PART 2
Often throughout my travels, people have taken me in as treated me as family. This is the only time I’ve stayed with people who actually are related to me, despite never having met them previously. But by the time I left, there was no question about it: we are family.
My first full day in Jakarta was merely a tiny eye opening introduction to this crazy world I was entering. After some running around, I was indulging in a much needed nap only to be woken by my father asking me to join him at the whorehouse for a drink. I thought he was kidding at first, but he wouldn’t let me go back to sleep and insisted I join him, my stepmom, and uncle for a beer with some nice classy hookers. And in this house, no never means no.
As Ping had loaned the money to build this brothel, he was given unlimited free access to anything he wanted, and I really mean anything. He also has a coupon book (not a joke) he can use whenever he wants or give out to friends. And you better believe this book is good for any number of girls he wants. Luckily for me, no one indulged in anything that would later traumatize me, but I did have to remind myself a few times that this actually is my life.
What’s interesting about this place was that it was set up as nightclub so you could easily forget it was 4pm on a Tuesday, yet all the girls were piled into a back room lit disturbingly bright with numbers tagged on all of them. They simply sit there altogether chatting, not doing much, as the men stand outside watching them creepily and taking notes on which numbers they want. Later, the numbers are given to “Momma” and she will fetch whoever you choose. They come out for a drink, a chat, and then you can head upstairs whenever you’re ready. I think I might have been the first person to ask these girls what they want to be when they grow up, because trust me, they weren’t all grown up yet.
What makes this experience so great is that since Ping knew the owner, the Momma came and not only chatted to us for a bit, but gave me a necklace as a present. (I’m fairly certain young white females are not common there.) When we left we tipped the few girls who sat with us and needless to say, it was a most interesting start to this vacation.
Something I learned within a matter of days was not to mention any needs or wants unless I’m very serious about it because it will happen in an exaggerated manner. Say you like lychee (a fruit) and in comes 20 pounds of it. Wish I was kidding. I never expressed hunger because even when I showed slight interest in food, 10 plates of it would make its way to me. Still not kidding. Even after I’ve been given three breakfasts, somehow they think I can eat more and offer copious amounts of fresh, delicious food. This wouldn’t be so awful if it weren’t for my stepmom whose favorite thing to say is, “finish it”. (Thankfully after she left no one has told me to finish anything.)
Truly though, if I dared touch something it could soon become mine. I quickly became afraid to touch anything as if I were Midas. When purse shopping I was only interested in one purse, but since it was the most expensive one there, I insisted I didn’t want it. I reassured them many times and told them not to go back and get it. Low and behold a few days later it magically made its way to my room. To be honest, I really wasn’t surprised (or upset…I love my new purse).
What I love best about this family though is how unpretentious they are. Despite their ability to design any number of houses they want or eat constantly at fancy restaurants (and they do both), they love their near dilapidated warehouse and eat at hole-in-the-wall noodle shops. It’s truly not because they’re cheap; they have no problem spending money. It’s because they want what they want and it’s as simple as that. My favorite example of their unpretentious attitude lies in the Kobe beef steakhouse story.
The one and only night Ping decided to stay out late was to take us to the best steakhouse in Jakarta to sample Kobe beef, the best in the world. Located at the top floor of an exquisite building with a fine view, we strolled in this classy joint with beer bottles in hand. (Ping goes absolutely nowhere without a couple of beers in the car and in hand, grocery store included.) He also brought his own whiskey bottle and had no problem cracking it at the table. Was he trying to save money? No, he just wanted his whiskey, the best $120 bottle he could find to match the best steak. Now for the best part…
He didn’t want to bring the whole bottle so he simply poured some into another smaller bottle. But this bottle was for some cheap as dirt Malaysian crap. So despite the dime he dropped on dinner, he looked like a weirdo strolling in with beer bottles and cheap whiskey in pocket. He just doesn’t care what people think of him, and that’s what makes him the Godfather.
Despite not visiting much other than Jakarta, we still ventured to neighboring areas. One of the best day trips we took was to Bogor, the lush, green, mountainous region hours away from pollution. Sure the botanical garden was great, even the shopping was fun, but what made this full day adventure so fantastic was our trip to Jurassic Park. Or at least the closest thing in the world to it.
I’m not exaggerating when I say this park is set up nearly exactly how it is in the movie, minus dinosaurs. Instead, substitute lions, bears, hippos, giraffes, ostriches, and every other animal you can imagine. Yes they’re all free and yes they can wander right up to your car. Luckily the dangerous animals don’t usually do so, although I’m not entirely sure as when we were in that particular section it was raining pretty badly and they couldn’t be bothered to do much of anything other than sit under shelter.
But when it was clear, the zebras and camels did all they could to nearly poke their heads into our car as we fed them carrots and bananas. Before you enter the park, it’s up to the individual to load up on snacks to feed the animals and attract them close to your car, despite the warnings not to do so. (The joy of being in a country without crazy lawsuits.) Does this park sound crazy? Yes. And was it fun? Absolutely. As an animal rights advocate I hate zoos, more than you can imagine. But I loved this place. Here, the animals roamed free and could stay as close to people or far away from them as possible. Is it entirely natural? No, but it’s a hell of a lot better than being in a concrete cage behind bars with asinine children taunting them.
One interesting fact about Indonesia I’ve neglected to mention is that fact that there are no laws. Well, technically there are, but nothing a bribe can’t get you out of. The price of the bribe must be in direct proportion to the size of the law you’re breaking, but everything is negotiable.
For example, there are no extensions given to the one month tourist visa. Unless of course you have an Uncle Ping who knows someone in the government he can slip some cash to and an extension stamp will magically appear in your passport. (The immigration officer at the airport was a bit surprised how I got it, but I was clearly not someone to be questioned as evidently I knew people.) The bottom line is, don’t break the law in Indonesia…unless you have the cash to back it up.
While the massages, shopping, drinks, and delicious food was absolutely fantastic, it was never the best part. By far what makes this place so special in my heart is how welcome and loved I felt. They took me in and without question I was family. Over time we grew closer; I stayed up late chatting with Aliu, went to Wei’s home in the country no one had seen before, and soon they were all able to predict my preferences. While I might have glorified all the material blessings I’d been given, that’s not the reason I stayed so long. Feeling welcome and appreciated is a priceless gift never to be ignored. And being given a family in Indonesia is by far the most valuable thing I’ve ever received.
BANGDUNG BONUS!!!!!
My first two weeks in Indonesia was spent vacationing with my dad and stepmom aka being ushered around constantly meeting new people and sharing pleasantries over meals out. It seemed everyone knew my stepmom was in town and had to schedule an appointment with her and her bule family.
One of the families we met had three daughters, all near my age, and spoke perfect English as they go to an international school. We hit it off on our first lunch and we were all promptly invited to their house in Bandung the following weekend. (I actually remained close with them my entire time in Jakarta.)
Bandung is a breath of fresh air compared to Jakarta. Sure the traffic and malls have followed, but there is a chance to escape up the volcano, go for a hike, and receive at least some peace and quiet. After only a couple of days it was time to leave, but somehow I knew it wasn’t goodbye. Final farewells do not exist in my book and I’m always liable to return.
At first it was only for one night, but somehow I stuck around for a week and a half. It started with meeting Jasmine at a birthday party for one of my friends here. She was half Indonesian and half British, but had lived in America for nearly 10 years. Being that she was still in high school, that’s enough of her life to consider her American. She was on two week holiday with her father and invited me to stay for the weekend for a couple good nights out. (Since arriving in Jakarta I had been deprived of any nightlife and after a month I was itching for it.)
Our first night was a prelude to the new absurd world I had entered. Entirely different from that of my family in Jakarta, this one was still crazy and unreal in its own way. Cloud 9 is the only way to describe the first night; it’s also the name of the bar up in the hills we went. With live music, good food, and a spectacular view, this place is the perfect place to swig cocktails all night. So that we did.
The following day was Christmas and while I was concerned I was impeding on some family day, her dad told me to get ready to really party. Breakfast consisted of guacamole, apple streusel cake, and every other western junk food you can imagine. We didn’t even see her dad all day until we went out at night dressed to kill. Jasmine had a hair straightener, little black dress, and heels for me to borrow so I could escape the backpacker I had been for so many months.
Being that I had never spent the holidays away from home, I was hoping for something good. I didn’t care what; I just didn’t want to completely ignore it as I had Thanksgiving, Halloween, and my birthday. And thankfully it was the best Christmas I could hope for as drinks were heavy all night long and the bill footed by her father. A far cry from backpacker’s budgets, I drank everything from shots on fire to tequila, and you could tell at the end of the night.
By the time the weekend was over it was clear I needed to come back for New Year’s Eve, but as lazy days stretched into long nights, it became obviously stupid to leave for just a couple of nights.. Besides, Jasmine’s dance on stage and vomit on the table antics were reminiscent of me a long time ago. (A month could be considered a long time to some people.)
The week was spent sleeping in, watching Sex and the City, eating dinner out, and if we weren’t partying, we were still hanging out with friends. Luckily for me, her group there could speak English and while it took some time for them to use it regularly, they always made me feel welcome and I loved hanging out with them. From adventures in hot springs to late night movies, I had a great vacation away from my vacation.
New Year’s Eve was a whirlwind of a night as we were ready to go out by 5 (even though I only had 45 min to get ready). The traffic in Bandung on the weekends is epic and nothing to be trifled with. We all wanted to be well drunk by midnight and that meant not only an early start on the bottle, but on the road. Starting with classy martinis at a 5 star hotel, we then bought some flashing devil horns and were ready to find trouble at the North Sea.
The North Sea is the little bar Jasmine’s father has taken as his own, where he and his gang of friends hole up every night owning the place. They’ve acclimated to only buying bottles as single drinks is just ridiculous. Luckily for me, their drink of choice are gin and tonics. And I never thought I’d meet anyone who likes a stronger G&T than me, but her dad’s is lacking in the T department; pretty much entirely.
While Jazz and I planned on venturing to other places all night long, we somehow drank our way through the evening without ever switching venues. At midnight the horns blew, everyone cheered, and then my memory started going. I know I was loud, saying stupid things, and acting a damn fool. But in the end, I had heaps of fun, made it home safely, and didn’t have too bad of a hangover the next day so it was a roaring success.
Early Sunday morning it was time to bid farewell. Jasmine and her dad had a plane to catch back to reality, and I scored a seat in their car back to Jakarta. Despite having so much fun, I was tired, sick, and in dire need of recovering my body before I got back on the backpacking trail. While this blog doesn’t give too many specific stories, it’s for a specific purpose. Things that happen in Bandung should stay in Bandung, and out of respect for others I’ll keep these stories to myself. Or I’ll tell them to you in person after I’ve had some wine. The very least I can say is that Jasmine can turn a gay man straight and a straight girl gay.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Monday, January 10, 2011
lifestyles of the rich and famous
PART 1
All my life I’ve wanted a sugar daddy, just without all gross older man stuff I’m not actually into. It’s been a life dream I assumed impossible, until now. Turns out, the whole time I should have been wishing for a sugar aunt and uncle. It’s rare you make it to 26 years of age without knowing all of your family, but somehow I did. Ok, so they’re not blood family, but if I’ve learned anything from my time in Indonesia, family is family.
My father has been with his Indonesian born wife for well over ten years, yet I never knew a whole lot about the life or family she left behind long ago. I had the vague impression she came from money despite her being the biggest coupon clipper I’ve ever known. She also always encouraged me to visit Indonesia and when the chance for my backpacking trip to collide with their vacation here, I jumped on the opportunity to join.
After a few solid months of being a dirty hippie scavenger, I was ready for some indulgence and vacation. I arrived quite literally penniless and in need of both a meal and shower (I had been stretching my money my last few days in Cambodia and making a bag of chips last as two meals. A joke the family likes to now tell.) I was rescued at the airport and promptly brought to one of the many malls in Jakarta. After being stuffed with food we went shopping and I was told if I wanted or needed anything just to let them know. At first I appreciated the gesture, and after some time I learned that they literally meant anything.
But before I can get into the absurdity and amazingness of my situation here, let me introduce the cast of characters.
First and foremost is The Godfather. He’s my stepmom’s brother (aka my uncle) and very clearly the head of the family, the main breadwinner, and the official decision maker. His name is Ping and when he says “jump”, you say “how high?”. Well, I don’t. In fact I don’t know what he says most of the time because he doesn’t speak much English. For the most part, I can tell he enjoys having me around though and likes to show off his bule (white foreigner) niece to others. He insists I join him at lunches, 5 am jogs, or afternoon karaoke just so I can be introduced to his circle of friends.
And I do it dutifully too; it’s the least I can do for the roof he’s put over my head, the food in my belly, and the clothes on my back. And accessories, massages, and plane tickets. Yes, Ping is The Godfather for the reason that he makes a shit ton of money and loves to spend it on his family. And by the grace of God I am his family.
Yes it’s true; somehow I’ve slipped into a world where money has no value, mostly because there is a seemingly endless amount of it. At first I could tell they had money. It’s only after living with them for over a month I get just how much of it they have, and who they lend it to. Because that’s pretty much what they do, lend people money. It’s as simple as that, yet Bank of Ping lends out hundreds of thousands on a regular basis to government officials, oil drilling companies, and God knows who else. Over time he’s collected favors from every business you can imagine: jewelry makers, whorehouse owners, and senators; and I’ve met them all.
But the best and most absurd part of all of this: Ping lives in a shack of a warehouse. Despite his huge financial success and ability to buy several properties a year (and he does) he prefers his 30 year old deteriorating office building as his castle. He is a man who likes simple comfort and is unwilling to change, even if this makes him the butt of jokes amongst his class.
Ping loves routine and sticks to his regimented schedule of waking at 4 am, exercising, and then commencing his day. There is no specific daily work schedule; he comes and goes as he pleases; but mostly people come to his office to ask for money. It’s a very relaxed atmosphere as the room is small, no frills, and filled with yelping dogs. The walls are covered with countless photos of Ping with various high ranking government officials and military and one of him with the infamous Indonesian major mob boss. Because he wants you to know who his friends are if you decide not to pay him back.
If Ping weren’t a big time loan shark he’d be a bartender because he won’t let anyone pass through his doors without a drink. And when he says “one for the road”, he really means three or four. While he starts asking me early on in the day if I want a drink, he respects my ‘no’ answer; that is until 4 pm. Whenever 4 o’clock rolls around, if I’m anywhere near Ping I’m destined to have a drink in my hand. First he offers beer, then whiskey, and when I’ve declined both, he just gets me whatever he is drinking. No doesn’t mean no to Ping. (And this refers to all aspects of life.)
If Ping is king of his castle, then his queen is Alio. Or indentured servant, I’m not quite sure which anymore. Otherwise known as Auntie ATM, she handles the money and loves spending it. It took some time to get used to, but whatever I wanted, I would not pay for, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. It honestly became a mission and I did everything I could to buy my own earrings and I failed over and over again until the one time I succeeded, only to discover she let me pay because she ran out of cash.
In the end though I still wasn’t paying because since the day I arrived my pocket had been stuffed with their cash. I felt uncomfortable with this at first, but after one month it’s become routine. And my biggest fear is that I’ve become far too comfortable with having other people pay for everything for me. I’ve been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember and take a certain pride in paying for all my own travels, despite what other people assume. This is the first time someone else has footed the bill. And to be honest, I kind of like it.
Alio is by far my favorite person here as she is my interpreter and protector. She speaks English, although not entirely perfectly, but always has a sense of humor and kindness about her I adore. As a good Christian, she goes to church regularly and prays often and I can tell it’s her faith that is her fuel in life.
The truth is Ping has worn her down. He is most demanding on her, requesting her schedule stay similar to his, that she only rarely goes out at night and with his permission, and is at his beck and call. A dutiful wife, she feels she has no other choice, but doesn’t complain. But I can tell it wears her down, physically and mentally. Whenever questioned about the irrationality of a situation, she simply sighs and says, “This is Ping”.
On the bright side, she can call the masseuse and beautician to come to the house whenever she pleases to try and relax. And since money is no object, she purchases anything and everything “for health”, no matter the cost. Eye mask for $100? Yes please! Bird’s nest soup for $300? Why not?! As long as it’s beneficial to her health, she’ll invest.
As for Ping’s investments, he loves watches. His collection in the hundreds are sprawled everywhere and their value range from $1,000-$50,000, although I’m not sure where he wears the expensive ones to since he never goes at night. Because of his self-imposed 4 am wake up, he goes to bed around 6-8 pm. He won’t leave the house past 4 pm because it will infringe on his schedule; another reason he might be the butt of jokes.
One more of my favorite characters has to be Wei, otherwise known as Uncle Wei Wei the tour guide. Tall, thin, quiet, and patient; my other uncle is also at the beck and call of Ping and has played tour guide and driver since my arrival. He drives us anywhere and everywhere, the mall or overnight trips, and I’m curious as to what his life is like outside of here. More evasive than anyone else, he lives far away despite Ping’s offer to house him next door (he owns the surrounding houses yet does nothing with them; he just doesn’t want neighbors. I think Wei likes his personal space. But he always has a smile on his face and a pleasant demeanor.
What really makes Wei’s driving skills exceptional is the legendary traffic of Jakarta. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, I’m fairly certain I’ve spent half of my time here sitting in a car. Not joking. It’s not as chaotic as Hanoi or death defying as Cairo, but far more infuriating than even LA traffic. It’s nonstop, everywhere, at all times of the day, and what keeps me from venturing out on my own more often. If there is any place on Earth that has worse traffic than Jakarta, I don’t want to go there, although I’m afraid I already have. And that place is called Bandung.
Roughly 2-3 hours outside of Jakarta, Bandung is the mountainous fresh air escape from the city everyone needs. And since everyone needs it, they go there on the weekends bringing their cars, pollution, and traffic along with them. Once in Bandung a drive that should take 20-30 minutes without traffic, took 2 ½ hours. Two and half friggin’ hours sitting in car going out of my mind. (It was New Year’s weekend. More stories of Bandung to come.)
If there were two words I’d use to describe Jakarta it would be ‘traffic’ and ‘shopping’. This whole place is a clusterfuck of both and I’m surprised it hasn’t sent me out of my mind yet. I suppose free shopping takes the edge off though. I’m not sure why my family here assumes I need to go shopping so much, maybe it’s the holes in my clothes, but it’s pretty constant. I resisted at first, only getting one shirt here, a pair of earrings there.
Really though, they’ve encouraged me to do a lot worse damage and a tiny voice inside of me is screaming to do so. But in the end, I have a new wardrobe, new accessories, toiletries, and set of DVDs to keep me very happy. I even have to be careful not to ask for things. If I even touch something and ask what it is, rather than an answer I get, “do you want it?”. Anything I look vaguely interested in and it’s assumed I want it. And since no doesn’t mean no here, sometimes things get bought I don’t really need or want. The shopping situation here is so absurd that all I can do is laugh.
At least when my father was here I had someone to laugh with. We were the two bules together and I think explaining who I am was a lot easier when he was here. No one knows why this family has a white niece (or nephew as my aunt sometimes introduces me. Her English isn’t perfect). This was my dad’s second trip here and as I’m told he’s done much better this time around.
Adjusting to a strange new world can be surprisingly difficult for most people. Particularly when you’re thrown into another family’s schedule and habits which can be vastly different from your own. My father is a man that shows up not on time, but early. He doesn’t like to wait or make others wait. He makes a schedule for the day and sticks to it. This family couldn’t be more opposite.
First they’ll say we’re leaving at 9 am. Then we’ll leave at 10:30 and we won’t know where we’re going. When we get there the plan will change and we’ll go somewhere else. For a go with the flow person like myself this is fine, exciting even. But for someone like my father, this is infuriating. Apparently last time he became incredibly frustrated. But now he knew what to expect so he didn’t make a big deal of it. In fact, he laughed a lot about the ridiculousness and I think appreciated having me to laugh along with him. I’m sure the endless whiskey helped as well.
In a nutshell, this house runs similarly to a fire station. You pretty much sit around, relaxing, chatting, eating, and suddenly at the drop of a hat they’ll tell you to go-go-go and you have to be ready. You never know where you’re going or what for, but when they start walking out the door, you better follow. If I ever say, “let me grab my purse” they answer with, “what for?”. In reality I’m not sure since I pay for nothing, and can buy anything I need.
As I couldn’t possibly begin to fit all of the tales and observations into one blog, it had to be split into two. But now that you’ve been introduced to the cast of characters and have a basic understanding of this strange world, you might be ready for some actual events. Stories include prostitutes with my father, free range rhinos, and how to cheapen the best steak in the world. Don’t worry, none of these tales are related.
All my life I’ve wanted a sugar daddy, just without all gross older man stuff I’m not actually into. It’s been a life dream I assumed impossible, until now. Turns out, the whole time I should have been wishing for a sugar aunt and uncle. It’s rare you make it to 26 years of age without knowing all of your family, but somehow I did. Ok, so they’re not blood family, but if I’ve learned anything from my time in Indonesia, family is family.
My father has been with his Indonesian born wife for well over ten years, yet I never knew a whole lot about the life or family she left behind long ago. I had the vague impression she came from money despite her being the biggest coupon clipper I’ve ever known. She also always encouraged me to visit Indonesia and when the chance for my backpacking trip to collide with their vacation here, I jumped on the opportunity to join.
After a few solid months of being a dirty hippie scavenger, I was ready for some indulgence and vacation. I arrived quite literally penniless and in need of both a meal and shower (I had been stretching my money my last few days in Cambodia and making a bag of chips last as two meals. A joke the family likes to now tell.) I was rescued at the airport and promptly brought to one of the many malls in Jakarta. After being stuffed with food we went shopping and I was told if I wanted or needed anything just to let them know. At first I appreciated the gesture, and after some time I learned that they literally meant anything.
But before I can get into the absurdity and amazingness of my situation here, let me introduce the cast of characters.
First and foremost is The Godfather. He’s my stepmom’s brother (aka my uncle) and very clearly the head of the family, the main breadwinner, and the official decision maker. His name is Ping and when he says “jump”, you say “how high?”. Well, I don’t. In fact I don’t know what he says most of the time because he doesn’t speak much English. For the most part, I can tell he enjoys having me around though and likes to show off his bule (white foreigner) niece to others. He insists I join him at lunches, 5 am jogs, or afternoon karaoke just so I can be introduced to his circle of friends.
And I do it dutifully too; it’s the least I can do for the roof he’s put over my head, the food in my belly, and the clothes on my back. And accessories, massages, and plane tickets. Yes, Ping is The Godfather for the reason that he makes a shit ton of money and loves to spend it on his family. And by the grace of God I am his family.
Yes it’s true; somehow I’ve slipped into a world where money has no value, mostly because there is a seemingly endless amount of it. At first I could tell they had money. It’s only after living with them for over a month I get just how much of it they have, and who they lend it to. Because that’s pretty much what they do, lend people money. It’s as simple as that, yet Bank of Ping lends out hundreds of thousands on a regular basis to government officials, oil drilling companies, and God knows who else. Over time he’s collected favors from every business you can imagine: jewelry makers, whorehouse owners, and senators; and I’ve met them all.
But the best and most absurd part of all of this: Ping lives in a shack of a warehouse. Despite his huge financial success and ability to buy several properties a year (and he does) he prefers his 30 year old deteriorating office building as his castle. He is a man who likes simple comfort and is unwilling to change, even if this makes him the butt of jokes amongst his class.
Ping loves routine and sticks to his regimented schedule of waking at 4 am, exercising, and then commencing his day. There is no specific daily work schedule; he comes and goes as he pleases; but mostly people come to his office to ask for money. It’s a very relaxed atmosphere as the room is small, no frills, and filled with yelping dogs. The walls are covered with countless photos of Ping with various high ranking government officials and military and one of him with the infamous Indonesian major mob boss. Because he wants you to know who his friends are if you decide not to pay him back.
If Ping weren’t a big time loan shark he’d be a bartender because he won’t let anyone pass through his doors without a drink. And when he says “one for the road”, he really means three or four. While he starts asking me early on in the day if I want a drink, he respects my ‘no’ answer; that is until 4 pm. Whenever 4 o’clock rolls around, if I’m anywhere near Ping I’m destined to have a drink in my hand. First he offers beer, then whiskey, and when I’ve declined both, he just gets me whatever he is drinking. No doesn’t mean no to Ping. (And this refers to all aspects of life.)
If Ping is king of his castle, then his queen is Alio. Or indentured servant, I’m not quite sure which anymore. Otherwise known as Auntie ATM, she handles the money and loves spending it. It took some time to get used to, but whatever I wanted, I would not pay for, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. It honestly became a mission and I did everything I could to buy my own earrings and I failed over and over again until the one time I succeeded, only to discover she let me pay because she ran out of cash.
In the end though I still wasn’t paying because since the day I arrived my pocket had been stuffed with their cash. I felt uncomfortable with this at first, but after one month it’s become routine. And my biggest fear is that I’ve become far too comfortable with having other people pay for everything for me. I’ve been fiercely independent for as long as I can remember and take a certain pride in paying for all my own travels, despite what other people assume. This is the first time someone else has footed the bill. And to be honest, I kind of like it.
Alio is by far my favorite person here as she is my interpreter and protector. She speaks English, although not entirely perfectly, but always has a sense of humor and kindness about her I adore. As a good Christian, she goes to church regularly and prays often and I can tell it’s her faith that is her fuel in life.
The truth is Ping has worn her down. He is most demanding on her, requesting her schedule stay similar to his, that she only rarely goes out at night and with his permission, and is at his beck and call. A dutiful wife, she feels she has no other choice, but doesn’t complain. But I can tell it wears her down, physically and mentally. Whenever questioned about the irrationality of a situation, she simply sighs and says, “This is Ping”.
On the bright side, she can call the masseuse and beautician to come to the house whenever she pleases to try and relax. And since money is no object, she purchases anything and everything “for health”, no matter the cost. Eye mask for $100? Yes please! Bird’s nest soup for $300? Why not?! As long as it’s beneficial to her health, she’ll invest.
As for Ping’s investments, he loves watches. His collection in the hundreds are sprawled everywhere and their value range from $1,000-$50,000, although I’m not sure where he wears the expensive ones to since he never goes at night. Because of his self-imposed 4 am wake up, he goes to bed around 6-8 pm. He won’t leave the house past 4 pm because it will infringe on his schedule; another reason he might be the butt of jokes.
One more of my favorite characters has to be Wei, otherwise known as Uncle Wei Wei the tour guide. Tall, thin, quiet, and patient; my other uncle is also at the beck and call of Ping and has played tour guide and driver since my arrival. He drives us anywhere and everywhere, the mall or overnight trips, and I’m curious as to what his life is like outside of here. More evasive than anyone else, he lives far away despite Ping’s offer to house him next door (he owns the surrounding houses yet does nothing with them; he just doesn’t want neighbors. I think Wei likes his personal space. But he always has a smile on his face and a pleasant demeanor.
What really makes Wei’s driving skills exceptional is the legendary traffic of Jakarta. Unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, I’m fairly certain I’ve spent half of my time here sitting in a car. Not joking. It’s not as chaotic as Hanoi or death defying as Cairo, but far more infuriating than even LA traffic. It’s nonstop, everywhere, at all times of the day, and what keeps me from venturing out on my own more often. If there is any place on Earth that has worse traffic than Jakarta, I don’t want to go there, although I’m afraid I already have. And that place is called Bandung.
Roughly 2-3 hours outside of Jakarta, Bandung is the mountainous fresh air escape from the city everyone needs. And since everyone needs it, they go there on the weekends bringing their cars, pollution, and traffic along with them. Once in Bandung a drive that should take 20-30 minutes without traffic, took 2 ½ hours. Two and half friggin’ hours sitting in car going out of my mind. (It was New Year’s weekend. More stories of Bandung to come.)
If there were two words I’d use to describe Jakarta it would be ‘traffic’ and ‘shopping’. This whole place is a clusterfuck of both and I’m surprised it hasn’t sent me out of my mind yet. I suppose free shopping takes the edge off though. I’m not sure why my family here assumes I need to go shopping so much, maybe it’s the holes in my clothes, but it’s pretty constant. I resisted at first, only getting one shirt here, a pair of earrings there.
Really though, they’ve encouraged me to do a lot worse damage and a tiny voice inside of me is screaming to do so. But in the end, I have a new wardrobe, new accessories, toiletries, and set of DVDs to keep me very happy. I even have to be careful not to ask for things. If I even touch something and ask what it is, rather than an answer I get, “do you want it?”. Anything I look vaguely interested in and it’s assumed I want it. And since no doesn’t mean no here, sometimes things get bought I don’t really need or want. The shopping situation here is so absurd that all I can do is laugh.
At least when my father was here I had someone to laugh with. We were the two bules together and I think explaining who I am was a lot easier when he was here. No one knows why this family has a white niece (or nephew as my aunt sometimes introduces me. Her English isn’t perfect). This was my dad’s second trip here and as I’m told he’s done much better this time around.
Adjusting to a strange new world can be surprisingly difficult for most people. Particularly when you’re thrown into another family’s schedule and habits which can be vastly different from your own. My father is a man that shows up not on time, but early. He doesn’t like to wait or make others wait. He makes a schedule for the day and sticks to it. This family couldn’t be more opposite.
First they’ll say we’re leaving at 9 am. Then we’ll leave at 10:30 and we won’t know where we’re going. When we get there the plan will change and we’ll go somewhere else. For a go with the flow person like myself this is fine, exciting even. But for someone like my father, this is infuriating. Apparently last time he became incredibly frustrated. But now he knew what to expect so he didn’t make a big deal of it. In fact, he laughed a lot about the ridiculousness and I think appreciated having me to laugh along with him. I’m sure the endless whiskey helped as well.
In a nutshell, this house runs similarly to a fire station. You pretty much sit around, relaxing, chatting, eating, and suddenly at the drop of a hat they’ll tell you to go-go-go and you have to be ready. You never know where you’re going or what for, but when they start walking out the door, you better follow. If I ever say, “let me grab my purse” they answer with, “what for?”. In reality I’m not sure since I pay for nothing, and can buy anything I need.
As I couldn’t possibly begin to fit all of the tales and observations into one blog, it had to be split into two. But now that you’ve been introduced to the cast of characters and have a basic understanding of this strange world, you might be ready for some actual events. Stories include prostitutes with my father, free range rhinos, and how to cheapen the best steak in the world. Don’t worry, none of these tales are related.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
here i go again
Opportunities to find bar work in Sihanoukville are abundant, pretty much because every bar in town wants to hire Westerners. While the accommodation and food situation varies from place to place, there’s always one guarantee no one will work without: free alcohol. It is the fuel that keeps the town vibrant and what bartenders need to get through the long nights. True, this kind of offer can get messy but if you can’t handle yourself, I’m fairly certain you wouldn’t last very long in one place.
That doesn’t mean you’re not granted some leeway and allowed to go on a binder every now and again. Even if it’s your first night working, you can get so black out drunk you full on disappear halfway through your shift, only to be found sprawled out on your bed, passed out with the lights on and hopefully your clothes on. This may or may not describe my first night working. (Well, it could have been a lot worse you know.)
While I had the option of working at a couple of different places, I didn’t really search around too much as Jam’s seemed like the kind of place I would enjoy. The staff was friendly, the vibe was chill, and it was literally right on the beach. But the real selling point was that Jam’s closed a bit earlier than other bars, which meant I could have a social life after work. As if it were really work.
Let’s be honest folks: anywhere that not only provides the means but encourages you to be drunk while “working”, is not work. Bars back home do not condone such behavior; but in Cambodia they sure do.
You’re probably wondering what I got in exchange for working, because it certainly wasn’t money. Free unlimited booze, naturally, a room to call my own, and some food. Sounded pretty sweet at first, but soon I realized nothing is quite what it seems. My private room isn’t anything to complain about for a week or so, but the roof leaked which created a God awful moldy smell, plus the fan was jenky which meant with the intense heat the room was unbearable during the day. Sure I had a private bathroom, but there was no door, a shit cold shower, and another God awful untraceable smell.
And the food? Well, if it did show up it was awful and full of meat. Did the manager know I was vegetarian? Yes, but his response everyday was to “pick it out”. Never mind the fact he bought six pizzas one day, six, but not one without meat. I swear he was testing me. And this is even if there was food provided. After a few days I stopped looking for food. Instead, I was the only bartender who took advantage of the fully stocked kitchen and cooked myself brunch everyday. Every day the Cambodian staff watched with curiosity as I created new Asian Western fusion kitchen sink dishes. Ultimately, it was a decent trade but not possible for more than week or so. Had I any real intention of sticking around town I’d quickly seek out a new bar. But for the time being it would due.
While working at Jam’s did not turn out how I expected, in the end I quite enjoyed it. The first couple of days were a bit rough as the shift started at 7 pm but no one really shows up until at least 9. And since I was new and not encouraged to be behind the bar at first, that meant I was sitting alone out front handing out flyers and trying to get people in. It wouldn’t have been so awful if there actual people to hand flyers to.
To briefly describe the location, our bar wasn’t on any main walking drag which doesn’t allow for a lot of foot traffic. Also consider it was dinner time and most people want to relax on the beach and enjoy a quiet beer. No one starts looking for a bar until much later (I told you this is a party till dawn town); thus I spent several hours contemplating my life’s mistakes and staring at the water. That, and smoking my early shift spliff, just to get through it, you know.
By far the most interesting characters at the bar were the owners, Mr. and Mrs. So. I’m still not entirely sure why this Korean couple well in their seventies/eighties decided to move to S.ville and run a Western bar. They don’t speak English or Cambodian and if it weren’t for the temporary help of the Korean-American manager, there would be zero communication between the owners and staff. Besides the practicality of it all, they made great characters.
Mr. So, my favorite, is super tiny, super bald, and super smiley. He walks around in white linens observing everyone constantly like the all knowing Buddha I think he is. Kung-fu Buddha that is, as he really does practice martial arts and can break nearly any piece of wood in half. Bad ass. As for Mrs. So, the bipolar afro haired lady, well, she can be fun or frightening, depending on the day. While she loved me because of my appreciation for Korean culture, she is constantly suspicious of her staff and demanding massages from our on staff Cambodian masseuse/dancer/screamer, Charlie.
As the Western staff is constantly filing through new people, there needs to be some constant and that need is filled out by a few locals who can speak decent English. My favorite is Charlie and before I even started working there, I knew we’d get along famously. Charlie is rarely working, instead dancing his ass off behind the bar, and I was in need of a fabulous new gay boyfriend. Of course within days Charlie was near raping me and groping my boobs whenever he could. Not sure why I encouraged such behavior, but it made bartending during lulls vastly more entertaining.
Another entertaining part of the job was getting hit on constantly. It was entertaining in the fact that I was never interested but loved watching these silly old men make awful advances. From buying me drinks (even though I got free ones) to facebook friend requests (ummm, no????), it was an endless parade of uninteresting offers. Perhaps I neglected to mention this was a bar filled with DOMs (dirty old men) and prostitutes. I consider this good people watching.
The best/worst DOM, hands down, goes to the Russian. A slimy, rail thin old man who didn’t speak a word of English came in night after night making it blatantly obvious he was interested in me. I was nice at first, then evasive, then downright rude. From refusing tips to showing him my “boyfriend”, he never really got the hint. I partly blame my co-worker who gave him information about me in exchange for tips, even though he knew this man was creepy as fuck. (Thanks Sam.)
But the culmination of this near week long episode was when through an unnecessary to explain series of events, he had to remove his blood soaked shirt. He then put his arms around me from behind and breathed into my ear, “Stephanie….you….sex…..me?”
Ummmm….FUCK NO.
It’s at this point I threw up a little in my mouth and made it a point to pretend he no longer existed. I also realized I had to be more defensive with men at this bar as I was the only female staff member and whiskey buckets were $1.
Luckily at the end of each shift I had enough booze and friends to head next door to JJ’s, the paint ridden, heavy drinking, dance all night party I couldn’t resist. Trouble can be found in all corners of this bar; I’ve had spliffs, made out, and even been vomited on (thankfully none of these are connected). Basically this is to say that as a nightly routine I was destroying my body. This is how I knew I couldn’t stay in S.ville forever.
During the beginning of my time here I did feel a tinge of loneliness. I was experiencing withdrawal symptoms from being surrounded by my alcoholic bullshitting friends from Laos/Thailand and was not liking having to make “new” friends. On a low day I went to lay on the beach alone and basically wished, hoped, and prayed someone from Laos would randomly show up. And as always, I got more than I bargained for.
From Rob the ballsack sharing legend from Manchester and his saint of a girlfriend Helen, to Hoover the shirtless American with his love of motos and randomness; it was an endless parade of friends from past adventures. Every single night a new familiar face randomly popped up and I couldn’t have been more grateful. The only ones I expected were four of my favorite boys from Mama Rasta’s/Vang Vieng/Pai. They were coming to celebrate Jack’s birthday, although they showed up earlier than I anticipated. It seemed the Universe had overloaded on my wish.
By the time Jack’s birthday rolled around, we were armed and dangerous for an entire day of inebriation. The day before the big 2-0, we ventured out without Jack to pick up the supplies. A full day of beach bar hopping was the only scheduled event and we planned on making total fools of ourselves. An absurd outfit for Jack was selected consisting of skin tight female booty shorts and cami, arm floaties, a gun, goggles, and a huge bucket to be filled with various types of alcohol throughout the day. (Did I mention the Viagra we drugged him with?) The remaining four of us got airplane floating tubes (meant for children) and decided to wear them the entire day. To say the very least we looked ridiculous, and I couldn’t have been more excited for someone else’s birthday.
It started normally enough, playing some pool and drinking beers. Then some girls showed up and tequila shots were promptly ordered. (Did I mention I skipped breakfast?) The rest of the day was a blur of laughter, buckets, various bars, spliffs, and Cambodian children swarming us for our airplane tubes. We probably shouldn’t have taught them beer bucket pong but they loved being around us so we couldn’t help it.
Day shifted to night at some point, tubes popped or lost, memory blurred, and only pictures can tell the tale of what happened, even though that’s questionable as well. In the end, it was the best birthday ever, even if it wasn’t mine.
It was so good that while I was supposed to leave the next day and said all my good-byes, I was too hungover to function and missed all the buses. So I agreed to one last bar shift so I wouldn’t have to change to a hostel and then had to live down the shame of all the questions, “I thought you were leaving today?”. Not the first (or probably last) bus I’ll miss due to hangover. In fact, it’s the third one I can blame on these specific boys. Luckily it’s usually worth it.
In the end, I believe everything is meant to be. If I had caught that bus I wouldn’t have run into my favorite couple Ban and Death for one last good laugh and to have a proper girly catch up. The people I’ve met and experiences I’ve had in all of Southeast Asia are entirely based on buses I’ve caught and missed.
The following day, I caught the bus to Phnom Penh and spent a half day being a semi-tourist and went to bed early to catch my flight to Indonesia. I was in dire need of a real detox at this point. A luxurious vacation with an abundance of sleep and good food was exactly what I needed. And once again, I got more than I bargained for.
That doesn’t mean you’re not granted some leeway and allowed to go on a binder every now and again. Even if it’s your first night working, you can get so black out drunk you full on disappear halfway through your shift, only to be found sprawled out on your bed, passed out with the lights on and hopefully your clothes on. This may or may not describe my first night working. (Well, it could have been a lot worse you know.)
While I had the option of working at a couple of different places, I didn’t really search around too much as Jam’s seemed like the kind of place I would enjoy. The staff was friendly, the vibe was chill, and it was literally right on the beach. But the real selling point was that Jam’s closed a bit earlier than other bars, which meant I could have a social life after work. As if it were really work.
Let’s be honest folks: anywhere that not only provides the means but encourages you to be drunk while “working”, is not work. Bars back home do not condone such behavior; but in Cambodia they sure do.
You’re probably wondering what I got in exchange for working, because it certainly wasn’t money. Free unlimited booze, naturally, a room to call my own, and some food. Sounded pretty sweet at first, but soon I realized nothing is quite what it seems. My private room isn’t anything to complain about for a week or so, but the roof leaked which created a God awful moldy smell, plus the fan was jenky which meant with the intense heat the room was unbearable during the day. Sure I had a private bathroom, but there was no door, a shit cold shower, and another God awful untraceable smell.
And the food? Well, if it did show up it was awful and full of meat. Did the manager know I was vegetarian? Yes, but his response everyday was to “pick it out”. Never mind the fact he bought six pizzas one day, six, but not one without meat. I swear he was testing me. And this is even if there was food provided. After a few days I stopped looking for food. Instead, I was the only bartender who took advantage of the fully stocked kitchen and cooked myself brunch everyday. Every day the Cambodian staff watched with curiosity as I created new Asian Western fusion kitchen sink dishes. Ultimately, it was a decent trade but not possible for more than week or so. Had I any real intention of sticking around town I’d quickly seek out a new bar. But for the time being it would due.
While working at Jam’s did not turn out how I expected, in the end I quite enjoyed it. The first couple of days were a bit rough as the shift started at 7 pm but no one really shows up until at least 9. And since I was new and not encouraged to be behind the bar at first, that meant I was sitting alone out front handing out flyers and trying to get people in. It wouldn’t have been so awful if there actual people to hand flyers to.
To briefly describe the location, our bar wasn’t on any main walking drag which doesn’t allow for a lot of foot traffic. Also consider it was dinner time and most people want to relax on the beach and enjoy a quiet beer. No one starts looking for a bar until much later (I told you this is a party till dawn town); thus I spent several hours contemplating my life’s mistakes and staring at the water. That, and smoking my early shift spliff, just to get through it, you know.
By far the most interesting characters at the bar were the owners, Mr. and Mrs. So. I’m still not entirely sure why this Korean couple well in their seventies/eighties decided to move to S.ville and run a Western bar. They don’t speak English or Cambodian and if it weren’t for the temporary help of the Korean-American manager, there would be zero communication between the owners and staff. Besides the practicality of it all, they made great characters.
Mr. So, my favorite, is super tiny, super bald, and super smiley. He walks around in white linens observing everyone constantly like the all knowing Buddha I think he is. Kung-fu Buddha that is, as he really does practice martial arts and can break nearly any piece of wood in half. Bad ass. As for Mrs. So, the bipolar afro haired lady, well, she can be fun or frightening, depending on the day. While she loved me because of my appreciation for Korean culture, she is constantly suspicious of her staff and demanding massages from our on staff Cambodian masseuse/dancer/screamer, Charlie.
As the Western staff is constantly filing through new people, there needs to be some constant and that need is filled out by a few locals who can speak decent English. My favorite is Charlie and before I even started working there, I knew we’d get along famously. Charlie is rarely working, instead dancing his ass off behind the bar, and I was in need of a fabulous new gay boyfriend. Of course within days Charlie was near raping me and groping my boobs whenever he could. Not sure why I encouraged such behavior, but it made bartending during lulls vastly more entertaining.
Another entertaining part of the job was getting hit on constantly. It was entertaining in the fact that I was never interested but loved watching these silly old men make awful advances. From buying me drinks (even though I got free ones) to facebook friend requests (ummm, no????), it was an endless parade of uninteresting offers. Perhaps I neglected to mention this was a bar filled with DOMs (dirty old men) and prostitutes. I consider this good people watching.
The best/worst DOM, hands down, goes to the Russian. A slimy, rail thin old man who didn’t speak a word of English came in night after night making it blatantly obvious he was interested in me. I was nice at first, then evasive, then downright rude. From refusing tips to showing him my “boyfriend”, he never really got the hint. I partly blame my co-worker who gave him information about me in exchange for tips, even though he knew this man was creepy as fuck. (Thanks Sam.)
But the culmination of this near week long episode was when through an unnecessary to explain series of events, he had to remove his blood soaked shirt. He then put his arms around me from behind and breathed into my ear, “Stephanie….you….sex…..me?”
Ummmm….FUCK NO.
It’s at this point I threw up a little in my mouth and made it a point to pretend he no longer existed. I also realized I had to be more defensive with men at this bar as I was the only female staff member and whiskey buckets were $1.
Luckily at the end of each shift I had enough booze and friends to head next door to JJ’s, the paint ridden, heavy drinking, dance all night party I couldn’t resist. Trouble can be found in all corners of this bar; I’ve had spliffs, made out, and even been vomited on (thankfully none of these are connected). Basically this is to say that as a nightly routine I was destroying my body. This is how I knew I couldn’t stay in S.ville forever.
During the beginning of my time here I did feel a tinge of loneliness. I was experiencing withdrawal symptoms from being surrounded by my alcoholic bullshitting friends from Laos/Thailand and was not liking having to make “new” friends. On a low day I went to lay on the beach alone and basically wished, hoped, and prayed someone from Laos would randomly show up. And as always, I got more than I bargained for.
From Rob the ballsack sharing legend from Manchester and his saint of a girlfriend Helen, to Hoover the shirtless American with his love of motos and randomness; it was an endless parade of friends from past adventures. Every single night a new familiar face randomly popped up and I couldn’t have been more grateful. The only ones I expected were four of my favorite boys from Mama Rasta’s/Vang Vieng/Pai. They were coming to celebrate Jack’s birthday, although they showed up earlier than I anticipated. It seemed the Universe had overloaded on my wish.
By the time Jack’s birthday rolled around, we were armed and dangerous for an entire day of inebriation. The day before the big 2-0, we ventured out without Jack to pick up the supplies. A full day of beach bar hopping was the only scheduled event and we planned on making total fools of ourselves. An absurd outfit for Jack was selected consisting of skin tight female booty shorts and cami, arm floaties, a gun, goggles, and a huge bucket to be filled with various types of alcohol throughout the day. (Did I mention the Viagra we drugged him with?) The remaining four of us got airplane floating tubes (meant for children) and decided to wear them the entire day. To say the very least we looked ridiculous, and I couldn’t have been more excited for someone else’s birthday.
It started normally enough, playing some pool and drinking beers. Then some girls showed up and tequila shots were promptly ordered. (Did I mention I skipped breakfast?) The rest of the day was a blur of laughter, buckets, various bars, spliffs, and Cambodian children swarming us for our airplane tubes. We probably shouldn’t have taught them beer bucket pong but they loved being around us so we couldn’t help it.
Day shifted to night at some point, tubes popped or lost, memory blurred, and only pictures can tell the tale of what happened, even though that’s questionable as well. In the end, it was the best birthday ever, even if it wasn’t mine.
It was so good that while I was supposed to leave the next day and said all my good-byes, I was too hungover to function and missed all the buses. So I agreed to one last bar shift so I wouldn’t have to change to a hostel and then had to live down the shame of all the questions, “I thought you were leaving today?”. Not the first (or probably last) bus I’ll miss due to hangover. In fact, it’s the third one I can blame on these specific boys. Luckily it’s usually worth it.
In the end, I believe everything is meant to be. If I had caught that bus I wouldn’t have run into my favorite couple Ban and Death for one last good laugh and to have a proper girly catch up. The people I’ve met and experiences I’ve had in all of Southeast Asia are entirely based on buses I’ve caught and missed.
The following day, I caught the bus to Phnom Penh and spent a half day being a semi-tourist and went to bed early to catch my flight to Indonesia. I was in dire need of a real detox at this point. A luxurious vacation with an abundance of sleep and good food was exactly what I needed. And once again, I got more than I bargained for.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
nowhere fast
When exhausted, sore, and frustrated there’s only one place in the world that can completely rejuvenate the soul: the beach. And luckily for Siobhan and myself, we arrived in Sihanoukville with the sun high in the sky and were eager to get a piece of it.
Located in the very south of the country, this backpacker’s paradise has grown exponentially over the years, most likely to its own detriment. Throngs of tourists pass through and faces around town change about as rapidly as new business open up and old ones disappear. Yet there is a constant abundance of guesthouses, restaurants, and bars; so much it becomes bit overwhelming. Basically, it’s a smaller, calmer version of Siem Reap…with a beach. Despite my obvious annoyance with the previous tourist packaged town, this place unexpectedly charmed me. Maybe it was the sea air or the quick and cheap moto escape to a secluded beach, but Sihanoukville (pronounced Sha-nook-ville) had a lot more to offer if you bothered getting off the main strip.
With a plethora of beaches to explore, I made it a personal mission to try them all. The obvious first one we ventured to was Serenity Beach, the main drag completely overcome with beach chairs, restaurants, and locals touting everything under the sun. Massages, books, jewelry, sunglasses, fruit, and hair removal were all up on offer and I wish I could say I never indulged. But newbies smell like fresh meat and the children surrounded us making us “free” bracelets, the gimmick being that out of guilt we’d buy something else. (It worked.) But probably the weirdest thing we purchased, really the weirdest thing I’ve ever done on a beach, ever, was threading.
For those uninformed on the pain that is beauty, threading is a hair removal process where dental floss is used in a way that rips hair from skin. It essentially is waxing without all the pain, or that’s how it was sold to me. Despite the gentle demo, threading turned out to be a painful and torturous activity, at least for me. Everyone else kept calm and quiet about the uncomfortable process, but I could not. Every now and again I couldn’t help but flinch and let out a yelp. Not only did the beautician ladies laugh it up, but so did Siobhan, the seller children, and the other patrons near us. The particularly painful bit was getting my armpits threaded. An odd mix of pain and tickling, I couldn’t stop laughing and screaming, thus confusing and entertaining the masses. “It’s all for the blog,” I whimpered as I vowed never, ever to submit myself to such torture again.
After we washed up and got ready, we headed out for a big night on the town. As it turned out, it was Saturday night and a New Moon, which meant day glow party, and Siobhan and I had yet to go out properly since reuniting. So we wore our worst clothes and prepared as best we could because with these nights, you never know what’s going to happen.
What’s day glow you ask? Any Southeast Asia backpacker knows this substance well and stays away from it, unless of course they’re drunk and it’s a moon party. Then you smoother yourself in the neon colored paint and proceed to scream, “woo hoo!!!”. It’s quite popular because you’ll then glow under a black light and it gives you great excuse to meet new people and draw on them. The downfall? The paint is painfully permanent, meaning anything it touches becomes fated as “moon party wear”, never to see the light of day nor the soil of your homeland.
So our first night we loaded up on paint, whiskey buckets, and had an absolute blast meandering back and forth between beach bars. It was only my first night but already found three different bars wanting to hire me in exchange for drinks and accommodation. While most that night has been erased from my memory, I had it together enough to realize I was going to stick around Sihanoukville for a little while.
One of the greatest and worst things about S.ville is the party always goes until sunrise, no matter what night of the week it is. It took me a few days to adjust, but I always thought it was a great idea to come home, change to my bathing suit, and then head out for some early morning rays. That is unless I passed out during the process.
After only a couple of days it was clear I needed a break and luckily for me one was already scheduled in. Siobhan is an avid diver and was eager to go out to one of the many islands for an overnight diving trip. I was excited to join her and be lazy on the beach while she was out being active. So we signed up with a dive company and set out for Koh Rung, a nearly deserted island 2 ½ hours out from shore.
Since my bad decision making skills are legendary, no one should be surprised to hear I stayed out all night partying only to come home with less than 10 minutes to pack and get ready to go for 3-4 days to the island. Of course Siobhan was livid as she was certain she wasn’t going to see me and was unsure what to do. I threw everything in together, still drunk and not answering questions, and off we ran to catch our ride. I was feeling fine, certain I would sneak some sleep on the boat, until that is I saw the pile of wood.
Not only was there no place to rest my head, but the waves were high, the wind strong, and it was obviously a bad day to be out at sea. No matter, we began our journey with spirits high. After a period of time I became intensely seasick and did my best to hold back the vomit. Some fun was poked at me until everyone saw just how awful I felt and began to show their concern. Suddenly I couldn’t hold it anymore and decided to make my way to the back of the boat so less people would witness the experience, or at least they would be downwind of it.
This proved another bad decision as I had no balancing skills with the boat rocking up and down, back and forth, and I was quickly thrown to the ground with my dress torn and my back scrapped pretty badly. With the wind knocked out of me and my back throbbing, I no longer had to vomit, but still had to endure another hour of tortuous high seas. And there went my theory I was a pirate in another life.
I have never been so happy to see solid ground and promptly laid down attempting to sleep off the seasickness/hangover I was stuck in. By the afternoon I was well enough to walk to the part of the island with the bungalows we were to sleep in. I was still sick, but completely able to appreciate the absolutely stunning scenery around me.
Nestled into the hillside and directly next to the beach, each individual bungalow had its own rustic bathroom and balcony equipped with a hammock and spectacular view. There was only one restaurant on the island and that was the one associated with both our dive shop and guesthouse, only a stone’s throw from our little abode. On our full day there together, after a solid and much needed sleep, Siobhan and I ventured to discover a secluded white sand beach. We walked along the water and through a mini jungle, ducking trees and jumping mud pits. We went until we reached the end of dry ground and even then we had to walk through chest high water to find our perfect beach. Eventually we made it.
Before us lay a long stretch of white super soft sand without a soul in site, the beach curved in a ‘U’ shape, meaning if anyone did walk past us we would see them from far away. It also gave me the absolutely secluded beach I had been seeking my entire time in Asia, or at least since I had read ‘The Beach’. So off came my top and out came my spliff, because I wasn’t going to miss a golden opportunity like this to utterly relax and tan beyond restrictive bikini lines.
Unfortunately, nature has to find balance and there was really only one catch, although it was a pretty awful one: sandflies. Now they sound harmless but truly these are the demonic cousins of mosquitoes. While mosquito bites instantly swell, if you don’t itch them, they go away. But sandfly bites are of another world. They leave only a tiny red dot and aren’t terribly irritating at first. It’s only after you’ve left the scene of the crime and showered that you realize how totally and utterly itchy you are.
While this might be annoying to some, it’s awful for me. You know those people with sweet blood who always get bit more than anyone else in the group? There’s always one and that unfortunate soul is me. While Siobhan suffered a few annoying bites, I was absolutely entirely covered in bright red bumps. The little fuckers preferred my legs to the rest of me, but still managed to get just about everything they could. Not only are these bites obvious and foul looking, but they seemingly never go away. They never stop itching and they itch so fiercely you end up creating scabs, which you will later scratch off as well, and eventually leave you covered in little white scars. Don’t worry, those will itch, too. It has officially been six weeks since the tragedy and I’m still itching. Really. (And yes, that’s how behind on my blog I am.)
So why are sandfly bites worth such a long tangent? Because for the following few weeks if I ever wore shorts I had to deal with people gasping and saying, “My God, what has happened to you?!?”. Their pitiful stares and apologies didn’t make up for the fact that I was now the leper on the beach. Nice timing for me to live in a beach town, eh?
And that was the plan. I decided to settle in S.ville for a week or so bartending while Siobhan headed towards Vietnam. We headed back the next day on a perfectly smooth and gentle boat ride that I could nap through (oh the irony), and spent our last full day together indulging it up with more beach and western food. We even splurged and went to see a movie, the second one I’ve gone to in eight months. This “theater” was simply a large room with papasan chairs that showed pirated new movies. Completely comfortable and relaxed, they offered services such as ordering pizza, free of charge, as was the added “happiness”. And with mini tables equipped with ashtrays, I knew I’d come back to this $3 a flick sweet spot.
Of course there was another night out with memories lost to the buckets we consumed, but it was all well enjoyed nonetheless. The next morning we parted ways, permanently this time, and I was ready to begin the next chapter of my journey. Bartending for bed is not unknown to me and has been something I’d been searching for my entire time in Asia. I resisted the tempting offer in Vang Vieng, but a bar on the beach is not something I could deny. And so I settled in for a week (or so) of complete and utter alcoholism.
Located in the very south of the country, this backpacker’s paradise has grown exponentially over the years, most likely to its own detriment. Throngs of tourists pass through and faces around town change about as rapidly as new business open up and old ones disappear. Yet there is a constant abundance of guesthouses, restaurants, and bars; so much it becomes bit overwhelming. Basically, it’s a smaller, calmer version of Siem Reap…with a beach. Despite my obvious annoyance with the previous tourist packaged town, this place unexpectedly charmed me. Maybe it was the sea air or the quick and cheap moto escape to a secluded beach, but Sihanoukville (pronounced Sha-nook-ville) had a lot more to offer if you bothered getting off the main strip.
With a plethora of beaches to explore, I made it a personal mission to try them all. The obvious first one we ventured to was Serenity Beach, the main drag completely overcome with beach chairs, restaurants, and locals touting everything under the sun. Massages, books, jewelry, sunglasses, fruit, and hair removal were all up on offer and I wish I could say I never indulged. But newbies smell like fresh meat and the children surrounded us making us “free” bracelets, the gimmick being that out of guilt we’d buy something else. (It worked.) But probably the weirdest thing we purchased, really the weirdest thing I’ve ever done on a beach, ever, was threading.
For those uninformed on the pain that is beauty, threading is a hair removal process where dental floss is used in a way that rips hair from skin. It essentially is waxing without all the pain, or that’s how it was sold to me. Despite the gentle demo, threading turned out to be a painful and torturous activity, at least for me. Everyone else kept calm and quiet about the uncomfortable process, but I could not. Every now and again I couldn’t help but flinch and let out a yelp. Not only did the beautician ladies laugh it up, but so did Siobhan, the seller children, and the other patrons near us. The particularly painful bit was getting my armpits threaded. An odd mix of pain and tickling, I couldn’t stop laughing and screaming, thus confusing and entertaining the masses. “It’s all for the blog,” I whimpered as I vowed never, ever to submit myself to such torture again.
After we washed up and got ready, we headed out for a big night on the town. As it turned out, it was Saturday night and a New Moon, which meant day glow party, and Siobhan and I had yet to go out properly since reuniting. So we wore our worst clothes and prepared as best we could because with these nights, you never know what’s going to happen.
What’s day glow you ask? Any Southeast Asia backpacker knows this substance well and stays away from it, unless of course they’re drunk and it’s a moon party. Then you smoother yourself in the neon colored paint and proceed to scream, “woo hoo!!!”. It’s quite popular because you’ll then glow under a black light and it gives you great excuse to meet new people and draw on them. The downfall? The paint is painfully permanent, meaning anything it touches becomes fated as “moon party wear”, never to see the light of day nor the soil of your homeland.
So our first night we loaded up on paint, whiskey buckets, and had an absolute blast meandering back and forth between beach bars. It was only my first night but already found three different bars wanting to hire me in exchange for drinks and accommodation. While most that night has been erased from my memory, I had it together enough to realize I was going to stick around Sihanoukville for a little while.
One of the greatest and worst things about S.ville is the party always goes until sunrise, no matter what night of the week it is. It took me a few days to adjust, but I always thought it was a great idea to come home, change to my bathing suit, and then head out for some early morning rays. That is unless I passed out during the process.
After only a couple of days it was clear I needed a break and luckily for me one was already scheduled in. Siobhan is an avid diver and was eager to go out to one of the many islands for an overnight diving trip. I was excited to join her and be lazy on the beach while she was out being active. So we signed up with a dive company and set out for Koh Rung, a nearly deserted island 2 ½ hours out from shore.
Since my bad decision making skills are legendary, no one should be surprised to hear I stayed out all night partying only to come home with less than 10 minutes to pack and get ready to go for 3-4 days to the island. Of course Siobhan was livid as she was certain she wasn’t going to see me and was unsure what to do. I threw everything in together, still drunk and not answering questions, and off we ran to catch our ride. I was feeling fine, certain I would sneak some sleep on the boat, until that is I saw the pile of wood.
Not only was there no place to rest my head, but the waves were high, the wind strong, and it was obviously a bad day to be out at sea. No matter, we began our journey with spirits high. After a period of time I became intensely seasick and did my best to hold back the vomit. Some fun was poked at me until everyone saw just how awful I felt and began to show their concern. Suddenly I couldn’t hold it anymore and decided to make my way to the back of the boat so less people would witness the experience, or at least they would be downwind of it.
This proved another bad decision as I had no balancing skills with the boat rocking up and down, back and forth, and I was quickly thrown to the ground with my dress torn and my back scrapped pretty badly. With the wind knocked out of me and my back throbbing, I no longer had to vomit, but still had to endure another hour of tortuous high seas. And there went my theory I was a pirate in another life.
I have never been so happy to see solid ground and promptly laid down attempting to sleep off the seasickness/hangover I was stuck in. By the afternoon I was well enough to walk to the part of the island with the bungalows we were to sleep in. I was still sick, but completely able to appreciate the absolutely stunning scenery around me.
Nestled into the hillside and directly next to the beach, each individual bungalow had its own rustic bathroom and balcony equipped with a hammock and spectacular view. There was only one restaurant on the island and that was the one associated with both our dive shop and guesthouse, only a stone’s throw from our little abode. On our full day there together, after a solid and much needed sleep, Siobhan and I ventured to discover a secluded white sand beach. We walked along the water and through a mini jungle, ducking trees and jumping mud pits. We went until we reached the end of dry ground and even then we had to walk through chest high water to find our perfect beach. Eventually we made it.
Before us lay a long stretch of white super soft sand without a soul in site, the beach curved in a ‘U’ shape, meaning if anyone did walk past us we would see them from far away. It also gave me the absolutely secluded beach I had been seeking my entire time in Asia, or at least since I had read ‘The Beach’. So off came my top and out came my spliff, because I wasn’t going to miss a golden opportunity like this to utterly relax and tan beyond restrictive bikini lines.
Unfortunately, nature has to find balance and there was really only one catch, although it was a pretty awful one: sandflies. Now they sound harmless but truly these are the demonic cousins of mosquitoes. While mosquito bites instantly swell, if you don’t itch them, they go away. But sandfly bites are of another world. They leave only a tiny red dot and aren’t terribly irritating at first. It’s only after you’ve left the scene of the crime and showered that you realize how totally and utterly itchy you are.
While this might be annoying to some, it’s awful for me. You know those people with sweet blood who always get bit more than anyone else in the group? There’s always one and that unfortunate soul is me. While Siobhan suffered a few annoying bites, I was absolutely entirely covered in bright red bumps. The little fuckers preferred my legs to the rest of me, but still managed to get just about everything they could. Not only are these bites obvious and foul looking, but they seemingly never go away. They never stop itching and they itch so fiercely you end up creating scabs, which you will later scratch off as well, and eventually leave you covered in little white scars. Don’t worry, those will itch, too. It has officially been six weeks since the tragedy and I’m still itching. Really. (And yes, that’s how behind on my blog I am.)
So why are sandfly bites worth such a long tangent? Because for the following few weeks if I ever wore shorts I had to deal with people gasping and saying, “My God, what has happened to you?!?”. Their pitiful stares and apologies didn’t make up for the fact that I was now the leper on the beach. Nice timing for me to live in a beach town, eh?
And that was the plan. I decided to settle in S.ville for a week or so bartending while Siobhan headed towards Vietnam. We headed back the next day on a perfectly smooth and gentle boat ride that I could nap through (oh the irony), and spent our last full day together indulging it up with more beach and western food. We even splurged and went to see a movie, the second one I’ve gone to in eight months. This “theater” was simply a large room with papasan chairs that showed pirated new movies. Completely comfortable and relaxed, they offered services such as ordering pizza, free of charge, as was the added “happiness”. And with mini tables equipped with ashtrays, I knew I’d come back to this $3 a flick sweet spot.
Of course there was another night out with memories lost to the buckets we consumed, but it was all well enjoyed nonetheless. The next morning we parted ways, permanently this time, and I was ready to begin the next chapter of my journey. Bartending for bed is not unknown to me and has been something I’d been searching for my entire time in Asia. I resisted the tempting offer in Vang Vieng, but a bar on the beach is not something I could deny. And so I settled in for a week (or so) of complete and utter alcoholism.
Monday, December 13, 2010
black or white
Some people seek out electronics, some diamond jewelry, but I’m on the hunt for a new liver on the black market. Because after all the antics of Vang Vieng, even a detox can’t remedy the damage I’ve done to my body. But since that isn’t an option (at least not until I get back to Bangkok), I opted for rest and relaxation at 4000 Islands. Or so I thought.
Located at the southern border of Laos sits a maze of small rustic islands speckled throughout the Mekong. Up until very recently, even electricity wasn’t available except on the main big island. But as tourism grows on Don Det, the backpacker haven most flock to, everyday brings more modern comforts of home.
Yet despite the increasing number of tourists, there still lacks an ATM machine. This in turn determines a limited amount of time as money eventually runs dry. Of course there are ways around this annoyance as the locals will often sell bus tickets on “credit” and will take you to an ATM promptly when you cross the border into Cambodia or elsewhere. Luckily for me, I was aware of this problem (some are not) and brought an extra emergency fund which extended my four days into over a week. A week of more the same same shenanigans I’d been akin to. It’s not my fault though; I blame the various hooligans I’d been drinking with in Vang Vieng who showed up to “detox” as well, naturally.
While I intended on solitude on Don Det, the Universe had other plans for me. For starters, two girls I met in Vang Vieng showed up on my bus and it was clear calmness wouldn’t be around for the first few days. Luckily, we held it together in the beginning, but mostly because we signed up for an all day kayaking adventure. A tiny splurge I tried to resist, but in the end I was glad I indulged. A full day of exercise, fresh air, and natural beauty is exactly what I needed. Afterwards of course we did our best to resist temptation but truly, the three of us were not to be trusted with each other.
One would think the 11 pm strict curfew would curtail any shenanigans for foreigners, but alas, we always find a way. A porch and bottle of cheap whisky is really all you need. This curfew isn’t really enforced anyway; it’s more or less just the closing time for absolutely everything on the island. Annoying yes, but respectable as the all of the islanders had agreed that peace and quiet is worth more than any amount of money anyone can make from catering to whims of backpackers.
Life is slow on Don Det. There are no main roads as the rocky dirt paths are used by motos, bicycles, feet and nothing more. Water buffalos are trotted back and forth for new grazing and children pile on bikes far too big for them. Time does not exist in the specific form, rather in time periods as “dinner” or “morningish”. Corner shops are the extent of shopping and the only electronic entertainment available is the internet, and for such a steep price it’s best just avoided. Besides, that’s not what Don Det is about.
For some, the island is boring. For me, adaptation wasn’t even necessary as sleeping in, reading in hammocks, long strolls, and late night smokes are apart of my preferred life. I don’t mind not having a schedule or “accomplishing” much as life without obligations is more enjoyable for me. Essentially, this is the spirit of 4000 Islands. Virtually every bungalow comes with a hammock and the best ones are built right over the Mekong River so you can sit back, relax, and relish the beauty and serenity that surrounds you. Despite the peacefulness available everywhere, I did hunt out a particular favorite lounge zone, and it only took a couple of days.
Mama Rasta is the sweetest, craziest old lady on the island and if her joyful spirit doesn’t draw you in, then her cheap delicious food will. Her restaurant’s location is what brought me in but her hearty laugh through her black toothed smile is why I retuned. She has a charm that’s hard to describe and her laid back attitude and desire to please is undeniable. Truly, it is her family that runs the business but without her spirit, they would have nothing. Oh yeah, and they let you smoke freely on the back balcony.
Behind the restaurant is a row of only five rooms for rent but unlike all the other bungalows on the island, these are connected by a giant porch equipped with many hammocks and a table which lends itself to a much more social atmosphere. And with the freedom to smoke, food on hand, and lack of 11 pm curfew, this became the perfect place for me and the crew to hang out. What crew you ask? Why, my favorite alcoholics from Vang Vieng turned up the day the very same day the girls left.
As I was writing my last blog, I left a cliffhanger insinuating I would run into friends on 4000 Islands. The truth was, I hadn’t yet seen anyone other than the two girls, but something inside me knew I wouldn’t be alone long. Roughly 20 minutes after I wrote that last line, a couple of motorbikes drove past and I shouted at them as they were three of my friends from the boat crew: Hoover the plate licker and Ban and Death, my favorite British couple whom I inevitably run into every place I go.
They had rented motos and only had a few days on the island but before they left my favorite alcoholic boys showed up. Four of whom I had met way back in Thailand and two newbies picked up along the way. I quickly showed them to Mama Rasta’s and thus the base camp was set up. This was also the point at which I realized I wasn’t leaving, l wasn’t writing, and should no longer be held responsible for my actions.
Days became even lazier, nights more cloudy, and I couldn’t be happier. Opportunities to have a gang of good friends you’re super comfortable with while laughing at old jokes don’t come around often when one is on the road. And I’ve never been on such a tight schedule I couldn’t add a few extra days for good friends.
We had such a great time together on our last night that I managed to sleep through my bus to Cambodia the following morning. Luckily, people are so laid back on the island they barely batted an eye and simply said, “Yeah, well, go tomorrow.” That simple. No extra costs, new ticket, or hassle. Just an extra day to relax.
The next day I managed to wake up in time for my boat off the island and was ready to begin a new adventure in Cambodia. The journey from one destination to another is often used trying to sleep on an uncomfortable bus and hold your pee. This adventure was no different but involved several bus changes and a border crossing so naturally, some scamming would be involved.
After customs on both sides swindled everyone out of a few dollars for “weekend overtime tax” or whatever they said that day, the bus full of weary travelers bound mostly for Siem Reap was forced to wait an obnoxious amount of time for nothing in particular. During this time, a pleasant well spoken Cambodian made his way around selling tickets to upgrade the bus journey to Siem Reap. Being that this destination is one of the biggest tourist draws in all of Southeast Asia (Angkor Wat’s fault), we should have all seen it coming. Unfortunately, only six of us did.
Everyone else on the bus easily forked over the $3 to upgrade their ticket to a “more comfortable and faster” bus. The group of five Dutch girls sitting behind me and myself didn’t buy the ticket, nor the bullshit the guy was selling. He really tried with us as well, giving us a special discount offered to no one else. We insisted our already purchased tickets would get us to Siem Reap and even if it wasn’t until 4 in the morning, we were backpackers and well prepared for the adventure. I’m glad I stayed strong with the girls because when the bus stopped for dinner and for everyone to change to their comfortable bus, it became clear everyone had been bamboozled.
There was no special upgrade bus. The salesman had mysteriously disappeared with everyone’s cash and left them with nothing but useless paper tickets and a lesson well learned. We all piled on the same bus, everyone patting us on the back for seeing through his convincing argument, and arrived inconveniently after midnight and after 16 hours of exhausting traveling.
Being that I was already enmeshed with the Dutch girls, we stayed together in a hotel for a couple of nights while I located my friend Siobhan who I knew was somewhere in town. Pronounced nearly like ‘Shivon’, this English girl with the crazy Irish name and I had met months ago on my first day in Pai, Thailand. We clicked right away and had originally planned to meet up sometime in Laos. But as I move quite slowly and she bounded around constantly, I had assumed I’d never see her again, unless it was in her hometown of Manchester. But somehow it worked out that she bad been to twice as many places as I and was settling for one week to volunteer at an orphanage roughly the same time I’d be cruising through Siem Reap.
So I moved hotels as the two of us got on a lot better and I’m not akin to traveling in a large group of girls. (They move too slowly, can’t make decisions, and never bullshit as much as I enjoy.) So while Siobhan spent the days being helpful and productive, I slept in, relished the wifi access in the room, and explored the tourist trap that is Siem Reap.
Being that I just came from quiet, peaceful, and secluded 4000 Islands, Siem Reap was a rude awakening of poverty, dirtiness, scams, and an endless stream of people selling crap. From postcards to massages, all the children and legless men never stop hassling the continuous stream of tourists pile driving through town.
For those unaware, this is because the ancient ruins and impossible to miss Angkor Wat is located just outside of town. While this generates steady income for Cambodians in the area, it has also created an environment of ‘sell, sell, sell’ that I simply have no interest it. On my first full day I actually started to sprint away at one point shouting “no means no!”, and thus why I found sanctuary in our chilled out hotel.
At some point, I needed to venture out and actually visit these ruins I truly was fascinated to see. I hired a cheap moto driver for the day and hummed the Indiana Jones theme the whole day while flying through the seemingly endless ruins. Spread out over miles of flat terrain, this place is easy enough to navigate on a bike, but only if you buy the three day ticket. Time, money, and patience didn’t allow for this with me and I opted for the quickie one day tour of the most fascinating and beautiful temples.
The Temples of Angkor were built in the early 12th century and are spread out over a large area. These religious buildings were apart of daily life in this once bustling metropolis center of the ancient world. The most famous temple is Angkor Wat and while this is only one of many temples, it is the namesake for which travelers identify the entire area. It is indeed the most well-intact temple I’ve ever seen but most famous for being the world’s largest religious site. Time had forgotten other sites though as nature overtook what it pleased, the massive structures entwined with monstrous trees and vines.
Before visiting, I had conjured up images of Tomb Raider and Congo, yet there was nothing dangerously exciting about these ruins. Just hordes of old, fanny pack wearing, incessant picture taking tour groups blocking all my shots. I tried to borrow a couple of them to take pictures of me but they seemed to misunderstand what I wanted as my feet made the photo, but the ruins did not.
Don’t take my cynicism the wrong way: the Temples of Angkor are an overwhelmingly beautiful place I’d highly recommend someone traveling through Asia to visit. But the throngs of tourists and beggar children can’t help but ruin a bit of the grandiose splendor that is Angkor Wat.
While Siem Reap is the problem, it is also the cure. Achy feet soothed by cheap massages, weary souls filled by delicious western food, and an endless supply of 50 cent beer to cure just about any ailment. Despite the extremely obvious poverty, this is the place to indulge. And if you couldn’t be bothered to even think about money conversions, you don’t have to. Cambodia reales aren’t worthless, but they might as well be.
Dollars are the choice of currency and shoeless children pander whatever they can get (accompanied with a sad puppy face) begging for “one doll-aaar miss”. Sure it is only one dollar, but it also encourages these kids to skip school and not develop a craft or skill. It should also be noted the money never goes to the children directly because their parents are usually nearby with an eagle eye taking whatever they get as soon as they get it. If you want to help, you’re better off buying them some food or donating to an orphanage directly.
When the time came for us to leave Siem Reap, I was more than ready to go. I had been seeking the beach for a couple months and I was now only a bus ride away. With a final wander down tourist alley we regenerated ourselves with food and shopping and prepared to leave this oxymoron two faced town of Siem Reap. Siobhan and I had decided to stay together for another leg to Sihanoukville before inevitably parting ways again. We drove right through the gritty capital of Phnom Penh (ok, not drove through. Another bus scam left us with 4 hours to spare in the crack of dawn with nothing to do but try and sleep on some uncomfortable chairs. Somehow not surprised). When we finally arrived in Sihanoukville nearly 6 hours later than expected, we were tired and desperate for sand and sun. And of course, shenanigans. And shenanigans is what we got.
Located at the southern border of Laos sits a maze of small rustic islands speckled throughout the Mekong. Up until very recently, even electricity wasn’t available except on the main big island. But as tourism grows on Don Det, the backpacker haven most flock to, everyday brings more modern comforts of home.
Yet despite the increasing number of tourists, there still lacks an ATM machine. This in turn determines a limited amount of time as money eventually runs dry. Of course there are ways around this annoyance as the locals will often sell bus tickets on “credit” and will take you to an ATM promptly when you cross the border into Cambodia or elsewhere. Luckily for me, I was aware of this problem (some are not) and brought an extra emergency fund which extended my four days into over a week. A week of more the same same shenanigans I’d been akin to. It’s not my fault though; I blame the various hooligans I’d been drinking with in Vang Vieng who showed up to “detox” as well, naturally.
While I intended on solitude on Don Det, the Universe had other plans for me. For starters, two girls I met in Vang Vieng showed up on my bus and it was clear calmness wouldn’t be around for the first few days. Luckily, we held it together in the beginning, but mostly because we signed up for an all day kayaking adventure. A tiny splurge I tried to resist, but in the end I was glad I indulged. A full day of exercise, fresh air, and natural beauty is exactly what I needed. Afterwards of course we did our best to resist temptation but truly, the three of us were not to be trusted with each other.
One would think the 11 pm strict curfew would curtail any shenanigans for foreigners, but alas, we always find a way. A porch and bottle of cheap whisky is really all you need. This curfew isn’t really enforced anyway; it’s more or less just the closing time for absolutely everything on the island. Annoying yes, but respectable as the all of the islanders had agreed that peace and quiet is worth more than any amount of money anyone can make from catering to whims of backpackers.
Life is slow on Don Det. There are no main roads as the rocky dirt paths are used by motos, bicycles, feet and nothing more. Water buffalos are trotted back and forth for new grazing and children pile on bikes far too big for them. Time does not exist in the specific form, rather in time periods as “dinner” or “morningish”. Corner shops are the extent of shopping and the only electronic entertainment available is the internet, and for such a steep price it’s best just avoided. Besides, that’s not what Don Det is about.
For some, the island is boring. For me, adaptation wasn’t even necessary as sleeping in, reading in hammocks, long strolls, and late night smokes are apart of my preferred life. I don’t mind not having a schedule or “accomplishing” much as life without obligations is more enjoyable for me. Essentially, this is the spirit of 4000 Islands. Virtually every bungalow comes with a hammock and the best ones are built right over the Mekong River so you can sit back, relax, and relish the beauty and serenity that surrounds you. Despite the peacefulness available everywhere, I did hunt out a particular favorite lounge zone, and it only took a couple of days.
Mama Rasta is the sweetest, craziest old lady on the island and if her joyful spirit doesn’t draw you in, then her cheap delicious food will. Her restaurant’s location is what brought me in but her hearty laugh through her black toothed smile is why I retuned. She has a charm that’s hard to describe and her laid back attitude and desire to please is undeniable. Truly, it is her family that runs the business but without her spirit, they would have nothing. Oh yeah, and they let you smoke freely on the back balcony.
Behind the restaurant is a row of only five rooms for rent but unlike all the other bungalows on the island, these are connected by a giant porch equipped with many hammocks and a table which lends itself to a much more social atmosphere. And with the freedom to smoke, food on hand, and lack of 11 pm curfew, this became the perfect place for me and the crew to hang out. What crew you ask? Why, my favorite alcoholics from Vang Vieng turned up the day the very same day the girls left.
As I was writing my last blog, I left a cliffhanger insinuating I would run into friends on 4000 Islands. The truth was, I hadn’t yet seen anyone other than the two girls, but something inside me knew I wouldn’t be alone long. Roughly 20 minutes after I wrote that last line, a couple of motorbikes drove past and I shouted at them as they were three of my friends from the boat crew: Hoover the plate licker and Ban and Death, my favorite British couple whom I inevitably run into every place I go.
They had rented motos and only had a few days on the island but before they left my favorite alcoholic boys showed up. Four of whom I had met way back in Thailand and two newbies picked up along the way. I quickly showed them to Mama Rasta’s and thus the base camp was set up. This was also the point at which I realized I wasn’t leaving, l wasn’t writing, and should no longer be held responsible for my actions.
Days became even lazier, nights more cloudy, and I couldn’t be happier. Opportunities to have a gang of good friends you’re super comfortable with while laughing at old jokes don’t come around often when one is on the road. And I’ve never been on such a tight schedule I couldn’t add a few extra days for good friends.
We had such a great time together on our last night that I managed to sleep through my bus to Cambodia the following morning. Luckily, people are so laid back on the island they barely batted an eye and simply said, “Yeah, well, go tomorrow.” That simple. No extra costs, new ticket, or hassle. Just an extra day to relax.
The next day I managed to wake up in time for my boat off the island and was ready to begin a new adventure in Cambodia. The journey from one destination to another is often used trying to sleep on an uncomfortable bus and hold your pee. This adventure was no different but involved several bus changes and a border crossing so naturally, some scamming would be involved.
After customs on both sides swindled everyone out of a few dollars for “weekend overtime tax” or whatever they said that day, the bus full of weary travelers bound mostly for Siem Reap was forced to wait an obnoxious amount of time for nothing in particular. During this time, a pleasant well spoken Cambodian made his way around selling tickets to upgrade the bus journey to Siem Reap. Being that this destination is one of the biggest tourist draws in all of Southeast Asia (Angkor Wat’s fault), we should have all seen it coming. Unfortunately, only six of us did.
Everyone else on the bus easily forked over the $3 to upgrade their ticket to a “more comfortable and faster” bus. The group of five Dutch girls sitting behind me and myself didn’t buy the ticket, nor the bullshit the guy was selling. He really tried with us as well, giving us a special discount offered to no one else. We insisted our already purchased tickets would get us to Siem Reap and even if it wasn’t until 4 in the morning, we were backpackers and well prepared for the adventure. I’m glad I stayed strong with the girls because when the bus stopped for dinner and for everyone to change to their comfortable bus, it became clear everyone had been bamboozled.
There was no special upgrade bus. The salesman had mysteriously disappeared with everyone’s cash and left them with nothing but useless paper tickets and a lesson well learned. We all piled on the same bus, everyone patting us on the back for seeing through his convincing argument, and arrived inconveniently after midnight and after 16 hours of exhausting traveling.
Being that I was already enmeshed with the Dutch girls, we stayed together in a hotel for a couple of nights while I located my friend Siobhan who I knew was somewhere in town. Pronounced nearly like ‘Shivon’, this English girl with the crazy Irish name and I had met months ago on my first day in Pai, Thailand. We clicked right away and had originally planned to meet up sometime in Laos. But as I move quite slowly and she bounded around constantly, I had assumed I’d never see her again, unless it was in her hometown of Manchester. But somehow it worked out that she bad been to twice as many places as I and was settling for one week to volunteer at an orphanage roughly the same time I’d be cruising through Siem Reap.
So I moved hotels as the two of us got on a lot better and I’m not akin to traveling in a large group of girls. (They move too slowly, can’t make decisions, and never bullshit as much as I enjoy.) So while Siobhan spent the days being helpful and productive, I slept in, relished the wifi access in the room, and explored the tourist trap that is Siem Reap.
Being that I just came from quiet, peaceful, and secluded 4000 Islands, Siem Reap was a rude awakening of poverty, dirtiness, scams, and an endless stream of people selling crap. From postcards to massages, all the children and legless men never stop hassling the continuous stream of tourists pile driving through town.
For those unaware, this is because the ancient ruins and impossible to miss Angkor Wat is located just outside of town. While this generates steady income for Cambodians in the area, it has also created an environment of ‘sell, sell, sell’ that I simply have no interest it. On my first full day I actually started to sprint away at one point shouting “no means no!”, and thus why I found sanctuary in our chilled out hotel.
At some point, I needed to venture out and actually visit these ruins I truly was fascinated to see. I hired a cheap moto driver for the day and hummed the Indiana Jones theme the whole day while flying through the seemingly endless ruins. Spread out over miles of flat terrain, this place is easy enough to navigate on a bike, but only if you buy the three day ticket. Time, money, and patience didn’t allow for this with me and I opted for the quickie one day tour of the most fascinating and beautiful temples.
The Temples of Angkor were built in the early 12th century and are spread out over a large area. These religious buildings were apart of daily life in this once bustling metropolis center of the ancient world. The most famous temple is Angkor Wat and while this is only one of many temples, it is the namesake for which travelers identify the entire area. It is indeed the most well-intact temple I’ve ever seen but most famous for being the world’s largest religious site. Time had forgotten other sites though as nature overtook what it pleased, the massive structures entwined with monstrous trees and vines.
Before visiting, I had conjured up images of Tomb Raider and Congo, yet there was nothing dangerously exciting about these ruins. Just hordes of old, fanny pack wearing, incessant picture taking tour groups blocking all my shots. I tried to borrow a couple of them to take pictures of me but they seemed to misunderstand what I wanted as my feet made the photo, but the ruins did not.
Don’t take my cynicism the wrong way: the Temples of Angkor are an overwhelmingly beautiful place I’d highly recommend someone traveling through Asia to visit. But the throngs of tourists and beggar children can’t help but ruin a bit of the grandiose splendor that is Angkor Wat.
While Siem Reap is the problem, it is also the cure. Achy feet soothed by cheap massages, weary souls filled by delicious western food, and an endless supply of 50 cent beer to cure just about any ailment. Despite the extremely obvious poverty, this is the place to indulge. And if you couldn’t be bothered to even think about money conversions, you don’t have to. Cambodia reales aren’t worthless, but they might as well be.
Dollars are the choice of currency and shoeless children pander whatever they can get (accompanied with a sad puppy face) begging for “one doll-aaar miss”. Sure it is only one dollar, but it also encourages these kids to skip school and not develop a craft or skill. It should also be noted the money never goes to the children directly because their parents are usually nearby with an eagle eye taking whatever they get as soon as they get it. If you want to help, you’re better off buying them some food or donating to an orphanage directly.
When the time came for us to leave Siem Reap, I was more than ready to go. I had been seeking the beach for a couple months and I was now only a bus ride away. With a final wander down tourist alley we regenerated ourselves with food and shopping and prepared to leave this oxymoron two faced town of Siem Reap. Siobhan and I had decided to stay together for another leg to Sihanoukville before inevitably parting ways again. We drove right through the gritty capital of Phnom Penh (ok, not drove through. Another bus scam left us with 4 hours to spare in the crack of dawn with nothing to do but try and sleep on some uncomfortable chairs. Somehow not surprised). When we finally arrived in Sihanoukville nearly 6 hours later than expected, we were tired and desperate for sand and sun. And of course, shenanigans. And shenanigans is what we got.
Sunday, November 14, 2010
rock and roll all night, party everyday
Time in Laos cannot be measured in minutes, hours, nor days. Weeks will flow by without any effort and you will wonder where your schedule has gone, along with your shirt. Most likely, both were lost while tubing down the river in Vang Vieng.
My introduction to Laos was crazy, yet merely a premonition of what was to come. I was taking the slow boat cruise from the border of Thailand to Luang Prabang and it would take two full days of sitting patiently on a long boat with about 100 other travelers. I chose this route specifically for this time schedule, and I came armed with entertainment equipment (namely booze and herbs). This journey was rumored to be the best way to get into Laos, particularly if you get a good group of people on your boat. And man, did I luck out.
After a lot of unnecessary debate if there were too many people for the boat or not, we boarded the jenky wooden vessel and I went straight to the back. I recognized one person from Pai, although we never got to know each other well. I took the seat next to him and within minutes, there were three of us loudly quoting Anchorman. To me, this is an instantaneous sign of friendship. That, and these English and Irish blokes were already on the bottle so I knew I came to the right people. Soon enough a group had been formed: the loud alcoholics in the back, and I, of course, fit right in. The long day seemed longer with substance abuse, but we were happy and having fun nonetheless.
That night we slept on a small island and created small havoc. The four of us rooming together was enough damage, I’m sure. There was the Brit, the Irish, and then the other American known as Hoover because he would lick your plate clean, whether you offered it or not. And you can’t forget Mr. Money, our host and apparent drug dealer as he was trying to pawn everything under the sun (and for a good price too). Of course we met up with the rest of the boat crew again and tried to hold it together.
The next day was more of the day before. Only this time we were already damn good friends using sign language to communicate and finishing each other’s sentences. It was all about taking the piss out of each other and for Rob, the legend from Manchester, it was about taking out his balls (or mangina….whichever he was in the mood for). That night we disembarked and it was sad to see our crew already separating, but luckily we had at least a few days together. And I was rooming with a couple of those ridiculous boys and acting as if we were siblings in another life.
Luang Prabang itself is a quaint, adorable town with good architecture, food, and a daily night market. Don’t forget, Laos had been conquered by the French long ago and they left behind good architecture and baguette sandwiches. (I have had a large, cheap, and delicious baguette sandwich nearly every day I’ve been here. If I missed a day, it wasn’t intentional.) The town itself had not much to offer but a temple with a good view, some waterfalls, and a great night market. But for our boat crew, it was more about hitting the bottle and having a good laugh. Soon enough, our crew slowly dispersed; some stayed behind and some moved on. Luckily, most of us caught up together in Vang Vieng, the next stop on the backpacker trail.
Vang Vieng is a black hole for those with addictions or who are easily tempted. The town is small, laid back, and set in one of the most gorgeous backdrops I’ve seen. At some point in time, bars filled with drunken foreigners overran the place and completely obliterated whatever culture was there before. It’s sad to see from a cultural perspective, but the reality is I participated (and thusly contributed) just as much as anyone else. And to be honest, I don’t regret any of it.
The most popular activity by far is to float down the river in an inner tube; something I’ve done many times before in Chico. But nothing like this. The river is lined with bars made from leftover planks of wood and spray painted sheets with signs urging you to drink free whiskey shots before you swing down their homemade zip lines. Just looking at these contraptions makes me feel the pain of breaking my face and scares me something fierce. Yet for some reason, foreigner after stupid foreigner marches up these towers to swing into the river, more often than not doing something stupid and creating a huge, painful splash accompanied by laughter from the crowd. I’m pretty sure an entire episode of ‘American’s Funniest Home Videos’ could be dedicated to these zip lines. And don’t forget the slides. They’ve been made with wood, lined with plastic picnic table covers, and a small hose lends itself as lubricant. Classy.
So to summarize, you get dropped at the top of the river, get free whisky, and then there is very little floating to be done between bars which makes it more of a day bar crawl in your bathing suit than a floating event. No less fun though. And at these bars, people get crazy. No sarcasm, no exaggeration; everyone is spray painted, playing drinking games, dancing, and partying like 18 year olds who have just been let out of the house for the first time. And no, the majority of people there were not 18. The average age is probably around 24. (And no, no one can ever guess my age correctly, Thank God.) With zip lines, mud volleyball pits, and spray paint, trouble is bound to ensue. I’m proud to say I’ve survived this event….twice.
When the sun goes down, and hopefully a shower has taken place, that’s when the real partying begins. Oh yes folks, it gets crazier. Sure there are some bars in town, great for warming up. Maybe play a game of pool or cards while drinking opium tea or a mushroom shake, just to start the night. But don’t forget to make your way to the Bucket Bar on bar island before 10 pm for your free bucket of whiskey coke. Yes, free, and there are a couple of places that promote this way so if you make your rounds just right, you’ll be sloshed for free. And if you miss the time limit, no worries, these buckets are dirt cheap anyways and pretty much anyone will let you drink theirs. There’s no formal greeting in Vang Vieng such as “Hi, my name is Stephanie”. It’s more like, “wooo hoooo!!”, drink from a stranger’s bucket, and then continue dancing. Yes, that’s’ more accurate.
The nights can easily continue until 4 am and without even noticing you’ll have been dancing for 5 hours straight. If you’ve built up an appetite (or simply have the drunk munchies), you’ll appreciate the army of women waiting across the bridge from the island bars. As you walk towards them (and there’s no way not to) they will begin shouting “Sandwich! Pancake!” nonstop and beg to cook some amazing cheap eats for you. There’s no difference in menu, quality, or price between these dozen women so just pick one and then decide if you want a giant sandwich for $1.25 or sweet or savory crepe for just as cheap. I’m not sure if I made it a single walk home without indulging, but then again I’m not known for my self control.
Despite all the intoxication and recovery, I managed to get out and do something not involving alcohol. Once. In need of adventure and exercise, I rented a bicycle and headed out in search of the infamous blue lagoon. Vang Vieng is surrounded by caves and lagoons, and truly the ideal way to see most of them is by motorbike. But because I love riding bikes, and because I was unaware how horrific and difficult the roads would be, I opted for the “leisurely” tour. The muddy, wrecked path would have been a bad decision if it were not for the friends I made along the way. Not long after I headed out, I was joined by a fellow biker and eventually a young deaf local boy who prompted our direction. Signs for various lagoons were abundant and we weren’t exactly sure where to go, so we inevitably followed his lead. Knowing full well this boy was looking for a tip, we couldn’t deny his endearing charm. Without a language barrier, since he spoke no language, he was all smiles and sweetness and we followed him all the way to his lagoon and cave. After a quick swim and then a treacherous climb, he did a fantastic job being our guide into the dark, watery cave. No other tourists were inside as we crawled and climbed through the slippery abyss. Eventually he asked for some money and I didn’t mind it so much as he made for great entertainment and photos.
Finally, we could make it on our own to real blue lagoon (of course the one he brought us to was a fake). The crystal clear blue water had a massive thick tree bounding up over it with not one, but two levels to jump off of. Naturally, a thick swinging rope was attached and thus created the most fun and beautiful blue lagoon. After a much needed sandwich and swim, a group of us teamed up to explore some more caves. At the end of this long and sweaty adventure, it was time to shower, relax, and prepare for another night out. And possibly fire limbo. Because fire limbo is always an option.
If this all sounds a bit too crazy, no worries, there’s plenty of ways to relax in Vang Vieng. The town is lined with TV bars in which restaurants have set up comfortable tables/beds facing towards the TVs at the front and then play movies or shows all day. Some bars are infamous for playing only Family Guy or Friends. Some will play only movies but you can ask them for whatever you want. The food is good, the fruit shakes refreshing, and the opportunity to veg out all day undeniable. If this wasn’t enough reason to waste time for me, then my hotel room alone was.
For a mere $5 a day, I had the biggest and most comfortable bed I’ve known in 7 months, a terrific hot shower and private bathroom, free drinking water, wifi in my room, and a TV loaded with English channels, including HBO. I could hibernate there all winter. And if all of this weren’t enough, I was completely surrounded by friends. From Pai to the boat cruise, I couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into someone I knew (and liked). It’s easy to get stuck in a place like this; something so familiar and comfortable. Life didn’t seem to get any easier or cheaper, but it was only a matter of time before my liver and lungs would give out. And after just over a week I left for the very same reason everyone leaves Vang Viang: detox.
Unfortunately my bus to Vientiane had people I knew on it so I knew I’d be in for trouble there as well. Not as dangerous though as the capital doesn’t seem to have much going on in the way of nightlife. But I was lucky to have roommates again and the entertainment never ceases when you’re with Jay and Silent Bob. Well, Jack was less inappropriate than Jay but the Russian was just as silent and creepy as Bob. He claimed he couldn’t speak English but understood everything we said as well as reacted with hand gestures and facial expressions.
The three of us were on a mission to get free two month visas for Thailand from the Thai embassy. (You only get two weeks crossing the border. But if you apply for it beforehand direct from their embassy, you get up to two months.) It normally takes two days, but for me it would take three. Somehow, I’ve managed to fill my passport up with stamps so I only have one page left and they refused to use it. This meant I had to go to the US embassy first, apply for more pages, fork out nearly $90, and then go back the next day and try again. It was a frustrating few days but after a long stroll I realized it’s nothing compared to my bad days at home. Because at the end of this day, I had some cheap wine, went out with some friends, had a good laugh, and remembered how lucky I was to be exactly where I was.
After I ran into more boat cruise members and made more friends off of random tuk-tuks, it was time for me to go. I’ve been aching, ever since I got to Pai over five weeks ago, to be on my own. To clear my head, focus on where I’m going, and hopefully get some much needed writing done. The last five weeks had been very distracting and since I also lack all self-control, it was time to put myself in an environment where there are no temptations. So I booked an overnight bus ticket to 4000 Islands in the south of Laos; a place of serenity, peace, and quiet. Or so I thought.
A VANG VIENG POEM BY AUSTIN CHARVET:
Vang Vieng Whisked by whiskey engulfed in psychedelic blended fungus smoothie the substance dependent blissed tourists stumbles and mumbles “hello”. He is a damp flesh figure masqueraded in spray paint patterns serving as a tribute to the farang cluster fuck celebrating “holiday”. Such beautiful lethal lead saturated paint designs advertising sinful adolescence convey messages of truth, beauty and meaning such as “cunt” or “too fucked to fuck” The later statement of which I question due to the sloshing of Tiger Whiskey, Hormones and Energy Drink concocted in a plastic bucket equipped with two straws for you and yours truly… a romantic get away accompanied with fire limbo, vomit and the more often then not plastered tourist physically stumbling into your conversation just to say “Because you HAVE to party!”
My introduction to Laos was crazy, yet merely a premonition of what was to come. I was taking the slow boat cruise from the border of Thailand to Luang Prabang and it would take two full days of sitting patiently on a long boat with about 100 other travelers. I chose this route specifically for this time schedule, and I came armed with entertainment equipment (namely booze and herbs). This journey was rumored to be the best way to get into Laos, particularly if you get a good group of people on your boat. And man, did I luck out.
After a lot of unnecessary debate if there were too many people for the boat or not, we boarded the jenky wooden vessel and I went straight to the back. I recognized one person from Pai, although we never got to know each other well. I took the seat next to him and within minutes, there were three of us loudly quoting Anchorman. To me, this is an instantaneous sign of friendship. That, and these English and Irish blokes were already on the bottle so I knew I came to the right people. Soon enough a group had been formed: the loud alcoholics in the back, and I, of course, fit right in. The long day seemed longer with substance abuse, but we were happy and having fun nonetheless.
That night we slept on a small island and created small havoc. The four of us rooming together was enough damage, I’m sure. There was the Brit, the Irish, and then the other American known as Hoover because he would lick your plate clean, whether you offered it or not. And you can’t forget Mr. Money, our host and apparent drug dealer as he was trying to pawn everything under the sun (and for a good price too). Of course we met up with the rest of the boat crew again and tried to hold it together.
The next day was more of the day before. Only this time we were already damn good friends using sign language to communicate and finishing each other’s sentences. It was all about taking the piss out of each other and for Rob, the legend from Manchester, it was about taking out his balls (or mangina….whichever he was in the mood for). That night we disembarked and it was sad to see our crew already separating, but luckily we had at least a few days together. And I was rooming with a couple of those ridiculous boys and acting as if we were siblings in another life.
Luang Prabang itself is a quaint, adorable town with good architecture, food, and a daily night market. Don’t forget, Laos had been conquered by the French long ago and they left behind good architecture and baguette sandwiches. (I have had a large, cheap, and delicious baguette sandwich nearly every day I’ve been here. If I missed a day, it wasn’t intentional.) The town itself had not much to offer but a temple with a good view, some waterfalls, and a great night market. But for our boat crew, it was more about hitting the bottle and having a good laugh. Soon enough, our crew slowly dispersed; some stayed behind and some moved on. Luckily, most of us caught up together in Vang Vieng, the next stop on the backpacker trail.
Vang Vieng is a black hole for those with addictions or who are easily tempted. The town is small, laid back, and set in one of the most gorgeous backdrops I’ve seen. At some point in time, bars filled with drunken foreigners overran the place and completely obliterated whatever culture was there before. It’s sad to see from a cultural perspective, but the reality is I participated (and thusly contributed) just as much as anyone else. And to be honest, I don’t regret any of it.
The most popular activity by far is to float down the river in an inner tube; something I’ve done many times before in Chico. But nothing like this. The river is lined with bars made from leftover planks of wood and spray painted sheets with signs urging you to drink free whiskey shots before you swing down their homemade zip lines. Just looking at these contraptions makes me feel the pain of breaking my face and scares me something fierce. Yet for some reason, foreigner after stupid foreigner marches up these towers to swing into the river, more often than not doing something stupid and creating a huge, painful splash accompanied by laughter from the crowd. I’m pretty sure an entire episode of ‘American’s Funniest Home Videos’ could be dedicated to these zip lines. And don’t forget the slides. They’ve been made with wood, lined with plastic picnic table covers, and a small hose lends itself as lubricant. Classy.
So to summarize, you get dropped at the top of the river, get free whisky, and then there is very little floating to be done between bars which makes it more of a day bar crawl in your bathing suit than a floating event. No less fun though. And at these bars, people get crazy. No sarcasm, no exaggeration; everyone is spray painted, playing drinking games, dancing, and partying like 18 year olds who have just been let out of the house for the first time. And no, the majority of people there were not 18. The average age is probably around 24. (And no, no one can ever guess my age correctly, Thank God.) With zip lines, mud volleyball pits, and spray paint, trouble is bound to ensue. I’m proud to say I’ve survived this event….twice.
When the sun goes down, and hopefully a shower has taken place, that’s when the real partying begins. Oh yes folks, it gets crazier. Sure there are some bars in town, great for warming up. Maybe play a game of pool or cards while drinking opium tea or a mushroom shake, just to start the night. But don’t forget to make your way to the Bucket Bar on bar island before 10 pm for your free bucket of whiskey coke. Yes, free, and there are a couple of places that promote this way so if you make your rounds just right, you’ll be sloshed for free. And if you miss the time limit, no worries, these buckets are dirt cheap anyways and pretty much anyone will let you drink theirs. There’s no formal greeting in Vang Vieng such as “Hi, my name is Stephanie”. It’s more like, “wooo hoooo!!”, drink from a stranger’s bucket, and then continue dancing. Yes, that’s’ more accurate.
The nights can easily continue until 4 am and without even noticing you’ll have been dancing for 5 hours straight. If you’ve built up an appetite (or simply have the drunk munchies), you’ll appreciate the army of women waiting across the bridge from the island bars. As you walk towards them (and there’s no way not to) they will begin shouting “Sandwich! Pancake!” nonstop and beg to cook some amazing cheap eats for you. There’s no difference in menu, quality, or price between these dozen women so just pick one and then decide if you want a giant sandwich for $1.25 or sweet or savory crepe for just as cheap. I’m not sure if I made it a single walk home without indulging, but then again I’m not known for my self control.
Despite all the intoxication and recovery, I managed to get out and do something not involving alcohol. Once. In need of adventure and exercise, I rented a bicycle and headed out in search of the infamous blue lagoon. Vang Vieng is surrounded by caves and lagoons, and truly the ideal way to see most of them is by motorbike. But because I love riding bikes, and because I was unaware how horrific and difficult the roads would be, I opted for the “leisurely” tour. The muddy, wrecked path would have been a bad decision if it were not for the friends I made along the way. Not long after I headed out, I was joined by a fellow biker and eventually a young deaf local boy who prompted our direction. Signs for various lagoons were abundant and we weren’t exactly sure where to go, so we inevitably followed his lead. Knowing full well this boy was looking for a tip, we couldn’t deny his endearing charm. Without a language barrier, since he spoke no language, he was all smiles and sweetness and we followed him all the way to his lagoon and cave. After a quick swim and then a treacherous climb, he did a fantastic job being our guide into the dark, watery cave. No other tourists were inside as we crawled and climbed through the slippery abyss. Eventually he asked for some money and I didn’t mind it so much as he made for great entertainment and photos.
Finally, we could make it on our own to real blue lagoon (of course the one he brought us to was a fake). The crystal clear blue water had a massive thick tree bounding up over it with not one, but two levels to jump off of. Naturally, a thick swinging rope was attached and thus created the most fun and beautiful blue lagoon. After a much needed sandwich and swim, a group of us teamed up to explore some more caves. At the end of this long and sweaty adventure, it was time to shower, relax, and prepare for another night out. And possibly fire limbo. Because fire limbo is always an option.
If this all sounds a bit too crazy, no worries, there’s plenty of ways to relax in Vang Vieng. The town is lined with TV bars in which restaurants have set up comfortable tables/beds facing towards the TVs at the front and then play movies or shows all day. Some bars are infamous for playing only Family Guy or Friends. Some will play only movies but you can ask them for whatever you want. The food is good, the fruit shakes refreshing, and the opportunity to veg out all day undeniable. If this wasn’t enough reason to waste time for me, then my hotel room alone was.
For a mere $5 a day, I had the biggest and most comfortable bed I’ve known in 7 months, a terrific hot shower and private bathroom, free drinking water, wifi in my room, and a TV loaded with English channels, including HBO. I could hibernate there all winter. And if all of this weren’t enough, I was completely surrounded by friends. From Pai to the boat cruise, I couldn’t walk down the street without bumping into someone I knew (and liked). It’s easy to get stuck in a place like this; something so familiar and comfortable. Life didn’t seem to get any easier or cheaper, but it was only a matter of time before my liver and lungs would give out. And after just over a week I left for the very same reason everyone leaves Vang Viang: detox.
Unfortunately my bus to Vientiane had people I knew on it so I knew I’d be in for trouble there as well. Not as dangerous though as the capital doesn’t seem to have much going on in the way of nightlife. But I was lucky to have roommates again and the entertainment never ceases when you’re with Jay and Silent Bob. Well, Jack was less inappropriate than Jay but the Russian was just as silent and creepy as Bob. He claimed he couldn’t speak English but understood everything we said as well as reacted with hand gestures and facial expressions.
The three of us were on a mission to get free two month visas for Thailand from the Thai embassy. (You only get two weeks crossing the border. But if you apply for it beforehand direct from their embassy, you get up to two months.) It normally takes two days, but for me it would take three. Somehow, I’ve managed to fill my passport up with stamps so I only have one page left and they refused to use it. This meant I had to go to the US embassy first, apply for more pages, fork out nearly $90, and then go back the next day and try again. It was a frustrating few days but after a long stroll I realized it’s nothing compared to my bad days at home. Because at the end of this day, I had some cheap wine, went out with some friends, had a good laugh, and remembered how lucky I was to be exactly where I was.
After I ran into more boat cruise members and made more friends off of random tuk-tuks, it was time for me to go. I’ve been aching, ever since I got to Pai over five weeks ago, to be on my own. To clear my head, focus on where I’m going, and hopefully get some much needed writing done. The last five weeks had been very distracting and since I also lack all self-control, it was time to put myself in an environment where there are no temptations. So I booked an overnight bus ticket to 4000 Islands in the south of Laos; a place of serenity, peace, and quiet. Or so I thought.
A VANG VIENG POEM BY AUSTIN CHARVET:
Vang Vieng Whisked by whiskey engulfed in psychedelic blended fungus smoothie the substance dependent blissed tourists stumbles and mumbles “hello”. He is a damp flesh figure masqueraded in spray paint patterns serving as a tribute to the farang cluster fuck celebrating “holiday”. Such beautiful lethal lead saturated paint designs advertising sinful adolescence convey messages of truth, beauty and meaning such as “cunt” or “too fucked to fuck” The later statement of which I question due to the sloshing of Tiger Whiskey, Hormones and Energy Drink concocted in a plastic bucket equipped with two straws for you and yours truly… a romantic get away accompanied with fire limbo, vomit and the more often then not plastered tourist physically stumbling into your conversation just to say “Because you HAVE to party!”
Thursday, November 4, 2010
bigger than my body
While Pai was beautiful and amazing for an endless list of reasons, the best one is you meet wonderful people there. Sure these travelers love a good drink, night out, and a bit of ridiculousness. But in general, they are laid back, fun, and good natured people who share the same sense of humor. Or at least the ones that I met were. And the best part is that those friendships have stayed with me for weeks beyond Pai as backpackers inevitably follow the same path around Southeast Asia.
Accidental run-ins are inevitable and luckily more welcomed than anything. One friend introduces another, then a recommendation given, and then a cool hostel discovery, and then you get an unforgettable experience, new travel partners, and a ton of great stories to take with you. These chain of events can be considered “coincidences”, but they happen far too often and are too interlinked to be left solely up to chance. At least I’d like to believe so. It seems the more you open yourself up to these opportunities and let go of a schedule, the more of these “coincidences” will come your way.
The morning I was meant to leave Pai, I got up early to help with a gardening project someone had convinced me to participate in the night before. But the leader had overslept and after awhile I knew I was better off just leaving. At the same time, a girl with her own bike, whom I never met, was going into town to leave as well and offered me a ride. When we reached Pai I asked if she wanted to have breakfast together and she (luckily) suggested my favorite restaurant, The Good Life. I figured it was fate since I could finally manage to catch the free meditation class I always slept through. But after she left, I became distracted, and even though I was 20 minuets early for the class, I
somehow missed it. Don’t ask how, just trust the Universe knew to distract me.
When I became visibly upset for missing the class (yet again) the owner of the restaurant starting chatting with me and as I said goodbye, she offered a compliment about my purse. I offhandedly replied, “It would look a lot better if it weren’t broken”, as the button snap had been destroyed for well over a month. She told me where to get it taken care of and in fact, Dr. Fix-it was standing right next to me. She explained in Thai, he looked at my purse, and then we hopped on his moto and drove to his shop aka bench on the side of the road. While sitting and waiting for this quick and easy fix, an old Pai friend strolled by. “I thought you left!” I exclaimed and he then explained he had, returned only for a couple of nights, but was leaving again that day.
It turned out we were going to the same place, Chiang Mai, and instead of taking the bus like everyone else, he and his mother had rented a car and offered me a ride. They weren’t leaving until much later than I planned, but then again, I never really have any plans. I had a gut feeling though that if the Universe offered me this ride, and through such a chain of coincidental events, I must take it. (If the gardening guy had woken up in time or if I had made the class for example, I would never have run into this friend on the side of the street.) And thankfully it lead me to one of the best mini road trips ever.
My South African friend and his mother were both laid back hippies who smoked the whole way there and cranked Hendrix nonstop. It was great conversation, beautiful scenery, and a million times better than any bus ride. They offered to take me to the hotel they would be staying at and even though I already had another place in mind, I was sure this ride was meant to take me somewhere specific. It turns out, their hotel was actually a reggae bar with some rooms to rent for cheap. Freedom Bar had Bob Marley and Rasta colors on every wall and I knew this rooftop bar would be my new home.
While my friend and his mother left early the next day, there remained a lingering spirit of Pai as it seemed people I never thought I’d see again all managed to find this sweet spot. There were also new people who were Pai bound without even knowing it. We passed along our recommendations and secrets and if the Universe brought me to Freedom Bar for anything, maybe it was to send certain people in the direction of Pai. Without any effort, I had a group of friends and never worried about spending an evening alone, even if I wanted to. With friends to eat with and shop at the market, I found surprisingly little free time to myself, every second relished nonetheless.
Chiang Mai is surprisingly addictive for such a large city; the food is delectable, the people kind, and the overwhelmingly large night market undeniable. Not surprisingly, I stayed longer than expected. First, it was an entire day’s mission to buy a new camera, as my old one had mysteriously disappeared months ago in South Korea (okay, less mysterious and more drunkenly left it in some bar….I think). That was a surreal and frustrating experience as it was like being in a mall back home, Auntie Anne’s and all. The overwhelming and frustrating day luckily ended with Freedom Bar, my new home away from Pai.
The daily night market in Chiang Mai is particularly large, yet the Sunday night one is disturbingly big. I have never seen anything like this and while I was ready to scream because of all the clusterfuck action, I managed to pull it together and get some shopping done. Part of me wished it was the end of my trip so I could go nuts and get gifts for everyone from there. Alas, the experience of endless stalls filled with beautiful yet cheap art and jewelry was enough to satisfy my consumer driven soul.
While Thailand itself is known for great cuisine, the north is in particular famous for exquisite flavor combinations. With influence from so many Burmese refugees and an inundation of foreigners setting up shop, delicious food is bound to be found on every corner, and everywhere in between. But even with all these unique tastes and local cheap eats, I couldn’t resist El Diablo’s Heavenly Burritos. Normally I balk at Mexican food around the world. After all, I am from California and my standards are unfortunately high. But something about the look of this place drew me in. The irony of the sign alone was intriguing. Then when I saw the sign for ‘free chips and salsa’ I knew something was right. (Californians take this gift for granted as I have never seen such an offer outside the States.) So I held my breath and ordered a burrito smothered in guacamole.
Most may not understand why I take so much time and energy to describe one meal of my life, but if you knew me and my adoration for Mexican food, you’d understand what a huge moment this was for me. This was, by far, the best burrito I’ve found outside of California and, to be honest, if it were home, it I would eat there regularly. Because of lack of supplies, everything had to be made fresh and from scratch, which beats most places from home as tortillas are cheaper and faster store bought. It was so good I had to ask for the owner just to shake his hand. The American born gentleman found my extreme love of burritos hilarious and we had a good chat while I entertained ideas of opening my own burrito shop somewhere in the world.
By this point, it became hard to leave Freedom Bar. Not only had I acquired a gang, but the locals who ran it were super generous and fun. This group of Thai hippie guys had one leader: Mama. The sweetest, tiniest old lady who lived in pajamas and drank and smoked like a champ was always making food and sharing with the guests, free of charge. To say she genuinely cared about people would be an understatement. And when they didn’t have any greens to sell, the “manager” just gave me his stash for free. When I didn’t take it all, he dumped it out on my table and said, “No, I said it’s all for you. Just take it”, as if not taking all of his supplies was rude. It’s hard to imagine staying there longer than a week because I would be straight up family by then.
But unfortunately my time was up. Giving myself not a single extra day on my visa, I had to get to Laos or face horrifying late exit fees. I had heard rumors of a free two month visa one could acquire from the Thai embassy in Laos, and I knew before I even left I had to get this. There was no way two weeks would ever be enough in Thailand.
And so I set out for Laos via an overnight bus to the border and then a slow boat cruise into the first main city. As I mentally prepared myself to be on my own for the first time, the Universe was busy planning something else.
Accidental run-ins are inevitable and luckily more welcomed than anything. One friend introduces another, then a recommendation given, and then a cool hostel discovery, and then you get an unforgettable experience, new travel partners, and a ton of great stories to take with you. These chain of events can be considered “coincidences”, but they happen far too often and are too interlinked to be left solely up to chance. At least I’d like to believe so. It seems the more you open yourself up to these opportunities and let go of a schedule, the more of these “coincidences” will come your way.
The morning I was meant to leave Pai, I got up early to help with a gardening project someone had convinced me to participate in the night before. But the leader had overslept and after awhile I knew I was better off just leaving. At the same time, a girl with her own bike, whom I never met, was going into town to leave as well and offered me a ride. When we reached Pai I asked if she wanted to have breakfast together and she (luckily) suggested my favorite restaurant, The Good Life. I figured it was fate since I could finally manage to catch the free meditation class I always slept through. But after she left, I became distracted, and even though I was 20 minuets early for the class, I
somehow missed it. Don’t ask how, just trust the Universe knew to distract me.
When I became visibly upset for missing the class (yet again) the owner of the restaurant starting chatting with me and as I said goodbye, she offered a compliment about my purse. I offhandedly replied, “It would look a lot better if it weren’t broken”, as the button snap had been destroyed for well over a month. She told me where to get it taken care of and in fact, Dr. Fix-it was standing right next to me. She explained in Thai, he looked at my purse, and then we hopped on his moto and drove to his shop aka bench on the side of the road. While sitting and waiting for this quick and easy fix, an old Pai friend strolled by. “I thought you left!” I exclaimed and he then explained he had, returned only for a couple of nights, but was leaving again that day.
It turned out we were going to the same place, Chiang Mai, and instead of taking the bus like everyone else, he and his mother had rented a car and offered me a ride. They weren’t leaving until much later than I planned, but then again, I never really have any plans. I had a gut feeling though that if the Universe offered me this ride, and through such a chain of coincidental events, I must take it. (If the gardening guy had woken up in time or if I had made the class for example, I would never have run into this friend on the side of the street.) And thankfully it lead me to one of the best mini road trips ever.
My South African friend and his mother were both laid back hippies who smoked the whole way there and cranked Hendrix nonstop. It was great conversation, beautiful scenery, and a million times better than any bus ride. They offered to take me to the hotel they would be staying at and even though I already had another place in mind, I was sure this ride was meant to take me somewhere specific. It turns out, their hotel was actually a reggae bar with some rooms to rent for cheap. Freedom Bar had Bob Marley and Rasta colors on every wall and I knew this rooftop bar would be my new home.
While my friend and his mother left early the next day, there remained a lingering spirit of Pai as it seemed people I never thought I’d see again all managed to find this sweet spot. There were also new people who were Pai bound without even knowing it. We passed along our recommendations and secrets and if the Universe brought me to Freedom Bar for anything, maybe it was to send certain people in the direction of Pai. Without any effort, I had a group of friends and never worried about spending an evening alone, even if I wanted to. With friends to eat with and shop at the market, I found surprisingly little free time to myself, every second relished nonetheless.
Chiang Mai is surprisingly addictive for such a large city; the food is delectable, the people kind, and the overwhelmingly large night market undeniable. Not surprisingly, I stayed longer than expected. First, it was an entire day’s mission to buy a new camera, as my old one had mysteriously disappeared months ago in South Korea (okay, less mysterious and more drunkenly left it in some bar….I think). That was a surreal and frustrating experience as it was like being in a mall back home, Auntie Anne’s and all. The overwhelming and frustrating day luckily ended with Freedom Bar, my new home away from Pai.
The daily night market in Chiang Mai is particularly large, yet the Sunday night one is disturbingly big. I have never seen anything like this and while I was ready to scream because of all the clusterfuck action, I managed to pull it together and get some shopping done. Part of me wished it was the end of my trip so I could go nuts and get gifts for everyone from there. Alas, the experience of endless stalls filled with beautiful yet cheap art and jewelry was enough to satisfy my consumer driven soul.
While Thailand itself is known for great cuisine, the north is in particular famous for exquisite flavor combinations. With influence from so many Burmese refugees and an inundation of foreigners setting up shop, delicious food is bound to be found on every corner, and everywhere in between. But even with all these unique tastes and local cheap eats, I couldn’t resist El Diablo’s Heavenly Burritos. Normally I balk at Mexican food around the world. After all, I am from California and my standards are unfortunately high. But something about the look of this place drew me in. The irony of the sign alone was intriguing. Then when I saw the sign for ‘free chips and salsa’ I knew something was right. (Californians take this gift for granted as I have never seen such an offer outside the States.) So I held my breath and ordered a burrito smothered in guacamole.
Most may not understand why I take so much time and energy to describe one meal of my life, but if you knew me and my adoration for Mexican food, you’d understand what a huge moment this was for me. This was, by far, the best burrito I’ve found outside of California and, to be honest, if it were home, it I would eat there regularly. Because of lack of supplies, everything had to be made fresh and from scratch, which beats most places from home as tortillas are cheaper and faster store bought. It was so good I had to ask for the owner just to shake his hand. The American born gentleman found my extreme love of burritos hilarious and we had a good chat while I entertained ideas of opening my own burrito shop somewhere in the world.
By this point, it became hard to leave Freedom Bar. Not only had I acquired a gang, but the locals who ran it were super generous and fun. This group of Thai hippie guys had one leader: Mama. The sweetest, tiniest old lady who lived in pajamas and drank and smoked like a champ was always making food and sharing with the guests, free of charge. To say she genuinely cared about people would be an understatement. And when they didn’t have any greens to sell, the “manager” just gave me his stash for free. When I didn’t take it all, he dumped it out on my table and said, “No, I said it’s all for you. Just take it”, as if not taking all of his supplies was rude. It’s hard to imagine staying there longer than a week because I would be straight up family by then.
But unfortunately my time was up. Giving myself not a single extra day on my visa, I had to get to Laos or face horrifying late exit fees. I had heard rumors of a free two month visa one could acquire from the Thai embassy in Laos, and I knew before I even left I had to get this. There was no way two weeks would ever be enough in Thailand.
And so I set out for Laos via an overnight bus to the border and then a slow boat cruise into the first main city. As I mentally prepared myself to be on my own for the first time, the Universe was busy planning something else.
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