joe's Crab Shack. However, when it comes to electronics, Bryson owns at least one of everything, and somehow he always gets around having to buy these things himself. I'm talking about a guy with three laptops, four servers, two desktop computers, a Microsoft media center, two flat screen monitors, a tablet PC, a PDA, an XBOX, a digital video camera, three digital cameras over the last few years, and so on and so on, blah blah blah.

Out of all that madness, he paid for half of one of the laptops.

But am I bitter? No! Because I get to play with everything!

And I have a new camera! 6.2 megapixels! In-camera red-eye removal! Panorama mode! 24x total zoom! A nice piece of equipment! Which I bought all by myself, simply by serving martinis to creeps, teaching English to kids who don't speak English, and taking notes in dodgy North Park bars. Problem is, Bryson's trying to convince me to bring it to Thailand. He brought his to Central America, and these past couple weeks it's been malfunctioning as well. I argue that his mommy bought him his, no holiday necessary, so it was much easier to gamble. Losing mine would be simply tragic. And I got it for a simply stellar deal, a $377 camera for $229, limited time only. I couldn't get that again, not until after a couple years of depreciation. Anyone have an opinion?

2005-08-28T23:42:00.000-07:00

A Tempermental Gila Monster

In honor of our trip, Bryson and I watched The Beach tonight. Have you seen it? On movies-mecca site www.rottentomatoes.com, the film scored a pathetic 18%.

I have found that I usually agree with the aggregate consensus of the critics. War of the Worlds, for example, scored 72%, which correlates with how I feel about the film. Parts of it were so spectacular I found myself saying, "Wow!" out loud (nerd). However, the end was absurdly sweet, tied up with a nice plump bow. I really wish they'd killed off the son. I could have handled it.

I would not, however, have given The Beach an 18%. I actually enjoyed it quite a bit. Maybe because the whole time I was watching it, ecstatic emotions were percolating inside my chest. I saw madcap Khao San Road in Bangkok and thought, I'm going to be there. I saw the pale green lagoon at Koh Phi Phi and thought, I'm going to swim in that. How could I help it?

Besides that, the premise of the film (or book, which I began reading at sixteen on a Europe trip and left in some hotel in France, half-finished) is so innovative and fascinating, I feel actual anger that I didn't come up with it. A Thai beach peopled by jaded backpackers, accessible only by following the scrawlings on a esoteric map. Crazed weed farmers. Red-hot red tide hanky panky. Death by shark bite, gunshot, nose plugging, wrist slitting, and sharpened bamboo booby trap.

I do recommend this film, if you haven't already seen it and despised it of your own accord. I also recommend this, to ameliorate your experience: Tune out most of Richard's voice-over, and space out during the middle chunk where he temporarily loses his mind. Make sure you leave the room as soon as the video game sequence commences. And for the love of God, bite your cheeks when Leo hisses at the backpacker girl in the marijuana field., just like a tempermental Gila monster.

2005-08-26T13:52:00.000-07:00

Countdown

This trip isn't real. It's up close knocking and my insides are swollen by stress, instigated by things that have nothing to do with Thailand. My life is a countdown.

I've always lived like that, counting down. Days until the weekend, a midterm, a trip; long hours until Bryson gets home, or too-short hours until a looming shift. There's always something to wait for, to worry about. And there's always hordes of things that nag and pinch, crammed into the time in between.

2005-08-10T17:19:00.000-07:00

Commander Allen

A while back, Bryson and I had a lovely time picking out a plant for his desk. However, soon it was plagued by little fruit flies, who wandered though the office building, bothering the bosses, inconveniencing the accountant, lambasting the lawyer. Bug spray was only a minor relief. At last, the vice president informed him that the plant simply had to go.

Bryson emailed him in reply.

The chemical war has only recently begun on the beloved plant that shares our office. Since day one of chemical combat, there has been dramatic decrease in enemy flies in the area.

I can almost hear the screams of the dying foe:

"My wings are melting. . . I'm going blind. . . "
"All the children are dead. . . "
"Ahhhhhhh. . . How can we ever procreate?”

If this plant has to go all is lost! The rest of this week is all that is asked for the battle to be won. If by then we are not victorious then a white flag shall be drawn.

Please have a heart, support the cause and let there be life!

Eagerly awaiting your reply,

Commander Allen

Well, I thought it was funny.

2005-08-05T10:38:00.000-07:00

I had a nightmare last night.

It's apalling, how your mind can create something so terrible you're jarred out of the deepest sleep, panting and trembling.

The setup isn't as interesting, and it's vague anyway, so I'll skim over it. My sister and I were taking care of our Aunt's house in a strange neighborhood. In the daytime, a young man in glasses came to the door. I wish I remembered what he said, but something went wrong, and I ended up grabbing this small blackberry (the phone, not the fruit) thing of his and slamming him out of the house.

After that, I knew we were in grave danger.

Don't dream-days last only seconds? That dangerous feeling lasted for a while, in which Danielle and I tried to stipulate the best course of action. We knew he'd be coming back, in a rage, and we didn't know how, or where he'd break in.

Then, there was a sudden noise. . .

We turned to see a pair of legs in the fireplace. They dangled there, as if the rest of the body was still stuck in the chimney. We saw the remains of a pair of pants, ripped-up flesh. We saw torn socks saturated with blood.

This was where I woke up.

My most recent nightmare of that caliber occured a couple years back, where I was in a museum at night,and intrigued by this strange artifact in a glass case. It was an odd little face carved in a wedge of stone. When I touched the case, it flickered and for an instant, looked my way. That was when I woke up, still pictured the twisted snarl of its features.

I am ALL ABOUT writing a script for a scary movie. Oh hell yes. Anyone want to volunteer a nightmare?

2005-07-25T11:04:00.000-07:00

In case you were wondering, the song below is from a musical called "Chess", believe it or not. The guy's an amazing professional staying in Bangkok for a championship during the cold war, and his opponent's from the Soviet Union.
Here!

I love it, I love it

2005-07-23T15:48:00.000-07:00

I Didn't Know It Went Like This

Bangkok, oriental setting
And the city don't know that the city is getting
The creme de la creme of the chess world
In a show with everything but Yul Brynner
Time flies, doesn't seem a minute
Since the Tirolean spa had the chess boys in it
All change, don't you know
That when you play at this level there's no ordinary venue
It's Iceland or the Philippines or Hastings
Or, or this place

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
You'll find a God in every golden cloister
And if you're lucky then the God's a she
I can feel an angel sliding up to me

One town's very like another
When your head's down over your pieces, brother
(It's a drag, it's a bore, it's really such a pity)
(To be looking at the board, not looking at the city)
What d'ya mean
You seen one crowded, polluted, stinking town
(Tea, girls, warm and sweet, sweet)
(Some are set up in the Somerset Maugham suite)
Get Thai'd! You're talking to a tourist
Whose every move's among the purest
I get my kicks above the waistline, sunshine

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

Siam's gonna be the witness
To the ultimate test of cerebral fitness
This grips me more than would
A muddy old river or reclining Buddha
Thank God I'm only watching the game, controlling it
I don't see you guys rating
The kind of mate I'm contemplating
I'd let you watch, I would invite you
But the queens we use would not excite you
So you better go back to your bars, your temples
Your massage parlors

One night in Bangkok and the world's your oyster
The bars are temples but the pearls ain't free
You'll find a God in every golden cloister
A little flesh, a little history
I can feel an angel sliding up to me

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

Murray Head - One Night In Bangkok

2005-07-20T14:07:00.000-07:00

Wanna Bet?

I am insurance shopping. Vegas-style, I am choosing how much I am willing to gamble on the possibility of a overwhelming catastrophe.

Here is a conversation betweem Bryson and I:

Asrai Maiden (2:04:41 PM): I had this picture in my head:
Asrai Maiden (2:06:04 PM): You get a call from the hospital. It's me. "Baby," I say, in pain, "My appendix ruptured. The surgery would cost 50,000, but my insurance pays all of it but 5000. I have 3000. Will you help with the extra 2000 so I don't die?"
BigFishUCSD (2:06:50 PM): i think so
Asrai Maiden (2:06:59 PM): "Sorry," you say. "But I've already overdrawn my margin account, and there's this great new stock I want to invest in."

And they say love don't cost a thing.

2005-07-19T12:16:00.000-07:00

Why oh why am I re-reading The Hot Zone?

Have you read it? Good book. Except for the long descriptive passages where, vicariously, I feel my own back aching, my own eyes burning red, my own cells bursting, my own liver liquifying. Ebola. That is why Africa terrifies me.

What terrifies me most about Thailand? I can handle bugs, snakes, wild animals. It is people that frighten me. Not just those commiting crimes, but the tour guides and taxi drivers, the people behind me in line, the people pressed beside me on the local buses. I am especially wary of the people flying the airplanes, and the people who built the airplanes in the first place.

It's the same anywhere. Every night I work downtown, I must park east of eighth, and pass dim figures crumpled and coughing, hacking and vomiting in doorways. I must walk briskly with my bag clutched tight against my hip, facing forward, my eyes endlessly darting. When my shift starts late and it is very dark, I often cross the street to avoid footsteps approaching from behind.

Back in high school, Danielle took a college class on religion. The professor was a profound sort of fellow, and Danielle shared some of his sayings that stuck with her, which in turn stuck with me. One had to do with how so much of our society is built on trust.

That is true, I believe, to an extent. However, in so many ways it is just the opposite. There are laws and there are lawsuits. There are locked doors and lockers and background checks. And these, we all agree, are necessities.What we hear on the news, and from our friends, is enough to keep us locking our doors and to keep us nervous in the dark.

I am a people-fearer, yet just as much I am a people-lover. I am absolutely obsessed with people. I don't mean interacting with them, but with observing them, recording them, figuring them out. I want to know what pains them, what is fascinating and poignant, what they remember best. I want to consider their lusts and daydreams, their mothers. I want to live each of their lives without changing them, without leaving myself. On good days, I love every single human being, even the worst ones.

Despite this love, I know that trust is another thing entirely. What excites me about humans, the human condition, is in part its volatility. It's like in The Hot Zone, where a scientist compares a virus to a confrontational cobra. Would you be fascinated in its presence? Or shit scared?

Both, perhaps. People are my greatest interest. They are also my biggest fear.

That isn't quite true.

I fear Ebola more.

For the Sicker of You Plushies!!

How cute can perversion get??

Ebola Virus

Check 'em all out at http://www.giantmicrobes.com!!! Kissing disease is my favorite.

2005-07-14T11:39:00.000-07:00

The Bone Collector

I just read a random thailand travelogue by a girl who spent most of her time there working with children. However, at one point she went to Ko Phi Phi (the island where they filmed The Beach, like paradise until the tsunami hit it, now still like paradise but with much less people) to do a bit of volunteer work, I believe, something Bryson and I wish to do (if there's any left, that is).

She was sitting on thebeach, talking to a couple of newlyweds, idly streaming her hand through the sand beside her. She ran across what she thought was a big seashell. She picked it up. She glanced at it.

It was a human pelvic bone.

It turns out that there are still as many as 500 bodies unaccounted for on Ko Phi Phi alone, and bones wash up on that particular beach all the time. It's just a sad fact of life for the people there. After a point, everything must seem like a seashell to them. What are seashells anyway, other than pretty bones shed from the outside? Their former owners are dead, too.

Sigh.

My next post will be upbeat, I swear!

2005-07-12T19:00:00.000-07:00

The Other Story

Okay, I'm ready for the other story. This is the story I coerce Bryson to relate every time we meet new people. It's a black comedy.. . . .

After suffering an abominable twenty-hour plane journey, our two protagonists (Bryson and Jeff, age nineteen) arrive in the turbulent madness that is Bangkok, Thailand. It is the middle of the night. As they step out of the airport they are immediately accosted by dozens of taxi drivers, cawing and clawing. Eventually they clamber into a cab and are taken to a hostel.

Upon arriving at the hostel, they unload their heavy backpacks and discuss the possibilities. Jet-lagged and restless, our boys decide venture to the hostel lobby, where they entreat the owner to recommend a good bar or nightclub. He offers to call a cab for them, which shortly arrives outside.The cab is a BMW.

Our boys assume that BMWs must be typical Thai transportation for the tourist class, and enjoy their luxurious ride. When they arrive at the club, it is drizzling outside, but no fear. Two men with umbrellas rush out to usher our boys inside, ascertaining not a drop of water soils their hair or shoulders. This must be some club, our boys fancy.

The first sight that corrupts their eyes as the doors swing open: an entire wall of baseball bleachers behind a wall of glass. Fully occupied by Thai girls. Dozens of them, blowing kisses and waving, pouting and wiggling, grinning and winking. Each with a blatant number looped around her neck.

Immediately, the man of the house, or pimp if you will, hastens up to them with a smile. "What you want? What you want?" he inquired. "Fucky fucky? Sucky sucky? Or whole package?"

Our boys are quite distraught, visibly it seems, for the pimp started to bargain. The prices started slipping downward. New girls were added, threesomes, foursomes. "You like superstar?" he asked (as if the bleacher bombshells' looks were the problem) and pointed across the room to a handful of couches. Upon each, a beautiful Thai girl sprawled. These girls were too good for the bleachers.

I commend our boys for getting out of it, somehow, unscathed, with their legs unbroken. They ended up at a go-go bar, equally hooker-packed, but without the pressure. Welcome to Thailand, boys.

Welcome to the reality of a poverty-shattered country, where the average wage is four dollars a day, and which they (and now I) paid seven hundred dollars to reach. Welcome to the reality of a heartbreaking business that boys like ours, not ours specifically, but thousands and millions just like them, keep running.

2005-07-12T12:01:00.000-07:00

Whole Package?

In a comment below, my lovely twin/wombmate Danielle mentioned Thai massages. On that note, I thought I'd share a quick story:

During his trip four years ago, Bryson was very excited about experiencing his first massage. He and his travel buddy Jeff entered the clinic, or whorehouse or whatever, and after shedding their shirts, lay upon their respective tables, or beds or whatever. They were very, very excited.

However, when the girls entered the room, they immediately began speaking back and forth in rapid Thai. Then they started laughing, really cracking up, in an uproar, tears and everything.

Bryson and Jeff grew very uncomfortable with this twist of events. Bryson rolled over and sat up, and this caused the girls to laugh even harder.

Finally, one managed to burst out one sordid English phrase:
"Hairy like monkey!!!!!!"

True story. See for yourself:

2005-07-11T13:57:00.000-07:00

Get it?

A recent one-sided conversation between Bryson and I:

Asrai Maiden (1:48:01 PM): And guess what else?????
BigFishUCSD (1:48:06 PM): ?
Asrai Maiden (1:48:30 PM): I started a Thailand blog for us. . .I'm writing in it already, so we have pre-trip stuff too. . .
Asrai Maiden (1:48:35 PM): Thailandia was taken
Asrai Maiden (1:48:46 PM): I thought it would be a funny one for us
Asrai Maiden (1:48:53 PM): but I named it. . . .
Asrai Maiden (1:49:03 PM): Thailanding!!!!!
Asrai Maiden (1:57:00 PM): hello?
Asrai Maiden (1:57:05 PM): Thailanding??? Like we're Thailanding through the country???
Asrai Maiden (1:58:11 PM): *cough*
Asrai Maiden (1:59:17 PM): Is this thing on????
BigFishUCSD (1:59:30 PM): working

2005-07-11T00:13:00.000-07:00

In the beginning. . .

Let's commence with a quick cameo from that dear old curmudgeon, Charles Schultz:

"Don't worry about the world coming to an end today. It's already tomorrow in Australia."

And as a matter of fact, it's also tomorrow in Thailand.

Even though Bryson, my soul mate and scrappy traveling companion, adventured a three-weeker through the country four years ago at nineteen(a few months before we met), and over the years I've pried every story out of him, the whole time-zone phenomenon had never crossed my mind. He had mentioned crossing multiple sunsets (or was it sunrises?) journeying over there (or was he journeying homeward?), and certainly I knew about the eighteen-hour plane ride. But it didn't actually hit me until we booked our tickets.

I was the one doing the booking, as I'm the half of this relationship that always does anything remotely tedious or typey or internetwise. For example, I've registered Bryson for all his classes during the last three years of his college education. So naturally I'd be the one to scour travelocity and orbitz and expedia and priceline and cheaptickets and statravel, all of them, to unearth the best possible deal.

The cheapest tickets overall were through an innovatively titled Chinese airline, China Airlines, for $714 including taxes. We were (I was) about to book when I wondered, "Are Chinese airlines safe?"

Although I am stinkingly liberal, I'll be the first to admit that every single one of us retains at least some sort of ethnocentric mistrust of international products (except Japanese cars, perhaps, and cheese and chocolate). However, no matter how often I fly I remain trembly when it comes to planes, and I wasn't about to gamble. Epinions was the next stop on my internet itinerary.

China Airlines has an overall rating of three and a half stars, enough to raise my eyebrows. But when I discovered that all the bad reviews cite the airline's poor safety record, including recent crashes, strange creaks and rumbling during takeoff, bouncing during landings and horrible screechy noises, I moseyed right back to orbitz and booked two tickets with EVA air, another Taiwanese airline, with no crashes since 1991 and the only epinions cons pertaining to service.

I can handle mean flight attendants.

So back to what I was speaking of before all this mad digression. Bryson and I take off around 5:30 from LAX, on September fifth. The first arc of flight ends in Taipei fourteen hours later. We can scamper around the airport a bit before our second flight, which is a nifty four hours from Taipei to Bangkok. We arrive there around one a.m., just after the second day commences: September seventh. 5:30 p.m. plus about twenty hours equals 1:30 p.m, the time it would be back in California.

Thus, because of the swirl of the world, our flight will be an endless time warp stealing much more of our time than we had ever allotted. Not to mention the loveliness of a fourteen-hour coach plane ride. Whatever shall I do?

Just remember, gentle reader, that if the world does end during the blustery month of September, I will be on the other side of the world, and I will know about it first. And because I love you, I will not tell you about it. I will not warn you. For that would ruin the surprise.