A young boy was bicycling down his street in Florida one January afternoon. The sky was overcast with dark clouds, their bellies full of rain as they obscured the setting sun. The boy lost control of his bicycle and fell hard, scraping his elbow badly against the concrete. The pain was terrible with blood flowing from where the skin had been scraped. He wailed and wailed. Once home, his mother soothed the boy, wiping the scrape clean, rocking him in her arms as she sat in a chair and told him everything was all right. While his cries turned to sniffles, their family watched on the television as the space shuttle exploded in the air, shortly after its launch. It was January 28, 1986.
In California on a sunny day, the boy, his shirt drenched in sweat, guzzled some water from his thermos as he waved goodbye to some of his teammates. He took a towel from his bag and wiped his forehead. In the parking lot, his mother patiently waited, looking through her wire-rim glasses for him. He put his towel away and swung the bag on his shoulder. He walked over to his soccer ball and nudged it along the field, then onto the pavement, as he walked to the car, his cleats tapping with each step like muffled heels. He opened the door and pounced in by saying, “Hi mom.” A yummy dinner she was cooking awaited.
Years later, the boy, now a freshman in college, sat in a hospital bed after a car accident. It was a rainy December morning when he lost control of the car. The accident mangled the car doors so badly that the paramedics decided the safest way to pull him out of the wrecked car was through the back windshield.
He sat in bed, his head numb and tingly, his neck wrapped with a heavy brace, when his mother stepped into the room. Her eyes were peeled open like saucers, a hand covering her mouth. She had been called from work and didn’t know what to expect. Maybe she knew then, before he told her what happened, that she had almost lost him. If a vehicle had been in the opposite lane of traffic when his car briefly hydroplaned into it, that would have probably been it for both drivers.
The sky over Arequipa that afternoon was a bland blue as the boy, now a bearded young man, entered el Cemeterio Apachete with his younger sister and their mother. They had come to pay respects to some of their beloved deceased with some fresh but dying flowers. The mother had already visited a few times on that trip and knew the women who worked by the entrance.
“Mamita, me haces un favor? Me puedes dar una jarra de agua para dar ha estas flores?” the mother, holding a bouquet of vibrant flowers she had just bought, said to a short woman in her late fifties. The woman must have worked at the cemetery, since she held a garden hose in her hand. She wore black pants and shoes, a blue vest over her maroon sweater and a gardener’s hat to protect from the sun. She told the mother that she didn’t have a spare bucket handy. “No te preocupes, mamita. Yo encuentro uno,” the mother replied affectionately.
The three continued on, walking towards the grandfather’s resting place. El Misti, the town's patron volcano, loomed over all the white adobe crosses, headstones, and mausoleums. The boy, now a bearded young man, still got humbled and amazed, after all these years, at the warmth, the gentleness, his mother was capable of giving to strangers. He has always wanted to be like her in this sense.
On Sunday, April 6, 2008, the boy, still a bearded young man, is riding his bicycle gently through the crisp air of Yosemite Valley. He had come to camp alone to celebrate his 29th birthday but his heart was brimming with love and good wishes from his family and friends. It was his last full day before driving back to his home in the foggy city. Even after doing the same act for three full days, the young man still couldn’t contain himself from staring up at the tops of the redwoods as they rolled past him, like nature’s own special effect. It was a wonderful privilege to be alive, he thought. At that moment, he was not sure if he had ever felt that happy, that contented.
In a few days, the boy, still a bearded young man, will take the BART train home to Fremont to be with his family. He will call his parents at the Hayward station to tell them where he is. His father or mother will assuredly answer by saying, “Okay, ya voy a salir a recogerte.” The young man will thank them and hang up, his work for that equation done.
In the parking lot, his mother will be waiting in her dark Toyota Corolla. She will be turned, watching the entrance for her boy through her thin-rimmed glasses, just like she did when she used to pick him up from soccer practice, from school, or from work (before he was given a car). The boy has always been beyond fortunate, even spoiled, to have both a father but especially a mother who never ceases to be there, like his very own constellation in the twinkling night.
And for this he will always be grateful.
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
Scars
My body has no tattoos, though getting one sketched on my skin has struck my fleeting fancy a number of times. Scars, I believe, have always been enough for me. My pulsing shell has a number of them, each with their own story, memories that can elicit a chuckle or summon a heavy sigh. The faint one I have between my eyebrows is from the night before Thanksgiving of 2006, the night I cheated on Julia, a drunken act that sent me spiraling into anxious, guilt-ridden insomnia for months before we parted; the one running down my chest is the only physical remnant of the surgery I had for my pigeon chest when I was 15 (since the surgeon wouldn’t let me keep the ribs he lopped off).
Lately, I’ve looked at this miniscule one on my left hand, above the knuckle for my index finger. I got that one the night Colleen first kissed me. We were at a bar, drinking and telling stories about our families, our lives before we had stumbled into each other, like we had for months before, when my hand flailed to make a point and singed against the cigarette of a patron who stood next to us. The next morning, foggy and weary and confused in my recollection, in how to feel about what happened, I looked at it since it was raw and irritated when it rubbed against my blanket. I shook my head and grinned that I had been blessed with a token, a reminder of that night.
After then, we carried on our affair (she had a boyfriend of nine years) for over two months, profusely making out at bars, an occasional street corner, fog-covered rooftop or twinkling parks all over town. It continued until I quit my job and left for a vacation before I went to school. It was our first time doing such a thing, like two grown-ups negotiating tricycles down sinuous Lombard Street. Even before I came back from my trip and decided we should end it, we had seen it coming. We wrote about it, sometimes, in all the e-mails we volleyed, back and forth, at the office.
Now that we’re not even friends, the city I live in is now one peppered with scabs, waiting to be ripped off, places where we shared an abundance of joy, moments we’ll never have again. They are places I have to look away from if I’m under a blanket of blue, or gloss over with a bittersweet smile when I have no regret. Some of the songs we played to and for each other, at those jukeboxes, can be painful to hear.
When my heart is choked by those aches, by that remembrance of foolish hope I once had, or when I’m reminded that she’s no longer a part of my life, I think of my most treasured night with her. It was the one time we had in which I felt she truly let herself go, didn’t hold her affection back, and really allowed herself to swirl in a world of just us. That night, after work and a few drinks, I put Elton John’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” on, and we belted it out to each other and for all to hear, as we sat at the bar, like a 21st Century version of Sonny and Cher, or Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. We went nuts when the opening piano chords to Ray Charles’ “Mess Around” came on; the song was very dear to her (and now to me, though I already loved it before) because it’s one she and her siblings, far away in Minnesota, used to dance and go bonkers to when they were growing up. We did, too, hootin’ at the bar (well, mostly me), before I flew to the jukebox, inspired to play my next set of songs, when she tried to wrench my hands away for her turn. Even if she doesn’t, I still remember, while wrestling for supreme control of the sacred jukebox, when I stared into her eyes and said, “I’m crazy about you, Pizzi,” and she smiled and said without hesitation, “I’m crazy about you, Libbo.” (they were nicknames she came up with). That night, she hugged me and tucked her head into my chest, into my arms, like she never had and never would again. She did that so many times that one of my sleeves smelled of her perfume, the fresh, soapy scent that still reminds me of her, whenever someone walks by and leaves such a whiff of it. A few days after that night, when I sorely had to wash my dirty laundry, I decided not to clean it, in case I wanted to embrace it in my hands and conjure the memory held in that aroma.
I remember those moments, sometimes, when I look at my scar. Recently, when I noticed that it was fading, becoming barely noticeable, I briefly thought of lighting a cigarette to scorch it again, but that wouldn’t be earnest to its true moment of inception. But more importantly, it would be sad and pathetic, an attempt to continue something that is no longer there.
Lately, I’ve looked at this miniscule one on my left hand, above the knuckle for my index finger. I got that one the night Colleen first kissed me. We were at a bar, drinking and telling stories about our families, our lives before we had stumbled into each other, like we had for months before, when my hand flailed to make a point and singed against the cigarette of a patron who stood next to us. The next morning, foggy and weary and confused in my recollection, in how to feel about what happened, I looked at it since it was raw and irritated when it rubbed against my blanket. I shook my head and grinned that I had been blessed with a token, a reminder of that night.
After then, we carried on our affair (she had a boyfriend of nine years) for over two months, profusely making out at bars, an occasional street corner, fog-covered rooftop or twinkling parks all over town. It continued until I quit my job and left for a vacation before I went to school. It was our first time doing such a thing, like two grown-ups negotiating tricycles down sinuous Lombard Street. Even before I came back from my trip and decided we should end it, we had seen it coming. We wrote about it, sometimes, in all the e-mails we volleyed, back and forth, at the office.
Now that we’re not even friends, the city I live in is now one peppered with scabs, waiting to be ripped off, places where we shared an abundance of joy, moments we’ll never have again. They are places I have to look away from if I’m under a blanket of blue, or gloss over with a bittersweet smile when I have no regret. Some of the songs we played to and for each other, at those jukeboxes, can be painful to hear.
When my heart is choked by those aches, by that remembrance of foolish hope I once had, or when I’m reminded that she’s no longer a part of my life, I think of my most treasured night with her. It was the one time we had in which I felt she truly let herself go, didn’t hold her affection back, and really allowed herself to swirl in a world of just us. That night, after work and a few drinks, I put Elton John’s “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart” on, and we belted it out to each other and for all to hear, as we sat at the bar, like a 21st Century version of Sonny and Cher, or Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell. We went nuts when the opening piano chords to Ray Charles’ “Mess Around” came on; the song was very dear to her (and now to me, though I already loved it before) because it’s one she and her siblings, far away in Minnesota, used to dance and go bonkers to when they were growing up. We did, too, hootin’ at the bar (well, mostly me), before I flew to the jukebox, inspired to play my next set of songs, when she tried to wrench my hands away for her turn. Even if she doesn’t, I still remember, while wrestling for supreme control of the sacred jukebox, when I stared into her eyes and said, “I’m crazy about you, Pizzi,” and she smiled and said without hesitation, “I’m crazy about you, Libbo.” (they were nicknames she came up with). That night, she hugged me and tucked her head into my chest, into my arms, like she never had and never would again. She did that so many times that one of my sleeves smelled of her perfume, the fresh, soapy scent that still reminds me of her, whenever someone walks by and leaves such a whiff of it. A few days after that night, when I sorely had to wash my dirty laundry, I decided not to clean it, in case I wanted to embrace it in my hands and conjure the memory held in that aroma.
I remember those moments, sometimes, when I look at my scar. Recently, when I noticed that it was fading, becoming barely noticeable, I briefly thought of lighting a cigarette to scorch it again, but that wouldn’t be earnest to its true moment of inception. But more importantly, it would be sad and pathetic, an attempt to continue something that is no longer there.
Thursday, September 25, 2008
On Market Street
Fall 2008: I was standing at the Washington Mutual on the corner of 9th and Market, waiting for the ATM to complete our transaction. Scrawled in black permanent marker, just below where the money is withdrawn, was written, “You is here”. Right below it, in different, emphatic penmanship read “No I’m not”. The money and ATM card came to my possession and I turned to leave.
That existential dialogue told through urban jargon came back to me as a strong gust blew over my face. Crackled leaves and discarded editions of Street Sheet swirled past the homeless man who pawned them by the metro entrance. He asked me again, as I passed him, if I could help him “to buy a warm meal tonight.” I shook my head and averted his gaze as a couple of flaxen-haired, buxom women with imposing cameras hanging from their necks, turned and gawked in various directions as they stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Past them, a dim orange sun began to descend beneath the hills that overlooked the Castro District.
I continued on as these two young men, sharply dressed in dark, pressed suits approached. They bantered and sauntered down the sidewalk, noticing only the space before them.
“I heard condominiums back by Central Park are selling like hot cakes, because everyone’s desperate and selling before they’re a complete loss.”
“Now would be the time to jump on those, while their value is grossly depreciated. No need to invest and fix ‘em up. Just sit, wait a few years, once all this has blown over, then sell ‘em and you’re rich!” the other said before they broke into laughter.
I felt a Langston Hughes poem summon within me, as it has at inopportune moments these past few months, with the election approaching. The poem went:
You don’t know,
You don’t know my mind –
When you see me laughin’
I’m laughin’ to keep from cryin’
I hurriedly took out my iPod in an attempt to play some music to derail this thought, but my hands were not nearly agile enough.
(backstory: for one of my classes, we're reading some contemporary nonfiction novels each week, then doing a brief imitation of that respective author's writing; this is my rendition of Joan Didion's "The White Album")
That existential dialogue told through urban jargon came back to me as a strong gust blew over my face. Crackled leaves and discarded editions of Street Sheet swirled past the homeless man who pawned them by the metro entrance. He asked me again, as I passed him, if I could help him “to buy a warm meal tonight.” I shook my head and averted his gaze as a couple of flaxen-haired, buxom women with imposing cameras hanging from their necks, turned and gawked in various directions as they stood in the middle of the sidewalk. Past them, a dim orange sun began to descend beneath the hills that overlooked the Castro District.
I continued on as these two young men, sharply dressed in dark, pressed suits approached. They bantered and sauntered down the sidewalk, noticing only the space before them.
“I heard condominiums back by Central Park are selling like hot cakes, because everyone’s desperate and selling before they’re a complete loss.”
“Now would be the time to jump on those, while their value is grossly depreciated. No need to invest and fix ‘em up. Just sit, wait a few years, once all this has blown over, then sell ‘em and you’re rich!” the other said before they broke into laughter.
I felt a Langston Hughes poem summon within me, as it has at inopportune moments these past few months, with the election approaching. The poem went:
You don’t know,
You don’t know my mind –
When you see me laughin’
I’m laughin’ to keep from cryin’
I hurriedly took out my iPod in an attempt to play some music to derail this thought, but my hands were not nearly agile enough.
(backstory: for one of my classes, we're reading some contemporary nonfiction novels each week, then doing a brief imitation of that respective author's writing; this is my rendition of Joan Didion's "The White Album")
Thursday, August 14, 2008
what would a holiday in Cambodia be without a knife-wielding madman?
Phnom Penh, from the books I'd read and pictures I'd seen, was exactly as I imagined it. Aesthetically, there really isn't anything sexy about the city (parts of downtown reminded me of Havana: dirty, crumbling buildings, but from an architectural standpoint, not even close to being as beautiful as the ones in Cuba's capital); there aren't any skyscrapers and it's a lot more filthy than clean. Traffic lanes and dividing medians are suggestions in Phnom Penh.
On Monivang Blvd, one of the city's main arteries, it is not uncommon, at all, to see a car, truck, tuk-tuk, or motorbike drive along the far curb of opposite traffic (unlike Thailand, they drive, American-style, as in not like the Brits), or to simply drive into the opposing direction of traffic to, say, make a turn ahead. With the absence of signals at most intersections, this is actually the wisest way to go.
So the six-lane boulevard, three lanes each way, resembles more of a road with four different lanes of traffic direction: the two in the middle with traffic going the "right" way, respectively, and the far two a mixture of poor pedestrians (like me), bicyclists, and vehicles, slowly weaving through each other in a mixture of "wrong" and "right" traffic. Motorbikes dominate the city, so from the sidewalk (if there is one; it's usually just a patch of dirt and trash, which isn't the best surface to walk with flip-flops on but that never stopped me!), the street looks like four endless swarms of motorbikes and vehicles, honking, humming, and weaving, in and out of each other's way. Crossing the street is truly like real-life Frogger. Crosswalks ("crosswalks!?" the Khmers ask) don't really exist, and there are few traffic signals, which is why traffic, especially on the street, does truly seem endless. It is not uncommon to wait on the sidewalk a few minutes for a healthy lull in one way of traffic. Skipping, more like running across in one bound, rather then being deserted on the thin yellow median line for another lull (the line, I reiterate, is merely a "suggestion", because everyone will drive into opposing traffic if it means getting in front of a slower vehicle), is rare, but I pulled it off once. Some cities, like Bangkok, are nice and cute and thoughtful by having pedestrian bridges, to ascend and safely cross over traffic, but I saw none in Phnom Penh. For Cambodians, bless them, I think such an idea would take too much fun out of simply crossing a street.
The average age that adults make it to in Cambodia, by the way, according to my guidebook, is a stunning 58 years of age.
So my first morning there, I went out to the Central Market (a symphony of tiny shacks, huddled together to sell their goods), bought some gifts, then hired a tuk-tuk to take me to the shooting range. The man warned me that it was far away, past the airport, and would take about 30-45 minutes to get there. It took nearly an hour because I had this uncanny knack for procuring the services of the slowest fucking tuk-tuks in Cambodia (my last day there, I was going to the airport, just me and my backpack, and a tuk-tuk carrying at least nine people in the cart, passed us; one of the guys playfully nodded "What's up!?" to me, as they passed, and I returned the favor, laughing at the visual hilariousness of that moment).
The ride there was horrible. After an hour of riding in the open air with all this dust, heavy car exhaust, I was getting irate. I felt terrible for my driver, who wore a helmet to protect his head and cover his mouth and nose from the dust (many motorbicyclists and bicyclists ride around with a mask or handkerchief, tied around their nose and mouth) in the glaring sun. When we rode up to the range, I got scared, afraid of being startled by the sound of a gun, let alone shooting one. But I'd come too far so I went in.
This well-built, relatively young guy welcomed me to the shooting range once my tuk-tuk came to a stop. He gestured to follow him and we sat down at this table. Like a menu, he put down a piece of sheet protected paper that listed the guns I could shoot and their cost. I already knew I was going for the AK-47, especially after I spoke to a barkeep the night before and was told that the firing a rocket now costs $300, so I decided quickly. I had 30 bullets, which was about $1 per bullet, figuring the gun rental is $10.
He handed me a pair of heavy ear muffs (I don't know what to call them) and he led me to this dark, narrow but long brick structure, right by the reception area. The AK was lying atop this concrete table, with some bricks stacked on both sides to make a pristine opening for shooting. At my feet were shitloads of bullets. About 40-50 feet away, at the end of the dark, brick corridor was a mound of dirt, a pool of bright sunlight, and my paper target.
He brought two cartridges of bullets, claimed that one were "real" AK-47 bullets and the other magazine were replicas. The real ones cost a bit more, $50, and once he said they were heavier, thus more damaging, I thought, fuck it, if I'm going to shoot an AK-47, I'm going to do it right.
So he loaded it and he put my hands where I should hold the rifle. I carefully lined my gun's barrel (I don't know what to call it) on the paper advisory (looks like a vato loco, with pimp shades and all) that was my target. I hesitated until the guy said, "Fire". I turned to him and said, "Is this thing (pointing at the rifle) going to snap back on me!?" He said no, so I lined up my target again and pulled the trigger.
It was exhilirating! Even with those ear muffs, it was so fucking loud, and the shot was so powerful. It didn't snap back on me, but I felt like I'd shot a tiny rocket because the mound of dirt, behind my paper target, was sifting in the sunlight from the bullet I shot into it.
I laughed, lined up my target, hesitated again to shoot but did. I shot off about five that way when he said, "Now try automatic." Inside, I was wetting my pants, ready to go to town with this baby. Man, I still laugh, just thinking about it.
My clip of 30 bullets quickly flew. All in all, I was in and out in less then two minutes. I've easily spent more time in 7-11s, both at home or here in Thailand. What a moneymaker for these lads (the shooting range is located on former military training grounds)! Even the guys in Vegas would have been impressed.
I finished, shared some grins and giggles with this British guy and mid-aged Asian woman (I think she was American) who had already had their dance. He was posing with his paper target; he did much better than mine. He put on his aviator glasses and held a huge M-16 with a grenade launcher, while she snapped pictures of him. He asked if he could point it at the camera and the guys at the range were shaking their heads, "No, no, no!!" The guy who showed me how to shoot the gun gladly snapped four pictures of me (I expected only one, but he wanted to party!) with the M-16. It was, easily, the most ridiculous photo shoot I have ever participated in. I was mugging terribly for the camera! I think guns, especially a grenade launcher, have a way of affecting people in that way. Violence has totally been glorified and I naturally ran with it (well, I am a product of my culture).
From there, my sweet tuk-tuk driver took me to Tuol Sleng, what used to be a high school just out of Phnom Penh but was converted by the Khmer Rouge into the country's largest prison and place of torture. I'd read that on most days 100 people were taken from there, piled into trucks, to be slaughtered in the nearby Killing Fields. It was chilling to behold and walk from room to room, knowing that so much blood, agony, and screams had filled them. Most rooms had these grainy pictures of charred (at least some looked like that), bloodied corpses, from that very same room. It was awful. They had a gallery which had hundreds of B&W pictures of young men (Cambodia's present day population is estimated to be 70% female, because of the casualities from their wars from the late 1960s through the 1980s, coupled with the Khmer Rouge genocide), women, and lots of children, posing for the camera. It was chilling to stare at them. Most had these sorrowful or blank stares because they must have known, even the children (and there were so many of them), that they were going to die. But some had these almost radiant, almost hopeful faces. It was as if they knew they were going to die, that this photo was going to probably be the last recognizable one of them while on this earth, and they weren't going to let this misfortune destroy the good, the beauty, of their spirit. Those were, for me, the hardest to look at, harder than the ones of severely starved and dead Khmers, or even the one that had half of his face shot off.
From there, I went to the Royal Palace then took a long walk "home", along one of the lakes here. At night, I went out and had some drinks at this pub that was playing loads of Jimi Hendrix (and I was there, giddily singing along or mimicking his solos), shot down all offers for weed, opium, and women (you just walk down the street in this tourist ghetto and young men on motorbikes, or just standing there will just say, "Hey. Smoke? Opium? Some women? Want some boom-boom?).
Later, around midnight, I was at the Drunken Frog Bar, were I had hung out with some British ex-pats the previous night. They were there, again, and we were smoking our cigarettes, chit chatting and draining beer after beer when we heard a commotion down on the street (the pub was atop a rooftop, where you could easily look down the streets). I was by the edge and clearly saw this buffed, stocky, bald young Caucasian male, in the middle of the street. He had just lost control of his motorbike but wasn't seriously hurt from the spill. But he immediately started shouting and pushing all the Khmers and people in the businesses next to where he had had his accident. He was downright pissed off, probably tripping badly on something (so we all suspected), and now going out on a violent rampage through the streets. People were in a frenzy, not sure what was going on, and some were already ducking inside their homes or businesses, while he stomped off, shouting into the night.
All seven or eight of us were perched attentively on the bar, looking down to see what was happening. He had walked off, down the dark main street, out of our view. A few minutes later, he came back, with people fleeing down the streets. His forehead was all bloodied up and about three Khmer men were flanking his arms, trying to control him. He cursed and got on his motorbike and sped off, with everyone watching.
Every one in the bar, on the streets, were anxiously looking down the dark street, awaiting what would happen. By then, most people were just trying to stay away from him and give him space to cool down, so we were hopeful that he would.
But he didn't.
From the bar, we clearly saw that he was stomping down the street, holding a long knife. It was nearly two foot long blade as it glistened from the streetlights. People were running away from him, hurriedly stepping into their homes or businesses and locking it up. We were unsure what he was so mad about (one of the guys I talked to said he shouted, "Fucking Khmers", right after his accident; the rumor was that someone had hit him on the forehead with something, as he drove down the street, which is why he lost control), which made it all the scarier.
After drunkenly shouting some things and walking back to his guesthome, which was on the way to mine, I curiously left the bar to get some street-level action (when all this broke out, I was about ready to head home to go to sleep, but he was stalking around on the one narrow street to my guesthouse, so until the situation settled down, I was stuck). People were still anxiously huddled out in the open, looking down the shadowy street, when he came stomping again with knife in hand. Everyone promptly fled back inside; these two cute Khmer girls, one that still had her facial cream on, took me into their salon once they locked it up. We stepped out, a minute or so later, and were told that he had gone back to his guesthouse.
I waited out there, talking to people, nervously looking down at the shadows for him. I saw that a group of four men were standing guard, down the street, presumably by the guesthouse he and his Khmer girlfriend were living at (they had a child together; everyone around there knew him, which made it all the sadder and confounding when people reported that he had shouted "Fucking Khmers."). It had been several minutes since any outburst came from him so I walked down the street. I could hear some of the Khmer women who I was hanging around gasp when I marched down the street.
I stood and waited outside the gates of the guesthouse with four Khmer men. They were neighbors and were watching over their community. One of the guys spoke decent English, so I conversed with him about what I'd seen and heard. Off in the distance, I could periodically hear the guy howl and drunkenly shout something; I even saw him, from time to time, pop his head from the corner of his guesthouse. I was a little frightened to be there but I had already concocted an escape route, in case I needed to run. I knew I could outrun him so I wasn't scared.
For better or worse, I was determined to stay with the men until the situation was truly over. It must have been 1 AM at the time and I had to wake up early to catch my flight, but I didn't want to leave them. I didn't know if the guy (the knife-wielding one, that is) was in a state to reason, but I was afraid that he might come out again and try and start something with these men, who were calmly just looking out for their families, their neighborhood. From my conversations with the people at the Drunken Frog, I know the bloke was British, so I thought that I should be there, in case he came out again, so I could try and reason with him, since my English would be up to par with his, whereas that wouldn't be the case with one of the neighborhood men.
Long story short, the authorities eventually came. A crowd of locals followed them, past the front gate, into the guesthouse. I stood and watched from the gate because I didn't think it was wise to crowd the man with so many people. It felt like an invasion. Thankfully, no violent outbursts occurred, and I walked home, doused myself in mosquito repellent, and passed out.
The entire time, I was holding my journal. One of my favorite moments of the entire day was when I was trying to converse with one of the Khmer men. He was in his late thirties, soft-spoken, laid-back (I could really sense that he, along with the other men, were there not to bust heads, but to do their part to keep the peace for their tiny community) and for a Khmer (or Asian, for that matter), kind of a big guy. He saw my journal and held out his hand to see it. I gave it to him and he flicked through some pages. He asked me, "Are you a writer?" I said yes and he gave the slightest chuckle, smiled, and approvingly ribbed me on the side.
It is that kind of warm, playful affection I miss the most about Cambodia. It's a shame I was only there for four days but I sincerely hope I'll be fortunate enough again to come back, someday, hopefully with a little more Khmer under my belt.
And that wraps it up from Bangkok! I'm off for some final street vendor phat thai and some beers. I'm very excited to go back home but I've had a mostly wonderful, definitely memorable time here. I've seen so much beauty here.
On Monivang Blvd, one of the city's main arteries, it is not uncommon, at all, to see a car, truck, tuk-tuk, or motorbike drive along the far curb of opposite traffic (unlike Thailand, they drive, American-style, as in not like the Brits), or to simply drive into the opposing direction of traffic to, say, make a turn ahead. With the absence of signals at most intersections, this is actually the wisest way to go.
So the six-lane boulevard, three lanes each way, resembles more of a road with four different lanes of traffic direction: the two in the middle with traffic going the "right" way, respectively, and the far two a mixture of poor pedestrians (like me), bicyclists, and vehicles, slowly weaving through each other in a mixture of "wrong" and "right" traffic. Motorbikes dominate the city, so from the sidewalk (if there is one; it's usually just a patch of dirt and trash, which isn't the best surface to walk with flip-flops on but that never stopped me!), the street looks like four endless swarms of motorbikes and vehicles, honking, humming, and weaving, in and out of each other's way. Crossing the street is truly like real-life Frogger. Crosswalks ("crosswalks!?" the Khmers ask) don't really exist, and there are few traffic signals, which is why traffic, especially on the street, does truly seem endless. It is not uncommon to wait on the sidewalk a few minutes for a healthy lull in one way of traffic. Skipping, more like running across in one bound, rather then being deserted on the thin yellow median line for another lull (the line, I reiterate, is merely a "suggestion", because everyone will drive into opposing traffic if it means getting in front of a slower vehicle), is rare, but I pulled it off once. Some cities, like Bangkok, are nice and cute and thoughtful by having pedestrian bridges, to ascend and safely cross over traffic, but I saw none in Phnom Penh. For Cambodians, bless them, I think such an idea would take too much fun out of simply crossing a street.
The average age that adults make it to in Cambodia, by the way, according to my guidebook, is a stunning 58 years of age.
So my first morning there, I went out to the Central Market (a symphony of tiny shacks, huddled together to sell their goods), bought some gifts, then hired a tuk-tuk to take me to the shooting range. The man warned me that it was far away, past the airport, and would take about 30-45 minutes to get there. It took nearly an hour because I had this uncanny knack for procuring the services of the slowest fucking tuk-tuks in Cambodia (my last day there, I was going to the airport, just me and my backpack, and a tuk-tuk carrying at least nine people in the cart, passed us; one of the guys playfully nodded "What's up!?" to me, as they passed, and I returned the favor, laughing at the visual hilariousness of that moment).
The ride there was horrible. After an hour of riding in the open air with all this dust, heavy car exhaust, I was getting irate. I felt terrible for my driver, who wore a helmet to protect his head and cover his mouth and nose from the dust (many motorbicyclists and bicyclists ride around with a mask or handkerchief, tied around their nose and mouth) in the glaring sun. When we rode up to the range, I got scared, afraid of being startled by the sound of a gun, let alone shooting one. But I'd come too far so I went in.
This well-built, relatively young guy welcomed me to the shooting range once my tuk-tuk came to a stop. He gestured to follow him and we sat down at this table. Like a menu, he put down a piece of sheet protected paper that listed the guns I could shoot and their cost. I already knew I was going for the AK-47, especially after I spoke to a barkeep the night before and was told that the firing a rocket now costs $300, so I decided quickly. I had 30 bullets, which was about $1 per bullet, figuring the gun rental is $10.
He handed me a pair of heavy ear muffs (I don't know what to call them) and he led me to this dark, narrow but long brick structure, right by the reception area. The AK was lying atop this concrete table, with some bricks stacked on both sides to make a pristine opening for shooting. At my feet were shitloads of bullets. About 40-50 feet away, at the end of the dark, brick corridor was a mound of dirt, a pool of bright sunlight, and my paper target.
He brought two cartridges of bullets, claimed that one were "real" AK-47 bullets and the other magazine were replicas. The real ones cost a bit more, $50, and once he said they were heavier, thus more damaging, I thought, fuck it, if I'm going to shoot an AK-47, I'm going to do it right.
So he loaded it and he put my hands where I should hold the rifle. I carefully lined my gun's barrel (I don't know what to call it) on the paper advisory (looks like a vato loco, with pimp shades and all) that was my target. I hesitated until the guy said, "Fire". I turned to him and said, "Is this thing (pointing at the rifle) going to snap back on me!?" He said no, so I lined up my target again and pulled the trigger.
It was exhilirating! Even with those ear muffs, it was so fucking loud, and the shot was so powerful. It didn't snap back on me, but I felt like I'd shot a tiny rocket because the mound of dirt, behind my paper target, was sifting in the sunlight from the bullet I shot into it.
I laughed, lined up my target, hesitated again to shoot but did. I shot off about five that way when he said, "Now try automatic." Inside, I was wetting my pants, ready to go to town with this baby. Man, I still laugh, just thinking about it.
My clip of 30 bullets quickly flew. All in all, I was in and out in less then two minutes. I've easily spent more time in 7-11s, both at home or here in Thailand. What a moneymaker for these lads (the shooting range is located on former military training grounds)! Even the guys in Vegas would have been impressed.
I finished, shared some grins and giggles with this British guy and mid-aged Asian woman (I think she was American) who had already had their dance. He was posing with his paper target; he did much better than mine. He put on his aviator glasses and held a huge M-16 with a grenade launcher, while she snapped pictures of him. He asked if he could point it at the camera and the guys at the range were shaking their heads, "No, no, no!!" The guy who showed me how to shoot the gun gladly snapped four pictures of me (I expected only one, but he wanted to party!) with the M-16. It was, easily, the most ridiculous photo shoot I have ever participated in. I was mugging terribly for the camera! I think guns, especially a grenade launcher, have a way of affecting people in that way. Violence has totally been glorified and I naturally ran with it (well, I am a product of my culture).
From there, my sweet tuk-tuk driver took me to Tuol Sleng, what used to be a high school just out of Phnom Penh but was converted by the Khmer Rouge into the country's largest prison and place of torture. I'd read that on most days 100 people were taken from there, piled into trucks, to be slaughtered in the nearby Killing Fields. It was chilling to behold and walk from room to room, knowing that so much blood, agony, and screams had filled them. Most rooms had these grainy pictures of charred (at least some looked like that), bloodied corpses, from that very same room. It was awful. They had a gallery which had hundreds of B&W pictures of young men (Cambodia's present day population is estimated to be 70% female, because of the casualities from their wars from the late 1960s through the 1980s, coupled with the Khmer Rouge genocide), women, and lots of children, posing for the camera. It was chilling to stare at them. Most had these sorrowful or blank stares because they must have known, even the children (and there were so many of them), that they were going to die. But some had these almost radiant, almost hopeful faces. It was as if they knew they were going to die, that this photo was going to probably be the last recognizable one of them while on this earth, and they weren't going to let this misfortune destroy the good, the beauty, of their spirit. Those were, for me, the hardest to look at, harder than the ones of severely starved and dead Khmers, or even the one that had half of his face shot off.
From there, I went to the Royal Palace then took a long walk "home", along one of the lakes here. At night, I went out and had some drinks at this pub that was playing loads of Jimi Hendrix (and I was there, giddily singing along or mimicking his solos), shot down all offers for weed, opium, and women (you just walk down the street in this tourist ghetto and young men on motorbikes, or just standing there will just say, "Hey. Smoke? Opium? Some women? Want some boom-boom?).
Later, around midnight, I was at the Drunken Frog Bar, were I had hung out with some British ex-pats the previous night. They were there, again, and we were smoking our cigarettes, chit chatting and draining beer after beer when we heard a commotion down on the street (the pub was atop a rooftop, where you could easily look down the streets). I was by the edge and clearly saw this buffed, stocky, bald young Caucasian male, in the middle of the street. He had just lost control of his motorbike but wasn't seriously hurt from the spill. But he immediately started shouting and pushing all the Khmers and people in the businesses next to where he had had his accident. He was downright pissed off, probably tripping badly on something (so we all suspected), and now going out on a violent rampage through the streets. People were in a frenzy, not sure what was going on, and some were already ducking inside their homes or businesses, while he stomped off, shouting into the night.
All seven or eight of us were perched attentively on the bar, looking down to see what was happening. He had walked off, down the dark main street, out of our view. A few minutes later, he came back, with people fleeing down the streets. His forehead was all bloodied up and about three Khmer men were flanking his arms, trying to control him. He cursed and got on his motorbike and sped off, with everyone watching.
Every one in the bar, on the streets, were anxiously looking down the dark street, awaiting what would happen. By then, most people were just trying to stay away from him and give him space to cool down, so we were hopeful that he would.
But he didn't.
From the bar, we clearly saw that he was stomping down the street, holding a long knife. It was nearly two foot long blade as it glistened from the streetlights. People were running away from him, hurriedly stepping into their homes or businesses and locking it up. We were unsure what he was so mad about (one of the guys I talked to said he shouted, "Fucking Khmers", right after his accident; the rumor was that someone had hit him on the forehead with something, as he drove down the street, which is why he lost control), which made it all the scarier.
After drunkenly shouting some things and walking back to his guesthome, which was on the way to mine, I curiously left the bar to get some street-level action (when all this broke out, I was about ready to head home to go to sleep, but he was stalking around on the one narrow street to my guesthouse, so until the situation settled down, I was stuck). People were still anxiously huddled out in the open, looking down the shadowy street, when he came stomping again with knife in hand. Everyone promptly fled back inside; these two cute Khmer girls, one that still had her facial cream on, took me into their salon once they locked it up. We stepped out, a minute or so later, and were told that he had gone back to his guesthouse.
I waited out there, talking to people, nervously looking down at the shadows for him. I saw that a group of four men were standing guard, down the street, presumably by the guesthouse he and his Khmer girlfriend were living at (they had a child together; everyone around there knew him, which made it all the sadder and confounding when people reported that he had shouted "Fucking Khmers."). It had been several minutes since any outburst came from him so I walked down the street. I could hear some of the Khmer women who I was hanging around gasp when I marched down the street.
I stood and waited outside the gates of the guesthouse with four Khmer men. They were neighbors and were watching over their community. One of the guys spoke decent English, so I conversed with him about what I'd seen and heard. Off in the distance, I could periodically hear the guy howl and drunkenly shout something; I even saw him, from time to time, pop his head from the corner of his guesthouse. I was a little frightened to be there but I had already concocted an escape route, in case I needed to run. I knew I could outrun him so I wasn't scared.
For better or worse, I was determined to stay with the men until the situation was truly over. It must have been 1 AM at the time and I had to wake up early to catch my flight, but I didn't want to leave them. I didn't know if the guy (the knife-wielding one, that is) was in a state to reason, but I was afraid that he might come out again and try and start something with these men, who were calmly just looking out for their families, their neighborhood. From my conversations with the people at the Drunken Frog, I know the bloke was British, so I thought that I should be there, in case he came out again, so I could try and reason with him, since my English would be up to par with his, whereas that wouldn't be the case with one of the neighborhood men.
Long story short, the authorities eventually came. A crowd of locals followed them, past the front gate, into the guesthouse. I stood and watched from the gate because I didn't think it was wise to crowd the man with so many people. It felt like an invasion. Thankfully, no violent outbursts occurred, and I walked home, doused myself in mosquito repellent, and passed out.
The entire time, I was holding my journal. One of my favorite moments of the entire day was when I was trying to converse with one of the Khmer men. He was in his late thirties, soft-spoken, laid-back (I could really sense that he, along with the other men, were there not to bust heads, but to do their part to keep the peace for their tiny community) and for a Khmer (or Asian, for that matter), kind of a big guy. He saw my journal and held out his hand to see it. I gave it to him and he flicked through some pages. He asked me, "Are you a writer?" I said yes and he gave the slightest chuckle, smiled, and approvingly ribbed me on the side.
It is that kind of warm, playful affection I miss the most about Cambodia. It's a shame I was only there for four days but I sincerely hope I'll be fortunate enough again to come back, someday, hopefully with a little more Khmer under my belt.
And that wraps it up from Bangkok! I'm off for some final street vendor phat thai and some beers. I'm very excited to go back home but I've had a mostly wonderful, definitely memorable time here. I've seen so much beauty here.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Some Dance to Remember, Some Dance to Forget
I wrote this while on Koh Pha-Ngan, and I dedicate it to it:
The morning sun was shining over the Northern Pacific on the tiny island of Koh Pha-Ngan. It was just past eight and most of the island's inhabitants were asleep, recovering from last night's partying, or lying restless on their beds in the thick, humid heat. A few stray dogs slept with their snouts gently nuzzled in the sand. Some locals swept the wooden porches of their beachside restaurant bars, readying for the crowds to come.
Unable to sleep, Miguel made his way to the beach. He held his sandals as he hung his head and plodded through the soft, white sand. From time to time, he looked out past the magnificent cliff and bungalows that hung over the beach, past the calm blue waves to the vast, vast ocean.
Joseph, like Miguel a fellow traveller, walked from the opposite end of the beach. Tired and hungover, he too walked dejectedly, staring at the sand as the sun glared off it. With his worn, faithful guitar in hand, he walked out to where the waves broke, once he saw two butterflies flutter and circle each other over them. His pace quickened as he felt joy and comfort from the rhythm of his feet, slushing in the wet sand. When he awoke that morning, he was determined to write, to stumble into a song. He would stay at the beach, facing west, facing tomorrow, until it "came" to him.
Miguel lifted his head and saw Joseph, the only other person there, as he approached. He saw something akin in his worn shorts, in the tattered brown shirt that he wore, but most importantly, in his measured walk, in those searching blue eyes. He held his guitar as if he always walked with it.
The two walked towards each other.
"Hey man," Miguel said.
"Hey bro," Joseph responded. "Didn't I see you last night, dancing like a madman, around the fire?"
"Some dance to remember, and some dance to forget," Miguel replied.
"Which one was it for you?"
"I guess the latter. Sometimes I close my eyes and want to dance until I dissolve into the music."
"That's how I feel, when I'm really playing," Joseph replied with a grin.
They paused and listened as a wave broke.
"So you know 'Hotel California'?" Joseph asked.
"Of course I do. The song is sheer poetry."
"Can you sing it?"
"I know the lyrics, but my voice ain't nothing to write home about," Miguel chuckled.
"Let's play it. Let's play it right here," Joseph said as he sat on the beach and peered up at Miguel.
"Okay!" Miguel replied as he tossed his sandals to the side and took a seat, cross-legged, in front of him. He looked up to the sky, to the top of the cliff overlooking the beach, as a group of swifts darted to and fro.
The unmistakeable first notes of the song rung as Joseph plucked the opening chords. Miguel waited for the verse and sung it. When the song finished, Joseph held the last chord until the notes faded with the waves. The two sat and grinned when they noticed that a band of dogs had gathered around them.
"You were good, man!" Joseph said.
"Only because you played great," Miguel responded.
The crazy mutt that Miguel had seen running and jumping over sunbathers the day before, walked and sat attentively before him. He laughed as he leaned forward to pat the top of his damp head.
"Oh man, this dog was goin' bonkers at the beach yesterday, chasing a butterfly's shadow, leaping over people as they laid out on their towels. Then, he'd run and hop out into the waves for no reason, and come back, soaked and barking at no one. He pooped himself out and took a nap by my feet," Miguel told him.
"I guess the lil' fellar's taken a liking to you?" Joseph said as he reached over his guitar to pat the golden-haired mutt gently on his thin, scarred side.
"Crazy is as crazy does!"
They laughed.
"You think they want another one?" Joseph asked.
"I suppose they do, if they bothered to gather here."
"What should we give 'em?"
"What do ya like to play?"
"The blues and folk mostly. I've found, in my travels, that most people, no matter where they're from, can find some connection from that music."
"Play us some Marley," said one of the dogs.
"No, no, play us some Elvis," asked another.
"No, no, no. Marley. Play us some Bob Marley," said another dog with a distinctive Thai verbal emphasis yet trying to cop a Rasta accent.
"Aren't you guys tired of him? I've been here just a few days and I see and hear him everywhere, yet, no one can make a decent burrito in this town," Miguel said.
"Burrito?" asked Joseph.
"A burrito, man. I think joints, reggae, a carefree spirit, excellent shakes and solid burritos should be a part of any beach culture."
"I'm down with that," Joseph said, just as the wacky mutt requested some Beach Boys.
"Beach Boys, you say?"
The mutt barked and wagged his tail voraciously.
"Which songs do you know?" Joseph asked Miguel.
"I know one song and one song only, 'Don't Worry Baby'," Miguel responded.
"Good, because I know that one."
Several of the dogs barked and wagged their tails as they sat and watched them play it, with Joseph and a few of the dogs cooing the back-up melodies.
After the song, most of the dogs barked their applause as the two sat and laughed at that moment. Joseph looked off to the clouds as he saw a bird fly off towards the sun, which glowed behind the morning cover.
"Well, I should be on my way," Joseph said.
Miguel stood as Joseph flung his guitar to rest on his back.
"It was an honor," Miguel said as he shook Joseph's with both of his hands, which he turned into a hug.
"Mine too. This was such a nice surprise."
"Take care of yourself."
"You too, bro. Happy trails."
"Happy trails to you, too." Joseph said as he waved and continued along the beach.
The band of stray beach dogs, except the golden-haired one that liked to nip at butterfly shadows, quietly went their ways. One male dog was trying to entice a lady one with a stash of half-eaten prawns in tamarind sauce he had found and tucked away. Miguel stared down at the mutt before kneeling next to him.
"So what's your name?" he asked it.
"I don't have an owner so you can name whatever you want for today," the mutt replied.
"Oh pup, I couldn't do that. It would make me sad if I knew you had a different name everyday, depending on which tourist you happened to befriend," Miguel said as he softly petted the dog on top of his head and behind his ears.
The dog, in turn, licked Miguel's wrist.
"Say, I see a couple of butterflies over there," Miguel said and pointed to a group of beautiful yellow ones that fluttered over the breaking waves.
"This is where I shine!" the dog said as he barked and bounded like a rabbit, over the waves. Miguel chucked his shirt and sandals behind him and jumped and ran after him.
He dove into the water and swam past the dog, which gleefully paddled in the water with his tongue hanging out. Miguel stood and smiled at him before looking to the sun, which began to shine through the clouds.
"Oh papa, what do you want of me?" he said as he closed his eyes and felt the sun's rays glisten with each passing wave.
The morning sun was shining over the Northern Pacific on the tiny island of Koh Pha-Ngan. It was just past eight and most of the island's inhabitants were asleep, recovering from last night's partying, or lying restless on their beds in the thick, humid heat. A few stray dogs slept with their snouts gently nuzzled in the sand. Some locals swept the wooden porches of their beachside restaurant bars, readying for the crowds to come.
Unable to sleep, Miguel made his way to the beach. He held his sandals as he hung his head and plodded through the soft, white sand. From time to time, he looked out past the magnificent cliff and bungalows that hung over the beach, past the calm blue waves to the vast, vast ocean.
Joseph, like Miguel a fellow traveller, walked from the opposite end of the beach. Tired and hungover, he too walked dejectedly, staring at the sand as the sun glared off it. With his worn, faithful guitar in hand, he walked out to where the waves broke, once he saw two butterflies flutter and circle each other over them. His pace quickened as he felt joy and comfort from the rhythm of his feet, slushing in the wet sand. When he awoke that morning, he was determined to write, to stumble into a song. He would stay at the beach, facing west, facing tomorrow, until it "came" to him.
Miguel lifted his head and saw Joseph, the only other person there, as he approached. He saw something akin in his worn shorts, in the tattered brown shirt that he wore, but most importantly, in his measured walk, in those searching blue eyes. He held his guitar as if he always walked with it.
The two walked towards each other.
"Hey man," Miguel said.
"Hey bro," Joseph responded. "Didn't I see you last night, dancing like a madman, around the fire?"
"Some dance to remember, and some dance to forget," Miguel replied.
"Which one was it for you?"
"I guess the latter. Sometimes I close my eyes and want to dance until I dissolve into the music."
"That's how I feel, when I'm really playing," Joseph replied with a grin.
They paused and listened as a wave broke.
"So you know 'Hotel California'?" Joseph asked.
"Of course I do. The song is sheer poetry."
"Can you sing it?"
"I know the lyrics, but my voice ain't nothing to write home about," Miguel chuckled.
"Let's play it. Let's play it right here," Joseph said as he sat on the beach and peered up at Miguel.
"Okay!" Miguel replied as he tossed his sandals to the side and took a seat, cross-legged, in front of him. He looked up to the sky, to the top of the cliff overlooking the beach, as a group of swifts darted to and fro.
The unmistakeable first notes of the song rung as Joseph plucked the opening chords. Miguel waited for the verse and sung it. When the song finished, Joseph held the last chord until the notes faded with the waves. The two sat and grinned when they noticed that a band of dogs had gathered around them.
"You were good, man!" Joseph said.
"Only because you played great," Miguel responded.
The crazy mutt that Miguel had seen running and jumping over sunbathers the day before, walked and sat attentively before him. He laughed as he leaned forward to pat the top of his damp head.
"Oh man, this dog was goin' bonkers at the beach yesterday, chasing a butterfly's shadow, leaping over people as they laid out on their towels. Then, he'd run and hop out into the waves for no reason, and come back, soaked and barking at no one. He pooped himself out and took a nap by my feet," Miguel told him.
"I guess the lil' fellar's taken a liking to you?" Joseph said as he reached over his guitar to pat the golden-haired mutt gently on his thin, scarred side.
"Crazy is as crazy does!"
They laughed.
"You think they want another one?" Joseph asked.
"I suppose they do, if they bothered to gather here."
"What should we give 'em?"
"What do ya like to play?"
"The blues and folk mostly. I've found, in my travels, that most people, no matter where they're from, can find some connection from that music."
"Play us some Marley," said one of the dogs.
"No, no, play us some Elvis," asked another.
"No, no, no. Marley. Play us some Bob Marley," said another dog with a distinctive Thai verbal emphasis yet trying to cop a Rasta accent.
"Aren't you guys tired of him? I've been here just a few days and I see and hear him everywhere, yet, no one can make a decent burrito in this town," Miguel said.
"Burrito?" asked Joseph.
"A burrito, man. I think joints, reggae, a carefree spirit, excellent shakes and solid burritos should be a part of any beach culture."
"I'm down with that," Joseph said, just as the wacky mutt requested some Beach Boys.
"Beach Boys, you say?"
The mutt barked and wagged his tail voraciously.
"Which songs do you know?" Joseph asked Miguel.
"I know one song and one song only, 'Don't Worry Baby'," Miguel responded.
"Good, because I know that one."
Several of the dogs barked and wagged their tails as they sat and watched them play it, with Joseph and a few of the dogs cooing the back-up melodies.
After the song, most of the dogs barked their applause as the two sat and laughed at that moment. Joseph looked off to the clouds as he saw a bird fly off towards the sun, which glowed behind the morning cover.
"Well, I should be on my way," Joseph said.
Miguel stood as Joseph flung his guitar to rest on his back.
"It was an honor," Miguel said as he shook Joseph's with both of his hands, which he turned into a hug.
"Mine too. This was such a nice surprise."
"Take care of yourself."
"You too, bro. Happy trails."
"Happy trails to you, too." Joseph said as he waved and continued along the beach.
The band of stray beach dogs, except the golden-haired one that liked to nip at butterfly shadows, quietly went their ways. One male dog was trying to entice a lady one with a stash of half-eaten prawns in tamarind sauce he had found and tucked away. Miguel stared down at the mutt before kneeling next to him.
"So what's your name?" he asked it.
"I don't have an owner so you can name whatever you want for today," the mutt replied.
"Oh pup, I couldn't do that. It would make me sad if I knew you had a different name everyday, depending on which tourist you happened to befriend," Miguel said as he softly petted the dog on top of his head and behind his ears.
The dog, in turn, licked Miguel's wrist.
"Say, I see a couple of butterflies over there," Miguel said and pointed to a group of beautiful yellow ones that fluttered over the breaking waves.
"This is where I shine!" the dog said as he barked and bounded like a rabbit, over the waves. Miguel chucked his shirt and sandals behind him and jumped and ran after him.
He dove into the water and swam past the dog, which gleefully paddled in the water with his tongue hanging out. Miguel stood and smiled at him before looking to the sun, which began to shine through the clouds.
"Oh papa, what do you want of me?" he said as he closed his eyes and felt the sun's rays glisten with each passing wave.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
in this rain, what else can I do? (or Lolita's, the Continuation)
I'm in Phnom Penh and it is again pouring this night. Thankfully, after a stroll by the riverside, to see what kinds of bars they have (I am missing human interaction besides the limited ones I have had the past few days with some Khmers, who have served as my guides), I made it close to my home before it started to really pour.
After going over this blog, I realized I never posted what happened at the last go-go bar I went to in Bangkok. I purposely left that entry at a "cliff-hanging" moment, but I never followed up on it, so here's that string, nicely tied up...
So I went in to Lolita's and it was a dark, small hole, lit with soft red light. There were two bartenders, two other drinkers (what one can refer to as a "sex tourist", probably), and three young, slightly attractive women to splash us with attention. Before I went in, I want to reiterate that I was not in there to sweet-talk and eventually fuck one of the women with my well-earned bahts, but I was there to converse and to see what these places were like. I've never been to a stripclub back home, but when traveling abroad, I have more curiosity to see such places. At the time, I also had a separate agenda, which was this:
1) after being in Thailand for a mere two days, I had noticed no Asian men with fully-grown beards, or anything close to it. I had seen a couple of young gallivants with these pubescent moustaches, why even some old men with these gross (to me, maybe they think it makes them look like hot, steaming shit) long, curly single hairs, growing from their chins, but no other facial hair. I wanted to find out if Thai men were even capable of growing out a beard (the Incas and pre-Incas for example, were genetically unable to grow beards until their genes mixed with the Spaniards that conquered them).
2) I wanted to see if I could find a drinking establishment that served Wild Turkey, a nasty alcohol favored by people like George W. Bush (I think he was actually a better person when he was a drunk [just type "George Bush and drunk" on YouTube and you'll see] and before he seemingly became overly religious) and Hunter Thompson, and, of course, myself.
My agenda was simple.
So I sat at Lolita's and was promptly showered with the attention of this mid-aged Thai woman. We were shooting the shit; she was asking me where I was from, what was my name, all the surface stuff. At the same time, one of the bartender's was switching out one of the DVDs that was being loudly (and I mean loudly) played through the bar, then projected onto one of the shadowy walls. It was, of course, a porn video, the go-go bar's equivalent of the yummy scents that Vegas casinos will flower upon a part of their casino with, in order to elicit more gambling, more business, from their clients.
This video got right down to it. This blond-haired girl was going nuts about her black stud, and after making out a little, they stripped down to do the deed. Homeboy was hung, probably had a 10-inch meat sabre, and she was loving it, by the sounds of the loud (and I mean loud!) moaning that it summoned from her. At the time, I was earnestly asking one of the Thai prostitutes (because I figured if someone is going to really master basic English in this town, it will be them) if Thai guys were able to grow a beard. They didn't get my question. I think they thought I was asking them if they liked my beard, which, of course, they giggled and said, "Yeah, yeah. Is good." I tried asking in three different manners, even pointing to my beard, but alas, they didn't understand my query.
And after perusing their selection, and asking, they had no Wild Turkey.
I was kind of chuckling to myself, trying to have a somewhat serious conversation with a prostitute, while a wall of moans and butt-clapping filled the bar, with the video of the woman riding his black mamba (no mambas here in Southeast Asia; they have cobras, king cobras, banded kraits, and some nasty vipers in this neck of the woods). One of the women, at one point, asked me, "Do you like that?", pointing to the video of him royally sticking it to her, and I casually said, "Oh yeah. Of course."
That was her segway to procure some services from her, but I didn't bite. Then, the bartender asked if I wanted to buy her a drink. I didn't shake or nod my head, but didn't commit to it, but nevertheless, minutes later, after I chugged the remnants of my beer, I saw that I was tagged for her drink, my drinking/taxi-ride home allowance home. I was fucked.
So I bailed, kind of pissed, and walked out to the alley of go-go bars. I wouldn't have the funds to hit up the one that initially intimidated me, which stunk. A gorgeous, mid-aged woman walked out of one of the porches, hooked her arm around mine and asked, "Where are you going?", with this twinkle in her grin. I smiled at her and pointed out to the main street and said, "Right over there." She hung on for a little bit but left me, before I walked back to the SkyTrain.
Other then storming through downtown in the general direction of Banglamphu (to make up for the transportation funds I had been depleted of), that was my last night in Bangkok. After I'm done shopping for everyone I want to bring gifts back for, I may go back to the go-go bars, fully-funded, but I am, for the first time, missing my friends, my family. I miss really talking to someone. It's difficult meeting people on the guesthouse/hotel circuit, but I'm going to try tonight.
Oh, and by the way:
1) Thai and Khmer men can grow beards; they, obviously, choose not to. On the Thai/Cambodian land border, I asked Leung Keung, this jovial, helpful Khmer "travel guide" (the ones who help tourists like me through the border), if they could, after we had shot the shit and felt comfortable asking him. He said they both like to keep clean-shaven because it is "gentlemanly" and befitting of Buddhists (Thais are 95% Theravada Buddhists, while 90% of Khmers are). Only Muslims grow their beard in these countries, apparently. After he said that, I was tempted to shave my beard.
2) after methodically searching, I have yet to stumble upon any Wild Turkey, or cobra wine (bottles of whiskey or wine with a dead cobra, coiled within the bottle; it's supposed to make the alcohol, um, punchier; also illegal in the States). My online research makes me think that cobra wine is a mostly, or solely, Vietnamese delicacy (if you choose to call it that).
Oh, tomorrow I'm off for the shooting range by the airport! I'm not sure if I'll shoot a rocket launcher (it is estimated that there are 3-6 million active landmines in Cambodia, a country the size of France, and this has made me reconsider the shooting of it; the way I see it, shooting a rocket into one of their hillsides is like desecrating their already raped land, so I think I would feel too awful about doing it, no matter what illogical justification(s) I can assuredly concoct), but I'm definitely in for the AK-47. I'm so scared of guns.
After going over this blog, I realized I never posted what happened at the last go-go bar I went to in Bangkok. I purposely left that entry at a "cliff-hanging" moment, but I never followed up on it, so here's that string, nicely tied up...
So I went in to Lolita's and it was a dark, small hole, lit with soft red light. There were two bartenders, two other drinkers (what one can refer to as a "sex tourist", probably), and three young, slightly attractive women to splash us with attention. Before I went in, I want to reiterate that I was not in there to sweet-talk and eventually fuck one of the women with my well-earned bahts, but I was there to converse and to see what these places were like. I've never been to a stripclub back home, but when traveling abroad, I have more curiosity to see such places. At the time, I also had a separate agenda, which was this:
1) after being in Thailand for a mere two days, I had noticed no Asian men with fully-grown beards, or anything close to it. I had seen a couple of young gallivants with these pubescent moustaches, why even some old men with these gross (to me, maybe they think it makes them look like hot, steaming shit) long, curly single hairs, growing from their chins, but no other facial hair. I wanted to find out if Thai men were even capable of growing out a beard (the Incas and pre-Incas for example, were genetically unable to grow beards until their genes mixed with the Spaniards that conquered them).
2) I wanted to see if I could find a drinking establishment that served Wild Turkey, a nasty alcohol favored by people like George W. Bush (I think he was actually a better person when he was a drunk [just type "George Bush and drunk" on YouTube and you'll see] and before he seemingly became overly religious) and Hunter Thompson, and, of course, myself.
My agenda was simple.
So I sat at Lolita's and was promptly showered with the attention of this mid-aged Thai woman. We were shooting the shit; she was asking me where I was from, what was my name, all the surface stuff. At the same time, one of the bartender's was switching out one of the DVDs that was being loudly (and I mean loudly) played through the bar, then projected onto one of the shadowy walls. It was, of course, a porn video, the go-go bar's equivalent of the yummy scents that Vegas casinos will flower upon a part of their casino with, in order to elicit more gambling, more business, from their clients.
This video got right down to it. This blond-haired girl was going nuts about her black stud, and after making out a little, they stripped down to do the deed. Homeboy was hung, probably had a 10-inch meat sabre, and she was loving it, by the sounds of the loud (and I mean loud!) moaning that it summoned from her. At the time, I was earnestly asking one of the Thai prostitutes (because I figured if someone is going to really master basic English in this town, it will be them) if Thai guys were able to grow a beard. They didn't get my question. I think they thought I was asking them if they liked my beard, which, of course, they giggled and said, "Yeah, yeah. Is good." I tried asking in three different manners, even pointing to my beard, but alas, they didn't understand my query.
And after perusing their selection, and asking, they had no Wild Turkey.
I was kind of chuckling to myself, trying to have a somewhat serious conversation with a prostitute, while a wall of moans and butt-clapping filled the bar, with the video of the woman riding his black mamba (no mambas here in Southeast Asia; they have cobras, king cobras, banded kraits, and some nasty vipers in this neck of the woods). One of the women, at one point, asked me, "Do you like that?", pointing to the video of him royally sticking it to her, and I casually said, "Oh yeah. Of course."
That was her segway to procure some services from her, but I didn't bite. Then, the bartender asked if I wanted to buy her a drink. I didn't shake or nod my head, but didn't commit to it, but nevertheless, minutes later, after I chugged the remnants of my beer, I saw that I was tagged for her drink, my drinking/taxi-ride home allowance home. I was fucked.
So I bailed, kind of pissed, and walked out to the alley of go-go bars. I wouldn't have the funds to hit up the one that initially intimidated me, which stunk. A gorgeous, mid-aged woman walked out of one of the porches, hooked her arm around mine and asked, "Where are you going?", with this twinkle in her grin. I smiled at her and pointed out to the main street and said, "Right over there." She hung on for a little bit but left me, before I walked back to the SkyTrain.
Other then storming through downtown in the general direction of Banglamphu (to make up for the transportation funds I had been depleted of), that was my last night in Bangkok. After I'm done shopping for everyone I want to bring gifts back for, I may go back to the go-go bars, fully-funded, but I am, for the first time, missing my friends, my family. I miss really talking to someone. It's difficult meeting people on the guesthouse/hotel circuit, but I'm going to try tonight.
Oh, and by the way:
1) Thai and Khmer men can grow beards; they, obviously, choose not to. On the Thai/Cambodian land border, I asked Leung Keung, this jovial, helpful Khmer "travel guide" (the ones who help tourists like me through the border), if they could, after we had shot the shit and felt comfortable asking him. He said they both like to keep clean-shaven because it is "gentlemanly" and befitting of Buddhists (Thais are 95% Theravada Buddhists, while 90% of Khmers are). Only Muslims grow their beard in these countries, apparently. After he said that, I was tempted to shave my beard.
2) after methodically searching, I have yet to stumble upon any Wild Turkey, or cobra wine (bottles of whiskey or wine with a dead cobra, coiled within the bottle; it's supposed to make the alcohol, um, punchier; also illegal in the States). My online research makes me think that cobra wine is a mostly, or solely, Vietnamese delicacy (if you choose to call it that).
Oh, tomorrow I'm off for the shooting range by the airport! I'm not sure if I'll shoot a rocket launcher (it is estimated that there are 3-6 million active landmines in Cambodia, a country the size of France, and this has made me reconsider the shooting of it; the way I see it, shooting a rocket into one of their hillsides is like desecrating their already raped land, so I think I would feel too awful about doing it, no matter what illogical justification(s) I can assuredly concoct), but I'm definitely in for the AK-47. I'm so scared of guns.
Monday, August 11, 2008
and this is what you write, an hour after eating 3/4 of a "Happy Herb" pizza, with your hair soaked but your heart beating softly
The rain has a way of disarming people, maybe it really puts us all in the same place.
I am going to miss this land, its glorious temples, but mostly, the spirit of its people.
I will be glad to be “home”, but I will miss them and I wish I could have truly known them.
Tonight is my last night in Siem Reap. Tomorrow, after the rooster will assuredly awaken me at 5 AM (a family lives beside the riverside hotel I’m at, and they own at least one rooster, several chickens, a chill dog and let us not forget, a pen of loud pigs that like to fight or pout after midnight) like my first morning here, I am taking an early morning bus to Phnom Penh. I have inquired and heard that the road there is paved and much better than the one to Poipet.
It has been raining profusely the past three hours. It began for me when I was at Prean Thah (I believe; there are so many of them), the last temple that I visited today. It was remarkable how beautiful the crumbling, decaying, mossy-gray temples truly fit in the scheme of its surrounding lush forest, once the sky darkened and the rains brought life to the open hallways of the temple. I put my poncho on but kept the hood off since I wanted the rains to wash all over my eyes, my face.
Once I passed a bridge to the temple, by now potched up with big, growing puddles, I came to a dusty clearing typical of any big site here, where lines of wooden shacks hawk and sell water (much needed in this heat!), paintings of all that is Angkor, souvenirs, and fresh coconut or other yummy fruit juices. Even in the heavy downpour, one of the young Khmer girls, the ones constantly trying to sell you a ream of postcards or bracelets, was still out in the open, past the shacks, beneath some huge trees, sad-eyed but still pitching her goods. It was a sad moment.
So back in town, the curbs are just absolutely flooded to ankle-deep, muddy brown water. I only got splashed once, and not badly, by a cart that drove along it. It was refreshing to run and balance on the curbs and skip across the sidewalk and road (not always clear because of the absence of one, and you can guess which one) in my best attempt to avoid a puddle or a muddy spill. I think some of the Khmers, sitting beside their shops or inside their garage size homes, thought it was funny that a "tourist" (come on, we're all tourists) had decided to hoof it, hood off, instead of wisely taking a hooded tuk-tuk home.
If only they knew.
I am going to miss this land, its glorious temples, but mostly, the spirit of its people.
I will be glad to be “home”, but I will miss them and I wish I could have truly known them.
Tonight is my last night in Siem Reap. Tomorrow, after the rooster will assuredly awaken me at 5 AM (a family lives beside the riverside hotel I’m at, and they own at least one rooster, several chickens, a chill dog and let us not forget, a pen of loud pigs that like to fight or pout after midnight) like my first morning here, I am taking an early morning bus to Phnom Penh. I have inquired and heard that the road there is paved and much better than the one to Poipet.
It has been raining profusely the past three hours. It began for me when I was at Prean Thah (I believe; there are so many of them), the last temple that I visited today. It was remarkable how beautiful the crumbling, decaying, mossy-gray temples truly fit in the scheme of its surrounding lush forest, once the sky darkened and the rains brought life to the open hallways of the temple. I put my poncho on but kept the hood off since I wanted the rains to wash all over my eyes, my face.
Once I passed a bridge to the temple, by now potched up with big, growing puddles, I came to a dusty clearing typical of any big site here, where lines of wooden shacks hawk and sell water (much needed in this heat!), paintings of all that is Angkor, souvenirs, and fresh coconut or other yummy fruit juices. Even in the heavy downpour, one of the young Khmer girls, the ones constantly trying to sell you a ream of postcards or bracelets, was still out in the open, past the shacks, beneath some huge trees, sad-eyed but still pitching her goods. It was a sad moment.
So back in town, the curbs are just absolutely flooded to ankle-deep, muddy brown water. I only got splashed once, and not badly, by a cart that drove along it. It was refreshing to run and balance on the curbs and skip across the sidewalk and road (not always clear because of the absence of one, and you can guess which one) in my best attempt to avoid a puddle or a muddy spill. I think some of the Khmers, sitting beside their shops or inside their garage size homes, thought it was funny that a "tourist" (come on, we're all tourists) had decided to hoof it, hood off, instead of wisely taking a hooded tuk-tuk home.
If only they knew.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Angkor, here I come
I arrived in Siem Reap tonight, after an entire day of travel, and I'm off for Angkor Wat tomorrow morning. I'm not sure if I will be able to sleep much tonight because I am TOOOOOO excited! I have longed to see these ruins for so, so long. And, to boot, I have a guesthouse room with television and one of the channels is a music one, playing (hopefully, I was briefly there before bouncing for the streets for some celebratory Angkor beer, a stroll along the river, and a much needed bite to eat) endless live performances of beautiful Khmer singers, belting out some classics, a few that I recognize. I'm pretty darn sure I will have one of them lull me to sleep and hopefully become a part of one of my dreams.
I have only four nights in this thus far wondrous country. It is noticably poorer than Thailand. The road from Poipet, Cambodia (the bordertown I crossed from) to Siem Reap was, quite easily, the bumpiest, most potholed (some potholes, from my vantage, looked like they were as big and deep as half a bathtub) road I've ever, ever seen. The three hour taxi ride I procured to Siem Reap must have done more damage to the car's shocks and struts than an entire year of driving a car, everyday, in the States. I was tired after the ride, and my head felt a little uneven from swaying and bumping, to and fro. To the sides of the road there was nothing but kilometers and kilometers of undeveloped land, few trees (a noticeable difference from Thailand)most probably because of all the landmines our army littered, many years ago (I've read that there are signs along the road, advising people not to walk off the road because of the mines, but they were in Khmer so I couldn't confirm).
The sun had already set by then, leaving the sky in swabs of eerie blue and gray and it was incredibly sad yet hauntily beautiful to me. I wanted to cry, for all the suffering that has happened here (well, our country is no different, really; our textbooks just focus more on Pocahontas and Thanksgiving instead of the genocide that occured all over "our" country; one of the reasons we focus so much on the Jewish Holocaust is to divert our attention to the one that happened on our lands), by our government's hands. To make matters worse in that sense, the Khmers are quite, quite amazing: overly cheerful, curious, and seemingly carefree. This is saying a lot because I thought the Thais were very kind, but the Khmers are shooting them out of the water right now, from one night here, and I am so endeared to them.
I can't wait to see the temples tomorrow!
I have only four nights in this thus far wondrous country. It is noticably poorer than Thailand. The road from Poipet, Cambodia (the bordertown I crossed from) to Siem Reap was, quite easily, the bumpiest, most potholed (some potholes, from my vantage, looked like they were as big and deep as half a bathtub) road I've ever, ever seen. The three hour taxi ride I procured to Siem Reap must have done more damage to the car's shocks and struts than an entire year of driving a car, everyday, in the States. I was tired after the ride, and my head felt a little uneven from swaying and bumping, to and fro. To the sides of the road there was nothing but kilometers and kilometers of undeveloped land, few trees (a noticeable difference from Thailand)most probably because of all the landmines our army littered, many years ago (I've read that there are signs along the road, advising people not to walk off the road because of the mines, but they were in Khmer so I couldn't confirm).
The sun had already set by then, leaving the sky in swabs of eerie blue and gray and it was incredibly sad yet hauntily beautiful to me. I wanted to cry, for all the suffering that has happened here (well, our country is no different, really; our textbooks just focus more on Pocahontas and Thanksgiving instead of the genocide that occured all over "our" country; one of the reasons we focus so much on the Jewish Holocaust is to divert our attention to the one that happened on our lands), by our government's hands. To make matters worse in that sense, the Khmers are quite, quite amazing: overly cheerful, curious, and seemingly carefree. This is saying a lot because I thought the Thais were very kind, but the Khmers are shooting them out of the water right now, from one night here, and I am so endeared to them.
I can't wait to see the temples tomorrow!
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
a beach bum, no more
My last two days in Koh Tao (I don't know why my English guide insists on calling it "Ko Tao" when it's not how the locals spell it) were my favorites on this trip. My vacations are usually not vacations, in that I'm zipping from one place to the next, rarely, if ever taking the time to chill out; I have a difficult time spelling the word "relax" (and for that matter, "moderation"), if you know what I mean. That's why I was eager to take this trip: to see lands I've never been to, to actually try and embrace relaxation because I think it's my next evolutionary step, so to speak. And I've succeeded enough to be proud of the progress I knew I was capable of.
Two days ago (I know it's the 6th but I'm not even sure what day of the week it is), the sun finally came out and I got myself scorched and scorched gooood. I read a bunch on the beach and scribbled a lot when not snoozing. When I wasn't doing that, I just stared out into the beach or waded in the waist-high water (the stinky thing about Sairee Beach is that coral outgrowths begin very close to the beach) and sifted through all these thoughts that have been plaguing me lately. Sure, relaxation is a goal, but when I'm on the beach, I naturally default to two principles: comfort and contemplation. Chasing butterflies, like some of the stray pooches around here, isn't quite my thing, but ruminating about my life and who I am, oh yeah; that's my chocolate sundae. Even looking at young attractive women (and gawd were they plentiful on the islands, thanks to the locals y las turistas) gets boring after awhile. A perpetual hard-on has never done humanity any good.
After watching some BBC News loops and a couple of naps, I rolled myself a joint, toked up, and went out, armed with my camera, determined to capture the beauty that is sunset on Koh Tao. It was outright stunning. I burned through an entire roll of film, just walking down the beach and along pedestrian walkways along Sairee Beach, snapping pictures of the sunset, the island, silhouetted people and children playing in the sun, dogs sitting on piers, and a couple of crafty self-compositions that I'm eager to see how they turned out. I continued on, walking at least a kilometer along the closest thing to a freeway here, past all the trucks and scooters that zipped past, to the pier where I came in my first day here. It was amazing to behold. I walked out to a pier, sat at the edge and just marvelled at the colors of the sky, knowing I may never, ever have the great fortune to come back here again. My favorite part, besides the multitude of photos I took, was walking past this cute Thai kid, probably five, wearing an orange and navy-blue striped shirt and shorts. He had a fluffy, don't fuck with me cuz I'm cool Bruce Lee-ish kind of hair-do, and he held a toy gun which he used to shoot the scooters, vehicles, and pedestrians like me, who crossed his path. He noticed that I saw him and with my back to him, I heard him make a "boom" sound. I clutched my chest and staggered a bit and heard him giggle.
That night I went to this neat Australian pub with Wyn, my British/Chilean homie, and listened to this ex-pat sing and play songs with his acoustic. He was not bad. For a young 'un, he displayed a decent range, playing a few old Oasis songs (let me go on the record and say I loved it), a Simon and Garfunkel tune, some Coldplay and Radiohead. We kept drinking these sweet, sweet mojitos, which they had a dos por uno special on. It was so good to just hear some damn music. Now, depending on what mood I'm in, I just play whatever song I feel in my head, so I'm not so absent (not the same, though).
My last full day in Koh Tao I went snorkeling for the first time. I was just a libbo frightened because I have put a gas mask on and felt incredibly claustrophobic with something that tight on my face, seemingly impairing my respiration. For the equivalent of 20 smackers, we got a boat ride from 9 AM - 4 PM around the island, to five different snorkeling locations. An outrageous price (as in good for me).
The first time I plunged in with my big neon flippers, and tried to breathe through the snorkel, I freaked out. I waded and told myself I could do this and went again and it was so simple.
It was absolutely amazing; if I had the energy (which I did), I would have snorkeled the entire day. I have never seen or felt that underwater world. I saw no sharks, no moray eels (I was extremely tempted a few times to dive deep under to some dark, coral outgrowths where I thought trouble, like a vicious moray eel, might lurk; but even I was not stupid enough to chance it!), but I saw two barracudas and this HUGE, two foot long, super chubby fish that could have easily bitten a nice chunk out of my now burnt and bronzed body. I did follow it closely, but started giggling with fear whenever it even turned in my direction! Giggling and burping through a snorkel, by the way, if you haven't had the opportunity, is a neat experience in my book. Today I noticed both of my ankles are noticeably swollen from snorkeling.
The last night I had dinner again with Wyn, grabbed some beers and watched these fire-twirlers bedazzle the tourist crowds, called it a night, hugged, and wished each other happy trails. And today has been nothing but traveling, I nearly (should have) lost my camera just before my bus to Bangkok left. Once I noticed it was missing, I pushed through all the other tourists who were crowding their buses to board. Once I got to the toilet, the last spot where I know I didn't take it with me, I screamed my head off, assured that someone had stolen it. But I must have left it somewhere, while waiting for my bus, and some decent, good spirit had the kindness and presence to take it to information where I retrieved it, antsy and shouting at the woman to hand over my camera (she insisted on taking my passport to photocopy to "file a report"), just when the buses were leaving. I can't believe I got it back when I should have lost it, and I feel bad that I was so flustered and galloped off to my bus without apologizing and thanking her. I did end up losing my pocket notebook today, which the beers I picked up at the 7-11 are helping me to ease over. I had just put some great James Baldwin and Sherman Alexie quotes in there, so I'm still upset at losing it. I'm doing too many stupid things here, sober or drunk, for my liking. I'm frustrated with myself.
Tomorrow I'm either off for Khao Yai National Park in Thailand, a massive, well-preserved monsoon forest to do some hiking, animal-watching, maybe camping, or, if the land crossing from there to Cambodia is too unreliable (both countries are still having a stand-off in Northern Cambodia, now over 3 weeks) from Thailand, I'm flying off to Phnom Penh. I'm staying clear of the hookers (bountiful over there, from what I've read) and heading straight to the firing range! I checked my bank account yesterday and I'm loaded so I maybe chucking a grenade and firing a rocket launcher or two in a few days. Too bad I can't document it with my voice recorder. This world we've crafted is sheer madness and I want to cautiously embrace that (seems like those most human experience, really), while we're still here. I really don't think we have long.
Before I left, I was at Dolores Park and absolutely marvelled at how bees inherently know that they must fly from flower to flower, to pollinate them. This, in turn, is a piece of a process that other beings depend on. Every thing in this world has a given purpose, thus, we're all inherently connected. In those terms, I can't help but see brief glimpses of our collective history (because I'm not a historian, so I know my perspective is limited), how we're acting now and not think that humans came about to destroy, ourselves and everything around us. Because of that, this world is too sad and beautiful for me sometimes. Sometimes I look out into these beautiful sunsets, to these beautiful worlds beneath the ocean's surface, and think, okay, I've had enough. This should be enough. I've been blessed, too, too blessed, but it's only going to get worse from here, and part of me wants to go out and remember this world when there was still hope that we'd come to our senses and change...
Two days ago (I know it's the 6th but I'm not even sure what day of the week it is), the sun finally came out and I got myself scorched and scorched gooood. I read a bunch on the beach and scribbled a lot when not snoozing. When I wasn't doing that, I just stared out into the beach or waded in the waist-high water (the stinky thing about Sairee Beach is that coral outgrowths begin very close to the beach) and sifted through all these thoughts that have been plaguing me lately. Sure, relaxation is a goal, but when I'm on the beach, I naturally default to two principles: comfort and contemplation. Chasing butterflies, like some of the stray pooches around here, isn't quite my thing, but ruminating about my life and who I am, oh yeah; that's my chocolate sundae. Even looking at young attractive women (and gawd were they plentiful on the islands, thanks to the locals y las turistas) gets boring after awhile. A perpetual hard-on has never done humanity any good.
After watching some BBC News loops and a couple of naps, I rolled myself a joint, toked up, and went out, armed with my camera, determined to capture the beauty that is sunset on Koh Tao. It was outright stunning. I burned through an entire roll of film, just walking down the beach and along pedestrian walkways along Sairee Beach, snapping pictures of the sunset, the island, silhouetted people and children playing in the sun, dogs sitting on piers, and a couple of crafty self-compositions that I'm eager to see how they turned out. I continued on, walking at least a kilometer along the closest thing to a freeway here, past all the trucks and scooters that zipped past, to the pier where I came in my first day here. It was amazing to behold. I walked out to a pier, sat at the edge and just marvelled at the colors of the sky, knowing I may never, ever have the great fortune to come back here again. My favorite part, besides the multitude of photos I took, was walking past this cute Thai kid, probably five, wearing an orange and navy-blue striped shirt and shorts. He had a fluffy, don't fuck with me cuz I'm cool Bruce Lee-ish kind of hair-do, and he held a toy gun which he used to shoot the scooters, vehicles, and pedestrians like me, who crossed his path. He noticed that I saw him and with my back to him, I heard him make a "boom" sound. I clutched my chest and staggered a bit and heard him giggle.
That night I went to this neat Australian pub with Wyn, my British/Chilean homie, and listened to this ex-pat sing and play songs with his acoustic. He was not bad. For a young 'un, he displayed a decent range, playing a few old Oasis songs (let me go on the record and say I loved it), a Simon and Garfunkel tune, some Coldplay and Radiohead. We kept drinking these sweet, sweet mojitos, which they had a dos por uno special on. It was so good to just hear some damn music. Now, depending on what mood I'm in, I just play whatever song I feel in my head, so I'm not so absent (not the same, though).
My last full day in Koh Tao I went snorkeling for the first time. I was just a libbo frightened because I have put a gas mask on and felt incredibly claustrophobic with something that tight on my face, seemingly impairing my respiration. For the equivalent of 20 smackers, we got a boat ride from 9 AM - 4 PM around the island, to five different snorkeling locations. An outrageous price (as in good for me).
The first time I plunged in with my big neon flippers, and tried to breathe through the snorkel, I freaked out. I waded and told myself I could do this and went again and it was so simple.
It was absolutely amazing; if I had the energy (which I did), I would have snorkeled the entire day. I have never seen or felt that underwater world. I saw no sharks, no moray eels (I was extremely tempted a few times to dive deep under to some dark, coral outgrowths where I thought trouble, like a vicious moray eel, might lurk; but even I was not stupid enough to chance it!), but I saw two barracudas and this HUGE, two foot long, super chubby fish that could have easily bitten a nice chunk out of my now burnt and bronzed body. I did follow it closely, but started giggling with fear whenever it even turned in my direction! Giggling and burping through a snorkel, by the way, if you haven't had the opportunity, is a neat experience in my book. Today I noticed both of my ankles are noticeably swollen from snorkeling.
The last night I had dinner again with Wyn, grabbed some beers and watched these fire-twirlers bedazzle the tourist crowds, called it a night, hugged, and wished each other happy trails. And today has been nothing but traveling, I nearly (should have) lost my camera just before my bus to Bangkok left. Once I noticed it was missing, I pushed through all the other tourists who were crowding their buses to board. Once I got to the toilet, the last spot where I know I didn't take it with me, I screamed my head off, assured that someone had stolen it. But I must have left it somewhere, while waiting for my bus, and some decent, good spirit had the kindness and presence to take it to information where I retrieved it, antsy and shouting at the woman to hand over my camera (she insisted on taking my passport to photocopy to "file a report"), just when the buses were leaving. I can't believe I got it back when I should have lost it, and I feel bad that I was so flustered and galloped off to my bus without apologizing and thanking her. I did end up losing my pocket notebook today, which the beers I picked up at the 7-11 are helping me to ease over. I had just put some great James Baldwin and Sherman Alexie quotes in there, so I'm still upset at losing it. I'm doing too many stupid things here, sober or drunk, for my liking. I'm frustrated with myself.
Tomorrow I'm either off for Khao Yai National Park in Thailand, a massive, well-preserved monsoon forest to do some hiking, animal-watching, maybe camping, or, if the land crossing from there to Cambodia is too unreliable (both countries are still having a stand-off in Northern Cambodia, now over 3 weeks) from Thailand, I'm flying off to Phnom Penh. I'm staying clear of the hookers (bountiful over there, from what I've read) and heading straight to the firing range! I checked my bank account yesterday and I'm loaded so I maybe chucking a grenade and firing a rocket launcher or two in a few days. Too bad I can't document it with my voice recorder. This world we've crafted is sheer madness and I want to cautiously embrace that (seems like those most human experience, really), while we're still here. I really don't think we have long.
Before I left, I was at Dolores Park and absolutely marvelled at how bees inherently know that they must fly from flower to flower, to pollinate them. This, in turn, is a piece of a process that other beings depend on. Every thing in this world has a given purpose, thus, we're all inherently connected. In those terms, I can't help but see brief glimpses of our collective history (because I'm not a historian, so I know my perspective is limited), how we're acting now and not think that humans came about to destroy, ourselves and everything around us. Because of that, this world is too sad and beautiful for me sometimes. Sometimes I look out into these beautiful sunsets, to these beautiful worlds beneath the ocean's surface, and think, okay, I've had enough. This should be enough. I've been blessed, too, too blessed, but it's only going to get worse from here, and part of me wants to go out and remember this world when there was still hope that we'd come to our senses and change...
Sunday, August 3, 2008
when the music's over
In Koh Tao, the island that I now find myself on, most, if not all of the Internet joints charge 2 bahts per minute, so this blog will have to suffer for it until I get back on the mainland.
This island, like Koh Pha-Ngan, is achingly, achingly beautiful. The only way to really get around the entire island is by scooter (taxis suck shit here because they usually just drop you off at certain points, not specific ones) or if you're a poodle-walking, rich tourist and want to show it, an APV. Riding around on the island today from the port to Haad Sairi, the gorgeous beach I'm staying at, I felt like getting one and just riding around to explore every nook, every vista from this island. If it weren't for the damn mosquitos (one nearly bit me on my left buttock! I'm getting tagged everywhere.) I could really like it here. I'm constantly impressed by how warm the Thais can be.
I've been here in Thailand for a little over a week, but at times it feels like it's been longer. Hearing the locals converse in a language I haven't a clue about, getting stared at everywhere I go (less so here than Bangkok or Surat Thani, since there are so many tourists here), and having people pitch their restaurants or pancakes or taxis has become a normal soundtrack by now, almost as if this is how life always is. It will be strange when I get back to the States and hear people converse in English again.
Now that I'm only hanging out with Wyn (mispelled his name previously), who I spent far less time with than Matt, I'm retreating into myself again, now finally able to have the time (well, make the time) and space to reflect on everything I've seen and done the past five days. My wrist will be hurting from writing in my journal by the end of tonight. Today was my first day I really, really missed my iPod, and consequently felt stupid about the actions I did to fry it. I don't have any means to drown out my silence, others, and most especially my thoughts without it. I've been feeling out of balance lately from all the dancing and partying I've done, and it's times like this when my music really centers me. Music will always be like oxygen to me. I already feel at a loss here, at times overwhelmed with this reality I've never seen (traveling, at times, is like constantly dreaming to me), and even more so now without my music. On the other hand, I'm devouring the books I've brought (reading Sherman Alexie's "Reservation Blues" which has, at times, exploded my mind and the way I see things here) but the bus rides to and through Cambodia are going to be rough without my lil' partner. When I get home, I'd ideally like to go hole myself up in my room and just blast my tunes for an entire evening. I don't think I'll feel quite right until then.
Friday, August 1, 2008
trippin' in Ko-Pha-Ngan
They charge 3 bahts per minute for Internet access on this island, well, at least at this cafe. The dollar about now is yielding 32.15 bahts, so even then, this is expensive, which is why I'll keep it short and Thai chili sauce sweet: I'm hurting today. Last night I drunk a "mushroom shake" (as in, yes, the poisonous kind that you ingest and then trip from; it wasn't that strong, unfortunately) with the travel mates I have stumbled into on this beautiful island (rode around much of it on scooters yesterday; this is quite a splendid land), Matt from Toronto and Wim from Santiago, Chile/Britain (it's a complicated truth). Afterward, I went out and drunk my tail off to cheap buckets of vodka-red bull & whiskey-cokes until, I'm not sure. I am hurtin' as in:
1) I lost my sandals on the beach from last night (yet to be replaced; I'm kind of sad because I have been everywhere with those sandals; they had sentimental value for me; plus they served their purpose very well)
2) my iPod shuffle (named Travelin' Bud), after tumbling and giggling and making out in the ocean with a young Thai woman (I'm not sure if I asked her name), is fried. I'm about to charge it to see if it magically blooms again.
3) I lost my voice recorder, and most importantly, the recording of that cheesy lounge singer belting out Lionel Ritchie's "Hello". It maybe in the ocean, maybe buried in the sand, or maybe in someone's possession at this moment; I'm not sure, sadly.
4) from the early morning tumbling (I remember at least twice trying to give her a piggy-back ride and failing miserably, though we both thought the fall was ha-haa), my right calf is quite tender to the point of being a lil' gimpy, and the left side of my body is in a lil' pain. The bottoms of my feet hurt from the early morning walk back home to my hillside bungalow (overlooking the ocean, facing west, so we saw the sun set while tripping on mushrooms, seeing these bat-like birds flying and diving and zipping around us; it was quite glorious) without sandals.
I need to find out what time the sun rises here, because that's the time I stumbled home (yes, home), alone. She ditched me after wandering around lost (I kept pointing and saying, "My bungalow is just over there! Believe me!"), but not before being flashed by this flat-chested Thai girl, presumably a friend of hers, when she rolled up on a scooter. : (
Ko-Pha-Ngan is famous for its partying, usually ever revolving (because time is a figment and there is no beginning and no end, remember) around the moon's cycles. Tonight, the 1st of August, is the "Black Moon Party". Last night, with its fire games (full, full details later when it's less costly; the drunken and drugged revelers were playing fire jump rope, with a huge, scorching rope about 20 feet long; I did not partake), was a "warm-up" (there are actual signs, posting the warm-up parties throughout the island). Tonight maybe epic, maybe glorious with my buds, who I'm so grateful to have met; we're all coyotes, traveling alone. I evaded a hangover but hope to not overdo it tonight. Memories, good and bad, and love, is why I stick around and what I wake up for. I at least know that I shouldn't pack any electronics tonight! Learned that lesson quickly! I kind of can't, now that I've fried or lost my inventory (unless I brought my electric shaver! But, even here, I don't think anyone would get positively kinked out by that).
Let's cross our fingers and hope my iPod shuffle, my one constant companion, will come alive. From there, onward we go. Let this experiment continue.
1) I lost my sandals on the beach from last night (yet to be replaced; I'm kind of sad because I have been everywhere with those sandals; they had sentimental value for me; plus they served their purpose very well)
2) my iPod shuffle (named Travelin' Bud), after tumbling and giggling and making out in the ocean with a young Thai woman (I'm not sure if I asked her name), is fried. I'm about to charge it to see if it magically blooms again.
3) I lost my voice recorder, and most importantly, the recording of that cheesy lounge singer belting out Lionel Ritchie's "Hello". It maybe in the ocean, maybe buried in the sand, or maybe in someone's possession at this moment; I'm not sure, sadly.
4) from the early morning tumbling (I remember at least twice trying to give her a piggy-back ride and failing miserably, though we both thought the fall was ha-haa), my right calf is quite tender to the point of being a lil' gimpy, and the left side of my body is in a lil' pain. The bottoms of my feet hurt from the early morning walk back home to my hillside bungalow (overlooking the ocean, facing west, so we saw the sun set while tripping on mushrooms, seeing these bat-like birds flying and diving and zipping around us; it was quite glorious) without sandals.
I need to find out what time the sun rises here, because that's the time I stumbled home (yes, home), alone. She ditched me after wandering around lost (I kept pointing and saying, "My bungalow is just over there! Believe me!"), but not before being flashed by this flat-chested Thai girl, presumably a friend of hers, when she rolled up on a scooter. : (
Ko-Pha-Ngan is famous for its partying, usually ever revolving (because time is a figment and there is no beginning and no end, remember) around the moon's cycles. Tonight, the 1st of August, is the "Black Moon Party". Last night, with its fire games (full, full details later when it's less costly; the drunken and drugged revelers were playing fire jump rope, with a huge, scorching rope about 20 feet long; I did not partake), was a "warm-up" (there are actual signs, posting the warm-up parties throughout the island). Tonight maybe epic, maybe glorious with my buds, who I'm so grateful to have met; we're all coyotes, traveling alone. I evaded a hangover but hope to not overdo it tonight. Memories, good and bad, and love, is why I stick around and what I wake up for. I at least know that I shouldn't pack any electronics tonight! Learned that lesson quickly! I kind of can't, now that I've fried or lost my inventory (unless I brought my electric shaver! But, even here, I don't think anyone would get positively kinked out by that).
Let's cross our fingers and hope my iPod shuffle, my one constant companion, will come alive. From there, onward we go. Let this experiment continue.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
a night out in BKK
On my last night in Bangkok, after a late afternoon nap, I gathered the troops, determined to generate some sanuk, the Thai word for "fun". I was determined to 1) check out the city, at nighttime, from the Skytrain, 2) hit up a rooftop bar and have a drink or two or few, no matter the bahtage (the currency here is the baht; get it!), and 3) despite my apprehension, check out the go-go bars in Patpong and maybe yack it up with a "pleasure girl" or two.
The first part of this simple quest involved getting from Banglamphu to Victory Monument, where I calculated the nearest Skytrain station entrance was. Problem was that it was a bit far away (about 3 kilometers), the streets on my map, even if I wanted to do this, were not clearly marked, so I had no choice but to get a chaffeur to take me there.
Once I walked away from my guesthouse, from the hulabaloo that was Th Khao San, the main tourist drag in Banglamphu, I wandered in the general direction of the station, waving off several tuk-tuk and taxi drivers that pegged me for a tourist. Even if I wasn't wearing my backpack, my beard or Latino looks were a clear giveaway, since I have yet to see any Thais, let alone Asian men, grow out a beard. In fact, I'm determined to find out if they even can (the Incas, my ancestors, por ejemplo, couldn't grow beards like the Spanish that eventually conquered them). But more on that quest later.
At one point, I told myself, "The next tuk-tuk driver to come along is yours", so I yielded the next one to drive up. When he asked where I was going, I said, "Victory Monument". He frowned, asked for a map, so I busted two out, including one of the surrounding area. Another tuk-tuk driver, interested in procuring my services, came up and they both consulted. They did the proverbial scratch of the noggin', shrugged their shoulders, and I grinned, said khawp kun kaa, and continued on. I had no idea where I was, but I continued.
I busted out my guidebook again and looked for another Skytrain station that maybe more recognizable to them. That did the trick because the next tuk-tuk driver (I don't even need to yield them) understood "Phaya Thai" and "Skytrain" and my pathetic armswoop to signify the motion of a train, and we were off.
It was my first tuk-tuk ride and it was outstanding, truly the way to go if you're looking for a means of transportation that is true and unique to this region. It was incredibly cinematic, the back of the driver's head alit in a luminous yellow from the bulb above him, the lights from the city's buildings casting pools of light and shadows on us as we swerved from lane to lane. The tuk-tuks have this dirty motorcycle noise to them, and the fact that they have what look like huge boomerangs as steering mechanisms instead of a steering wheel makes the whole experience even neater. It was a rush to sit at such a low level and turn and zip between cars and buses, dwarfed by them. We got so close that I could have easily stuck my arm out to tap one. I got a bigger kick when we turned behind a bus and ran smack into the thick plume of exhaust it emitted.
When we rolled up to the station, it was unmistakeble, even to someone like me who had never seen it. The driver, a man in his mid to late forties, was cute when he proudly turned back and said, "Skytrain?" I gave him his fare, graciously thanked him, and stomped up the stairs to the brightly lit station.
The Skytrain itself was neat. I had never been in the real heart of Bangkok and it was quite beautiful to see from the raised stations and metro trains. But most metropolises look more enchanting to me at nighttime anyway, like concrete sequoias with modest twinkling Christmas lights to gawk it.
I made my way across town to the Bangrak/Patpong district, where go-go bars have served horny and attention-starved foreign men for years. The one time I ever went to a Hooter's, I got nervous when I stepped in, so I knew I would be better equiped with some courage juice in my system before I made my way to the girly bars.
I went to this rooftop bar/restaurant off of one of the main drags. When I got up to the 20th floor rooftop, I was met with a vacant, inviting swimming pool. An empty poolside bar advertised some yummy, fruity concoctions. Behind that bar I could hear the sounds of some non-offensive, cheesy music, so I headed there.
Before me was an open area, with three lines of colorful lights, streaming from the stage, out to some poles along the roof's edge. A young Thai gentleman with a sleazy stache, dressed in a suit with some silly, white bowlerish shoes was crooning while his musical comrade handled the electronic beat and chords from his keyboard. They stood on an elevated platform with turf that looked like it was stolen from a miniature golf course. Behind them was a wooden, white canopy that looked like the kind they have wedding ceremonies in front of. At the other end of the roof were some tables with a handful of patrons, quietly eating their romantic dinners. I greeted the hostess and sat along the side, which was closest to their makeshift bar, overlooking the eastern part of the city.
I was determined to cop a buzz, for once on this trip, so I ordered a Singha beer and a Jameson on the rocks. The prices weren't that bad, though they were much higher then they usually are anywhere else in the city. To my dismay, the pour of Jamesons was poor, but my tummy was already growling (I had only eaten a modest plate of rice and various meats for lunch the entire day), so I figured shooting it, along with the beer, would at least give me a respectable buzz.
The song I walked in on was an English tune, though I couldn't recognize it. It was like glorified karaoke, since the overall production was super-cheesy. The fact that only one couple, sitting right in front of them, barely clapped, gave the entire scene a tragi-ridiculous vibe. I felt bad for the musicians. They had a mounted yellow light that pointed at the area in front of them, seemingly to induce any dancing aesthetics from drunken, spirited revelers. I laughed when I saw it go off the first few times. This was definitely not a raging dance club.
The first full song I heard was a playful poppy Thai tune, which had the singer wave his arm dramatically when he whooped out a "Woo!" during the chorus. I was enchanted by it. After the song, they left the stage to some handclaps from the woman sitting at the table in front of them. A few minutes later, the keyboardist stepped back on the turf stage and began to hammer out the unmistakeable opening chords to Lionel Ritchie's "Hello".
I about lost it when I recognized the song! For me, it was quite possibly the most perfect song to play at that moment. The rooftop restaurant/bar was formal and a bit posh, with only a few elder tourists there, so I refrained from screaming "Yaaaaay!!!" like my heart was inside, but I did have the biggest grin ever. As always, I was armed with my voice recorder so I set it down on the counter and recorded his rendition. He actually played and sung it well, though his English annunciation was tenative and a little to very off at times, which made the rendition all that much more charming. When the song ended, I gave him the loudest applause. A gorgeous female singer was ready to take the stage, and they both smiled in my direction. When they saw me leave shortly after, they were visibly disappointed, their biggest fan, splitting on them. On my way out, I snapped a picture of the city and sung the song to myself on the elevator ride down.
From there, I walked over to the go-go bars. There were two alleys, crawling with bar after bar. Of course, I happened to accidentally make my way to the gay male bars first. I only realized this after I noticed the flamboyant hand gesture one of the waiters made when opening the front door, along with all the men, occupying the tables and seats outside. I figured it was a gay bar when I saw nothing but men, especially a few with some young Asians, smiling at their older, white counterparts, who sat across from them with these hushed, slightly embarrassed looks on their faces. Surprisingly, no one hit on me.
I chugged my whiskey (I have vainly looked for Wild Turkey to no avail, thus far) and left. Surely these couldn't be the go-go bars mentioned in my guidebook!
I hit the jackpot on the next alley. I immediately became nervous when I saw a flock of ravishing, scantily clad Thai women, hovering by the entrances of the bars that lined both sides of the alley. I peeked into the first one to my right and saw some flashing lights, a bar, and a shadowy figure, twirl around a dancebar. I continued down the alley, looking for one that probably wouldn't have a cover charge, and one that wouldn't put me smack dab amongst some luscious titties and unbelievably beautiful women, wearing next to nothing. At that point in the early night, I wasn't even sure if I wanted that. At the very least, I knew I wasn't ready for that then, so I ambled on.
I walked past a few bars, all of them teeming with women, staring or beckoning me or any man to come in. I made my way near the end of the alley before I walked into one that didn't seem so extreme. I pulled up a seat at the bar and was promptly met by this woman who asked me what I'd like to drink. In more of an attempt to try and acclimate to whatever situation I was getting myself into, I asked if they had a menu of drinks, and she grabbed one. I think she could tell from the tone of my voice that I wasn't there to get laid. I ordered a beer, was served some beernuts (dinner at that point!), and was left to quietly drink and observe everything around me. Two stools down was this balding, chubby white guy in his late forties. He wasn't saying much but he, at one point, had three women, fawning over him, one at each arm. At times, he seemed more interested in the soccer match being shown on the TV, but that didn't stop the women from saying something to him, only to break into giggles when he gave them a quick response.
Beside the bar was a walkway with an entrance to a hotel (for "you know what"). Next to the fancy, sliding glass door hotel entrance were two bars. One, bathed in minimal redlight, was completely empty, except for the bartender and one patron. The other had no window to peer into but had a wooden, swinging door beside the sign of the bar. A young tranny-male (called lady-boys here) stood next to the entrance along with a Thai friend who puffed away on a cigarette. The bar was called "Pinochio's", and it had a drawing of two mischievous looking Pinochios, next to the title. I was curious to find out why it was called this, but I could already imagine its implications. Just before I finished my pint, the woman who greeted me left the British balding fellow and asked me something to the effect of, "You looking for sex?" I shook my head and said I was here to drink and left.
As I sat at the bar, I had told myself that I was going to hit two bars before I left, leaving on a high note with the strip club/bar I saw at the entrance. Unsure of where to go, I walked away from that bar and turned and saw one that was simply called "Lolita". It had a nondescript, shadowy entrance, tucked away from the others, so I was too curious and went in.
The first part of this simple quest involved getting from Banglamphu to Victory Monument, where I calculated the nearest Skytrain station entrance was. Problem was that it was a bit far away (about 3 kilometers), the streets on my map, even if I wanted to do this, were not clearly marked, so I had no choice but to get a chaffeur to take me there.
Once I walked away from my guesthouse, from the hulabaloo that was Th Khao San, the main tourist drag in Banglamphu, I wandered in the general direction of the station, waving off several tuk-tuk and taxi drivers that pegged me for a tourist. Even if I wasn't wearing my backpack, my beard or Latino looks were a clear giveaway, since I have yet to see any Thais, let alone Asian men, grow out a beard. In fact, I'm determined to find out if they even can (the Incas, my ancestors, por ejemplo, couldn't grow beards like the Spanish that eventually conquered them). But more on that quest later.
At one point, I told myself, "The next tuk-tuk driver to come along is yours", so I yielded the next one to drive up. When he asked where I was going, I said, "Victory Monument". He frowned, asked for a map, so I busted two out, including one of the surrounding area. Another tuk-tuk driver, interested in procuring my services, came up and they both consulted. They did the proverbial scratch of the noggin', shrugged their shoulders, and I grinned, said khawp kun kaa, and continued on. I had no idea where I was, but I continued.
I busted out my guidebook again and looked for another Skytrain station that maybe more recognizable to them. That did the trick because the next tuk-tuk driver (I don't even need to yield them) understood "Phaya Thai" and "Skytrain" and my pathetic armswoop to signify the motion of a train, and we were off.
It was my first tuk-tuk ride and it was outstanding, truly the way to go if you're looking for a means of transportation that is true and unique to this region. It was incredibly cinematic, the back of the driver's head alit in a luminous yellow from the bulb above him, the lights from the city's buildings casting pools of light and shadows on us as we swerved from lane to lane. The tuk-tuks have this dirty motorcycle noise to them, and the fact that they have what look like huge boomerangs as steering mechanisms instead of a steering wheel makes the whole experience even neater. It was a rush to sit at such a low level and turn and zip between cars and buses, dwarfed by them. We got so close that I could have easily stuck my arm out to tap one. I got a bigger kick when we turned behind a bus and ran smack into the thick plume of exhaust it emitted.
When we rolled up to the station, it was unmistakeble, even to someone like me who had never seen it. The driver, a man in his mid to late forties, was cute when he proudly turned back and said, "Skytrain?" I gave him his fare, graciously thanked him, and stomped up the stairs to the brightly lit station.
The Skytrain itself was neat. I had never been in the real heart of Bangkok and it was quite beautiful to see from the raised stations and metro trains. But most metropolises look more enchanting to me at nighttime anyway, like concrete sequoias with modest twinkling Christmas lights to gawk it.
I made my way across town to the Bangrak/Patpong district, where go-go bars have served horny and attention-starved foreign men for years. The one time I ever went to a Hooter's, I got nervous when I stepped in, so I knew I would be better equiped with some courage juice in my system before I made my way to the girly bars.
I went to this rooftop bar/restaurant off of one of the main drags. When I got up to the 20th floor rooftop, I was met with a vacant, inviting swimming pool. An empty poolside bar advertised some yummy, fruity concoctions. Behind that bar I could hear the sounds of some non-offensive, cheesy music, so I headed there.
Before me was an open area, with three lines of colorful lights, streaming from the stage, out to some poles along the roof's edge. A young Thai gentleman with a sleazy stache, dressed in a suit with some silly, white bowlerish shoes was crooning while his musical comrade handled the electronic beat and chords from his keyboard. They stood on an elevated platform with turf that looked like it was stolen from a miniature golf course. Behind them was a wooden, white canopy that looked like the kind they have wedding ceremonies in front of. At the other end of the roof were some tables with a handful of patrons, quietly eating their romantic dinners. I greeted the hostess and sat along the side, which was closest to their makeshift bar, overlooking the eastern part of the city.
I was determined to cop a buzz, for once on this trip, so I ordered a Singha beer and a Jameson on the rocks. The prices weren't that bad, though they were much higher then they usually are anywhere else in the city. To my dismay, the pour of Jamesons was poor, but my tummy was already growling (I had only eaten a modest plate of rice and various meats for lunch the entire day), so I figured shooting it, along with the beer, would at least give me a respectable buzz.
The song I walked in on was an English tune, though I couldn't recognize it. It was like glorified karaoke, since the overall production was super-cheesy. The fact that only one couple, sitting right in front of them, barely clapped, gave the entire scene a tragi-ridiculous vibe. I felt bad for the musicians. They had a mounted yellow light that pointed at the area in front of them, seemingly to induce any dancing aesthetics from drunken, spirited revelers. I laughed when I saw it go off the first few times. This was definitely not a raging dance club.
The first full song I heard was a playful poppy Thai tune, which had the singer wave his arm dramatically when he whooped out a "Woo!" during the chorus. I was enchanted by it. After the song, they left the stage to some handclaps from the woman sitting at the table in front of them. A few minutes later, the keyboardist stepped back on the turf stage and began to hammer out the unmistakeable opening chords to Lionel Ritchie's "Hello".
I about lost it when I recognized the song! For me, it was quite possibly the most perfect song to play at that moment. The rooftop restaurant/bar was formal and a bit posh, with only a few elder tourists there, so I refrained from screaming "Yaaaaay!!!" like my heart was inside, but I did have the biggest grin ever. As always, I was armed with my voice recorder so I set it down on the counter and recorded his rendition. He actually played and sung it well, though his English annunciation was tenative and a little to very off at times, which made the rendition all that much more charming. When the song ended, I gave him the loudest applause. A gorgeous female singer was ready to take the stage, and they both smiled in my direction. When they saw me leave shortly after, they were visibly disappointed, their biggest fan, splitting on them. On my way out, I snapped a picture of the city and sung the song to myself on the elevator ride down.
From there, I walked over to the go-go bars. There were two alleys, crawling with bar after bar. Of course, I happened to accidentally make my way to the gay male bars first. I only realized this after I noticed the flamboyant hand gesture one of the waiters made when opening the front door, along with all the men, occupying the tables and seats outside. I figured it was a gay bar when I saw nothing but men, especially a few with some young Asians, smiling at their older, white counterparts, who sat across from them with these hushed, slightly embarrassed looks on their faces. Surprisingly, no one hit on me.
I chugged my whiskey (I have vainly looked for Wild Turkey to no avail, thus far) and left. Surely these couldn't be the go-go bars mentioned in my guidebook!
I hit the jackpot on the next alley. I immediately became nervous when I saw a flock of ravishing, scantily clad Thai women, hovering by the entrances of the bars that lined both sides of the alley. I peeked into the first one to my right and saw some flashing lights, a bar, and a shadowy figure, twirl around a dancebar. I continued down the alley, looking for one that probably wouldn't have a cover charge, and one that wouldn't put me smack dab amongst some luscious titties and unbelievably beautiful women, wearing next to nothing. At that point in the early night, I wasn't even sure if I wanted that. At the very least, I knew I wasn't ready for that then, so I ambled on.
I walked past a few bars, all of them teeming with women, staring or beckoning me or any man to come in. I made my way near the end of the alley before I walked into one that didn't seem so extreme. I pulled up a seat at the bar and was promptly met by this woman who asked me what I'd like to drink. In more of an attempt to try and acclimate to whatever situation I was getting myself into, I asked if they had a menu of drinks, and she grabbed one. I think she could tell from the tone of my voice that I wasn't there to get laid. I ordered a beer, was served some beernuts (dinner at that point!), and was left to quietly drink and observe everything around me. Two stools down was this balding, chubby white guy in his late forties. He wasn't saying much but he, at one point, had three women, fawning over him, one at each arm. At times, he seemed more interested in the soccer match being shown on the TV, but that didn't stop the women from saying something to him, only to break into giggles when he gave them a quick response.
Beside the bar was a walkway with an entrance to a hotel (for "you know what"). Next to the fancy, sliding glass door hotel entrance were two bars. One, bathed in minimal redlight, was completely empty, except for the bartender and one patron. The other had no window to peer into but had a wooden, swinging door beside the sign of the bar. A young tranny-male (called lady-boys here) stood next to the entrance along with a Thai friend who puffed away on a cigarette. The bar was called "Pinochio's", and it had a drawing of two mischievous looking Pinochios, next to the title. I was curious to find out why it was called this, but I could already imagine its implications. Just before I finished my pint, the woman who greeted me left the British balding fellow and asked me something to the effect of, "You looking for sex?" I shook my head and said I was here to drink and left.
As I sat at the bar, I had told myself that I was going to hit two bars before I left, leaving on a high note with the strip club/bar I saw at the entrance. Unsure of where to go, I walked away from that bar and turned and saw one that was simply called "Lolita". It had a nondescript, shadowy entrance, tucked away from the others, so I was too curious and went in.
Monday, July 28, 2008
searching for the "bang" in Bangkok
Bangkok, since I don't speak or understand Thai, is nothing to write home about, as far as I'm concerned. Then again, my first night was spent mostly sleeping from the entire day of traveling; I passed out at about 7 PM in the early, stuffy (it's a bit humid here) evening, then awakening from some odd sexual dreams (one involving an old co-worker of mine, from years ago, who gawd really knows I have NEVER thought of in that way, let alone anytime in the past three years, but there you go; I've had a lot of random thoughts the past 24 hours) at 1 AM, Monday morning. Bored in my guesthouse room, I wandered out into the streets, determined to view the river running along Banglamphu, the uber-touristy area I have chosen as home for my little time here. These ritzy hotels along the river seemed to have bought up that land-retail, and in the dark, early morning hours, I could see some oficious hotel attendants, guarding the gates to their hotels, so I didn't bother. It was a treat to wander back to my guesthouse, after one in the morning, and have a rather delicious small dish of chicken pad thai made, from a street vendor, at a price equivalent to about .75 cents. Beats the drive-bys back in the States, as far as I'm concerned.
Bangkok is a sprawling, at times modern but mostly grimy (and at times smelly, and usually not in the good way) metropolis. Today I took a cab across the river, to one of its suburbs, and was amazed again at how much one nook, one pocket of this city, can remind me of places I've been to before. I've been here a little over 24 hours and at times this city and its surrounding area has reminded me of Lima (for being so spread out, car-centric, dirty, and the plethora of pirated CDs and movies you can find on any corner), the highways of the Yucatan, Rio (for its lush, tropical vegetation within its city, which is very beautiful), Buenos Aires (for the massive traffic; pedestrians are dirt here; it is not uncommon for motorcycles to ride up on the sidewalks) and even the States for how easy it has been to navigate around here without knowing a lick of Thai (the airport and shopping complexes are very sterile and modern). Where Bangkok has differed, obviously, are all the Thais and Asians walking the streets, the tuk-tuks (the motorcycle-driven taxi carts that make a ruckus and spew plumes of smoke), the parade of motorcycles, and the pushcart vendors that are up and about seemingly anytime of the day. The motorcycles have, by far, been my favorites. The only romantic aesthetic I've seen so far have been the couples, usually with a gorgeous Thai young woman riding on the back, her arms wrapped around her partner or her body sexily turned to the side, her legs crossed, while they zip and swoosh through the endless traffic. The river, which I crossed on a ferry today, looks like a glorified (as in big) stream of sewer water. I also haven't had an earnest discussion with anybody since I left the States, and this, of course, is usually the most beautiful part of traveling: meeting somebody and shooting the shit with them.
I plan to change that in a couple of minutes. The sun is setting and I'm going to take the skytrain that swoops around the very heart of the city to get to Patpong, the infamous red-light district with go-go bars and several rooftop bars. I have already seen the main sights that this city has to offer (the Emerald Buddha and its housing was pretty neat), so I figure this is the richest, most Bangkokian experience I can be a part of. I wonder if many of the douchebag, jockish tourists that make up a heavy share of the Banglamphu crowd will be there, since it is further away. Either way, my bus for Surat Thani and the beachs of Southern Thailand await me early manana. That's what I'm really looking forward to. I feel like I've just been biding my time here, so I'm eager to leave. But hopefully, hopefully, I can see some wackiness or get in some minute trouble before I leave!
Bangkok is a sprawling, at times modern but mostly grimy (and at times smelly, and usually not in the good way) metropolis. Today I took a cab across the river, to one of its suburbs, and was amazed again at how much one nook, one pocket of this city, can remind me of places I've been to before. I've been here a little over 24 hours and at times this city and its surrounding area has reminded me of Lima (for being so spread out, car-centric, dirty, and the plethora of pirated CDs and movies you can find on any corner), the highways of the Yucatan, Rio (for its lush, tropical vegetation within its city, which is very beautiful), Buenos Aires (for the massive traffic; pedestrians are dirt here; it is not uncommon for motorcycles to ride up on the sidewalks) and even the States for how easy it has been to navigate around here without knowing a lick of Thai (the airport and shopping complexes are very sterile and modern). Where Bangkok has differed, obviously, are all the Thais and Asians walking the streets, the tuk-tuks (the motorcycle-driven taxi carts that make a ruckus and spew plumes of smoke), the parade of motorcycles, and the pushcart vendors that are up and about seemingly anytime of the day. The motorcycles have, by far, been my favorites. The only romantic aesthetic I've seen so far have been the couples, usually with a gorgeous Thai young woman riding on the back, her arms wrapped around her partner or her body sexily turned to the side, her legs crossed, while they zip and swoosh through the endless traffic. The river, which I crossed on a ferry today, looks like a glorified (as in big) stream of sewer water. I also haven't had an earnest discussion with anybody since I left the States, and this, of course, is usually the most beautiful part of traveling: meeting somebody and shooting the shit with them.
I plan to change that in a couple of minutes. The sun is setting and I'm going to take the skytrain that swoops around the very heart of the city to get to Patpong, the infamous red-light district with go-go bars and several rooftop bars. I have already seen the main sights that this city has to offer (the Emerald Buddha and its housing was pretty neat), so I figure this is the richest, most Bangkokian experience I can be a part of. I wonder if many of the douchebag, jockish tourists that make up a heavy share of the Banglamphu crowd will be there, since it is further away. Either way, my bus for Surat Thani and the beachs of Southern Thailand await me early manana. That's what I'm really looking forward to. I feel like I've just been biding my time here, so I'm eager to leave. But hopefully, hopefully, I can see some wackiness or get in some minute trouble before I leave!
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