You might have been wondering where the hell I've been for the last week or so. I naively assumed that I would be able to blog during my entire vacation. Unfortunately, communism and blogs don't seem to mix. After a tumultuous arrival at Hanoi (0ur cab driver took us to the wrong hotel, overcharged us, and then we were pursued by touts all the way to the right hotel) I sat down ready for some hardcore blogging when...nothing. At first I didn't think anything of it. Perhaps Blogger was simply down. Oh no. Nowhere in Vietnam was I able to access the blogging site. At each turn I was foiled by forces more powerful than me.
Now I'm in Siem Reap, Cambodia. The blogging site works. But the internet place is closing in 1 minute.
Ugh.
Anyway, I'm back in action. More posts will come soon. Communism sucks.
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Six Flags: Hill Tribe
As part of the Chiang Mai visit, we decided it would be fun to take a trek out to visit one of the many hill tribes that live in the surrounding mountains. Since the hotel at which we were staying organized such a trek -- and was willing to hold our bags overnight and guarantee us our rooms on our return -- we thought it best to book through them. In my typical annoying fashion, I quizzed the lady at reception about everything from what specific tribe we'd be visiting to whether the hill tribe was receiving a cut of our fee. Especially when the answer to that last question was yes (and the lady knocked 200 baht off the cost) we signed up.
The tour was supposed to include no more than 12 people and visit two tribes (one for the night, the other the next day). We would drive up to the mountain, trek up to where the tribes were, spend the night in their village, then trek our way back down the next day. In my head, and against my better judgment, I pictured wandering through a small mountain village, stopping occassionally to chat with locals through my translator/guide. Then, our group would sit and eat a hill tribe meal, separate to sleep in hill tribe dwellings, and then meet up the next day for a hike through the jungle.
I got the hike part right.
Now, I know you're expecting a smarm-o-rama from me. I guess I did set the post up that way. But I really can't smarm all that much. Truth is, I had a great time and consider it a really neat experience. I mean, I certainly never hiked for 7 hours in the jungles of Thailand. Neither had I hung out under a waterfall, slept under a mosquito net in a hill tribe "village" (I will explain my quotation marks later), or ridden an elephant. [SIDEBAR: I know, I know, it's exploitation...but it's also a friggin' elephant! I'm presented with an elephant -- that, for what it's worth, was not beaten with "lead pipes with hooks" as friends have said they've seen in the past -- and I'm not supposed to ride him? I'm socially conscious, but I'm not a saint.]
And each of these experiences WERE incredible. In my opinion, the jungle alone was worth the price of admission. Here I was, jumping from rock to rock across creeks or sweating my ass off hustling up a mountainside. We'd break through the canopy to stupendous views and then keep on hiking. It was terrific. But, in addition to our group of 12 (actually 13), there were at least FOUR (probably more) other groups (same size) doing the same thing. Two of the groups we ran into again and again (and some included some actually rather nice Italian guys). I wondered where a hill tribe was going to stow all these wacky farang.
That was answered when we reached the "village." Now, I don't doubt that this wasn't an average village at one time and neither do I doubt that real hill tribe people lived there. But now, it seemed to be more of a resort than a village. Giant dorms had been set up for visitors and I really can't say that I saw very many structures beyond them. Due to my wonderful back, I was up and at 'em at 6:30 this morning and strolled for a bit. Saw 4 other dorms. Not much else. These dorms consisted of a deck and three main areas: a common area, one for the villagers, and one for the farangs' sleeping area. The Luha tribe's main industries are corn and rice? Eff that. Their main industry is tourism.
When 11 sweaty and tired Americans (+ 1 Kiwi and 1 Australian), rolled up, they brought out a cooler and offered us water...or a beer or a soda. Was I psyched to throw back a beer? Sure! And I threw back quite a few (not so much to be sloppy, don't worry), but was it what I expected? Heck no. At dinner we ate food that I'm quite sure our guide prepared: a pretty standard yellow curry (I'd had a better, spicier one the night before), rice, and chicken fingers. I mean, really? Chicken fingers? This was after a hill tribesman pulled out a standard Western-style guitar and a few songbooks, one even including hits by Britney Spears and Westlife. Graham, Vic, and I do a mean "Wonderwall," by the way.
Where was the hill tribe music (if they had any)? Where was some spicy, random hill tribe dish? Where were the hill tribers? Except for a handful of others, we only saw the family that seemingly "ran" this particular dorm. They were extremely nice and accommodating, but it felt particularly hollow when they suddenly rolled out some bracelets and such for us to buy. The same type of stuff we saw in the night market in the city the night before. And in Bangkok earlier this week. And, I hate to say it, even in Lao last weekend. I bought a bracelet because I felt bad (I know, that's a terrible reason) but I can't help but wonder who mass-produces this touristy shit? Does it all get shipped in from China?
Still, the ambience was nice and I was so exhausted from the trek that I didn't mind so much that everything seemed a bit prefab. Rising the next morning, I was a bit awed by the misty mountains that surrounded me. After breakfast, we hiked some more. Our visit to the other tribe wasn't so well delineated. It could've have been the couple of houses stuck together where women attempted to peddle...you guess it, the same shit we'd seen on chintzy Khao San Road in Bangkok. Or it could have been the people who ran our elephant ride. The ride itself was humane and strangely Epcot-like. We boarded tw0-by-two, went around a specified path for 30 mins, then returned to base. Neat, but a bit artificial.
Next up, white-water rafting (finally something not even trying to be authentic!) and a ride on a bamboo raft. The latter gave us what was probably the funniest moment of the whole experience because they loaded 6 of us (+ 1 guide who spoke ZERO English) onto a raft for 4. The raft was barely afloat (and about half a meter under water for most of the trip). Among the highlights were Josh attempting to steer and ending up dunked and a sudden collision with a rock that sent our guide hurtling into the air and me and Graham flying off the end of the raft.
Anyway, I guess my point is that it felt less like a visit to a hill tribe and more of a trip to Six Flags, or Disney World, or Epcot. We rolled up, hung out, drank beer, rode the rides, then came home dirtier and damper than when we'd left. Was it really neat in its own right? Absolutely. Did it feel all that different from the sometimes silly touristiness of Bangkok? To me, not so much.
The tour was supposed to include no more than 12 people and visit two tribes (one for the night, the other the next day). We would drive up to the mountain, trek up to where the tribes were, spend the night in their village, then trek our way back down the next day. In my head, and against my better judgment, I pictured wandering through a small mountain village, stopping occassionally to chat with locals through my translator/guide. Then, our group would sit and eat a hill tribe meal, separate to sleep in hill tribe dwellings, and then meet up the next day for a hike through the jungle.
I got the hike part right.
Now, I know you're expecting a smarm-o-rama from me. I guess I did set the post up that way. But I really can't smarm all that much. Truth is, I had a great time and consider it a really neat experience. I mean, I certainly never hiked for 7 hours in the jungles of Thailand. Neither had I hung out under a waterfall, slept under a mosquito net in a hill tribe "village" (I will explain my quotation marks later), or ridden an elephant. [SIDEBAR: I know, I know, it's exploitation...but it's also a friggin' elephant! I'm presented with an elephant -- that, for what it's worth, was not beaten with "lead pipes with hooks" as friends have said they've seen in the past -- and I'm not supposed to ride him? I'm socially conscious, but I'm not a saint.]
And each of these experiences WERE incredible. In my opinion, the jungle alone was worth the price of admission. Here I was, jumping from rock to rock across creeks or sweating my ass off hustling up a mountainside. We'd break through the canopy to stupendous views and then keep on hiking. It was terrific. But, in addition to our group of 12 (actually 13), there were at least FOUR (probably more) other groups (same size) doing the same thing. Two of the groups we ran into again and again (and some included some actually rather nice Italian guys). I wondered where a hill tribe was going to stow all these wacky farang.
That was answered when we reached the "village." Now, I don't doubt that this wasn't an average village at one time and neither do I doubt that real hill tribe people lived there. But now, it seemed to be more of a resort than a village. Giant dorms had been set up for visitors and I really can't say that I saw very many structures beyond them. Due to my wonderful back, I was up and at 'em at 6:30 this morning and strolled for a bit. Saw 4 other dorms. Not much else. These dorms consisted of a deck and three main areas: a common area, one for the villagers, and one for the farangs' sleeping area. The Luha tribe's main industries are corn and rice? Eff that. Their main industry is tourism.
When 11 sweaty and tired Americans (+ 1 Kiwi and 1 Australian), rolled up, they brought out a cooler and offered us water...or a beer or a soda. Was I psyched to throw back a beer? Sure! And I threw back quite a few (not so much to be sloppy, don't worry), but was it what I expected? Heck no. At dinner we ate food that I'm quite sure our guide prepared: a pretty standard yellow curry (I'd had a better, spicier one the night before), rice, and chicken fingers. I mean, really? Chicken fingers? This was after a hill tribesman pulled out a standard Western-style guitar and a few songbooks, one even including hits by Britney Spears and Westlife. Graham, Vic, and I do a mean "Wonderwall," by the way.
Where was the hill tribe music (if they had any)? Where was some spicy, random hill tribe dish? Where were the hill tribers? Except for a handful of others, we only saw the family that seemingly "ran" this particular dorm. They were extremely nice and accommodating, but it felt particularly hollow when they suddenly rolled out some bracelets and such for us to buy. The same type of stuff we saw in the night market in the city the night before. And in Bangkok earlier this week. And, I hate to say it, even in Lao last weekend. I bought a bracelet because I felt bad (I know, that's a terrible reason) but I can't help but wonder who mass-produces this touristy shit? Does it all get shipped in from China?
Still, the ambience was nice and I was so exhausted from the trek that I didn't mind so much that everything seemed a bit prefab. Rising the next morning, I was a bit awed by the misty mountains that surrounded me. After breakfast, we hiked some more. Our visit to the other tribe wasn't so well delineated. It could've have been the couple of houses stuck together where women attempted to peddle...you guess it, the same shit we'd seen on chintzy Khao San Road in Bangkok. Or it could have been the people who ran our elephant ride. The ride itself was humane and strangely Epcot-like. We boarded tw0-by-two, went around a specified path for 30 mins, then returned to base. Neat, but a bit artificial.
Next up, white-water rafting (finally something not even trying to be authentic!) and a ride on a bamboo raft. The latter gave us what was probably the funniest moment of the whole experience because they loaded 6 of us (+ 1 guide who spoke ZERO English) onto a raft for 4. The raft was barely afloat (and about half a meter under water for most of the trip). Among the highlights were Josh attempting to steer and ending up dunked and a sudden collision with a rock that sent our guide hurtling into the air and me and Graham flying off the end of the raft.
Anyway, I guess my point is that it felt less like a visit to a hill tribe and more of a trip to Six Flags, or Disney World, or Epcot. We rolled up, hung out, drank beer, rode the rides, then came home dirtier and damper than when we'd left. Was it really neat in its own right? Absolutely. Did it feel all that different from the sometimes silly touristiness of Bangkok? To me, not so much.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Life's (very much not) a beach.
For the last 24 hours or so, my seven companions and I have been in Chiang Mai, Thailand. The testosterone is flowing fast and furious -- for example, we're sitting ringside at a Muay Thai boxing match tonight -- so I thought I'd take a little moment to nip away and do some research about our upcoming beach excursions. I didn't think it would be so depressing.
Victor has been really excited about the beach situation. I'm sure at least some of it has something to do with memories of Virginie Ledoyen traipsing around crystal blue waters in a skimpy bikini in the aforementioned film The Beach. I'm not at all knocking him for that. In an attempt to deliver, I decided to check out Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree site for some thoughts on what beaches might be nice.
What did I find on the message boards? Post after post after post lamenting the over-development of Thailand's once beautiful beaches. Too many people were talking about their hearts breaking upon returning within the last few years to beaches they had last visited in the 70s and 80s. The problems with the beaches have been noted by the Thai as well. Many locals pointed to coverage in Thai media about how the islands are being destroyed by over-development and tourism. "Paradise lost," they call it. A big problem seems to be the increased tourism to Thailand's "east coast" after the severe damage caused to the west by the tsunami. Ko Samui, an island Victor had set his sights on, sadly seems to have been the biggest victim of this surge.
As a bitterness fiesta was rising against farang tourists, the posts started pointing out recent discoveries of -- get ready to be shocked -- massive government corruption, specifically connected to bribes over a number of years allowing development on parts of islands that were already protected spaces or, perhaps worse, allowing construction in violation of nationwide safety standards for hillside bungalows that'll probably topple into sea any day now. I understand that this partly a response to exceedingly high rates of tourism, but it cannot be said that Thailand and its government aren't loving the high tourism that its beaches draw in. If they didn't, there would be means by which it could be limited, contained, or at least managed to an extent that some parts of these gorgeous beaches would be maintained. Instead, I imagine, the sudden shot out of the third world was seen as an end that justified any and all means.
So now I'm sad for Thailand. I'm sad for it's people. I'm sad for dear Vic. And I'm sad for me. I wish I would have been able to see something truly out of this world. I'll guess I'll have to settle for what one flyer for Ko Samui promised (sweet Jesus, I wish I were joking): "McDonald's and other Western restaurants in case you miss home!"
Victor has been really excited about the beach situation. I'm sure at least some of it has something to do with memories of Virginie Ledoyen traipsing around crystal blue waters in a skimpy bikini in the aforementioned film The Beach. I'm not at all knocking him for that. In an attempt to deliver, I decided to check out Lonely Planet's Thorn Tree site for some thoughts on what beaches might be nice.
What did I find on the message boards? Post after post after post lamenting the over-development of Thailand's once beautiful beaches. Too many people were talking about their hearts breaking upon returning within the last few years to beaches they had last visited in the 70s and 80s. The problems with the beaches have been noted by the Thai as well. Many locals pointed to coverage in Thai media about how the islands are being destroyed by over-development and tourism. "Paradise lost," they call it. A big problem seems to be the increased tourism to Thailand's "east coast" after the severe damage caused to the west by the tsunami. Ko Samui, an island Victor had set his sights on, sadly seems to have been the biggest victim of this surge.
As a bitterness fiesta was rising against farang tourists, the posts started pointing out recent discoveries of -- get ready to be shocked -- massive government corruption, specifically connected to bribes over a number of years allowing development on parts of islands that were already protected spaces or, perhaps worse, allowing construction in violation of nationwide safety standards for hillside bungalows that'll probably topple into sea any day now. I understand that this partly a response to exceedingly high rates of tourism, but it cannot be said that Thailand and its government aren't loving the high tourism that its beaches draw in. If they didn't, there would be means by which it could be limited, contained, or at least managed to an extent that some parts of these gorgeous beaches would be maintained. Instead, I imagine, the sudden shot out of the third world was seen as an end that justified any and all means.
So now I'm sad for Thailand. I'm sad for it's people. I'm sad for dear Vic. And I'm sad for me. I wish I would have been able to see something truly out of this world. I'll guess I'll have to settle for what one flyer for Ko Samui promised (sweet Jesus, I wish I were joking): "McDonald's and other Western restaurants in case you miss home!"
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Ganesh & Me.
The first photo you get (courtesy of John). It's me and Ganesh just chilling at the Buddha Park in Laos. More to come....
Congratulations, Nancy and Alex!
I checked my cell voicemail yesterday for the first time in a while and there was a message from Nancy. I called her last night and she told me that she and Alex got engaged over the weekend!
Looking forward to seeing that rock when I get back to the US. (Y'all know me, I say it like it is.)
Looking forward to seeing that rock when I get back to the US. (Y'all know me, I say it like it is.)
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Walking the plank.
[Edited because Chris just sent me a link for an article on pirates in the Bangkok Recorder.]
As I've explained earlier, the word for foreigners out here is farang. (Or maybe it's falang and just pronounced "farang?" Whatever.) In Thailand, however, there is another way (one that my friend Chris LOVES) to describe a very specific kind of foreigner: Pirate. Since back in Laos, Chris has been making a hook with his index finger and hooking us whenever we caught a glimpse of a pirate.
[This cat is too much. He won't stop trying to lick my head. And he purrs like a little engine when he does it. Apparently, it's a by-product of being weaned too early. It's bizarre. My favorite is how he meows in a pissed off manner whenever you prevent him from doing what he wants.]
So what exactly is a pirate? Well, there doesn't seem to be a specific formula, but you know you're looking at a pirate when you see that special combination of tattoos, stringy hair, and questionable clothing (think tanks, maybe mesh shirts). They're the type of Westerner that makes other Westerners sort of cringe when you see them because you can't help but think, "Please don't lump me into the same group as THAT GUY." It's quite likely that they smell a bit. I'm not sure where the fine line between backpacker and pirate gets crossed, but I'm going to be liberal with my labeling. You look like a pirate to me, you're a pirate.
[Ha! Foiled kitty with a turban-style headdress. Oh, except now he's chewing the headdress.]
Yesterday, the boys and I headed down to Khao San Road ("KSR") after visits to the gigantic reclining Buddha at Wat Pho and the grounds of the Royal Palace (including the Emerald Buddha). KSR is labelled in one of my guidebooks as the "travelers' ghetto." A bunch of years back, the guy who wrote The Beach (you know it, the movie starred Leonardo DiCrapio) called it (I'm paraphrasing now) the road where East meets West. I like to call it, "The Plank."
KSR is really a pretty short stretch of road. Both sides are littered with stores that cater to Westerners, bars that cater to Westerners, and stalls, carts, and other makeshift vending establishments all attempting to cater to Westerners. And, of course, Westerners (and, to be fair, Easterners as well -- I saw quite a few Japanese tourists bopping around in there). Choosing a bar (with a TERRIBLE cover band, no Lao Kelly Clarkson this time) as a bit of home base, we proceeded to go out into the Khao San in pairs and small groups to run various errands: Some of us visited the Boots chemist for malaria pills, cough medicine, and multivitamins. Most of the boys checked e-mail at the internet cafe (they are not as lucky as yours truly). Mustafa got a (bad) foot massage. Ale and Adam attempted to buy some neat-o tuk-tuk t-shirts (but failed due to a mildly insane - and possibly narcoleptic - shopwoman).
And Rickel, Graham, and Ale ate scorpions.
But while all this was happening, KSR raged on around us. Young travelers, old travelers, families...you name it, KSR had it. Pretty soon, even I was starting to be won over by the sheer insanity of it. Still, there was something off to me. It didn't have that sort of strangely natural insanity of Bombay. That insanity belonged to the city and its people. It was loud and busy and noisy and smoggy but it was all somehow organic. Here, the insanity was a Western one. It had nothing to do with the people and things of this city. It had everything to do with Dutch families and Japanese couples and Italian girls and British pirates. And when juxtaposed with the peaceful beauty of the earlier Buddhas, it wasn't what I would call a pretty sight.
So, when presented with the option of hitting gay karaoke on Soi 4, I jumped ship.
As I've explained earlier, the word for foreigners out here is farang. (Or maybe it's falang and just pronounced "farang?" Whatever.) In Thailand, however, there is another way (one that my friend Chris LOVES) to describe a very specific kind of foreigner: Pirate. Since back in Laos, Chris has been making a hook with his index finger and hooking us whenever we caught a glimpse of a pirate.
[This cat is too much. He won't stop trying to lick my head. And he purrs like a little engine when he does it. Apparently, it's a by-product of being weaned too early. It's bizarre. My favorite is how he meows in a pissed off manner whenever you prevent him from doing what he wants.]
So what exactly is a pirate? Well, there doesn't seem to be a specific formula, but you know you're looking at a pirate when you see that special combination of tattoos, stringy hair, and questionable clothing (think tanks, maybe mesh shirts). They're the type of Westerner that makes other Westerners sort of cringe when you see them because you can't help but think, "Please don't lump me into the same group as THAT GUY." It's quite likely that they smell a bit. I'm not sure where the fine line between backpacker and pirate gets crossed, but I'm going to be liberal with my labeling. You look like a pirate to me, you're a pirate.
[Ha! Foiled kitty with a turban-style headdress. Oh, except now he's chewing the headdress.]
Yesterday, the boys and I headed down to Khao San Road ("KSR") after visits to the gigantic reclining Buddha at Wat Pho and the grounds of the Royal Palace (including the Emerald Buddha). KSR is labelled in one of my guidebooks as the "travelers' ghetto." A bunch of years back, the guy who wrote The Beach (you know it, the movie starred Leonardo DiCrapio) called it (I'm paraphrasing now) the road where East meets West. I like to call it, "The Plank."
KSR is really a pretty short stretch of road. Both sides are littered with stores that cater to Westerners, bars that cater to Westerners, and stalls, carts, and other makeshift vending establishments all attempting to cater to Westerners. And, of course, Westerners (and, to be fair, Easterners as well -- I saw quite a few Japanese tourists bopping around in there). Choosing a bar (with a TERRIBLE cover band, no Lao Kelly Clarkson this time) as a bit of home base, we proceeded to go out into the Khao San in pairs and small groups to run various errands: Some of us visited the Boots chemist for malaria pills, cough medicine, and multivitamins. Most of the boys checked e-mail at the internet cafe (they are not as lucky as yours truly). Mustafa got a (bad) foot massage. Ale and Adam attempted to buy some neat-o tuk-tuk t-shirts (but failed due to a mildly insane - and possibly narcoleptic - shopwoman).
And Rickel, Graham, and Ale ate scorpions.
But while all this was happening, KSR raged on around us. Young travelers, old travelers, families...you name it, KSR had it. Pretty soon, even I was starting to be won over by the sheer insanity of it. Still, there was something off to me. It didn't have that sort of strangely natural insanity of Bombay. That insanity belonged to the city and its people. It was loud and busy and noisy and smoggy but it was all somehow organic. Here, the insanity was a Western one. It had nothing to do with the people and things of this city. It had everything to do with Dutch families and Japanese couples and Italian girls and British pirates. And when juxtaposed with the peaceful beauty of the earlier Buddhas, it wasn't what I would call a pretty sight.
So, when presented with the option of hitting gay karaoke on Soi 4, I jumped ship.
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
You stay classy, Bangkok.
Yesterday was my first full day in Bangkok. After spending most of the early afternoon sitting in the Soi 8 Restaurant and Cafe waiting for our entire group to assemble, change, change back, and visit the chemist, the 8-man (another manstravaganza?) group took to the streets (and the skies) of Bangkok.
We had our first trip on the SkyTrain to the end of the line, where, after a trip to a museum nearby, we were to hop into a cab to take us to "traveler's ghetto" area. Sadly, the SkyTrain (a really nice, above-ground subway-esue train) only covers a small fraction of the city. From what I've been told, the project, while ambitious, hasn't been implemented so well. Besides the relatively small amout of coverage, only 3-car trains are being run on tracks that could support 6. Not a huge deal when I traveled late last night, but problematic during rush hour.
[Excuse my while I deal with the persistent kitty attempting to remove my hat. He is currently perched on my right shoulder. Yes, the entire cat is just chilling on my shoulder. It's funny how "cute" one day can be "irritating" the next. I know now why John calls him Little Bastard.]
The trains, like most of the city, is teeming with people hustling and bustling and mostly wearing yellow polo shirts. I saw these shirts first when we were in Laos. All the Thai tourists (of which there were many) were sporting them. I initially thought they were tour group shirts (much like DC tourists frequently wear the same ensemble when irritating the shit out of me in the metro), but it turns out that these are shirts to celebrate the 60th year of the King's reign. Their monarch is currently the longest-sitting in the world and is beloved in a major way by his people. There are pictures of the Royal Family everywhere and, since last weekend was the Queen's birthday, there are little celebratory shrines outside many of the establishments dedicated to her. (I managed to find my way home last night by recognizing one featuring a giant-size portrait of her.) The Royal Palace, by the by, is gigantic and quite the sight to behold.
[Ok, the cat is cute again. He's now napping on the chair between my butt and the chairback. Awww....]
So, you have the Royal Family, the yellow-clad, robust middle class, and then, as usual, you have the poor. We chartered a boat (which sounds more badass than "Moose haggled with an old lady") and took a trip down a few of the city's canals. Apparently, quite a while ago, Bangkok was known as the Venice of the East. Immediately after a huge sluicegate from the main river, we saw rows and rows of shantytowns on stilts. The people here, I assume, make their living primarily from fishing. It was fascinating to see the shackfronts turn into spiked iron gates as we ventured into a more posh part of the river, and then back again.
But worse than the poor are the destitute. I was immediately saddened as I was walking to meet the boys yesterday and passed my first Thai street child. I saw my first (of many) street children in Bombay. Babies would run up to you yelling, "Hello!" and moving their hands in an eating gesture. It's affecting and you want to give until you hear about how begging has become an organized trade in some places. Beggarmasters (think Fagin in Oliver Twist) send the kids (and adults) out to beg. Their earnings are kept by the beggarmasters who then feed their charges. This racket goes beyond just recruiting the poor with some beggarmasters even going so far as to having their beggars' limbs amputated to make them more pathetic.
Anyway, on Th Sukhemvit, I saw my first Thai street child. I thought about the stats you always hear in the states about kids without health insurance. And I taught kids who lived in shelters and who didn't have enough to eat at night. But I can't imagine even any of my kids sleeping on the street day after day, begging for food. In India (and in Laos) I gave away the errant banana and once even a bottle of water. One child came to our table in Laos and specifically requested (by pointing, not English) John's chicken bones (but, strangely, not his leftover potato wedges). John obliged.
But what the hell is going on? How can India and Thailand, both hailed for their seemingly functional economies, both experiencing significant growth in their middle class (growth much stronger than many of their peer nations) allow such poverty -- no, not poverty, complete destitution to continue seemingly unchecked? Part of the KSG-ers work in Bombay was to analyze how to better meet the educational needs of the street children population. At the meeting with the city council to present their findings, the councilmembers concentrated on only one thing: Dennis's figure of the number of street children in Bombay. Through conversations with organizations and people working with the population, Dennis opted on the conservative estimate of 600,000. The council's number? If I remember correctly, approximately 78,000. What is it that they say in therapy? The first step is admitting we have a problem?
We have a problem. Why won't any of the governments here say so?
We had our first trip on the SkyTrain to the end of the line, where, after a trip to a museum nearby, we were to hop into a cab to take us to "traveler's ghetto" area. Sadly, the SkyTrain (a really nice, above-ground subway-esue train) only covers a small fraction of the city. From what I've been told, the project, while ambitious, hasn't been implemented so well. Besides the relatively small amout of coverage, only 3-car trains are being run on tracks that could support 6. Not a huge deal when I traveled late last night, but problematic during rush hour.
[Excuse my while I deal with the persistent kitty attempting to remove my hat. He is currently perched on my right shoulder. Yes, the entire cat is just chilling on my shoulder. It's funny how "cute" one day can be "irritating" the next. I know now why John calls him Little Bastard.]
The trains, like most of the city, is teeming with people hustling and bustling and mostly wearing yellow polo shirts. I saw these shirts first when we were in Laos. All the Thai tourists (of which there were many) were sporting them. I initially thought they were tour group shirts (much like DC tourists frequently wear the same ensemble when irritating the shit out of me in the metro), but it turns out that these are shirts to celebrate the 60th year of the King's reign. Their monarch is currently the longest-sitting in the world and is beloved in a major way by his people. There are pictures of the Royal Family everywhere and, since last weekend was the Queen's birthday, there are little celebratory shrines outside many of the establishments dedicated to her. (I managed to find my way home last night by recognizing one featuring a giant-size portrait of her.) The Royal Palace, by the by, is gigantic and quite the sight to behold.
[Ok, the cat is cute again. He's now napping on the chair between my butt and the chairback. Awww....]
So, you have the Royal Family, the yellow-clad, robust middle class, and then, as usual, you have the poor. We chartered a boat (which sounds more badass than "Moose haggled with an old lady") and took a trip down a few of the city's canals. Apparently, quite a while ago, Bangkok was known as the Venice of the East. Immediately after a huge sluicegate from the main river, we saw rows and rows of shantytowns on stilts. The people here, I assume, make their living primarily from fishing. It was fascinating to see the shackfronts turn into spiked iron gates as we ventured into a more posh part of the river, and then back again.
But worse than the poor are the destitute. I was immediately saddened as I was walking to meet the boys yesterday and passed my first Thai street child. I saw my first (of many) street children in Bombay. Babies would run up to you yelling, "Hello!" and moving their hands in an eating gesture. It's affecting and you want to give until you hear about how begging has become an organized trade in some places. Beggarmasters (think Fagin in Oliver Twist) send the kids (and adults) out to beg. Their earnings are kept by the beggarmasters who then feed their charges. This racket goes beyond just recruiting the poor with some beggarmasters even going so far as to having their beggars' limbs amputated to make them more pathetic.
Anyway, on Th Sukhemvit, I saw my first Thai street child. I thought about the stats you always hear in the states about kids without health insurance. And I taught kids who lived in shelters and who didn't have enough to eat at night. But I can't imagine even any of my kids sleeping on the street day after day, begging for food. In India (and in Laos) I gave away the errant banana and once even a bottle of water. One child came to our table in Laos and specifically requested (by pointing, not English) John's chicken bones (but, strangely, not his leftover potato wedges). John obliged.
But what the hell is going on? How can India and Thailand, both hailed for their seemingly functional economies, both experiencing significant growth in their middle class (growth much stronger than many of their peer nations) allow such poverty -- no, not poverty, complete destitution to continue seemingly unchecked? Part of the KSG-ers work in Bombay was to analyze how to better meet the educational needs of the street children population. At the meeting with the city council to present their findings, the councilmembers concentrated on only one thing: Dennis's figure of the number of street children in Bombay. Through conversations with organizations and people working with the population, Dennis opted on the conservative estimate of 600,000. The council's number? If I remember correctly, approximately 78,000. What is it that they say in therapy? The first step is admitting we have a problem?
We have a problem. Why won't any of the governments here say so?
Monday, August 14, 2006
Here kitty-kitty.... [edit]
[Edited for two reasons: (1) Mustafa's name was misspelled and having my newest honeybear's name misspelled just won't do; and (2) I mistakenly referred to the girls we were hanging out with as "prostitutes." I've since learned that these were actually "working girls." The distinction, in Bangkok at least, is that the latter are primarily employed to keep you drinking by any means necessary. That these means might - in the case of yucky ferengi men - sometimes be sex is not really the point. "Prostitutes," on the other hand, tend to sadly be those women - mostly from Burma and Cambodia here in Bangkok - who are trafficked to whorehouses and kept as virtual slaves. As I understand it, the distinction is a very important one and I wanted to be clear.]
I arrived in Bangkok from Udon Thani (more on my bitterness fiesta for having to check my liquids/gels later) and texted Ale's friend Mustafa (who I, frankly, refuse to call "Moose.") When I received the text back, I read it out loud: "We're on Soi Cowboy...." John and Chris both groaned.
Apparently Soi Cowboy (a street, not a bar) is in the heart of Thai's red light district. Not being a huge fan of the exploitation of women, I was not super-excited to head over there, but I'm glad I did. It was completely fascinating. The girls there were very aggressive. When I made the mistake of pausing on the street for too long, I had a gaggle of women run up to me and attempt to literally drag me into a bar.
I found the boys, eventually, in a bar called Country Road. In their defense, it was the least offensive bar on the whole strip. We hung out with some "working girls," I befriended a woman the boys insist must be the madam (she even bought us drinks), and we met some Danes. Rose, one of the "working girls," took us (and the Danes, 2 gals and 1 boy) to an afterhours spot where we drank some more. Brilliantly, John has business cards with a small map and directions home written in Thai to give to guests (he got them when his family came to visit last year). I just handed the card to a driver, explained that I only had 60 baht left and took off. Minutes later (much quicker than when I was on the meter earlier in the night, I might add) I was home.
John lives in a beautiful house and was nice enough to offer me the guest bedroom. I have to admit that it's just so nice to live in a home (as I did with Sarada) rather than bop from hotel to hotel. I'll be here with John until Thursday when a very large crew of boys (Ale, Josh, Mustafa, Charles, Adam, Victor, and Graham) busts a move up to Chiang Mai. There are so many things I want to blog about (prostitution, my conversation with the Danes about Europe's refugee problem, the liquid carry-on ban, etc.) but I just got a text from the boys and I should probably get my ass in gear. Instead, a quick thought on John's crazy cats. There are two. One has a bit of a palsy (she shakes a lot) and keeps to herself. The other, LB (or Little Bastard), is the friendliest kitty ever. Too friendly, in fact. LB and I may have words if he climbs up on my back again to lick my head. Weird, kitty. That's a weird, weird kitty.
I arrived in Bangkok from Udon Thani (more on my bitterness fiesta for having to check my liquids/gels later) and texted Ale's friend Mustafa (who I, frankly, refuse to call "Moose.") When I received the text back, I read it out loud: "We're on Soi Cowboy...." John and Chris both groaned.
Apparently Soi Cowboy (a street, not a bar) is in the heart of Thai's red light district. Not being a huge fan of the exploitation of women, I was not super-excited to head over there, but I'm glad I did. It was completely fascinating. The girls there were very aggressive. When I made the mistake of pausing on the street for too long, I had a gaggle of women run up to me and attempt to literally drag me into a bar.
I found the boys, eventually, in a bar called Country Road. In their defense, it was the least offensive bar on the whole strip. We hung out with some "working girls," I befriended a woman the boys insist must be the madam (she even bought us drinks), and we met some Danes. Rose, one of the "working girls," took us (and the Danes, 2 gals and 1 boy) to an afterhours spot where we drank some more. Brilliantly, John has business cards with a small map and directions home written in Thai to give to guests (he got them when his family came to visit last year). I just handed the card to a driver, explained that I only had 60 baht left and took off. Minutes later (much quicker than when I was on the meter earlier in the night, I might add) I was home.
John lives in a beautiful house and was nice enough to offer me the guest bedroom. I have to admit that it's just so nice to live in a home (as I did with Sarada) rather than bop from hotel to hotel. I'll be here with John until Thursday when a very large crew of boys (Ale, Josh, Mustafa, Charles, Adam, Victor, and Graham) busts a move up to Chiang Mai. There are so many things I want to blog about (prostitution, my conversation with the Danes about Europe's refugee problem, the liquid carry-on ban, etc.) but I just got a text from the boys and I should probably get my ass in gear. Instead, a quick thought on John's crazy cats. There are two. One has a bit of a palsy (she shakes a lot) and keeps to herself. The other, LB (or Little Bastard), is the friendliest kitty ever. Too friendly, in fact. LB and I may have words if he climbs up on my back again to lick my head. Weird, kitty. That's a weird, weird kitty.
Buggin' out.
As you may or may not know, I absolutely despise bugs. I've never had much patience for them. In India, I was abused by some very aggressive mosquitoes, but nothing else. Laos, on the other hand, is like a bug theme park.
Lao mosquitos are hardcore. The first night, I was so enjoying sipping scotch on the Mekong that I didn't notice the feasting that was going on around my body. Not only did they decimate my ankles, one particular nasty one went to town on my elbow. The next day, according to Chris and John, it looked like I had a big red nipple on it. You can imagine how pleased I was with that.
Mosquitos aren't the only problem. Much scarier was the GIANT spider I saw chilling on the spirit house near our table that night. I actually didn't see all of him but I did catch a glimpse of legs the size of my fingers coming over the edge of roof. Also annoying while eating was a bee at breakfast and the weirdest giant mosquito/random bug that kept rubbing it's feelers together, seemingly in anticipation of jumping on my croissant. And let's not even mention the giant flies (which were also rather impertinent in India). Ooh! Less annoying, but still quite startling was the giant millipede that Chris actually thought was a snake during our walk to dinner the other night.
Yesterday, I had my scariest moment yet. Chris and I decided to take a nap (we went a little too hard the night before) in the early evening. I was lying on my bed in our lovely hotel sort of staring at the ceiling. My glasses were off. Suddenly, I noticed a very large dark spot dart across half the wall. I stared at the fuzzy black spot for a second thinking maybe I had just hallucinated, then it took off SO FAST around the corner of the wall and began moving towards me on the right wall. Bravery being one of my virtues, I let out a strangled yelp and threw myself out of my bed and vaulted over Chris in the next bed. Further investigation revealed a gecko (which I do not fear). Feeling a bit sheepish, I went to sleep.
But I should have known that the bugs were going to get me good (even better than the nipple elbow) before I left town. Last night, at dinner, I felt a bump on my face, roughly on the lower part of my right eyesocket. I thought it might be a zit, but it felt different. This morning, I woke up with my eye nearly swollen shut. Luckily, Benadryl made quick work of it, but it irks me that a bug can leave me in the same condition as a punch to the face.
Lao mosquitos are hardcore. The first night, I was so enjoying sipping scotch on the Mekong that I didn't notice the feasting that was going on around my body. Not only did they decimate my ankles, one particular nasty one went to town on my elbow. The next day, according to Chris and John, it looked like I had a big red nipple on it. You can imagine how pleased I was with that.
Mosquitos aren't the only problem. Much scarier was the GIANT spider I saw chilling on the spirit house near our table that night. I actually didn't see all of him but I did catch a glimpse of legs the size of my fingers coming over the edge of roof. Also annoying while eating was a bee at breakfast and the weirdest giant mosquito/random bug that kept rubbing it's feelers together, seemingly in anticipation of jumping on my croissant. And let's not even mention the giant flies (which were also rather impertinent in India). Ooh! Less annoying, but still quite startling was the giant millipede that Chris actually thought was a snake during our walk to dinner the other night.
Yesterday, I had my scariest moment yet. Chris and I decided to take a nap (we went a little too hard the night before) in the early evening. I was lying on my bed in our lovely hotel sort of staring at the ceiling. My glasses were off. Suddenly, I noticed a very large dark spot dart across half the wall. I stared at the fuzzy black spot for a second thinking maybe I had just hallucinated, then it took off SO FAST around the corner of the wall and began moving towards me on the right wall. Bravery being one of my virtues, I let out a strangled yelp and threw myself out of my bed and vaulted over Chris in the next bed. Further investigation revealed a gecko (which I do not fear). Feeling a bit sheepish, I went to sleep.
But I should have known that the bugs were going to get me good (even better than the nipple elbow) before I left town. Last night, at dinner, I felt a bump on my face, roughly on the lower part of my right eyesocket. I thought it might be a zit, but it felt different. This morning, I woke up with my eye nearly swollen shut. Luckily, Benadryl made quick work of it, but it irks me that a bug can leave me in the same condition as a punch to the face.
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Chris went bowling with a Lao transsexual at 4am.
There's really not much else I can say about that.
Except that I missed out because, at 3am or so, I decided that between my inebriation and my recurring GI issues, I should probably tuk-tuk my ass back the hotel.
[Edited to correctly state that Chris's bowling buddy was transSEXUAL, and not a transVESTITE. My bad.]
Except that I missed out because, at 3am or so, I decided that between my inebriation and my recurring GI issues, I should probably tuk-tuk my ass back the hotel.
[Edited to correctly state that Chris's bowling buddy was transSEXUAL, and not a transVESTITE. My bad.]
Open Letter to ATM Boy
Dear ATM Boy:
On my first day in Vientiane, after I awoke from my afternoon nap, I set out to find John and Chris at JoMa Cafe. On my way, I ran into you on the street and you asked me if I knew where you might find an ATM. Sadly, I had no answer for you, but I wished you luck and went on my way. I must admit that I didn't really think twice about our short exchange.
Then I ran into you again. This time you were on your way to an internet cafe. I asked if you if you had found your ATM and you told me you had. I probably should've asked you if you wanted to get a drink with us, but I didn't. I walked away a tiny bit sad, but I assumed we'd never see each other again. I was wrong.
As John, Chris, and I were walking to Kop Chai Dee (I realize it's probably not spelled that way) I passed you once more! It took me a second to figure out it was you because you'd changed into a red t-shirt. We briefly joked about running into one another again. (I thankfully repressed the potentially creepy stalker joke I was going to make.) I asked if you wanted to grab a drink, but you told me that you had a really early bus to Louang Prabang the next morning.
Because I am completely normal and not at all obsessive and strange, I have decided that there was some cosmic force controlling our repeated meetings. I think you hold the key to some fundamental truth that I need to discover. Or something. I will keep an eye out for you as I travel through Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. If I should see you again, please be ready to tell me what I should do with my life.
Thank you,
Colonial Jumbo
On my first day in Vientiane, after I awoke from my afternoon nap, I set out to find John and Chris at JoMa Cafe. On my way, I ran into you on the street and you asked me if I knew where you might find an ATM. Sadly, I had no answer for you, but I wished you luck and went on my way. I must admit that I didn't really think twice about our short exchange.
Then I ran into you again. This time you were on your way to an internet cafe. I asked if you if you had found your ATM and you told me you had. I probably should've asked you if you wanted to get a drink with us, but I didn't. I walked away a tiny bit sad, but I assumed we'd never see each other again. I was wrong.
As John, Chris, and I were walking to Kop Chai Dee (I realize it's probably not spelled that way) I passed you once more! It took me a second to figure out it was you because you'd changed into a red t-shirt. We briefly joked about running into one another again. (I thankfully repressed the potentially creepy stalker joke I was going to make.) I asked if you wanted to grab a drink, but you told me that you had a really early bus to Louang Prabang the next morning.
Because I am completely normal and not at all obsessive and strange, I have decided that there was some cosmic force controlling our repeated meetings. I think you hold the key to some fundamental truth that I need to discover. Or something. I will keep an eye out for you as I travel through Thailand, Vietnam, and Cambodia. If I should see you again, please be ready to tell me what I should do with my life.
Thank you,
Colonial Jumbo
Saturday, August 12, 2006
I've got friends in Lao places....
[That might be my favorite post title yet.]
Now that I've exorcised the crappiness of my trip to Vientiane out of my system (see the post below), I can gush about this excellent city! I rolled into the airport at a little after 9:30am. It took about an hour or so to get my visa (v. pretty, btw), bop through immigration, and hop a cab to the JoMa Cafe where Chris and John were waiting. After a coffee, we strolled along the Mekong River down to our gorgeous hotel. It boggles the mind that I'm spending approximately $18 dollars a night to stay here.
We didn't do any sightseeing yesterday because we've got a lot of time on our hands due to the falling through of our plans to go to Phonsavan and the Plain of Jars. (I'm disappointed, but also relieved that I won't be flying one of these.) After lunch on the river, I took a shower and a nap while Chris and John went to the market and then met up with them for more coffee. We sipped Beerlao (and $4 [NOPE, THREE DOLLARS, I double checked] Green Label on the rocks!!!) while watching the sun set over the Mekong. Later in the evening, Chris took us a total ferengi bar (the Thai word for westerner is falang - pronounced far-ahng, but I decided it would be funnier to call them ferengi...which reveals my past life as Star Trek dork...oh well). The best thing about this place: BEST. COVER BAND. EVER. TenTen is a 3-person (two guitars, one keyboard) local band who covers, among others, Eric Clapton, Sheryl Crow, REM, Bananarama, and Bob Marley. And they did it better than any American band I've ever seen. The Lao woman who sang half the songs might have one of the best singing voices I've ever heard.
Well, after that, Chris and I were really hammered so we got the dude from the band to tell us where to go next. He suggested Dom-something Palace. It's in the only high-rise hotel in the city (and the only high-rise BUILDING in the city). Among the hits played were Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca, the Thai version of O-Zone's Dragostea Din Tay, and Don't Cha by the Pussycat Dolls. It was fun, we were hammered, and we got to ride in a tuk-tuk. Good times.
Time to go soak up some Lao sun. (Did you hear that Victor? SUN.) It's hot as heck but this is, without a doubt, the chillest place on earth.
Now that I've exorcised the crappiness of my trip to Vientiane out of my system (see the post below), I can gush about this excellent city! I rolled into the airport at a little after 9:30am. It took about an hour or so to get my visa (v. pretty, btw), bop through immigration, and hop a cab to the JoMa Cafe where Chris and John were waiting. After a coffee, we strolled along the Mekong River down to our gorgeous hotel. It boggles the mind that I'm spending approximately $18 dollars a night to stay here.
We didn't do any sightseeing yesterday because we've got a lot of time on our hands due to the falling through of our plans to go to Phonsavan and the Plain of Jars. (I'm disappointed, but also relieved that I won't be flying one of these.) After lunch on the river, I took a shower and a nap while Chris and John went to the market and then met up with them for more coffee. We sipped Beerlao (and $4 [NOPE, THREE DOLLARS, I double checked] Green Label on the rocks!!!) while watching the sun set over the Mekong. Later in the evening, Chris took us a total ferengi bar (the Thai word for westerner is falang - pronounced far-ahng, but I decided it would be funnier to call them ferengi...which reveals my past life as Star Trek dork...oh well). The best thing about this place: BEST. COVER BAND. EVER. TenTen is a 3-person (two guitars, one keyboard) local band who covers, among others, Eric Clapton, Sheryl Crow, REM, Bananarama, and Bob Marley. And they did it better than any American band I've ever seen. The Lao woman who sang half the songs might have one of the best singing voices I've ever heard.
Well, after that, Chris and I were really hammered so we got the dude from the band to tell us where to go next. He suggested Dom-something Palace. It's in the only high-rise hotel in the city (and the only high-rise BUILDING in the city). Among the hits played were Ricky Martin's Livin' La Vida Loca, the Thai version of O-Zone's Dragostea Din Tay, and Don't Cha by the Pussycat Dolls. It was fun, we were hammered, and we got to ride in a tuk-tuk. Good times.
Time to go soak up some Lao sun. (Did you hear that Victor? SUN.) It's hot as heck but this is, without a doubt, the chillest place on earth.
Craptastic Voyage
Greetings from Laos! More on my new locale later. First, I must bitch about my journey from Bombay to Vientiane.
[Before I begin, I just want to give a big shout out to my Bombay homies: Sarada was the bestest hostess a boy a could ask for and a super trooper for running around with my touristy ass even while sick with the plague. Kristen made a perfect Karen Allen to my India Jones (and took no guff from the Bombay taxi drivers). Blondie Bear is the yin to my yang (and the ideal drinking partner). No one has ever affected me more than Jason. He completely and irrevocably changed the way I speak. Finally, I consider Parag's unexpected dinner crooning to be one of the highlights of my life. I look forward to seeing y'all in Boston when we all return to the states. Definitely count me in for the screening of your Bollywood debut.]
After a delightful tea (and food...and more food) with the ladies who run the organization that the KSG-ers were working with, I hopped in a cab for the airport. It took just shy of two hours to reach the airport. The traffic was terrible. Once at the airport, my taxi driver, who had flipped the meter on my request at the beginning of the voyage, decided to ask for a flat fee. Oh hell no. He wanted 350 rupees for a metered fare of around 250. When I asked for the card (the meters don't tell you the actual fare, you have to ask for the conversion card to figure that out) he got all pissy with me and whined about the excessive traffic. I tipped him well anyway (gave him 300 roops total) but this mild annoyance would pretty much set the tone for my voyage (minus my Jimi oasis, but more on that in a sec). I feel a list coming on....
1) I attempted to buy a bottle of water outside of the airport. I was asked for 20 roops (totally reasonable) but had nothing smaller than a 50-roop note. They had no change. Water inside the airport then cost me 40 roops. Meh....
2) Even though I was flying THROUGH Bangkok (and not leaving the airport) and even though both flights were officially THAI, I was not allowed to check in all the way through. Also, after having that discussion, I forgot to ask for an aisle seat. Bah....
3) I boarded my flight hoping that I'd have a plane with screens in the seatbacks but no dice. I also had a window seat (which I don't enjoy at all). Worse still, I was surrounded by a family. Small child in front of me, mother next to him, doting (read annoying) father next to me. Dad checked on child and mom approximately every 5-10 minutes. He also enjoyed sitting with his knees very far apart. Argh....
4) I was enjoying High School Musical (inexplicably the in-flight movie) when a fat dude decided to post up in the aisle to chat with his friend. RIGHT IN FRONT of the screen. I had to watch the end of this Disney Channel-tastic film out of the corner of my eye on one of those little midway screens. Grr....
5) Something I ate during my last day in India must not have agreed with me. Those who know me know that I'm pretty open with my GI issues. Sometimes, perhaps, too open. I will limit my comments here to this: I was one of the first people off the plane in Bangkok. I hopped into the first bathroom (just off the gate) that I saw. By the time I was able to come out, the entire plane had long disembarked. Shit....
6) Bangkok's airport is my least favorite so far, ranking behind the quaint-but-lovely Wattay (Laos) and the surprisingly straightforward Chhatrapati Shivaji. I had no idea what the hell I needed to do and there was no one around to ask. I finally hopped on a very long line to speak to the ONE person manning the transfer desk for economy transfers. Until I walked away with my boarding pass, I was honestly unsure that I was even in the right place. Hooey....
7) I decided it might please my mother to hear from me so I bopped over to the payphones ready to use my toll-free Thai number to use my calling card. Except that payphones at the airport bar toll-free numbers. My calling card is now extremely useless. Better still was that I tried a number of phones before resigning myself to a collect call. The problem with that? I left my little folio of important papers (passport, boarding pass, itinerary, etc.) on top of the first phone I used. Luckily, after only about 20 seconds of complete, blind panic, I was able to recover it. Yaagaah!!
8) Due to the nonsense of 5, 6, and 7 I was unable to find Jimi at the airport...
...which brings us to Jimi! I got to my gate in Bombay and there were Indian families as far as the eye can see, until I noticed a guy, youngish and seemingly as western as yours truly. I initially posted up a little away from him (to observe) and noticed him fidgeting up a storm. He was clearly a bit nervous. I felt bad. I returned from the restroom to find the seats I had been sitting in fortuitously taken so I decided to sit across from him and introduce myself. He was SUPER excited to talk to someone and immediately told me his life story. His mother lives in Bombay with stepdad and two half-siblings. She's Parsi (he's half-Parsi like Larina...but he's, sadly, not a Parsi Jew) and he visits her most summers. He grew up living with his dad in Oklahoma City. He's planning on being a doctor and...ahem...wants to go the University of Washington.
Yeah...I chatted up another 16-year-old.
At least he didn't make a face when I revealed my age like Hannah did (although she quickly apologized). He asked me if I wanted to hang out when we got to Bangkok since he also had a stopover of a few hours. He even came to find me on the plane (we exchanged seat numbers) to say hi. Unfortunately, due to my aforementioned issues at the airport, it wasn't to be.
(I was not trying to get with him, you nasty, despicable people. It was just nice not to hang out alone.)
[Before I begin, I just want to give a big shout out to my Bombay homies: Sarada was the bestest hostess a boy a could ask for and a super trooper for running around with my touristy ass even while sick with the plague. Kristen made a perfect Karen Allen to my India Jones (and took no guff from the Bombay taxi drivers). Blondie Bear is the yin to my yang (and the ideal drinking partner). No one has ever affected me more than Jason. He completely and irrevocably changed the way I speak. Finally, I consider Parag's unexpected dinner crooning to be one of the highlights of my life. I look forward to seeing y'all in Boston when we all return to the states. Definitely count me in for the screening of your Bollywood debut.]
After a delightful tea (and food...and more food) with the ladies who run the organization that the KSG-ers were working with, I hopped in a cab for the airport. It took just shy of two hours to reach the airport. The traffic was terrible. Once at the airport, my taxi driver, who had flipped the meter on my request at the beginning of the voyage, decided to ask for a flat fee. Oh hell no. He wanted 350 rupees for a metered fare of around 250. When I asked for the card (the meters don't tell you the actual fare, you have to ask for the conversion card to figure that out) he got all pissy with me and whined about the excessive traffic. I tipped him well anyway (gave him 300 roops total) but this mild annoyance would pretty much set the tone for my voyage (minus my Jimi oasis, but more on that in a sec). I feel a list coming on....
1) I attempted to buy a bottle of water outside of the airport. I was asked for 20 roops (totally reasonable) but had nothing smaller than a 50-roop note. They had no change. Water inside the airport then cost me 40 roops. Meh....
2) Even though I was flying THROUGH Bangkok (and not leaving the airport) and even though both flights were officially THAI, I was not allowed to check in all the way through. Also, after having that discussion, I forgot to ask for an aisle seat. Bah....
3) I boarded my flight hoping that I'd have a plane with screens in the seatbacks but no dice. I also had a window seat (which I don't enjoy at all). Worse still, I was surrounded by a family. Small child in front of me, mother next to him, doting (read annoying) father next to me. Dad checked on child and mom approximately every 5-10 minutes. He also enjoyed sitting with his knees very far apart. Argh....
4) I was enjoying High School Musical (inexplicably the in-flight movie) when a fat dude decided to post up in the aisle to chat with his friend. RIGHT IN FRONT of the screen. I had to watch the end of this Disney Channel-tastic film out of the corner of my eye on one of those little midway screens. Grr....
5) Something I ate during my last day in India must not have agreed with me. Those who know me know that I'm pretty open with my GI issues. Sometimes, perhaps, too open. I will limit my comments here to this: I was one of the first people off the plane in Bangkok. I hopped into the first bathroom (just off the gate) that I saw. By the time I was able to come out, the entire plane had long disembarked. Shit....
6) Bangkok's airport is my least favorite so far, ranking behind the quaint-but-lovely Wattay (Laos) and the surprisingly straightforward Chhatrapati Shivaji. I had no idea what the hell I needed to do and there was no one around to ask. I finally hopped on a very long line to speak to the ONE person manning the transfer desk for economy transfers. Until I walked away with my boarding pass, I was honestly unsure that I was even in the right place. Hooey....
7) I decided it might please my mother to hear from me so I bopped over to the payphones ready to use my toll-free Thai number to use my calling card. Except that payphones at the airport bar toll-free numbers. My calling card is now extremely useless. Better still was that I tried a number of phones before resigning myself to a collect call. The problem with that? I left my little folio of important papers (passport, boarding pass, itinerary, etc.) on top of the first phone I used. Luckily, after only about 20 seconds of complete, blind panic, I was able to recover it. Yaagaah!!
8) Due to the nonsense of 5, 6, and 7 I was unable to find Jimi at the airport...
...which brings us to Jimi! I got to my gate in Bombay and there were Indian families as far as the eye can see, until I noticed a guy, youngish and seemingly as western as yours truly. I initially posted up a little away from him (to observe) and noticed him fidgeting up a storm. He was clearly a bit nervous. I felt bad. I returned from the restroom to find the seats I had been sitting in fortuitously taken so I decided to sit across from him and introduce myself. He was SUPER excited to talk to someone and immediately told me his life story. His mother lives in Bombay with stepdad and two half-siblings. She's Parsi (he's half-Parsi like Larina...but he's, sadly, not a Parsi Jew) and he visits her most summers. He grew up living with his dad in Oklahoma City. He's planning on being a doctor and...ahem...wants to go the University of Washington.
Yeah...I chatted up another 16-year-old.
At least he didn't make a face when I revealed my age like Hannah did (although she quickly apologized). He asked me if I wanted to hang out when we got to Bangkok since he also had a stopover of a few hours. He even came to find me on the plane (we exchanged seat numbers) to say hi. Unfortunately, due to my aforementioned issues at the airport, it wasn't to be.
(I was not trying to get with him, you nasty, despicable people. It was just nice not to hang out alone.)
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Salaam Bombay!
Today ends my visit in the one-of-kind city of Bombay. I'm actually rather sad to go. Kristen and I never did get out to Elephanta Island and it feels like I could shop for at least another 3-4 days. Oh well. The KSG-ers had their presentation to the Bombay city council yesterday, so we hit the town in style to celebrate afterward. A terrific seafood dinner at Trishna was followed up with some partying at Red Light. The girls had to talk us in. Yes, it was because of the excessive males, but not exactly how you think. In Bombay (perhaps all of India?) only couples are allowed to go out. In an effort to prevent moral turpitude, single men ("stags") and women ("lady stags") are either completely banned from clubs or forced to pay couple cover charges (in other words, double). Luckily, at Red Light last night at least, American women were allowed two boyfriends each. Good deal.
I got really hammered and then ended up back at the boys' pad where we drank some more and watched "Wedding Crashers." Not unlike a typical weekend in the States actually. Except that this time, when I awoke from my rather typical passing out, I had to wake up a cab driver sleeping in his car to take me home. Thankfully, Dennis, my Blondie Bear (of course I gave him a nickname), was nice enough to accompany me to make sure I got home since Sarada had gone to bed hours earlier. (Not that I wouldn't have made it alone. I rule these streets.)
So, tonight at 11:25pm, I'll board a THAI (Thai Airways International) flight to Bangkok and then, after a few hours stopover, I have another THAI flight to Vientiane, Laos. There, my instructions are to hop in a cab and ask to be taken to Namphu. Apparently it's a fountain. Once there, I must seek out first the Joma Cafe and, if that is closed, the Scandinavian Bakery (no joke) to find my next travelmates, Chris M. and his friend John. I'll let you decide for yourselves the chances that I don't eff this up some how.
I must go attempt to book a flight to Chiang Mai that Adam wants me to be on. Hopefully the damn THAI website will actually be working (it hasn't been the last hour or so). I'll do my best to check in from Laos (where Chris is expecting me to board a 15-passenger plane to go see the Plain of Jars) but my next post might not be until I return to Bangkok on the 14th.
I got really hammered and then ended up back at the boys' pad where we drank some more and watched "Wedding Crashers." Not unlike a typical weekend in the States actually. Except that this time, when I awoke from my rather typical passing out, I had to wake up a cab driver sleeping in his car to take me home. Thankfully, Dennis, my Blondie Bear (of course I gave him a nickname), was nice enough to accompany me to make sure I got home since Sarada had gone to bed hours earlier. (Not that I wouldn't have made it alone. I rule these streets.)
So, tonight at 11:25pm, I'll board a THAI (Thai Airways International) flight to Bangkok and then, after a few hours stopover, I have another THAI flight to Vientiane, Laos. There, my instructions are to hop in a cab and ask to be taken to Namphu. Apparently it's a fountain. Once there, I must seek out first the Joma Cafe and, if that is closed, the Scandinavian Bakery (no joke) to find my next travelmates, Chris M. and his friend John. I'll let you decide for yourselves the chances that I don't eff this up some how.
I must go attempt to book a flight to Chiang Mai that Adam wants me to be on. Hopefully the damn THAI website will actually be working (it hasn't been the last hour or so). I'll do my best to check in from Laos (where Chris is expecting me to board a 15-passenger plane to go see the Plain of Jars) but my next post might not be until I return to Bangkok on the 14th.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Welcome to...the TerenZone!
Call me flighty, but when Tingb suggested this new name for my blog, I couldn't resist.
(Also, Kristen just read my post about the caves and wanted to make sure that I told everyone about the monkeys we saw screwing. It was a definite highlight.)
(Also, Kristen just read my post about the caves and wanted to make sure that I told everyone about the monkeys we saw screwing. It was a definite highlight.)
Swiss Mister
While chatting with Victor over Gtalk (his insomnia meshes well with my 10.5 hour time difference), the topic of how foreigners perceive Americans came up. I immediately thought back to Clement, our Swiss friend at the sketchy bar from Friday night. I've been really conscious of the white people (note: I've also seen a handful of African and East [why did no one mention that this said EASY Asian tourists for a few days? Is no one reading?] Asian tourists around, but not many) I encounter in this country. I suppose this might be a byproduct of this being my first trip to a country where I'm a racial minority. Whenever I spot a white person, I mumble, "Hello white woman/man!" under my breath. This amuses my friends. Anyway, on Friday, when Clement (which looks less sexy on screen than it sounded when he said, "Cleh-MONT," so let's call him Hottie McGenevapants - or HMcG - for the remainder of this post) walked into the random bar looking a bit lost, Dennis and I took pity on him and called him over.
After making it clear that, while he spoke French, he was Swiss not French, we spoke at length about Americans and Europeans. He started off rather diplomatically by pointing out that Americans aren't well traveled. He was clearly prepared for this conversation and whipped out a statistic that only 20% of Americans have a passport (haven't fact-checked it, but I'm not surprised...almost sounds a bit high). As he loosened up a bit (big bottles of Kingfisher will do that to you), he started telling us about some of the stupid Americans he encountered on his travels including, if I got his Frenglish correct, a group that he convinced to jump into the Mekong River. (He quickly informed us that we were not stupid Americans, but that rarest breed: "Good Americans.") He also said that many Europeans didn't understand how we could have elected such a bad president. I told him that I wondered the same thing. Dennis and I did our best to explain that our country was quite large and that many people (particularly from the center) didn't really consider things on a global scale. Interestingly enough, HMcG countered that the government should enable people to travel abroad more. He spoke at length of how, in his country, everyone has a place to live and everyone can go to the doctor whenever necessary. He admitted freely that freeloaders (mostly characterized as alcoholics and drug addicts by HMcG) did happen, but the benefit to the entire nation made it worth it. I guess avoiding HMO co-pays probably would free up some dough for vacations.
More interesting than his thoughts on Americans (which, let's face it, aren't terribly surprising) was his assessment of other Europeans. Paraphrasing him: "So I am Swiss. And the Swiss don't like the Germans. And the Germans don't like the Italians. And the Italians don't like the Swiss. And no one likes the French because they are arrogant. But, we all like each other anyway because we are all European." In other words, a crappy neighbor will beat out an out-of-towner any day. (The evil you know?) Apparently, non-Europeans prefer Euros over Americans as well. At Bombay's hyper-exclusive Privee' on Sunday, I was chatting up an Indian woman of perhaps my age or a few years older. She knew I was American. In our conversation, her trips to Europe came up and I mentioned that I spent all my summers in Italy growing up. When she inquired further, I explained my Italian parents and upbringing and she was suddenly thrilled. She pointed out that I was practically European and explained to me that while there's "nothing wrong" with Americans, Europeans are just "so much more cultured." When I asked her to expound on that, she pointed to the richness of history in Europe and the opportunities to travel the continent.
What have I learned from my admittedly meager interactions with foreigners? Well, it seems that stereotypes of Americans are alive and well. It seems like we need to get out more as a nation. When we do travel, we have to resist letting attractive Swiss men (mmm...HMcG...) convince us to jump into Asian rivers. We need to elect a president that isn't internationally considered, at best, a joke and, at worst, a dangerous influence on global politics. Finally, I would say, those of us who DO travel need to remind the world, diplomatically and with the utmost respect, that Americans can be cultured, polite, worldly, and intelligent. So get on it, people. Book a trip and start dismantling the "stupid American" stereotype. But don't worry about Southeast Asia. I've got a crack team of American intellectuals on it starting next week.
Unless we end up like Claire Danes in Brokedown Palace ("[Bangs hand against cell bars.] I didn't do it!"). In which case, you all have an excuse to take a trip to the region!
After making it clear that, while he spoke French, he was Swiss not French, we spoke at length about Americans and Europeans. He started off rather diplomatically by pointing out that Americans aren't well traveled. He was clearly prepared for this conversation and whipped out a statistic that only 20% of Americans have a passport (haven't fact-checked it, but I'm not surprised...almost sounds a bit high). As he loosened up a bit (big bottles of Kingfisher will do that to you), he started telling us about some of the stupid Americans he encountered on his travels including, if I got his Frenglish correct, a group that he convinced to jump into the Mekong River. (He quickly informed us that we were not stupid Americans, but that rarest breed: "Good Americans.") He also said that many Europeans didn't understand how we could have elected such a bad president. I told him that I wondered the same thing. Dennis and I did our best to explain that our country was quite large and that many people (particularly from the center) didn't really consider things on a global scale. Interestingly enough, HMcG countered that the government should enable people to travel abroad more. He spoke at length of how, in his country, everyone has a place to live and everyone can go to the doctor whenever necessary. He admitted freely that freeloaders (mostly characterized as alcoholics and drug addicts by HMcG) did happen, but the benefit to the entire nation made it worth it. I guess avoiding HMO co-pays probably would free up some dough for vacations.
More interesting than his thoughts on Americans (which, let's face it, aren't terribly surprising) was his assessment of other Europeans. Paraphrasing him: "So I am Swiss. And the Swiss don't like the Germans. And the Germans don't like the Italians. And the Italians don't like the Swiss. And no one likes the French because they are arrogant. But, we all like each other anyway because we are all European." In other words, a crappy neighbor will beat out an out-of-towner any day. (The evil you know?) Apparently, non-Europeans prefer Euros over Americans as well. At Bombay's hyper-exclusive Privee' on Sunday, I was chatting up an Indian woman of perhaps my age or a few years older. She knew I was American. In our conversation, her trips to Europe came up and I mentioned that I spent all my summers in Italy growing up. When she inquired further, I explained my Italian parents and upbringing and she was suddenly thrilled. She pointed out that I was practically European and explained to me that while there's "nothing wrong" with Americans, Europeans are just "so much more cultured." When I asked her to expound on that, she pointed to the richness of history in Europe and the opportunities to travel the continent.
What have I learned from my admittedly meager interactions with foreigners? Well, it seems that stereotypes of Americans are alive and well. It seems like we need to get out more as a nation. When we do travel, we have to resist letting attractive Swiss men (mmm...HMcG...) convince us to jump into Asian rivers. We need to elect a president that isn't internationally considered, at best, a joke and, at worst, a dangerous influence on global politics. Finally, I would say, those of us who DO travel need to remind the world, diplomatically and with the utmost respect, that Americans can be cultured, polite, worldly, and intelligent. So get on it, people. Book a trip and start dismantling the "stupid American" stereotype. But don't worry about Southeast Asia. I've got a crack team of American intellectuals on it starting next week.
Unless we end up like Claire Danes in Brokedown Palace ("[Bangs hand against cell bars.] I didn't do it!"). In which case, you all have an excuse to take a trip to the region!
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
Raiders of the Lost Park
IT WASN'T RAINING THIS MORNING! After recovering from the shock, I met up with Kristen and we embarked on a little day trip to the northernmost part of Bombay. In the middle of Sanjay Gupta National Park are the Kanheri Caves: 109 1st-century Buddhist rock-cut cave temples. Many of the carvings in the caves were destroyed by encroachers (I think the Portuguese) and others over the years, but now it's a government-protected site and a tourist attraction. As recommended by our guidebook, Kristen and I hopped a cab down to Churchgate Station for the train ride (yes, I took the train...yes, I know about the bombings...yes, I'll kill anyone who tells my mother) up to Borivali Station. From there, the guidebook told us that we would have to take an "all-areas" taxi (as opposed to the regular taxis) to the park and into the caves.
Buying the ticket and finding the right train was easy. We opted for the First Class car on the way up. The ticket cost 104 roops (as Sarada and her friend term rupees...remember this number). The ride up was nice except that the express train we were on started making local stops suddenly and threw us off our count of stations so we got off at the wrong one. No bigs, we were able to hop back on. At the correct station, we found the single-color, all-areas taxis and Kristen pitted a few cab drivers against each other to get a fare closer to the one in the guidebook. Little did we know (aforementioned guidebook was silent) we would have to pay entrance fees to the park for us, the driver, and another entrance fee for the car. If we had known, we probably wouldn't have let the driver bring along his friend. Yeah, we ended up having to pay for him, too. Whatever.
It took quite a while to get to the heart of the park and the entrance to the caves. We left A-1 (we asked him his name a few times and it always sounded like the steak sauce) and his buddy at the car and proceeded up the steps to...another ticket booth. Again Lonely Planet let us down and we were forced to pay the cave entrance fee (100 roops for foreigners, 10 for Indians...sweet). Already significantly more expensive than we expected, we made our way towards the caves hoping that they'd be worth it.
And they were.
This was exactly what I was hoping my trip would be like. Kristen and I hiked all over a mountainside littered with waterfalls, caves, and Buddhist carvings. Whenever it would start really pouring, we simply took shelter in a cave and waited it out. I quickly changed out of my hiking boots and into flipflops (the first big rainfall after we got there turned most of the paths into little creeks). Bopping over wet rocks was actually easier in my Havaianas (I only bit it one time and only have a small bruise on my right wrist to show for it). I was able to impress Kristen with just how chickenshit I can be when I discovered that quite a few bats inhabit the darker caves. Sadly, we hadn't thought ahead (again, Bad Lonely Planet!) and were without a flashlight so we had to make do with some flash photography (hopefully I'll figure out how to post Kristen's pictures soon). What the guidebook did do well was point out which caves to look for (they're numbered). Cave 3 was a huge hall of columns with amazing, 2-story Buddhas carved into the entryway (pictures to follow).
Most shocking was that all this (and the seemingly ginormous national park) were within the city limits of Bombay. I almost didn't believe that the honking and people and buildings would really give way to jungle. And the caves! I felt a bit like Indiana Jones. Notably, the reality of the city has permeated even this natural wonderland. During our drive up, we passed a series of shantytowns which, while small, had found their way INTO the national park. I suppose there just isn't enough room in Bombay proper for the poor and they have found a better place in which they can attempt to survive. We certainly saw a lot of makeshift towns on the train ride out of the city.
After a few hours of exploring, we made our way back to our cab and started the trek home. This time, since we were taking the train all the way to the end (no worries of missing the station), Kristen and I decided to be adventurous and save some money. We bought 2nd Class tickets. For Kristen, this meant a pleasant ride in the Ladies Car (no men allowed). For me, it meant shoving my way onto the regular 2nd class car (the train actually began pulling away without me because I hesitated...luckily a fellow passenger took pity on me and helped me pull myself into the car). I gather from the looks that white people don't ride in that car very often, much less alone. Still, it was a neat experience and, at one point, I even got to stand in the open door of the train, like many of the young men of Bombay seem to enjoy doing. It was pretty effing cool. Just call me India Jones.
Buying the ticket and finding the right train was easy. We opted for the First Class car on the way up. The ticket cost 104 roops (as Sarada and her friend term rupees...remember this number). The ride up was nice except that the express train we were on started making local stops suddenly and threw us off our count of stations so we got off at the wrong one. No bigs, we were able to hop back on. At the correct station, we found the single-color, all-areas taxis and Kristen pitted a few cab drivers against each other to get a fare closer to the one in the guidebook. Little did we know (aforementioned guidebook was silent) we would have to pay entrance fees to the park for us, the driver, and another entrance fee for the car. If we had known, we probably wouldn't have let the driver bring along his friend. Yeah, we ended up having to pay for him, too. Whatever.
It took quite a while to get to the heart of the park and the entrance to the caves. We left A-1 (we asked him his name a few times and it always sounded like the steak sauce) and his buddy at the car and proceeded up the steps to...another ticket booth. Again Lonely Planet let us down and we were forced to pay the cave entrance fee (100 roops for foreigners, 10 for Indians...sweet). Already significantly more expensive than we expected, we made our way towards the caves hoping that they'd be worth it.
And they were.
This was exactly what I was hoping my trip would be like. Kristen and I hiked all over a mountainside littered with waterfalls, caves, and Buddhist carvings. Whenever it would start really pouring, we simply took shelter in a cave and waited it out. I quickly changed out of my hiking boots and into flipflops (the first big rainfall after we got there turned most of the paths into little creeks). Bopping over wet rocks was actually easier in my Havaianas (I only bit it one time and only have a small bruise on my right wrist to show for it). I was able to impress Kristen with just how chickenshit I can be when I discovered that quite a few bats inhabit the darker caves. Sadly, we hadn't thought ahead (again, Bad Lonely Planet!) and were without a flashlight so we had to make do with some flash photography (hopefully I'll figure out how to post Kristen's pictures soon). What the guidebook did do well was point out which caves to look for (they're numbered). Cave 3 was a huge hall of columns with amazing, 2-story Buddhas carved into the entryway (pictures to follow).
Most shocking was that all this (and the seemingly ginormous national park) were within the city limits of Bombay. I almost didn't believe that the honking and people and buildings would really give way to jungle. And the caves! I felt a bit like Indiana Jones. Notably, the reality of the city has permeated even this natural wonderland. During our drive up, we passed a series of shantytowns which, while small, had found their way INTO the national park. I suppose there just isn't enough room in Bombay proper for the poor and they have found a better place in which they can attempt to survive. We certainly saw a lot of makeshift towns on the train ride out of the city.
After a few hours of exploring, we made our way back to our cab and started the trek home. This time, since we were taking the train all the way to the end (no worries of missing the station), Kristen and I decided to be adventurous and save some money. We bought 2nd Class tickets. For Kristen, this meant a pleasant ride in the Ladies Car (no men allowed). For me, it meant shoving my way onto the regular 2nd class car (the train actually began pulling away without me because I hesitated...luckily a fellow passenger took pity on me and helped me pull myself into the car). I gather from the looks that white people don't ride in that car very often, much less alone. Still, it was a neat experience and, at one point, I even got to stand in the open door of the train, like many of the young men of Bombay seem to enjoy doing. It was pretty effing cool. Just call me India Jones.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Bopping around Bombay.
I didn't know what to expect. I had read up a bit (and spoken to Sarada) but I hadn't really figured it all out. Bombay (aka Mumbai) is the largest city in India, home to its Bollywood industry, and is considered (not to fall into the cliche of using NYC as the standard against which all cities are measured) to be the New York City of the country. I think the comparisons are apt, but it goes way, way beyond that.
Oftentimes, people tell me that NYC is "too much" for them. "Too much" usually translates to "too busy" or "too big" or "too intense." Bombay is all these things. I arrived by night and saw little during our taxi ride from Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. I noticed that a lot of the buildings looked...how best to explain it? Weathered, I guess. (But I've learned quickly not to judge a building by its exterior here. Some sort of gross looking buildings are nice to quite nice inside.) It wasn't until the next morning that Sarada and I took a 20-minute walk from her flat to the coffee shop (next door to the internet place I'm currently sitting in) where her and her fellow KSG-ers get their work done. [Quick sidebar: Sarada is here with 3 others from the Kennedy School of Government essentially researching (and offering solutions for) education and schools in Bombay. Learn more at her blog.]
That first walk was one of the most overstimulating experiences of my life. I felt like a baby pushed to his sensory limits, on the verge of crying or laughing or both. People are everywhere. As are cars (mostly taxis). Then there are buses, mopeds, some bicycles, and the errant cow. Interestingly enough, something I was expecting, the generally-ubiquitous-in-India Autorickshaw, is banned from most of the city. I was expecting the city to smell of smog (one report says that breathing Bombay's air for a week is the equivalent of smoking 2.5 packs of cigarettes) or worse, but the smells, just like the sights, are constantly changing. Exhaust turns to delicious food smells which turns to incense and then something else unplaceable but not at all unpleasant. As you walk down a street, you can see a woman hanging out with her cow followed by a Starbucks-esque coffeeshop followed by a small food stall. Turn a corner and you have a high-end restaurant, a man hawking fruit, and a blind amputee begging all within a few feet.
Besides the noises naturally made by a zillion people working/commuting/shopping/selling/begging all at once, there are the noises made by the cars of this city. Never in all my life have I heard more honking than I do in Bombay. It's constant. No one - taxi, bus, moped, or car - drives more than a few feet without sounding their horn. This is mostly because the narrow sidewalks can't really contain everyone so people often spill out to the street. I learned quickly that it's your job to get the hell out of the way because no one, particularly the cabs, will even slow down. Kristen and I joked the other day that crossing three major roads in Bombay is enough to qualify a day as full and requires a full night's rest because it's so stressful and strenuous an experience.
Still, I'm loving it. This is the busiest city I've ever seen. In the last few days, I've been to a high-end Indian restaurant, a roof-top (covered, don't worry) hotel bar, and a members-only (oh yes, I'm big pimping) nightclub for a birthday party for Larina's cousin's sister-in-law (I think I got that right...big ups to Larina for arranging that). I've also been to a Muslim shrine on the end of a jetty on the Arabian Sea (we had to hurry back when we rechecked the guidebook and noticed that we'd get stuck there at high tide), in a Raj-era teahouse, and harassed up and down the main drag of Bombay's market stalls. (Nothing has been more amusing than watching Sarada's majorly badass bargaining skills.) White people are definitely targeted for special attention by the salesmen, hawkers, and beggars here. I had a small child insistently offer to shine my flipflops at Haji Ali. (My pasty whiteness will indubitably be the subject of more than a few posts this summer.)
The worst part, I guess, is the constant rain. Kristen and I really want to go out to Elephanta Island but the ferry won't run during rain storms. After a relatively nice first day here, it's been nothing but rain, sometimes quite fierce. I've completely gotten over the constant wetness. I've worn the same pants the last few days (NO ONE wears shorts here) and roll them up. My flipflops have been perfect. Sure, it's a little gross when I need to wade or when I mistakenly step in a puddle, but you get over it quickly. I'm here to explore, not to be prissy. The lone moment of Displeased Alessandro was when my new Merrell's were turned into twin fishbowls of cholera water, but once I bought some stylish, 300-roop plastic man-sandals, I was much happier. Now it's time to bust back out into the storm to find some lunch. (I should probably eat something other than channa bathura today since I've already had it - or some other channa dish - for three or four meals already.)
Oftentimes, people tell me that NYC is "too much" for them. "Too much" usually translates to "too busy" or "too big" or "too intense." Bombay is all these things. I arrived by night and saw little during our taxi ride from Chhatrapati Shivaji International Airport. I noticed that a lot of the buildings looked...how best to explain it? Weathered, I guess. (But I've learned quickly not to judge a building by its exterior here. Some sort of gross looking buildings are nice to quite nice inside.) It wasn't until the next morning that Sarada and I took a 20-minute walk from her flat to the coffee shop (next door to the internet place I'm currently sitting in) where her and her fellow KSG-ers get their work done. [Quick sidebar: Sarada is here with 3 others from the Kennedy School of Government essentially researching (and offering solutions for) education and schools in Bombay. Learn more at her blog.]
That first walk was one of the most overstimulating experiences of my life. I felt like a baby pushed to his sensory limits, on the verge of crying or laughing or both. People are everywhere. As are cars (mostly taxis). Then there are buses, mopeds, some bicycles, and the errant cow. Interestingly enough, something I was expecting, the generally-ubiquitous-in-India Autorickshaw, is banned from most of the city. I was expecting the city to smell of smog (one report says that breathing Bombay's air for a week is the equivalent of smoking 2.5 packs of cigarettes) or worse, but the smells, just like the sights, are constantly changing. Exhaust turns to delicious food smells which turns to incense and then something else unplaceable but not at all unpleasant. As you walk down a street, you can see a woman hanging out with her cow followed by a Starbucks-esque coffeeshop followed by a small food stall. Turn a corner and you have a high-end restaurant, a man hawking fruit, and a blind amputee begging all within a few feet.
Besides the noises naturally made by a zillion people working/commuting/shopping/selling/begging all at once, there are the noises made by the cars of this city. Never in all my life have I heard more honking than I do in Bombay. It's constant. No one - taxi, bus, moped, or car - drives more than a few feet without sounding their horn. This is mostly because the narrow sidewalks can't really contain everyone so people often spill out to the street. I learned quickly that it's your job to get the hell out of the way because no one, particularly the cabs, will even slow down. Kristen and I joked the other day that crossing three major roads in Bombay is enough to qualify a day as full and requires a full night's rest because it's so stressful and strenuous an experience.
Still, I'm loving it. This is the busiest city I've ever seen. In the last few days, I've been to a high-end Indian restaurant, a roof-top (covered, don't worry) hotel bar, and a members-only (oh yes, I'm big pimping) nightclub for a birthday party for Larina's cousin's sister-in-law (I think I got that right...big ups to Larina for arranging that). I've also been to a Muslim shrine on the end of a jetty on the Arabian Sea (we had to hurry back when we rechecked the guidebook and noticed that we'd get stuck there at high tide), in a Raj-era teahouse, and harassed up and down the main drag of Bombay's market stalls. (Nothing has been more amusing than watching Sarada's majorly badass bargaining skills.) White people are definitely targeted for special attention by the salesmen, hawkers, and beggars here. I had a small child insistently offer to shine my flipflops at Haji Ali. (My pasty whiteness will indubitably be the subject of more than a few posts this summer.)
The worst part, I guess, is the constant rain. Kristen and I really want to go out to Elephanta Island but the ferry won't run during rain storms. After a relatively nice first day here, it's been nothing but rain, sometimes quite fierce. I've completely gotten over the constant wetness. I've worn the same pants the last few days (NO ONE wears shorts here) and roll them up. My flipflops have been perfect. Sure, it's a little gross when I need to wade or when I mistakenly step in a puddle, but you get over it quickly. I'm here to explore, not to be prissy. The lone moment of Displeased Alessandro was when my new Merrell's were turned into twin fishbowls of cholera water, but once I bought some stylish, 300-roop plastic man-sandals, I was much happier. Now it's time to bust back out into the storm to find some lunch. (I should probably eat something other than channa bathura today since I've already had it - or some other channa dish - for three or four meals already.)
Amsterdamnation!
UGH! Stupid blogging site just deleted an entire post. Deep sigh. I can easily retype it (it was just a transcript of a written reflection on Amsterdam that I wrote on the plane) but I really don't feel like it. Here's the short version.
Went to Amsterdam. Abandoned silly plan to check my pack at the airport and party all night and instead used my mad map skillz to track down an Easy Everything (there called the Easy Internet Cafe) and booked a hotel room. Stayed at the Golden Bear Hotel [first time trying to do the link thing, may or may not have worked -Ed.] which was spacious, clean, and reasonably priced. It was almost strange being basically alone for 24 hours after the very close summer of bar studying with everyone. I naively figured that I'd make a friend, but it wasn't to be. Checked out the Rijksmuseum (Rembrandts are pretty neat); the Homomonument (actually called that); strolled the canals (particularly neat at night when lit up); and the Red Light District (so trippy to walk past window after window featuring a primping prostitute selling her wares). I spoke to exactly no one who wasn't selling me something. I even tried my hand at a few bars, but they yielded nothing more than a reasonably priced scotch. Still, Amsterdam was a beautiful city (quite clean, too) even if I had to traipse around in the rain (rain = theme of my trip). [Bombay teen at computer next to me is listening to Kelly Clarkson on his iPod at a very high volume.]
My reflective, solitary time in Amsterdam was capped with lots of interaction at Schiphol Airport. Miss Lauren Voss was there for a stopover on her way to Prague. We were supposed to have breakfast together, but a combination of gate bait-and-switching and, perhaps, a mild, dyslexic moment on my part had me looking for her at gate D27 when she was at D57. Starving and a bit tired, I momentarily gave up trying to find her and instead ate lunch at a busy airport cafe. Since it was packed, I sat with a pretty, blonde girl (you know how I roll) who was reading a Nicholas Sparks book in German. Obviously, we struck up a convo and I found out that Hannah was on her way to MISSISSIPPI for her junior year abroad. Her junior year of high school. [The boys would have been proud.] She seemed a bit nervous (particularly about her inevitably Jesus-freakish host family and the inability of 16-year-0lds to buy cigarettes in the states) so I gave her a pep talk over my chorizo sandwich and cappucino and then went off to find Lauren. It was SUPER fun to hang with the sisters Voss for a bit (both of our flights were delayed). I then got GRILLED by airport security as I boarded my flight to Bombay. A snippet:
Badass Airport Security Gal: May I see a copy of your itinerary?
Me: My what?
BASG: Your itinerary.
Me: What do you mean?
BASG: Itinerary. Yours. A printout of it.
Me: Printout...?
BASG: Yes.
Me: Of my trip itinerary?
BASG: Yes.
Me: This leg or the whole thing?
BASG: The whole thing.
Me: Right...uhm...I don't have one. I think I WROTE IT DOWN somewhere...[rifling through my bag]. Ooh! I have a printout of my trip home from Bangkok [handing it over]? And here's my ticket from Bombay to Bangkok [also handing it over]. Ooh! Here's my flight info for this leg of my trip [showing her scribbled flight info copied from Orbitz website]....
I eventually got through. I flew in a DC-10 (only 10 still fly and they're being retired in October) to Bombay. I have never, in all my years of flying, seen more people out of their seats and milling about than on this flight. While the "fasten seatbelt" light was STILL ON. I'm not talking about 2 or 3 people, I'm saying that it seemed like a good third of the plane was up and about at any moment. As a bit of a nervous flyer, I was not amused (at first) but later couldn't help but find it a little funny. (I, in fact, was inspired to use the lavatory while the fasten seatbelt light was still on. I'm so badass.)
Went to Amsterdam. Abandoned silly plan to check my pack at the airport and party all night and instead used my mad map skillz to track down an Easy Everything (there called the Easy Internet Cafe) and booked a hotel room. Stayed at the Golden Bear Hotel [first time trying to do the link thing, may or may not have worked -Ed.] which was spacious, clean, and reasonably priced. It was almost strange being basically alone for 24 hours after the very close summer of bar studying with everyone. I naively figured that I'd make a friend, but it wasn't to be. Checked out the Rijksmuseum (Rembrandts are pretty neat); the Homomonument (actually called that); strolled the canals (particularly neat at night when lit up); and the Red Light District (so trippy to walk past window after window featuring a primping prostitute selling her wares). I spoke to exactly no one who wasn't selling me something. I even tried my hand at a few bars, but they yielded nothing more than a reasonably priced scotch. Still, Amsterdam was a beautiful city (quite clean, too) even if I had to traipse around in the rain (rain = theme of my trip). [Bombay teen at computer next to me is listening to Kelly Clarkson on his iPod at a very high volume.]
My reflective, solitary time in Amsterdam was capped with lots of interaction at Schiphol Airport. Miss Lauren Voss was there for a stopover on her way to Prague. We were supposed to have breakfast together, but a combination of gate bait-and-switching and, perhaps, a mild, dyslexic moment on my part had me looking for her at gate D27 when she was at D57. Starving and a bit tired, I momentarily gave up trying to find her and instead ate lunch at a busy airport cafe. Since it was packed, I sat with a pretty, blonde girl (you know how I roll) who was reading a Nicholas Sparks book in German. Obviously, we struck up a convo and I found out that Hannah was on her way to MISSISSIPPI for her junior year abroad. Her junior year of high school. [The boys would have been proud.] She seemed a bit nervous (particularly about her inevitably Jesus-freakish host family and the inability of 16-year-0lds to buy cigarettes in the states) so I gave her a pep talk over my chorizo sandwich and cappucino and then went off to find Lauren. It was SUPER fun to hang with the sisters Voss for a bit (both of our flights were delayed). I then got GRILLED by airport security as I boarded my flight to Bombay. A snippet:
Badass Airport Security Gal: May I see a copy of your itinerary?
Me: My what?
BASG: Your itinerary.
Me: What do you mean?
BASG: Itinerary. Yours. A printout of it.
Me: Printout...?
BASG: Yes.
Me: Of my trip itinerary?
BASG: Yes.
Me: This leg or the whole thing?
BASG: The whole thing.
Me: Right...uhm...I don't have one. I think I WROTE IT DOWN somewhere...[rifling through my bag]. Ooh! I have a printout of my trip home from Bangkok [handing it over]? And here's my ticket from Bombay to Bangkok [also handing it over]. Ooh! Here's my flight info for this leg of my trip [showing her scribbled flight info copied from Orbitz website]....
I eventually got through. I flew in a DC-10 (only 10 still fly and they're being retired in October) to Bombay. I have never, in all my years of flying, seen more people out of their seats and milling about than on this flight. While the "fasten seatbelt" light was STILL ON. I'm not talking about 2 or 3 people, I'm saying that it seemed like a good third of the plane was up and about at any moment. As a bit of a nervous flyer, I was not amused (at first) but later couldn't help but find it a little funny. (I, in fact, was inspired to use the lavatory while the fasten seatbelt light was still on. I'm so badass.)
Sunday, August 06, 2006
Color me traveling.
After a long delay mostly due to an inability to commit to a title (you'd think I was naming a child or a pet chihuahua), I finally got my act together long enough to start my blog. For the most part (or at least for now), I want to use this to write about my post-bar exam trip to India, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. I'm already most through my third day in Bombay as I type this. I will probably back-post some comments on my 23-hour stopover in Amsterdam and other highlights from my travels. Enjoy.
So, Bombay, huh? In my head, I definitely pictured hazy, hot, sunny weather. No dice. It's actually (a) quite temperate and (b) raining like a mofo. Today, as I planned what I was going to wear, I thought I'd try giving my sexy, new Goretex hiking boots a taste of the Bombayan (not sure that's correct) rain. Unfortunately, the street I'm staying on floods at the slightest rain and, within minutes of leaving the house, I was up to my shins in rainwater. The good news: the shoes are, indeed, waterproof. The bad news: that meant the water could not get out once it had gotten in by way of my ankles. Why I didn't just wear rubber flipflops like yesterday, I will never know.
I'm actually loving this city (and traveling in general) so far. Sadly, Sarada got sick right when I got here (she was rocking a 101-degree fever when she picked me up at the airport on Thursday) but I've been managing just fine hanging out with her friends. I visited the holiest Muslim shrine in the city (Haji Ali) on Friday with Sarada's co-worker (and fellow KSG-er) Jason's wife Kristen (also in town for a visit). We also did some shopping and observed wealthy Bombay teens being obnoxious at Barista, Bombay's version of Starbucks. Since then, I've spent a lot of time running around the city and even had my first real night out last night. Sarada, other coworker/KSG-er Dennis, and I went to a bar called Dome. It was tres chic (think white couches/tables, big windows, dramatic lighting) and pretty chill. Seeing that Sarada was a bit wiped after a day of shopping in the market and emporiums, Dennis and I sent her home and headed over to a shady bar nearby that my guidebook said served cheap liquor. I ordered "Green Lable" whiskey from an unnecessarily confusing menu and received a flask-sized bottle of terrible, Indian scotch. The beautiful thing was that the bottle cost me only 80 rupees (approx. $2) so I diluted it with some bottled water and enjoyed. We ended up befriending the funniest Swiss kid (more on his insights in a future post), informed a group of Indian men that, no, not all white girls were sluts, and had an all-together excellent time.
I guess that brings everyone up to date on my comings and goings in Bombay. I'll be here until Thursday (when I fly to Vientiane, Laos). I've found my time here completely fascinating and I promise more thoughtful posts in the future (topics to include: why I've decided to call Bombay Bombay and not Mumbai; why lowering the drinking age in our country would cause less traffic accidents; why Indian flyers would not have done well flying in and out of DC when the standing ban was in effect; and random thoughts on poverty, class, and waitstaff ability). Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wade home....
So, Bombay, huh? In my head, I definitely pictured hazy, hot, sunny weather. No dice. It's actually (a) quite temperate and (b) raining like a mofo. Today, as I planned what I was going to wear, I thought I'd try giving my sexy, new Goretex hiking boots a taste of the Bombayan (not sure that's correct) rain. Unfortunately, the street I'm staying on floods at the slightest rain and, within minutes of leaving the house, I was up to my shins in rainwater. The good news: the shoes are, indeed, waterproof. The bad news: that meant the water could not get out once it had gotten in by way of my ankles. Why I didn't just wear rubber flipflops like yesterday, I will never know.
I'm actually loving this city (and traveling in general) so far. Sadly, Sarada got sick right when I got here (she was rocking a 101-degree fever when she picked me up at the airport on Thursday) but I've been managing just fine hanging out with her friends. I visited the holiest Muslim shrine in the city (Haji Ali) on Friday with Sarada's co-worker (and fellow KSG-er) Jason's wife Kristen (also in town for a visit). We also did some shopping and observed wealthy Bombay teens being obnoxious at Barista, Bombay's version of Starbucks. Since then, I've spent a lot of time running around the city and even had my first real night out last night. Sarada, other coworker/KSG-er Dennis, and I went to a bar called Dome. It was tres chic (think white couches/tables, big windows, dramatic lighting) and pretty chill. Seeing that Sarada was a bit wiped after a day of shopping in the market and emporiums, Dennis and I sent her home and headed over to a shady bar nearby that my guidebook said served cheap liquor. I ordered "Green Lable" whiskey from an unnecessarily confusing menu and received a flask-sized bottle of terrible, Indian scotch. The beautiful thing was that the bottle cost me only 80 rupees (approx. $2) so I diluted it with some bottled water and enjoyed. We ended up befriending the funniest Swiss kid (more on his insights in a future post), informed a group of Indian men that, no, not all white girls were sluts, and had an all-together excellent time.
I guess that brings everyone up to date on my comings and goings in Bombay. I'll be here until Thursday (when I fly to Vientiane, Laos). I've found my time here completely fascinating and I promise more thoughtful posts in the future (topics to include: why I've decided to call Bombay Bombay and not Mumbai; why lowering the drinking age in our country would cause less traffic accidents; why Indian flyers would not have done well flying in and out of DC when the standing ban was in effect; and random thoughts on poverty, class, and waitstaff ability). Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to wade home....
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