The Golden Rule of Zoos

My-travel-partner-who-musn't-be-named-unless-someone-is-going-to-pay-me had two days left in Thailand; we had to make it count. We had to top go-karts, eating some of the greatest food that’s ever been processed by taste buds, varying levels of interaction with prostitutes, ping pong shows, lady boy bars, long distance motor biking, near incarceration, and epic beach trips. There was only one possible grand finale for this manly adventure through Thailand: a drive-through zoo.

We stayed at Oat’s sweet high rise apartment once again, and woke up at 8 to cheer him on in his ‘sports arbitrage’ (read ‘betting on basketball spreads’) and to have some McDonald’s delivery, as per usual. Seemingly out of the blue, Oat and Pap announced that we would be going to a zoo—a drive-through zoo at that. Having never steered us wrong up to this point, we immediately and emphatically agreed.

We hopped in Oat’s immaculate (and now totaled, I just recently found out) car to take on Bangkok traffic once again. At this point we were seasoned traffic veterans, ready for the miles of slower-than-walking driving; we packed ample snacks, water, and highly caffeinated syrups—Redbull© was actually originally Thai, and still comes in the original form in Thailand: a small medicine bottle of a thick, non-carbonated sweet syrup that has, like, 5 cups of coffee’s worth of caffeine. For me, Thai Redbull was soooo 2008, so I had branched out to some of the other, even more powerful and vitamin supplemented, syrupy, liquid, amphetaminal beverages (they cost around 30 cents, why not!?).

As we approached the heart of Bangkok, Oat told us we were to pick up food for the animals; I was flabbergasted—I was sure that not even a place as 'laid-back on regulations' as Thailand would allow you to feed large and dangerous, albeit likely sedated, animals. Oat assured us that this was perfectly fine and we went into the market and went on a shopping spree: fish (for the large birds), bananas (for the primates and oddly enough rhinos), and lots of greens (for the antelopes and deer and what have you). After deliberation, we decided it would be best to also get some chicken… for the lions, tigers, and bears (not a joke nor an intentional Wizard of Oz reference).

We arrived, and, in order not to miss the shows, went to the amusement park portion of this giant tourist site before the drive-through zoo. Inside there were numerous animals that I had never seen in person, and some I hadn’t seen even on TV. While American zoos like to keep a distance between the zoo-goers and the animals (presumably for both parties’ health and safety), in Thailand that seems to not be so much of a priority; most animals could be petted by an intrepid tourist because of the considerable distance between bars and the less-than-considerable distance between clothed and non-clothed animals. The tiger cage had a small tunnel under it that would allow you to come up into the middle of the tiger family’s lair; on the way down the stairs, people of my height could actually put their face about 3 inches away from a really pissed off tiger’s face—their teeth are mad big and mad sharp, yo.

We saw a dolphin show and a spy adventure show, the former was a pretty standard Seaworld© type show. The latter on the other hand, was a wild, no holds barred series of explosions, hypersexualized encounters, water splashes, and bouts of bad acting loosely centered around a plot of an Asian James Bond saving the world from an evil former military general who nearly gains control of all the nuclear weapons in the world-- I get the feeling it was unlicensed and violated at least a few of Ian Flemming's right's ownerships.

Then came the time, the finale, the drive-through feeding zoo. My travelling-partner-not-to-be-named-unless-I-get-a-book-deal and I, in the backseat, readied the foodstuffs. As we drove on the gravel road cut out of tropical, jungly, flora, we started realizing that this zoo also followed the golden rule of zoos: DON’T FEED THE FUCKING ANIMALS was presented in slightly less words over and over and in every language and script imaginable. We de-readied the foodstuffs by shoving them through the middle seat trunk access point and hiding what we could under the front seats; the security checkpoint was arriving. Luckily for the golden rule breakers, smugglers, and terrorists of the world, the security was utterly equatorial; a slight glance and as little body movement as possible to wave us through was employed (can you blame them… it’s hot, and they have on full uniforms, and they probably make like 8 dollars a month).

Our food worked perfectly, we lured exotic animals of all sorts within arm’s reach. The banana-eating rhinos (!)(?) were larger than Oat’s Toyota, the fuzzy bear who was either sipping codeine syrup or being injected with daily sedatives hoisted himself up on his hindlegs and rested on the car, the herds of herbivorous quadrapedals (antelopes and shit) stuck their heads into all the windows, lured in by leafy Asian vegetables. The lions and tigers were—likely for the best—heavily sedated, and lax security was watching from a distance. We gave the chicken breasts to the security guards as we left—security guards were often the recipients of our leftovers; they seemed to appreciate them.

Some things are universal in the human condition; the philosophers that tell you ‘truth’ doesn’t exist are a bunch of godforsaken liars—and probably homosexuals, too. Cultural and moral relativism are bullshit—as proven by every zoo in the world instating, and every mischievous young person in the world breaking, a truthful, universal rule of animal-viewing establishments, THE golden rule:

Don’t Feed The Animals.

Chinese New Year, in Thailand

After some raucous times in Bangkok and Pattaya with our friends both new and old, me and my travel-partner-to-remain-nameless decided that as great as clubbing non-stop with the upper echelons of Thai society was, we were getting only certain aspects of Thai society and culture—aspects such as club design (lots of Chipotle-sensibility such as brushed stainless steel, faux premium woods, and warm lights), traffic patterns in affluent parts of Bangkok (endless seas of sedans with a driver riding solo, stopping and going, but mostly stopping; with cabs filling in the gaps), and off the beaten path restaurants that would specialize in a single dish—so good that they would often cause involuntary, orgasm like experiences full of ‘mmms’ and professions to deities.

We wanted to experience that helpless, uninformed rambling that is backpacking in Southeast Asia. We decided on Phetburi, a coastal, old, Chinese style town that seemed to have a lot of character from the pictures on Google images. Two main factors went into this decision: the cheap hotel with good reviews and the occurrence of Chinese New Year; we figured we should bring in the water-dragon year in style—Chinese style, that is.

We waited for a bus at a terminal in Bangkok; in the stead of tickets, we received tokens that symbolized our bus fare. These tokens were (roughly and irregularly) 1 inch pieces of plastic straws, and (roughly and irregularly) 1 inch squares of corrugated plastic. The bus-passenger-wranglers at the bus station would yell out the color and form of the tokens, not the destinations, to signify the next departure. Thus, we learned to say ‘blue straw’ in Thai (once we thought our bus was announced, but they were actually announcing ‘blue corrugated plastic piece’).

Getting off buses in towns without a map is always a bit frightening. We had acquainted ourselves with the layout of the town before we arrived, and we knew our hotel was on the river that ran through town. After we got our bearings and got a few sets of semi-contradictory directions, we found the aforementioned river and followed that up to the hotel. Phetburi was subtly beautiful; under overgrowth of vines there were bejeweled statues of The Buddha, elephants, and other things held in high esteem by the lovely people of Thailand. Dramatic and ornate Thai-style temples peeked up over the single and two story store fronts with attached housing. The layout, like much of the developing world, seemed a bit freestyled—a public planning jazz of sorts; no streets were really straight, they all bowed and curved with the prior streets and paths.

The hotel we stayed in was an old, stilted, wooden structure right on the river. The owner was an eccentric old Thai chef and the decorations reflected his eccentricities. The bookshelves were lined with mid-20^th century Sci-Fi, as well as the full gamut of English literature classics of the last century or so (Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Faulkner etc) plus lots of indiscernible Thai books. The walls were covered in mainstream and semi-obscure rockabilly, big band jazz, old school country, and 50s rock and roll. These were functional decorations until a year prior, when the owner broke down and went digital.

Our room was old and conjured feelings of an AWOL marine holed up and shooting heroin in 1970, only a little dingier; the best adjective to describe it would probably be ‘Apocolypsenowian.’ Luckily we are flexible guys and we had sleeping bag liners, allowing us to never have to make direct contact with the sheets that seemed clean, but could have had any number of unspeakable things done on and with them. 

After ‘settling’ into our hotel, we set out for a stroll. The town was covered in red and gold decorations of all sorts to signify the Chinese New Year. Many of the shops were closed or semi-closed and the store floors had been turned into familial lounging areas where dumplings and other Chinese finger foods were being cooked in massive quantities. Unbeknownst to us, a lot of the older Thai-Chinese people are actually Chinese people living in Thailand. My travel buddy and I flexed our Chinese-speaking tongues and impressed some of the grandmas and grandpas of the area. One family took a particular liking to us and invited us in to sample all the homemade treats they were preparing. The grandma seemed ecstatic to have big tall white guys sampling her foods and complementing them in her mother-tongue, and we were ecstatic to be sampling such lovely, authentic eats. One of the grand-daughters of the family was only about 16, but it was clear that she was to be a striking beauty. Her eyes were a combination of light hazel and blue and she was tall and slender. We discussed after leaving their storefront for the first time what an appropriate amount for a betrothal gift might be for this young lass and settled on ‘unaffordable to us;’ we considered installment payments until she reached 18, as well as a few other payment and exchange plans before having an existential meltdown about how creepy the dialogue was.

The Chinese New Year celebration featured large amounts of fireworks, dragon dances, temporary shrines for extra Buddha Points, smiles, and well wishing. It was interesting hearing the old people’s recollections of life in Taiwan and China and the tales that brought them to Thailand in the first place, and there less-than-subtle introductions of grand-daughters accompanied with those magical flirty looks that old women get when they start recalling their past and hitting on young guys vicariously through their second generation progenies.

Off to the Markets!

As a libertarian of sorts at heart, I love markets in the developing world. Read in a Dick Vitale voice: This is capitalism, baby! If you are in the market of a city of 40,000 or more and can’t find something you want, then you want something totally unnecessary, or just don’t know how to ask for it in the local lingo. It covers all the spots for errands in one place: Grocery store, pharmacy, restaurant, drug dealer, hardware store, gas station, electronics store, and shopping mall all in one. If one was so inclined, one could even get a shower, massage (with or without happy ending), and a solid mani-pedi.

Furthermore, it cuts out unnecessaries like high ceilings, good lighting, and insurance that end up in the prices you pay at a US or Western-style department store or grocer. Many travelers and backpackers, acculturated in the system of big brand stores, go to the equivalents of Wal-Mart or Kroger thinking they are saving money, but in all actuality the same goods are typically a fraction of the price in markets; I have personally bought a pineapple for 20 cents at a market that was better than the 2 dollar one at the fancy, American-style grocery store. There’re no lobbyists working to keep a stall-owner in Ecuador afloat and ahead of competition, just good products at low prices.

Another nifty feature of markets is that prices are negotiable and volatile; while sunglasses are cheaper on cloudy days, umbrella stock plummets on sunny days; the losing team’s jersey can drop 50% in value overnight, while a Manchester United jersey always takes in top dollar. Buying in bulk becomes an advantage for the buyer— perhaps that sweet Elmo shirt with ungrammatical English is 8 bucks, but add in a Power Ranger backpack, three Barbies, and 6 months’ worth of birth control pills (which I saw all at the same stall) and watch the prices plummet. It seems like those principles they teach you in economics that only come true at macro-level operations in the developed world happen at the point of sale level in a market, which I like.

Philosophy, ideals, and theory aside, markets are just plain fun. The smell is sometimes repulsive, especially to an American nose accustomed to everything being hermetically sealed or scented with grassy meadows, but awakening nonetheless. A walk down an aisle can be an olfactory gauntlet; an aggregate of kilos of cheese, stacks of dead and sometimes rotting fish, every local spice available, new clothes, plus the various body odors of all the hard working folks trying to make a living in a sweaty equatorial climate. The sights can be jarring and inspiring; men older than retirement-age lugging hundreds of pounds on their back, children playing the role of savvy business person while they should be at school, armadillos gutted on a tray and being sold by the pound, and produce sections with seemingly every possible color of the spectrum.  People screaming and bartering and losing and gaining and leaving happy and stomping off for an area the size of multiple city blocks is just plain exhilarating to me.

Even if you don’t buy anything, no travel experience to a city in the developing world is complete until you’ve visited the main market. You learn about the food the surrounding land produces, the styles of clothing people like (even if it is jeans and shirts with way too many tacky vestigial zippers and pockets), and what the people of a place truly want and need, because the market mechanism IS in working order.

Goin Goan Vol. II: Election Time

The first few weeks I spent in Goa were the build-up to elections, which provided a great deal of inconveniences to those who drink, go out, and drive without a license (which I was all 3 of).

After a few days of doing work at a Café Coffee Day© down the road (think more playful and bright colored Starbucks with lame jokes on the walls and menus e.g. ‘Pull to shed calories’ signs on the doors) and then jamming and drinking with Anirban and his roommates at night, I booked a bus ticket to head South to Kerala. The gods of bus travel disapproved, however, and my bus was cancelled.

Instead of getting another bus ticket, I decided to stay in Goa—I mean, why not? I had a place to stay with cool roommates, a motorbike, and tropical beaches all around me.

The only thing wrong with my surroundings was that they were undergoing elections.

In the few weeks prior to the bi-annual culmination of democracy in the state of Goa, the incumbent government likes to piss everyone in the state off by instating strict laws on curfews, noise ordinances, and alcohol sales, as well as an increased police presence at certain high traffic areas.

I’m not quite sure why they do this, I am convinced that no one really feels any safer when the Goan police are around; these guys pretty much just hang out at certain intersections and pull people over. They then proceed to write your name down on a clip board and usually ask for money (from the white folks, at least). I found out later that some of them like musicians more so I always kept my guitar on my back; one time I actually sang my way out of them fining some Russians I was hanging out with for not wearing helmets.  

Another part about elections that puzzles me is the dry days. In Latin America they prohibit the sale of alcohol the day before and the day of elections, presumably to have a more responsible, or at least less drunk, voter base. In Goa, they choose four seemingly random days per week in the two weeks prior to elections to ban all alcohol sales. If anything, we actually got drunker on dry days because we would stock up prior and it seemed like more of an event, a drinking holiday of sorts.

Then there was the noise ordinance that kept loud music from being played after 11pm for the two weeks prior to elections, because any fool knows a rock concert 12 days before you choose your local leaders will surely cause you to make a regrettable choice. I wouldn’t have had quite the problem with this rule that I did except some popular clubs had apparently paid the cops off to have late night parties any way, and all these clubs specialized in 220 bpm bass heavy electronic shit, oops I mean ‘trance.’ I found myself at least twice at said parties, wondering why I was there and not at home getting some rest.

It’s hard to believe it, but I survived the dreaded election time with minimal emotional scarring. And it would have taking a lot more than illogical party bans to keep me from smiling whilst I sat upon my steel-horse (read scooter) and cruised around a tropical paradise.

Goin Goan Vol. I

From time to time it is a fun thought experiment to consider how small decisions we make end up shaping our fate and future; for me and my trip in India, it was mustering up the courage to jump on stage and wail out ‘Red House’ as performed  by Jimi Hendrix with a local band that would shape the next 6 months of my life.

My friends had left, and I had just gotten a new editing assignment, so I figured I would stay in my cheap and clean guest room for another few days, paying my landlord on a day to day basis as to avoid paperwork (he told me that booking for 3 days or more would warrant paper work, with a dreadful tone of voice. Between my desire to feel off the grid and his lack of desire to fill out forms, we settled on me giving him cash roughly every morning). I also met some lovely Australian girls with a fondness for partying, so my days consisted of posting up at a beach shack and editing a journal on the provincial economies of China and then drinking heavily with a posse of ladies from the land down under.

They told me of an all you can eat seafood buffet with live music that was the cat’s pajamas at one of the original beach shacks at Anjuna beach (a party destination known throughout the subcontinent). I personally feel a bit guilty gorging on food when surrounded by poverty—or any time for that matter—but the live music caught my attention.

Anjuna beach is a long stretch of beach lined with shacks that fulfill most all beach going needs: shade, music, alcohol, people, hash, food, drinking water etc. There are hippy markets on both the North and South side of the town where you can score any last minute beach needs or tapestries.

In the stead of dinner, I drank Kingfisher© strong beer—the  thicker, more filling, sibling of the ubiquitous Indian beer. Despite the more than ample energy the band was giving off, no one was dancing, so I took it upon myself to be the crowd I always wish I had; I let my hair down and rocked the F out. Before too long, a dance party had commenced.

The guitar player/vocalist was wailing, shredding, jumping up and down, screaming, yelling, and all the other –ing verbs you would want a guitar hero to be doing. I felt a certain connection with him; his licks were not unlike mine, albeit better executed. His choice of songs was eclectic and at times ironic and humorous, at least by my standards (you know, like Bob Marley at Starbucks or something). His in between song banter was dry and funny. I liked this guy; he was good people.

The always necessary blues number began—‘Red House’ as performed by Jimi Hendrix. The music was tight, but the vocals were seriously lacking; I figured I could do better. I gestured to the microphone, and the guitar hero gestured back yes.

After performing a number of songs with them that night, and having a plethora of drinks bought for me by people who appreciated what I had added to the evening, the clock struck midnight, meaning the music had to stop (this was my first experience with Goa's election time noise ordinance; I will address Goan elections at some point in the near future).

I joined the band for a post-performance smoke. I introduced myself to the guitar hero and told him I loved his style, he responded back with something similar and invited me to his apartment the next day to jam and crash for a day or two. This was the start of me and Anirban’s fruitful friendship.

I packed up and the next day hopped on a bus to Panjim, the capital and port city of Goa, as well as Anirban’s place of residence. He picked me up from the bus station on his sports bike and took me through Panjim, along the water. We crossed over a river that emptied into the bay on the right and was lined with old Portuguese style buildings to the left. Then we passed by downtown, a bustling urban area with some taller buildings to the left and casino boats in the bay on the right, all lit up with neon signs connoting royalty or luck or the likes (despite the 30 cent minimum bets and my love for casinos, I never made it out). Then we passed down a recently revamped road lined with new, old-looking, LED street lights. This long straight road was the site of Anirban’s most recent bike wreck—a comforting piece of information to hear as we are swerving through buses and cars going 60 mph.

The apartment was big and covered in posters of late and great rockstars. The guy who lived above Anirban heard us jamming and came and knocked on the door and offered beers and hash; we welcomed him and his gifts. This was Antonio, a super cool and passionate Spaniard from the Basque country who was really into sustainable farming. We spent the night playing songs and watching youtube videos of musicians we admired.

I felt quite comfortable in the apartment from day one—it was definitely a quintessential bachelor pad; full ash trays, dirty dishes, burn marks on the glass table, a toilet with a thin film covering, signifying the avoidance of scrubbing, and many other tell-tale signs that very few women enter the premises. Little did I know at that point that this would become my place of residence for the next two and a half months as I continued goin Goan.

Sweet Home Chicago

Last week, I was at a crossroads; I had a week in the Midwest and I could have bounced around from crazy family to crazy family with my own immediate crazy family or lone-wolf it to Chicago and meet up with friends—I chose the latter.

I hopped on a train with my guitar and a small bag of clothes and set off for the windy city. The train conductor and I built a rapport quickly; maybe it was my long and/or facial hair, but I gave him the sense that he could vent to me (in a heavy Midwestern accent):

‘You know, you try to help people and they just fuck you over.’

‘My boss is gonna ream my fucking ass.’

‘Amtrak doesn’t give a shit, and it worries me cuz its my fucking livelihood.’

‘yeah we got food… shitty overpriced hot dogs.’

These were just a few examples of the less-than-formal tone this uniformed man took with me in regards to a hippy woman that he was allowing on the train without a ticket, and the Amtrak system as we know it.

A few conversations and a nap later and I was in the birthplace of the (commercial) blues, The Crossroads of America, The Second City, and the setting for my favorite Chris Farley skit (Daaa Bears).

My (non-crazy) cousin works full time in Indiana, but was paid to move to Chicago for reasons unclear to me, him, and probably his employer, too. As a product of this, I had a free, nice apartment in Chicago to myself for the week. Thanks cuz.

The living situation for the typical middle class Chicagoan seems to be a few rooms or a floor of a retrofitted ‘greystone,’ or Sears-era brick house (catalogue homes that were popular amongst Midwesterners striving for conformity in the first half of the 20^th century). The areas I was in had the feel of a neighborhood, despite the likelihood that most people here were probably on year-by-year leases with sublets coming and going. This neighborhoodly feeling could be attributed mostly to vigilant landlords that oftentimes live in the same house that they rent out units from. My one friend received a 300 word e-mail from her landlord over 3 cigarette butts left on the stairs, for example (a staggering 100 WPCB average!).

In between heavy drinking sessions with old and new friends alike, I did see some of the many sites Chicago has to offer. As a plus, there was an upcoming airshow, so The Blue Angels were practicing fly-bys of downtown Chicago the whole week. I couldn’t help but imagine all out urban warfare in America; it was fun and disturbing, but I couldn’t make amends with the unlikelihood of being invaded via the great lakes so I stopped imagining.

On the second night in town, I was an extra in a music video at a warehouse. It was cool, but it was in a less-than-wholesome area of town, complete with people practicing their crack fueled schizophrenic monologues on the street and cars with aftermarket wheels that would slow down to a creep as they passed us walking to and fro our destination. We did meet a pretty awesome Dave Chappellesque guy who was avid about me going to Dave and Buster’s during my stay in Chicago—I never made it.

Other highlights included ‘The Bean’: a reflective bean shaped public work that produces the most visually disorienting affect I have ever felt whilst not on psychedelics or spinning around in flowery meadows.

The Art Institute was fun; I like to laugh with joy and irony at paintings and installments that I like. There was an exhibit on Roy Lichtenstein, who is a hilarious and extraordinary artist; I would strongly suggest Googling him if you have a few minutes (and since you’re reading this, I know you do!).

The Loop, Chicago’s downtown, had a bit of a manufactured feel to it, but it is full of stunning buildings. Apparently Chicago was a playing field for 20^th century architects to flex their egos by juxtaposing their ideal buildings next to their rival’s competing, giant, functional phallic symbols of glass and steel.

After lots of long walks, rides on the CTA (the public transit system), and a variety of activities I came to a few conclusions. First of all, they like to drink in Chicago (I try to fight the urge to generalize, but I don’t think Chicagoans will argue with this one, so why not stereotype for time’s sake?). Secondly, there is way too much cheese and processed meat in the culinary traditions of Chicago (I had to try all the different Chicago-styled junk foods, but I think I had more digestive problems in a week in Chicago than I did in 6 months in India #realtalk). And thirdly, I couldn’t see myself living in Chicago (If I am going to put my body and soul through the stresses of American urban living, I’m going to go all the way and do it big in LA, SF, or NYC… @Chicago: sorry for the comparison, but you beg it by having lots of tall buildings and being in America). 

      

The Craziest Guy I Have Ever Met, Vol I

In my travels I have met a number of really crazy ex-pats (people who have, for whatever reason, opted to live in another country), but Bill definitely takes the cake as the craziest. These ex-pats are sometimes business men with serious cases of narcissism, wandering yogis, kids of travelling parents that never really fit in anywhere, or in Bill’s case, former military.

I met Bill at a hostel in Lima, where he drops by a few nights a week to speak English and play pool. He is a 5’7” American white guy with black hair and fair skin, and he is always in a firm military stance. He wears tank-tops and camo-pants and frequently scans the room his in, as if enemies may be lurking behind couches. He speaks loudly and clearly, and in as few words as possible to get his point across.

To get around Peru, it is often the most convenient option to go through Lima; it ensures you will get a bus to wherever you are going, and it breaks up the often 20 plus hour bus trips that are needed to get from place to place (Peru is a lot bigger than you would think, if you haven’t seen this, check it out…http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gall%E2%80%93Peters_projection… a map of the world with respect to landmass, not Northern Hemisphere chauvinism and lazy cartography). Whenever I was in Lima, I would make a point of hanging out with Bill, because he was the craziest and one of the most interesting people I have ever met. Over the course of 4 or 5 days together with me constantly questioning him, I feel like I got to know this guy fairly well.

As with any complicated man, it’s hard to know where to start to paint an accurate portrait of Bill. Bill was trained as a sniper in the army; he claims he was one of the best around. Because he was one of the best, he was selected for a very covert and very illegal US military operation in the 80s that is warmly referred to as the Contra Wars.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Contras#U.S._military_and_financial_assistance

Quick history lesson for those who won’t read the links: The Contra Wars in Nicaragua were a decade’s long civil war against the then socialist/communist leaders; the resistance was made up of pro-democracy soldiers within Nicaragua and a coalition force of black-ops troops from Argentina and the US, among other democratic advocates of the time. There were very few US troops, and they were off the books, under the radar, and had a nearly infinite supply of money; Bill was one of these guys. Where did they get the endless supply of money? You may ask. Cocaine (I guess it was before the US government just opted to spend money they didn’t have)

The CIA was actually going to Colombian and Bolivian drug lords, getting massive amounts of cocaine (allegedly 100 Kgs per month), and selling it to a guy named ‘Freeway’ Ricky Ross in LA, the man who was the inspiration for the hip-hop artist Rick Ross’s on-stage and on-mic persona. He applied a modern corporate business model to cocaine distribution and is arguably the cause of the crack epidemic in the 80s. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/%22Freeway%22_Rick_Ross... This is where some of the condemnations of Reagan come from, whether or not he knew about it is up to you.

The CIA would take this drug-money and supply these select US troops in Nicaragua with anything they needed: guns, explosives, helicopters, tanks, etc. Bill claimed that one time they got a tank dropped from a plane to them within 30 hours of ordering it.

Bill also claimed that none of his comrades followed Geneva conventions unless it was convenient. He described mercury tipped bullets he had custom made and their effects when shot into tanks… ugly stuff.

After democracy was sort of established in Nicaragua, Bill knew he had no shot of cutting it in normal society. He took his talents and skills to the freshly opened up Balkans, where he fought as a mercenary for the highest bidder while all the former Soviet Warlords were attempting to fix the borders for their new countries. Bill once told me, with empty eyes: ‘I’ll tell you everything you want to know about Nicaragua, but you don’t need to know about the Balkans, they did… we did… some horrible things over there.’ I didn’t ask much about the Balkans after that.

After the Balkans, Bill found himself in various Latin American countries before settling in Peru in 2003. He does what he needs to do to get by, and that sometimes includes selling cocaine to the youthful world travelers on the hostel scene.

I had my doubts about the growing background story of Bill when he started telling me about himself, but over the course of the night I started thinking that he was likely telling the truth; he taught us how to throw knives, he let us hit him as hard as we could, and told story upon story of crazy things he had done in war times and as a small time drug dealer. An Austrian guy we were with was former military and a martial arts expert; he obviously didn’t believe Bill’s claims because he kept prodding Bill and enticing him to fight. Finally, Bill obliged his constant challenges, and this big Austrian had his face firmly pinned down to the ground in less than 10 seconds. At this point, we realized Bill was legit.

Stay tuned for the detailed chronicles of 4 nights spent with the craziest guy I have ever met. 

'Something' in Goa

I decided at the last minute to go to Goa, despite the condemnations of the place from my pretty devout Muslim hotel owner in Mumbai ('all they do is drink,' 'there is nothing there but trance music and drugs,' etc. [after a month here, that’s not completely inaccurate]). While waiting for my bus outside a water bottling plant in North Mumbai, I met two guys about my age who were going on the same bus as me. They were pretty clearly gay, but if you know me you know I don’t care about sexual orientation at all (I like to select my friends based on things like coolness); we hit it off and ended up rearranging our seats so we could sit near each other on the bus. It was a long and bumpy overnight sleeper bus but I managed to get 5 or 6 hours of light sleep. Over the course of the bus ride we decided to split a room for economic purposes, and come to find out a friend of theirs had already reserved a room for us. I always love avoiding walking in street clothes with my pack in a tropical environment searching for a hotel, but I don’t love it quite enough to actually plan or make reservations (it’s worked out for me so far!).

When we arrived in Goa, I instantly got the feeling that I was in some kind of quasi-Latin American parallel universe. There was a big catholic cathedral situated right next to a bright orange Hindu temple blaring chants over the loud speaker, and the language in Goa is a mix of Portuguese and local Indian languages, so I could understand about 12% of the words from my knowledge of Spanish (a considerable improvement over the 0% of Hindi I could understand in Mumbai!). Once again the slacks and mustaches made me feel like Ron Burgundy was lurking around the corner; or perhaps people were earnestly discussing the battle between disco and rock over a Tab© soda.

We ended up, despite our explicit questioning, on the wrong bus to the beach. This was actually nice though, because it afforded us time to have a morning tall-boy can of beer while we waited for the correct bus. We weren't quite finished with the second man-can when the correct bus finally came, but I had the distinct feeling from what I had seen around me that no one would say anything if I imbibed my beverage on the bus… I was absolutely correct.

To get to the room we were staying in, we had to walk through a back alley about 3 feet wide, dodge clothes lines of numerous households, and walk through a few back yards, all of which included rubble, burnt trash piles, and cows. Our place was actually really nice, and the landlord was a big, sarcastic, dark skinned Indian man with a huge mustache and an outfit that almost always included wearing boxers in the stead of pants and a silver cross on the outside of his shirt or tucked away in his impressive chest hair when topless. I ended up staying there almost a week, and I guess he appreciated my sense of humor as much as I did his because he gave me a pretty hefty discount when it came time to pay him, without me even asking.

We went down to the beach and wound up at a beach bar that I would later become a regular performer at; we drank numerous big bottles of Kingfisher© Strong beer and jammed out to some light-day-happy-psy-trance, or something like that. 

I love music, but I find it very hard to connect with trance, a problem that very few others in Goa seem to have. I have been, nonetheless, trying to make sense of it, though; I always ask a trance fan what kind of trance I am listening to. It seems there is a gradient of light to dark, which refers to the texture as well as what time of day that it’s good for, and then there is psychedelic, which I believe means something different than the word describing such psychedelic classics as 'Innagadadavida' or 'White Rabbit', because I could hear no connection whatsoever. The beats per minute are also important, and it seems the later at night a song is played, the faster the tempo is (just for fun, try listening to a dark trance bass line at 220 BPM; if you are like me, it will likely bring you massive amounts of distress). 

After a month of daily exposure, I can say that to get the full experience of trance, it might be necessary to take MDMA or LSD, two things I have no desire to do (I like my current consciousness a lot, so I ain’t fixing what ain’t broken, as they say). This brings me to another thing I don’t like about trance; it’s really hard to talk to women when they are twisted on drugs of such a caliber, which takes away about 60% of why I like to go to dancing establishments in the first place. But I digress, and we wouldn't want that to happen on a blog... so back to the day at hand!

After about 11 hours of beer drinking and an hour of dancing to inhumanly fast music, we took the next logical step: go back to the guesthouse and drink liquor. It was there that my friends finally came clean to me about their orientation… sometimes I feel like it’s a shame that we live in a world where it takes inebriation for someone to peek out of the closet, but that is neither here nor there, I suppose. Now that that was out of the way, life was just that much more comfortable.

While walking on the little roads next to the beach and through the backyards filled with livestock and the smell of burnt plastic, I started to feel something. The hippies here didn’t piss me off that much; they seemed pretty legit. The international array of women attracted me; options, options, options. The law enforcement seemed lax to non-existent; a friend would later tell me he loves living in Goa because you can ‘bend the rules.’ It wasn’t the absence of cops, or abundance of girls, or the presence of homemade clothes, though, that was making me feel this ‘something.’ I still can’t tell you exactly what this ‘something’ in Goa is, but I can tell you that my weekend trip to Goa has turned into a month, and I am still feeling it every day when I wake up, and it makes me smile both to myself and those around me, and I have been laughing on a notably regular basis (and no, the abundance of hash is not to blame either, although it may play just the slightest of roles).    

A Bombay Day

I arrived in Mumbai at noon or so, and I’m not gonna lie, I was a little worried. Apparently, through a miscommunication on my part (read on the part of the unorganized Indian immigration people), I was at risk of facing big fines and deportation for violating the rules of my Visa. I inched along in the hot, crowded, semi-fan cooled immigration line; each step closer to the start or abrupt end of my Asian adventures.

I finally got up to the desk, and he stamped my passport and I moved on. Done.

I got out to the taxi stand and got a prepaid ticket to my hotel, which cost about 4 dollars. All the cabs were vintage 60s big body cars, and everyone had slacks and mustaches, which combined to give the effect that I had been transported back in time (I have had the feeling since, numerous times, that India has really gone all out to keep the 70s going). As the cab driver screeched out of the parking spot and immediately started honking his horn at anything moving in his line of sight, I knew I was in for a treat. We got out into Mumbai traffic, which was dominated by 100s of little auto rickshaws; 3-wheeled vehicles with a covered and sometimes enclosed back with a bench seat. Both the rickshaws and the cabs are done up in classic black and yellow cab designs. The driving style on a typical Mumbai street is inching forward as much as possible, disregarding lanes or intersections, and laying down on your horn, as a greeting, as a warning, as an inspiration for the person in front to inch ahead more.

My first non-airport Indian experience was quite sensuous, there were the clouds of dust (and smog), the loud and busy construction projects, the abrupt acceleration and braking of the cab, the drone of car horns, the smell of… I’m not sure, and the woman in their brightly colored saris all around. I took in a deep breath to emphasize my feeling of aliveness, and then thought to myself that whilst sitting in Mumbai traffic is probably not the best time for deep breathes.

We couldn’t find the hotel at first, so I got extra time to take in the bustling streets of Andheri, the suburb I was staying in. My accommodations here were probably one of the cheapest options in all of Mumbai, which is actually a really expensive city. I stayed in a dorm that was for Indian business men travelling on a budget; there were 18 beds but there were never more than 6 people staying there, the bed cost me 4 bucks a night, and the ‘hot water’ was actually hot (I have gotten used to cheap hotels in the developing world shamelessly lying about amenities, so when said amenities actually exist its quite a happy occaision). The mean streets of Mumbai were pretty overwhelming, so I slowly weaned myself into them, spending time in the dorm bed doing work, and then slowly expanding my bubble by walking up and down the surrounding streets.

On the second day I headed into downtown Mumbai, at the midday rush hour, on the most crowded train system in the world. It was absolutely hectic. There were literally 3 times more people on these train cars than the most crowded subway car in New York that I have been on. No personal space, whatsoever. I literally had an Indian man’s head in my armpit while I was holding an overhead handle, and he was applying slightly more pressure than I found comfortable. Getting on and off these trains is quite fun, you get to yell and push and all that good stuff; the most fun is trying to get off the train as a large crowd is also trying to get onboard. They even have ladies only train cars so that presumably wandering hands aren’t constantly violating women, which would be way too easy to get away with. The fare on the 35 minute train ride was 8 cents.  

I walked aimlessly around downtown Mumbai for about 8 hours, stopping and grabbing snacks and chai along the way; the snacks ranged from 5 to 15 rupees, or 10 to 30 cents, and the Chai is good enough that I had to remember to monitor my intake as to not get heart palpitations from all the caffeine (I mean, when they are everywhere, delicious, and cost like 4 to 10 cents for a cup, why not have 12?). On my walk around I got to see some great art-deco architecture, as well as some really grand colonial structures. I walked through one neighborhood that seemed quite out of place; blocks away from grand buildings and affluent society were long winding roads jam packed with women selling produce, men loitering and adorning mustaches, children running around, and lots and lots and lots of livestock doing their thing. At one point I was watching a guy sharpen knives with a bicycle that he had rigged up into a sharpening device and I felt someone bump into me; I turned to acknowledge this person and it was a goat. A walk down this street was not unlike a petting zoo in terms of density of cows and goats and chickens… there were even a few pigs!

As the sun went down, temporary clothing stores started popping up everywhere; I bought a few proper button-up shirts because it seemed everybody in Mumbai was wearing one and because they cost like 3 bucks a piece (they were nice enough that I didn't even attempt to haggle, but I probably could have got them for 2); I would be such a rampant consumer if stuff was so cheap in the States.

I got a train back up to Andheri around 9 or 10 and there was much more personal space to be had this time around. Then, after being taught about the meter system on rickshaws by a guy I met at a restaurant, I was confident that I wouldn't get ripped off on a ride from the train station back to the hotel (the actual price is NOT what the meter says, 100 on the meter is equal to 11 rupees or 22 cents, and then it slowly goes up from there, a 45 minute ride is less than 2 dollars if you know what you are doing). I got back completely exhausted from the onslaught of Mumbai and slept for 11 hours straight. I woke up the next morning (read afternoon) recharged and ready to explore the hip, beachside suburbs of North Mumbai.

The Coffee Shop Business

It was not my dream to own a fucking coffee shop. It was not my dream to see my fucking town—my beautifully simple town—turn into a fucking tourist trap.

I have lived in Goa for all 42 years of my life, and I have watched the trash, both literally and figuratively, from the rest of the world come in and pollute my home. Goa is not India, Goa is Goa. We didn’t want the Portuguese to leave, we liked what we had going; we had a perfect blend of Mediterranean simplicity and South Asian wisdom.  Now it’s a bunch of fucking Indians and Russians and whoever else on holiday dirtying our beaches with plastic bags and semen.  My kids can’t even ride their bikes on the street, like I did, without running the risk of some coked up, tripping, novice motorbiking piece of shit running them over .

My family sold our cashew farms, in part because of me. I didn't want to be a farmer and my dad knew it; I wanted to be a business man. I wanted to jet around the world, adorn my body with precious metals, and fuck lots of white women, all of which require a lot of money—more than cashews can provide. Now, instead of lamping in the Hamptons and falling in love in Paris and Moscow, I am selling coffees to Indians and foreigners at prices that equate to daily wages a block down the street.

I make enough to drive a decent car and keep my family in utilities, but I will never get over the fact that I have failed as a business man; I have not, and never will, achieve my dreams.

A commercial came on this morning that ruined my day. It was for Tata cars, or Kingfisher Air, or Johnson and Johnson—I can’t remember; but it featured a father working in Dubai and face chatting on an iPad with his 9 year old son. First of all, I want to be working in fucking Dubai; second of all, all I have is a fucking daughter, and she is so fat and ugly that I am probably going to have to spend half my bank account to get somebody to marry her; and thirdly, I was an early adopter, and my fucking iPad 1 doesn’t have video chat capability.

I thought about this while I had my morning tea, I thought about this on the drive to the coffee shop, I thought about this as I walked into the colorful and joyous hell hole I was the owner of.

And now this fuckhead waiter’s drawer is 200 rupees short.

I visit my place twice a week, and make sure the numbers are what they need to be; they are pretty good this week, but this motherfucker has somehow lost almost 2 coffees worth of rupees in the 2 hours the store has been open.

I can’t hold it in, plus I pay more than anybody else around so I can get away with letting loose on my workers. I scream at him. I call him a piece of shit peon. I call him the laziest Indian alive. I say his mother did a shit job of raising him. I say his father set a bad example for him. None of these words are making me feel better, though; the rage is still boiling up in me. I grab his arm and squeeze; he jumps back. I almost slap him. I have to keep my cool though, the foreigners are all looking now. I tell him to go to the utility closet. He doesn’t want to. I threaten to fire him. He contemplates this and ultimately hangs his head and drags his feet towards the closet.

I follow afterwards, put him over my knee, and spank the fuck out of him. For about 3 minutes I channel all the rage inside me into the palm of my hand. By the end of the spanking session I feel much better, and I feel as though I can make it at least one more week in the coffee shop business.

The Dark Side Tour, Part II

Oat wakes up early because of his job as a high stakes sports better—I always associated sports betting with night time, but when you bet on basketball in Asia it’s actually an early morning job. Consequently, we always woke up early when we were staying with Oat to cheer on whichever basketball team he had money on. He had a lot of money riding on the Clippers-Mavericks game and didn't want to leave his apartment so we ordered McDonald's delivery (I’m still not sure how it works, but virtually anywhere in developed Thailand you can dial 1711 and have McDonald's at your door in less than 30 minutes). While eating our Big Macs and drinking our Coca Colas, Pap and Oat both won 10 thousand dollars, thanks to Chauncey Billups taking an unnecessary last minute 3-pointer to meet the spread.

With victory in our clutches, we hopped in Oat’s car to head to Pattaya, the capital of the dark side of Thailand. Phil, an American we met at the hostel came along; it was his birthday, which was the perfect excuse to kill a liter of bourbon before visiting Walking Street, the sex capital of the sex capital—but I’m getting ahead of myself.

Pap contemplating go karts

When first arriving to Pattaya, we did what any 5 guys would do: go karts! We opted for the karts that maxed out at 45 or so, which was still pretty fast. Among the many ‘Masters of Southeast Asia’ (see above post) getting their race on, two stood out. Both of these two old, creepy guys had mullets and wore full racing body suits, Formula 1 style. Their 80 pound dark skinned Thai lovers looked on as they shaved seconds off their go kart laps.

Oat told me his dad was a doctor and that he owned a clinic, and we would stay at this ‘clinic.’ I had images in my head of poor sick people lined up out the door for treatment of herpes, TB, and gunshot wounds (you know, a clinic); I was a little worried, I didn't want to catch anything. Come to find out, a ‘clinic’ in Tinglish is a place for cosmetic surgeries, such as nipple augmentations, face lifts, and sex changes; it was actually a really nice, well lit, and clean place (think a nice dentist’s office with breast posters on the walls instead of teeth). Our accommodations were a former massage parlor on the 3^rd floor of the building. Instead of having five four-foot wide beds, we just had one 20-foot wide bed, with curtains in between.

Our not-so-humble abode for the evening

Making illicit whiskey drinks

We went for seafood on the beach and drank a liter of Jim Beam that I had brought for a special occasion (it was our friend’s birthday and we were in the sex capital of perhaps the world—what the hey). Our waiter was a cold hearted ladyboy who knew we were drinking outside alcohol but couldn’t catch us in the act. We would make ‘ladyboy alerts’ if (s)he was heading our way and someone was pouring. By the end of dinner, we were loud, rowdy, and ready for Walking Street.
DISCLAIMER: I will spare some (read many) of the details of the ensuing events out of good taste (but if you want to know more, contact me, I am more than happy to fill in all the gaps).

First things first: The Ping Pong Show.
Let’s just say these girls have special talents that they have developed through the strengthening and toning the muscles of their reproductive organs, allowing them to propel things with only the ‘breath control’ of their loins (that is about as appropriately as I can describe it). We wanted a solid performance so we asked around about the quality of the entertainers, duration of the entertainment, and show(wo)manship.

Phil (center) taken aback by the splendor of Walking Street

We settled on a 2 hour variety show with a cover charge of about 6 dollars, which included a drink. I want to make it clear and say this show is not very sexy, it’s more like a celebration of an impressive achievement (the said ‘breath control); it was more like going to a boxing match than a strip show. Being that we were sitting front row, we got to take part in the show—I got to light a cigarette for a girl, and hold a balloon which was popped by a blowgun dart; I have faith that my readership can understand what I mean.

The menu at the variety show... email me if you want the legible version

After 2 hours of beer drinking and enjoying some intensely impressive feats of adult entertainment, we moved on to a very classy stage show. The lights were impressive, the sound system was great, the entertainers were lovely, and the choreography was top notch. There were themed dances such as two nurses reviving a third girl, leather and whips, and vampires. These non-explicitly sexual sex shows were actually much preferred by my Thai friends, and based on their generalizations, preferred by most Thai guys. This was where I had my first encounter with a mamasan—a former prostitute turned head madame. Mamasans are notoriously cutthroat; they have seen and done it all, and they don’t put up with shit from anybody. This mamasan mistook my drunkenness for dullness and tried to charge me for 4 drinks when I bought one, and then made me feel bad for bringing it up—she had solid skills of instilling guilt for money.

After that we moved down the strip to a club with a live hip-hop band. They did sweet live covers of Jay-Z, TI, and Solja Boy Tell Em’, as well as Bob Marley songs. Literally for every one local/tourist club goer on this strip, there was a scantily clad Thai girl between 18 and 27. At one club, Pap introduced us to some girls from his hometown (small world!). At 5 or 6 am, after banging out dance remixes to every American pop song imaginable, the clubs all started to close. We decided an after-party was in order (the logical next step from a party, just ask R. Kelly). 

Can't stop, won't stop

We got back to the room and there we were, drunk and joking around. Then the truth came out: they were not friends of Pap; they were prostitutes that happened to be from his hometown (this explained why they were instantly so cool with us I suppose), and they wanted money. We deliberated and let them know that we didn't have interest in playing such a hands on role in the sex trade. They tried to bargain with us for a bit, and after more calculated responses on our parts, they finally left, seemingly not offended. By this time the sun was rising and we were still quite intoxicated; we all slept like one big happy family on our one big happy massage bed.

When we woke up the next afternoon, we were a little more hardened and a little more battle ready; we were men with a little more experience and a little less soul. I can only speak for myself when I say that Pattaya definitely took something out of me, but at least it wasn't money—this entire evening of drinking and world-class entertainment ending up costing about 25 bucks, god bless the power of the dollar.  

The Dark Side Tour, Part I

Bryan and I were having a long overdue bro-reunion, and we were curious about the seedier side of Thailand; we have both visited Thailand but never seen the side that unfortunately dominates many people’s perception of the country (there’s a lifetime of things to see and do here that don’t involve sex, and the culture is quite agreeable, as long as you’re not a dick).

We, however, put red-lighting on the back burner to meet up with some contacts we had in Bangkok. We spent our first night with Joe. We had a big Thai dinner and toast for dessert—this isn’t any old toast though, it’s 3-inch thick, buttery white bread that you can dip or cover with pretty much anything you want, and it is as decadent and sinful as any dessert I’ve had. Joe was tired from being overworked and when we asked him about the red light district he quickly passed. Eventually we parted ways to go get some sleep.

The next day we were to meet up with Pap, and we assumed it would be a similar scenario to the night before; but God, were we wrong. Oat and Pap are a classic duo—Pap is tall, charismatic, and very unrestrained by Thai standards; Oat is shorter and has distinctly Chinese features, and is much more calculated and mild mannered on first impression. Bryan and I rode in the back of Pap's pick-up, slowly crawling through the never-ending Bangkok traffic

After lunch they told us the truck had no plates and was in dire need of maintenance, so we needed to drop it off before the Police pulled us over. We went to Oat’s house, which was under reconstruction from the floods that hit Thailand recently; the walls that weren’t repaired showed water damage over 3 feet high. We met Oat’s grandma, a first generation Chinese-Thai immigrant, who Bryan and I got to speak some Chinese with.

Bryan rode in the pick-up and I rode with Oat in his immaculate 2007 Mazda, one of the cleaner cars on the road and tastefully modded with a sports package. About 25 minutes later, we were maybe a mile closer to our destination (Bangkok’s traffic is a nightmare, people will always tell you it’s rush hour, even at 3 in the morning; sitting in a nearly-parked car is an ongoing theme in this town). Oat was in the middle of telling me he works as a day-trader and high stakes sports gambler when his phone rang. He said hello, listened 3 seconds, laughed maniacally, and hung up. Then he told me that he and Pap were going to take us on a tour of the dark side of Thailand, he said it would be a multiple day affair and that we needed to go check out of our hostel. We did as we were told. (A note to prospective Thailand travelers: ditch the travel book ASAP and make friends with some Thai folks at a college bar and let them show you around, they pretty much all speak enough English and Lonely Planet writers know nothing compared to the locals.)

After what seemed like hours of crawling traffic we had dropped off Pap’s truck and were at Oat’s high rise apartment. His floor was equipped with a pool on a terrace, a full gym, and other amenities one would expect at a top notch condo, all paid for by calculated sports betting. We dropped our stuff off and hopped back into the car to face more traffic, and ‘The Dark Side Tour’ commenced.

Pap gave us a briefing on the itinerary, he was going to show us all the sex Bangkok had to offer (that was for sale at least), starting with the cheapest at a few hundred baht (3 to 9 bucks), to the classy stuff at 5000+ baht (170 dollars or more). The first stop was a seedy underpass near a railroad; the streets are lined with aggressive ladies of the night that only get a second before the customer’s drive onto the next prospect, so they really display their wit and charm as best as possible. Old train cars with beds serve as their offices, so to speak. Next stop was the ‘massage parlors’ which were big, casino-esque structures with neon signs spelled out in Thai, English, and Chinese—the difference between these and real massage parlors are the neon lights and the staff, Pap pointed out (‘If the girls are beautiful, they are prostitute. If they are old, it is a real massage spa’). We went to a local favorite, Nataree, which may have been intended to be called ‘Natalie’ but due to the lack of an ‘r’ and ‘l’ distinction in Thai someone opted to go with the ‘r’ accidently.

Inside there was a window booth displaying the veterans, a table with the older ladies to the left, and a bench with the younger ones to the right. The younger ones were mostly dainty, light skinned, and inexperienced looking; most were thumbing through their smart phones with an air of indifference, all of which are apparently wildly hot characteristics to a Thai guy. Conversely, the older ladies hunted for eye contact and smiles with potential clients. We saw many different types of clients, one duo were two Thai kids who couldn’t have been more than 20, and they purchased a ladies’ company to share between them (balling on a budget, or bonding?).

While leaving Nataree, we were pulled over for a broken headlight, and after extensive bargaining Pap and Oat were to pay a 200 baht toll (whether it was a fine or bribe, the world may never know). The caveat was they had to go pay it to a higher ranking official at the station, so they left us with the cops next to the parked car, which was in a u-turn zone. Not 2 minutes after they had left did a giant tour bus full of Koreans pull up and they needed to make this said u-turn. The bus driver did a 56-point turn to try and get around our car that was blocking half the zone, to no avail. All the while, traffic was backing up more and more down the busy street of Bangkok because the bus was blocking 2 and a half of the 3 lanes of traffic. The police started shouting at us in Thai (presumably to move the car), once again to no avail.

Once things were straightened out we headed to the high class brothel, which looked like the white house tucked in between two skyscrapers. Unfortunately, they were hosting a private party and we couldn’t get in. Pap and Oat then told us they would take us to Pattaya the next day, which is the capital of darkness in Thailand, and that we needed to rest up. Once again we did as we were told, totally unaware of just how crazy the next day would be…

'A Master of Southeast Asia'

I had a late last night in America that consisted of a posse of Tarheel alumni taking on Williamsburg, Brooklyn in formal attire (Williamsburg is a hipster hub; we had on slacks and vests whilst being surrounded by flatbill hats, mustaches, and thick framed nonprescription glasses). The night included me getting a drink poured on my head by a girl for air guitaring the Van Halen solo from ‘Beat It’ in the face of her boyfriend who called our crew awkward, and although the bouncer found it funny I was asked to leave, because they were both apparently regulars, and I was but a mere North Carolinian in transit (luckily the drink was clear, so really it just sterilized my hair).

After waking up surprisingly un-hungover, I hopped on the metro to get to JFK airport, and then waited for 2 hours. When I arrived in Milan after an 8 hour flight, the hallway of the airport had a perfect view of an amazing sunrise over the Alps. Too strung out, I failed to get a picture. I waited in Milan, amongst many Milanese for my next flight—they reminded me of well-bred versions of the Jersey Shore folk, with a little higher clothing budget and less steroids.

After another 6 hour flight I was in Bahrain, which is when it started becoming apparent that I wasn’t in Kansas anymore; there were many forms of man-dresses—some white, some brown, others decorated, but all of them were remarkably clean. There were quite a few women in Hijabs, which I can’t say I have ever seen more than one or two of at a time. There were also a bunch of Indian folks head bobbling to each other. I’m sure I will have more to say about this ‘head bobble’ as I see more of it in action, but for the time being, youtube it. It apparently means yes, no, hi, maybe, as well as more nuanced and elegant ‘fuck-offs’ or other things in certain situations. One Indian guy seemed to ask one of his South Asian brethren to watch his suitcase, which received a head bobble response; 2 minutes later, this dude left the suitcases unattended (maybe that time it meant ‘yeah sure, but only for 2 minutes’).

I also met a self-proclaimed Miami club promoter of Pakistani descent who was going back home to meet a candidate for his arranged marriage. He claimed to have been born and raised in The States, but he had weird gaps in his English, made strange cultural references, and started showing me pseudo-red-carpet photos of girls that he had allegedly hooked up with. Then he went and changed into a man dress—all this aggregated to make me believe he was a spy, but I don’t think there is much espionage work to be had in Miami, so who knows.

After finally shedding him (he was a stage 2 clinger), I picked up an Arabic magazine that was sitting next to my seat. There was a section on staying fit in urban areas; the first suggestion was washing more vigorously in the shower, because it burns more calories. I also noticed a Chili’s, where instead of whatever kind of art a Chili’s has at home, there were pictures of the handsome, mustached members of Bahrain’s royal family.

I arrived in Mumbai after yet another flight. At this point my body didn’t know what to think; it was day time, and I hadn’t slept in God knows how long. After finally being let into the concourse, I decided to just get coffee and try to hold out for a bed later that night in Thailand. An older gentleman was brought over next to me in a wheelchair.  The coffee and 2 all-nighters had me feeling chatty, so I struck up a conversation.

Come to find out, this guy, Ken, was shot in the head in the Vietnam War. After waking up in San Francisco weeks later he was left without the use of his right side, his speech faculties, and his reading and writing ability. All he could say was ‘great,’ but he didn’t know it—he thought he was still speaking fluent English. After months of speech therapy he started getting his language back, and he battled the next 10 years to reteach himself to read. His writing is still heavily impaired, partially because he was right-handed, and his vision has been cloudy since the injury.

Since then, Ken has been hoarding his disability checks and spending 5 months a year in Thailand; his extended passport included pages upon pages of Thai visas. He told me that after spending 10 years going back and forth to Thailand that he felt he was “A Master of Southeast Asia.” So I’m figuring from this that he speaks Thai, lives in a teak hut, and drinks rice whiskey in the Northern Jungles with people that have never seen a car, but apparently his definition of 'Master' differs from mine. Come to find out, he speaks no Thai, uses a travel agent, and his only two suggestions for places to go were Pattaya and Patong, which I later found out are the first and second largest sex tourism hubs in Thailand.

I arrived in Bangkok after another 5 hour flight, took the metro to a hostel, and passed out for the next 12 hours. I woke up feeling like a refreshed ‘Master of Southeast Asia’ and ready to take on crazy-ass Bangkok.

Ximena Farmacy and why America is Awesomer than Everywhere Else (sic)

One of the most rewarding parts of the travel experience for me is the challenging—and sometimes downright shattering—of preconceived notions. I remember the first time I entered a Chinese bathroom with just a porcelain hole in the ground I rethought what it meant to be a bathroom; the first time I got (near)deathly ill from bad food I rethought what it meant to have health codes; the first time I saw a maimed child forced to beg I rethought what it meant to not have things going your way (not to be a Debbie downer, but it’s horrible, and the images still haunt me, and I find it difficult to have any sympathy for 99.99% of Americans who say life sucks).

Ximena Farmacy (sic) was another of those challengers. It first and most obviously shattered the pre-conceived notion I had of how to spell ‘pharmacy,’ but there were much deeper, more fundamental things that this place challenged, and ultimately made me decide to hold onto my American notions, because they are awesome.

Ximena Farmacy is a store in Canoa, Ecuador, a small and super-duper chill beach town. Just to set the tone of the town, neither of its roads is paved, more than a tank top and bathing suit would catch funny looks, dreds are the norm, and I’m pretty sure no one owns a car or pants. The economy relies solely on tourism and necklaces made out of paper clips and seashells; if it’s not shabby jewelry or a hostel bunk you seek, fear not, though—Ximena Farmacy has it covered.

In less square footage than a Sam’s Mart gas station, Ximena Farmacy sells pretty much anything you could need or want; all exaggeration aside, this dimly lit ‘pharmacy’ had 3 different sized flat screen TVs for sale, a men’s AND women’s clothing section, a full service pharmacy, multiple arcade machines, a freezer section, a produce section, a shelf with the gamut of beauty and hygiene products,  an internet café, a stationary department, a bus station, a tour company, a toy store, an impressive candy selection, a massage parlor, and a dairy section—and I am surely emitting things, like all the possible beach knick knacks and souvenirs a tourist could want, yeah, they had those too.

Although I had considered it before, the vast array of products under such a small roof hit me in a way a lot of corner stores hadn’t. While buying bus tickets, snacks, and stomach medicine all at the same time, I got to thinking about retail structure in America, and all the inefficiencies involved. Minus patio furniture and grills this place had literally everything Target has and then some all in the space that the make-up aisle usually takes up (the selection isn’t as good, but do we really need 50 different kinds of shampoo or 20 different kinds of tampons?). Stores of this size in the States are typically heavily specialized: local pet shops, hobby shops, Spencer’s, Claire’s, etc. Why have all that space when you don’t need it?

Because we can.

Sometimes, when you’re awesome, efficiency is not the only concern; we have palatial stores with 30 foot ceilings, chilling AC, and the lighting of a film shoot because we can, and it is awesome, and I love America for it. In no way do I condemn these monstrous megastores either, I just now realize how unnecessarily luxurious and awesome even a K-Mart in the hood is. That realization makes me all the more thankful that I was blessed to be born when and where I was, because after all, I could be somewhere where I’m forced to move the women’s underwear and mangos out of the way to get to the sunscreen.

Slow Boatin' Vol. II: Slow Boat Pros

Iquitos, Peru is allegedly the biggest city in the world that has no roads in or out; comers and goers are relegated to boats and planes for their ingress and egress needs. After enduring the slow boat once, we figured we had seen all the endless jungle and gargantuan polluted river we needed to see at an 8 mph clip, so we were determined to take the fast boat further into Peru. Once again, we got to experience the LARA (Latin American Run Around) first hand whilst searching for fast boat services. The boat agency that runs fast boats said to go to the port, the folks at the port said to go back over to the agency, the mototaxi driver suggested another spot (which he charged us for ultimately even though it didn’t pan out), and then the last agency finally told us there actually are no fast boats further into Peru, despite the fact that another guy at the port had given us a break down of pricing and how the system works. hmmm...

Fatimah setting up our hammocks in choice floating real estate.

It was fly for 130 apiece, or float for 25 apiece. Shit. It appeared that economics had us floating on the giant chocolate milk river once again. This time we were prepared though, we knew just what was in store for us. We went to the market and got another hammock, we got sweet and salty snacks and ample water, and we even showed up a few hours early to ensure a good spot near an electrical outlet with minimal sun exposure. Yeah, we were slow boat pros.

Our boat was the middle one.

Nice combo of storm coming in and sunset as we left

The bathrooms...

3 of the seemingly endless children on the boat... cute in picture form at least...

Come to find out, this boat was a whole lot nicer than the first one; 7 stalls to share with our fellow river goers, sinks, a cleaning crew, and surprisingly decent and hearty meals. There were even some gringos with a Lonely Planet book of Peru (in French, but the numbers and Spanish words are the same so it was semi legible—so what if you miss words like ‘guerillas’ or ‘landmines’), which meant we got to do some further trip planning. Success. Every rose certainly has its thorn, though; this boat ride was a testament to the devout Catholicism of the Peruvian peoples—for every one couple on this boat there seemed to be about 3.4 kids accompanying them. These children were at times cute, at other times devilish, and at all times whiney and annoying. My personal favorite was when one child would cry in the middle of the night, which would cause at least a few others to join in for a cacophony of blood curdling birth control.

Slow Boatin' Vol. I: Crossing the Border

Our time in Colombia was coming to an end, and it was time to deal with the formalities of crossing borders for the first time.

Me and Fatimah on our last day in the Amazon jungle....
Note the backpacks made of palms.

Fatimah and I were fresh out of a 4-day jungle trek when we decided to take our fate into our own hands and deal with our passport stamps and ticket buying to go to Peru ourselves. Rene, a lovely old philosopher and the manager of our hostel was interesting and funny, but tasks that would take someone five, ten, maybe twenty minutes, took Rene three days (it literally took 28 hours to get a roll of toilet paper). Rene had offered to help us, but we didn’t want to be stuck in Leticia another week, so we went over his ponytailed head and did it ourselves. Still covered in mud from the jungle and smelling like 3 days of BO and heavy insect spray, we went to the immigration office at the airport in Colombia for our exit stamps, and then took a boat taxi across the Amazon River to Peru for our entry stamps.

The office in Peru was on a 3 hour lunch break when we arrived so we started asking around for boats, which ended up being just enough time to receive a hefty dose of LARA (Latin American Run Around). The LARA is the product of a cultural phenomenon where people in Latin America will give you advice or directions regardless of if they know what they are talking about, some say in an effort to be ‘polite.’ I would personally much rather hear an ‘I don’t know’ than trudge through a quarter mile of Amazon basin silt just to be told we went the wrong way, but that’s just me, and that’s just the culture. One guy fixing his boat’s engine by rebuilding and reinforcing parts of it with beer cans had actual information, which he presented to us in an 8 minute monologue form, the distilled version was: there is a fast boat that is 70 US dollars and it takes 12 hours and leaves at 4 in the morning; there is also a slow boat for 25 US dollars and takes 3 days and leaves at 8 at night, he suggested this boat, because it included meals and was cheap (he mentioned the meals at least 6 times).

After deliberation and a bit of douchesque and cheap skate decision making on my part, we ended up on the slow boat. Words cannot quite describe the shock I received coming onto this boat. It was like if your grandma had gotten you socks for Christmas, but put them in a Playstation box; a bit of disgust, a bit of anxiety, and a wave of pissed-offedness. This boat consisted of two platforms, one on top of the other, packed to the brim with people in hammocks. There were no lockers and no security; your stuff just went on the floor of the platform under your hammock. Despite the typically entrepreneurial tendencies of both Colombians and Peruvians, nobody was selling hammocks at the docks, so Fatimah and I were relegated to a single hammock.

Our home for 3 days, at least there were life jackets!

Furthermore, our only snack was a bunch of bananas I had bought on a whim because they were 1 Nuevo Sol (35 or 40 cents), which seemed like a good deal for a couple kilos of bananas. They were pretty ripe, however, and started falling on the floor of the boat off their bunch. I’m a proud supporter of the 5 second rule, regardless of what Mythbusters or scientists say, but falling on the floor of this particular boat, even for a fraction of a second, voided any edibility these bananas once had. Furthermore, the boat taxi driver said the boat would accept US dollars because it is a border town operation, which was a lie, and we had no Peruvian currency. So here we were for the next 3 days with a rapidly dwindling and rotting snack stash, one hammock, and no cash. I was pissed, at myself, at the boat, and at the bananas. Fatimah nursed me back to wellbeing with discussions of fasting and how it would be good for us.

Come to find out half of why these boats take 3 days to get to Peru is because they stop at every little Amazon village along the way and pick up and drop off people and cargo. One of the first villages we arrived at teetered on the status of a ‘town’ and had an ATM to prove it. Now we could at least pay for snacks and the boat tickets and things of that sort. The hardware store also sold plug adaptors, so I was able to plug in my laptop on the boat, allowing us to watch movies, and I was able to get my work done.

An example of one of the many Amazon towns we stopped at,
this one apparently had an excess of lumber.

Hour by hour the slow boat, trudging down the river that looked like dirty chocolate milk, was growing on us. There were caveats; such as the two (2) bathrooms that the roughly 80 people on our platform were to share. These were pretty much like permanent Port-O-Johns© with a hose coming down from the ceiling that was, apparently, a shower head. The toilets in these bathrooms used river water, so it was difficult to tell whether people were following the ‘if it’s brown, flush it down’ ideology (they were, however, most certainly letting the yellow mellow). Thieves are also apparently omnipresent on these boats, so wherever we went, one of us would have to keep a look out for our things or we would have to carry a 1000 dollars’ worth of cameras and computers around in a bag. Our hammock placement right next to the kitchen was both good and bad, the upside was we didn’t have to go far for a drink or snack or a place to sit, the downside was that we were sleeping right in a high traffic area, and right next to the table that was the site for afterhours gambling.

Another, slightly slower slow boat we passed.

Another typical day at the office...

The friendliness of the kitchen staff and many of our fellow boat goers, plus the sheer relaxation of having nothing to do were lovely. On the last night I joined the aforementioned gamblers for a late night binge on cheap Brazilian wine that tasted a lot like Wild Irish Rose© or some other kind of high gravity bum wine. We rewarded ourselves for our thrift on the boat with 2 nights in a hotel that was neither seedy nor shabby when we arrived in Iquitos. We also made a pact to avoid slow boats, which we unfortunately had to break about 72 hours later.