This Must Be Just Like Living In Paradise

March 24
Pelau Perhentian Kecil


Maya Guest Chalet is tripadvisor's highest rated place to stay on Pelau Kecil, the smaller and more “vibey” island I'm on. However, Matahari, where I spent my first night, is also their #2 highest rated spot, and that place sucked. Maya had a room that was probably around 12 bucks, with only a fan, way back against the jungle. I guessed it had to be better than my current situation (there was no bog of stench and no squatters for starters), but I still wanted a room with minimal chance of uninvited guests, i.e. screens or air conditioning. I checked out this place at the end of the beach called Senja. Its ratings were iffy but they had a room with air con which meant windows could stay closed. That factor, added to the handful of wooden lounge chairs on the beach, sold me. It was a smaller and less scenic beach, and the sand was mixed with tons of dead coral, but it was mellow and pretty and the water was calmer than the other side. I took the room sight unseen.

I practically raced back to Long Beach to pack my stuff and check out. I decided the walk was too long and my bags too heavy and the 9 AM sun already too hot to walk the 10 minutes (surely to be 20 to 30 painful minutes with the extra weight of 2 bags). I would just pay a watertaxi guy to cart me to the other side.

Lonely Planet said it would be an easy and cheap excursion. They lied. This was the straw that broke the camel's back (or rather, the backpacker's back, as mine is way too heavy). All the taxi stand guys - and there are usually 7 or so of them hanging around under a tarp doing nothing - also run snorkel tours, rent you gear, work at the restaurants, sell pringles and could probably get you drugs if you wanted them, despite the mandatory death penalty. They all have signs posting the rates (all said 10 ringets to get from Long Beach to Coral Bay, where I was headed). First dude said 20 ringets. I questioned him why, pointing out that the sign says 10. Because I was alone, naturally. God forbid he burn too much petrol on one person. I tried to get him to 15. And that's when it started. This skinny, black-toothed little jerk just said “you walk,” and left. I was floored. I went up to another taxi guy, who tried to get me for 30 ringets and I told him he was nuts. Why would I pay triple? Double, maybe. He then did the most incensing thing anyone can do – he was 4 inches from my face and he just shut down and started hammering his sign. I was mid sentence and he just pretended I was invisible. Flat out ignored me. I almost grabbed the hammer from his hand, and had a mind to throw it down on his skull, but instead demanded to know what the hell was wrong with him and why was he ignoring me? (I was more than sure the answer had something to do with. my gender and nationality actually challenging him.) Moreover, why was he ignoring a fare? People were not exactly lining up to go anywhere here. I'd probably be 1 of 2 fares he'd have all day. He simply replied “don't like attitude.” I had not started with an attitude, it surfaced once he started ignoring me. But apparently the black toothed bastard was running up and down the beach telling all his friends not to take me anywhere. I tried my luck with one more guy. After I pointed out that his reasoning to charge me half the price if I'd found another person to take the ride was incorrect, because I would still have my heavy bags so he would be taking less money to haul more weight, he also just started ignoring me. “You can walk.” “I'm willing to hire you to do your job and you're stupidly refusing the only fare you'll make all day?” “Not my problem. You walk.” So I called his mother a whore, cursed out the fat guy with the hammer and said the most obscene thing I could think of to the skinny guy with the black teeth who'd sabotaged my trip. (In actuality, I probably did less to offend them and more to propagate my own stereotype, which is of course a loose, American hooker with a big mouth. But it will never be in my nature to turn the other cheek.)

I was so angry I was in tears, and I sat down at a cafe for a minute. The waiter asked me what was going on and I told him I just needed a goddam ride to the other side of the island. Could he help? Of course he was also a taxi dispatcher and could get me to Coral Bay. I still paid triple the regular price, but at least he wasn't a total prick (who knows, maybe he was but at least he was smart enough to make a buck). He took my 25 ringets and pointed to the boat. He of course was not the driver after all, and wanted to have the initial black teeth guy drive me. I said no way and the entire beach started laughing. I demanded my money back until I was assigned 2 seven year olds to take my bags and me to the other side. They repeatedly drenched me on purpose and went so fast I thought I'd surely be thrown from the boat, and naturally made me wade out to my shoulders to get on board.

I vowed not to set foot on another water taxi or go back to Long Beach for the next 7 days, and I haven't. I refused to even get on a snorkel boat, which I kind of regret, as it's supposed to be some of the best in the world. But I also did not want to go out to swim with black tipped sharks the size of me with a bunch of strangers. Just didn't sound fun. The strangers here have remained strange, which is a shame. I'm sure I am the only American in town, surrounded by mostly Scandinavians, a handful of Germans, Australians and some English dudes. The couples int their '60s are friendly, the young people are not. I've sat next to this Swedish couple on the beach who look like Barbie and Ken, can't be a day over 19, and are so tan they will have skin cancer by the time they are 25. They have not said one word to me in 6 days. One day while I was having lunch, 2 English dudes started to make conversation. They were the first people I'd talked to in 2 days. I thought they might join me. It looked as if they were going to sit down. One grabbed a chair, then stopped talking mid-sentence, walked right past me and plopped his chair down at the table with the two 20-something bikini-clad German girls next to me. Their conversation was nauseating, with vague sentences like “I'm in international business, buying and selling.” Translate: you're a drug dealer. “You're too beautiful to be anything but German; German women are the finest breed.” Breed? These girls either had brain damage, really wanted a free meal, or were going to sleep with the guys and rob them blind. I hoped it was the latter. The service is horrendous; my room has not been visited by a “resort” member once in 6 nights. I had to ask for toilet paper and clean towels. Once, I asked for ice when given a warm diet coke. The girl looked at me as if I'd spoken to her an an African clicking language. Maybe I'm spoiled, but I don't think anybody likes warm diet coke. And so it's been for a week.

I've spent my days sitting on the beach until about 2, when my malaria meds make it impossible to even go in the sun unless you want to endure what feels like an all over singe from a hot iron. There are no umbrellas here, so unless you find the shade of that one coveted palm tree, you go sit on your porch in the shade until sunset. I've read 4 books, battled giant geckos and spiders, eaten some pretty crappy food, pined for a glass of wine (only beer and local moonshine is available, and it's hidden in some shady suntan lotion shop on the other side of the island), swam in the crystal clear water (which really is beautiful) and wondered why so many people think this place is the end all be all. If you're a diver, which most people are not, then it makes sense. But it's not a party town, and it's not cheap like Thailand, so I don't get the backpacker appeal. The food is all the same, and none of it is haute cuisine. There is no alcohol, at least it is illegal to advertise having it. So it's not a high end destination either. If I had my friends, a lizard poacher, window screens and a private chef, it could be paradise. But I'd take Baie Rouge in St. Martin any day over this. Hell, I'd probably even take Beach Haven, NJ.

Today I leave this so-called paradise on another harrowing speedboat ride, followed by a 7 hour wait at the 1 room airport, followed by what I'm sure is another bad hotel somewhere near Kuala Lumpur. Tomorrow, I go to Calcutta. Something tells me that all up till now, I've been wading in the shallows. I'm about to be thrown into the deep end.

PS – Jesus had it right when he turned water not into more water, but into wine. Mohammed and everyone who follows him could use a stiff drink. I know I sure could. Maybe JC could take the Prophet out for happy hour. Might just solve a few problems.

People Under The Stairs

March 23, 2010
Kota Bharu to Pulau Perhentian Kecil

I left for the airport mildly recovered from an uneasy few days in KL, not exactly sure what to expect. I hoped it would be good, and had heard great things about the Perhentian Islands, but was not holding my breath. What followed was a series of what can only be described as calamities, custom made for me. (I should note that I don't particularly like bugs or boats, and that I have a severe intolerance for assholes.)

Air Asia is very similar to Jet Blue: no first or business class, no meals, no frills. They don't even offer you complimentary water, hence allowing for relatively cheap fares across Asia and beyond. They encourage you to pre-book your meal online, since it's 20% cheaper and means you'll be served first, as well as guarantees you'll get what you want. My flight from KL to Kota Bharu was around 10:30 AM. Since I'd grown accustomed to eating meats, rice and noodles for breakfast, and there were no “breakfast” items on offer, I ordered the seemingly benign chicken satay. A record 4 minutes after takeoff, the flight attendant handed me my meal. In an ever astounding portrayal of the “no frills” model, my hands were scalded as she placed the piping hot e-z foil plate into them. They don't even use trays on Air Asia. A fishy odor tore through the cabin, and I couldn't help but wonder who on earth would order such a putrid dish in an enclosed space. Upon peeling back the lid of my meal, I sat with horror as the realization that it was my meal stinking up the joint materialized. My chicken skewers were wrapped in something I've not seen elsewhere in Asia: shrimp threads. I don't know exactly what they are or how they are made, but there were smelly heaps of them around food stalls in KL. Shrimpy chicken satay pushed aside, I figured the rice beneath was fine and put a forkful into my mouth. The immediate gagging response made me glance towards the barf bag in the seat pocket of the guy next to me, but I kept it together and forced it down. (I'd have spit it out, except napkins are a rare commodity in this part of the world. I suppose the Asians have mastered the art of not making a mess while we westerners are slovenly pigs. Either that or they just like to see us suffer.) Then I saw what appeared to be eyes staring back at me from my food. Indeed, these were millimeter sized eyes, some attached to centimeter long fish, some dislodged, dispersed throughout my rice. I thought they were flecks of black pepper at first. It was revolting. Besides chicken rice and roti canai, the food in Malaysia gets a resounding thumbs down.

The only reason white people fly to Kota Bharu is to get to the Perhentians. It's an hour long taxi ride from the airport to the ferry (or in my unlucky case, speedboat) dock, through farmland. None of the ride is highway, just twists, turns, villages, local roads. All of the white people on my flight disappeared before I could try and share a taxi with any of them, so I was riding solo. The thought crossed my mind that if something happened to me out here, I'd be screwed. Outside of the capital, (maybe in Penang, but certainly not where I was) people don't speak English. This was apparent when my driver managed to say something along the lines of “Me, mother, father, USA.”
“Oh, your parents live in the US?” I tried to make conversation.
“Yes.”
“What part? For how long?”
“Yes.”
“No, I mean where? New York? Los Angeles? Washington D.C.?”
“Yes.”
I stopped there. This guy did not know what the hell he was talking about. While I wasn't worried, per say, I would be relieved when we arrived at the ferry terminal.

Happy to see a few other white people, I planted myself next to another solo female traveler and chatted with her for awhile. She was Danish, was on business, reviewing a resort on the island I was not visiting (there are 2), said it was a nice place as she'd been before, and that I would probably have a good time. She wasn't ultra friendly, though, so my hopes of meeting her for dinner at her dive (as in diving, not low budget) resort were quickly squashed. There was German guy, who I talked to about a couple of places to stay, until his non-English speaking girlfriend grunted at me and ended our conversation. A couple of other Europeans rounded out the bunch as we were paraded over to the docks, where we proceeded to wait for another 45 minutes for the boat to arrive. And here's where things got interesting – or incensing, take your pick.

We, along with our luggage and some local family who materialized out of nowhere, were piled onto this rinky dink speedboat that comfortably sat 10. We were 12. Our bags, all of them heavy and large, were carried onto the boat by none other than ourselves (I've been on a lot of boats and you always at least hand the dude on the boat your pack, then get on it yourself. Not the case here. No help whatsoever, not even an outreached hand.). We were ordered to sit where they wanted us to, given life vests, asked our destination and off we went. I wasn't feeling too confident in our 2 skippers, who looked to be anywhere from the ages of 16-20. They both had a seedy look about them and spoke zero English, or at least pretended that was the case. The ride was approximately 30 minutes of hell. These little shit kids decided to gun it across the southern South China Sea at full throttle for the duration of the ride, no matter current or wave size. This meant unfortunately for those of us at the front of the boat, that as the vessel went airborne then mercilessly slapped down on the water's surface, you bounced off your chair only to land painfully. One guy hit his head on the roof. My neck cracked on one of the particularly hard landings and hurt for the next three days. Nobody spoke. Everybody looked terrified. I sat in a deadlocked stare with the boat kid who wasn't driving. He shot me a maniacal grin every time he saw me wince at a hard landing. Then he took out his knife and started playing with it, a move that made me start laughing uncontrollably (the German guy saw it; everybody else thought I was nuts). Unless he had pirate friends nearby (actually, probably a possibility in these waters), if he had tried to use that knife on anyone, we'd all have drowned him and his counterpart in seconds. Nobody was enjoying being fucked with, which is exactly what these kids were doing.

Once at the islands, we were greeted by a tiny skiff with a motor and had to do a mid-sea transfer (actually it was probably only 25 feet from shore, but still somewhat deep) since the speedboat couldn't or more likely wouldn't make it all the way to shore. I felt relieved to be getting off the ride from hell until I saw our 8 year old new driver allow 6 of us to throw our 30+ kilo packs into the 4 person boat, then instruct all of us to climb on board as well. He proceeded to speed us to shore not without making 2 unnecessary and completely arrogant turns that drenched us all to the bone, passport and cash included. Luckily' I'd lined my bags with plastic before leaving, so my packed clothes and electronics remained dry. He then demanded 2 ringets from each of us. We all started screaming at him that we'd paid already and were simply not paying anymore, but then I saw all his older cronies on the beach and knew I was stranded here unless I ponied up. We all relented. He anchored the boat just far enough from the shore that we all had to wade, with our bags held high, through waist deep water to the beach. Drenched, hot, sandy and uncomfortable with bags strapped to both my back and front, I was getting more pissed off by the second.

Luckily one of the places (my 4th or so choice) had a room. They are called chalets here, and they are anything but. This was a bungalow, alright, but it certainly did not resemble anything like the cute ones that line the shore in Ortley Beach. This was a non-air conditioned, no screen structure that had a double bed, a mosquito net, and a bathroom. No hot water and no power between the hours of 7AM and 7PM. I was too exhausted to lug my bags anywhere else, so I signed on for a single night hoping that I'd make it through, and that some other accommodation would become available the next day. I should mention that these islands are thick, dense jungle right up to the beach. That means critters. Not my strong suit.

The walls were made of rotting wood and the room was sweltering. While there were no screens, there were bars on the windows, so I opened them and hoped my stuff wouldn't be stolen. I spent a few hours on the beach, took a cold shower and went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. None of these chalets have TVs, so most guest houses play movies around dinner time. I had the privilege of watching some Samuel Jackson & Ed Harris cop flick that I don't think was even released in the States, then went back to my room with fear. On the porch was some giant thing that looked like a wrapped, stuffed lotus leaf. I stamped my foot and it revealed wings to be the size of my head and flew off. Terrified, I opened the door to the room. Next to the bed on the wall were 2 giant cockroaches, frozen by the light. They were too big for me to even try to kill them. I kept tapping the wall until they crawled inside of the rotting wood, which didn't make me feel exactly relaxed. There was what I think is called a stick bug on the wall, something that looked like a leaf, and a couple of small geckos. It was way too hot to shut the windows, so I cranked the fan as high as it would go, crawled under the mosquito net, doused myself in enough Deet to kill small animals and texted my friends in horror until I fell asleep, with the lights on.

I had heard odd noises throughout the night, in the roof and below the floor. I assumed they were rats, and actually prayed that they would not enter my sleeping chambers. When I awoke the next morning, I discovered and entire family (and I mean mom, dad, uncles, 6 kids and grandma and her cousin) was living under my bungalow. There were pots and pans hanging from the foundation, a make shift hot plate/fire cooking area, a bamboo mat in the dirt. No wonder it smelled of sewage, I had been sleeping above a communal out house. I attempted to descend the porch stairs to be stopped by a mother washing her naked child in the faucet placed there for me to wash the sand off my feet. I said good morning and she looked at me like I was an alien. I wondered if I'd dreamed that I actually paid money to sleep here? Not to mention who were these tremendously unfriendly people living under my bungalow? Thieves, no doubt. There was a ton of theft on the island because all the locals knew all visitors had a ton of cash, as there are no banks. I locked up all of my belongings as tightly as possible and even wrapped them in duct tape when I went out.

I was pretty aggravated and had not slept very well. I went to breakfast and asked where the path to the other, less crowded side of the island was. Just as I got to the part where the dirt road narrowed and headed into the jungle, I was paralyzed by a giant monitor lizard – probably 3 feet long including its tail and a face big enough to bite my foot off – crossing right in front of me. Those things bite and are nasty. I waited until I heard it rustling around in the underbrush a sufficient distance away, and hurried across the island, really hoping to find a better place to stay for the next week, preferably with no surprise neighbors.

Underwhelmed

March 22, 2010
Kuala Lumpur

After two nights at the worst hotel I've ever stayed at, I needed an upgrade. I tried the Ritz Carlton, but they were sold out. I checked into my second choice, the Westin, for the night and there, I was reminded of what proper accommodation and hospitality are. Giant vats of iced tea and cucumber water greeted me in the lobby. A concierge that remembers your name. Doors held, bags brought up to your room immediately (as opposed to a 30 minute wait at my previous hotel), a room with a view, a working tea kettle, not to mention luxury items such as a a chaise lounge, separate tub and shower (genius bathroom design that I've decided my future house will feature), well stocked toiletries and mini bar and, best of all, a giant, king-sized, fluffy, 400 Egyptian cotton thread count adorned bedbug-free bed. I never wanted to leave.

Compared to where I'd been, this area of town was like night and day. I quickly surmised that I had been staying on a block that's sort of like 39th street and 10th, just as you drive out of the Lincoln Tunnel. It's got the mission on the right, Port Authority to the left, some hot dog stands, a couple of hostels, a lot of hustlers and taxi cabs, and not much else. A few blocks east, north, south or even west you'd find restaurants, subways, shopping. But, if you didn't know any better, you would not want to venture far. That's the part of Kuala Lumpur I was in for the first two nights. Now, I was on 5th avenue and 57th street. I went out to be greeted by a plethora of shopping malls and their requisite food courts. Food courts here are not a dirty word, as they turn out some pretty decent fast food, as well as house actual restaurants. I was across the street from the Short Hills Mall of KL, where the Chanel store seemed bigger than the one in Soho, complete with several very happy paying customers. In my current state of mind, I could have been persuaded to bag the rest of the trip and throw it all away on a purse. I'm not entirely sure that would have been a bad decision. But I digress. Down the road a bit was a futuristic and hectic mall dedicated solely to electronics. Then there was the sneaker floor of another mall...I got lost somewhere between a food court and rows and rows of hair salons. It was all very contemporary and money-centric. This was definitely the Kuala Lumpur people raved about.

After my afternoon mall perusal, some excellent chicken rice, a doughnut, and some pretty gnarly mint ice cream that I threw away, I retreated to the sanctuary of the Westin. I sat by the pool despite the passing thunderstorm and wet lounge chairs, ordered an overpriced glass of New Zeland sauvingon blanc, got hit on by the bartender (sorry buddy, but no dark gums for me), watched some long overdue CNN, and even considered eating dinner at the hotel's Italian restaurant (I'd just about sell my mother for a plate of rigatoni and meatballs at this point. No offense, Mom.). As I had to go out to get more cash (the islands I was headed to have no banks on them), I ended up walking through the upscale food court across the street from the hotel. Japanese caught my eye, and while a bowl of noodles wouldn't be Sunday dinner at my folks', it also would not be made from rice. Ramen noodles are made with eggs. I was unfortunately quickly slapped in the face. As I bit into my first gyoza and tasted chicken, I was transported back to where I was. They don't do pork here. Sadly, I knew my soup would have the same lack luster effect: unsatisfying and not the real thing. You just cannot effectively use something else to replicate things meant to be made with pork. I briefly considered the fact that Malaysia does not serve pork, so it wouldn't even be available for the next 10 days, and in India they (literally) feed the pigs shit, so I won't be having any there either. Not sure if they even have pigs in Nepal, so I'm really, really looking forward to Bali. I will probably start dreaming about it soon.

Back at the hotel, bright, fast and steady internet connection up and running, I attempted to secure a reservation for both my week on the Perhentians and my last night in Kuala Lumpur. Since my flight back to KL gets in late at night, I opted for an airport hotel, as I will be leaving the next day for Kolkata. Frustration instantly returned, and I discovered another reason why Kuala Lumpur will NEVER be Singapore: there are three, that's right, THREE airport hotels. And two of them were booked solid for some F1 thing. (Me: “what's that? ” Hotel: “its F1. We have no room bc of f1.” Me: "Yeah, you just mentioned. Thanks for your help, it was enlightening.”) The third is some Malaysian version of the Four Seasons, and with prices to match. I was able to book some place 16km from the airport, about which I'm a little nervous. It's meant for business travelers, and is over 100 bucks for the night, but that could mean just about anything here. I'm not so sure many women do business in this land, especially outside of KL, so who knows what I'm in for. Most likely locking the door and not showing off my tan at the pool.

As far as the islands were concerned, only 1 or 2 of the hotels have websites and nobody had gotten back to me. I called two places. One spoke zero English and hung up on me, the other one was booked. I jotted down a couple of phone numbers, took a bath and hoped I would find paradise the next day.

“Don't Let The Bedbugs Bite”

March 20, 2010
Kuala Lumpur

Kuala Lumpur: the shiny, modern, bright face of the “new” Malaysia. It's home to the Petronas Towers, Asia's Twin Towers and until 2005, the tallest buildings in the world. It is in constant competition with its neighbor Singapore to take over as Southeast Asia's international business hub. Petronas = petrol. They've got oil and they've got cash. There's real money here. Malaysia does not consider itself a developing nation, evident in the attitude of a super nice and friendly Malaysian couple I met while traveling in Laos. Their English was better than mine and they beamed with pride when I told them I was going to visit their country. More people should visit, they told me. They could not understand why they got so few western tourists compared to neighboring Thailand (in the days to come, I would be able to answer their question). They were of Chinese descent (most Malaysians are either of Chinese or Indian descent) and suggested I visit Chinatown in KL then head up to Penang to eat till my heart's content. I had considered that, and my options were to stay on the Peninsula and make my way up to Penang, visit the highlands and tea plantations along the way, maybe hit a beach or two, go to Borneo in search of orangutans, or take off for the Perhentian Islands off the northeast coast of the peninsula. After talking with other travelers, I decided on three days in KL and a week in the Perhentians. I could think of nothing better to do before going to India than sit on a remote, relaxing beach in so-called paradise.

In January I got an offer from United Airlines to use my soon to expire miles for hotel rooms. Kuala Lumpur seemed just the right place to cash them in. I knew by this part of my trip I would be ready for a room that cost more than 20 bucks, and knew a lot of the budget accommodation in town were windowless holes. I booked two nights at the Citrus Hotel, near the monorail and “walking distance” from the Petronas Towers (it wasn't). The hotel had decent reviews online and a swimming pool, an essential element when you're close to the equator. After an hour long smelly taxi ride from the airport (this guy really needed to clean his cab), and a killer headache approaching migraine status, all I wanted to do was check in and lie down. I noted that the neighborhood was a little bit off – the hotel was off the main drag, and the main drag was an empty street. But it was Saturday and I guessed this might be a business district.

Once checked in, I knew my luxury accommodation was fantasy. The lobby was in need of an overhaul and the pictures from the website did not exactly match the real thing. Check in was relatively painless though, and I got to my room which at least had a safe and a flat screen TV. The bathroom was grotty and the toilet didn't flush all that well, but it was tolerable. The wifi was “down for maintenance” whatever that means, which certainly put an immediate damper on things. I've been booking all of my accommodation based on the availability of free wireless internet.

Frustrated and in pain, I took a migraine pill and decided to take a stroll around the neighborhood. I had on long pants and a sleeveless shirt. It was ninety degrees. I've never been to a Muslim nation before, and Malaysia is a moderate one. Women are not required to cover anything by law, and other religions are tolerated. Well in this part of town, I was second guessing that moderate stance. Not 5 minutes out of my hotel I was getting cat calls, stares, one guy downright stopped me and asked me into his car (incidentally in front of a hooker hotel). Just because you can see my arms does not mean I want to go to bed with you – and it does not give you the right to think it. Even the women were looking at me with disdain. I try to be a pretty tolerant person, but after several blocks of that, my self imposed tolerance was quickly turning to hatred. I did not expect to be treated that way in such a “modern” city, and was very uncomfortable. I got a new sim card and a bottle of water and returned to my hotel, hoping their restaurant was okay because I would not be venturing out again. That's when the real fun started.

I had been without TV for a week and wanted some news. Too bad for me, CNN was also out, so I had to settle for CNBC or a channel split between repeats of American Idol and that Glee club show. I decided to make use of the amenities that were working and charge my electronics before heading off to the islands where power sources would be questionable. 10 minutes and poof! Power went out. No, problem, said the front desk, maintenance would be right up to fix it. They showed up quickly enough and reset the box. 30 minutes later, and it happened again. I asked for another room but was told that there was no need, and once again the maintenance guy came up and reset the circuit, told that it would not happen again. I was hungry and called down to room service, ordering the chicken rice. “No chicken rice.” “No chicken rice! It's only like your national dish. Fine, just send up some vegetable curry.” “No vegetable curry.” She had to be kidding me. I settled on a club sandwich and a glass of white wine. “No white wine.” If I wanted, they did have beer but it was 10 dollars a bottle. No thanks, I was not giving this hotel any more money than absolutely necessary. I'd stick with water. Luckily, I'd smuggled in a few vicodin and promptly popped one as I waited for my sandwich to arrive. A club sandwich without bacon is just turkey, mayo, lettuce and tomato. Except here, where the turkey was replaced with some smokey flavored chicken product. At least the fries were good.

Just as I was getting into an overdubbed Alien Vs Predator, the power went out a third time. It came back quickly though, so I decided to just go to sleep. I pulled back the sheets of one of the beds and inspected it again (the first thing I do when I check into any room is pull back the sheets and check the mattress seams for bugs) and there they were, 3 or 4 little bugs on the sheets. I jumped and turned to the other bed. This one had bugs on top of the comforter; I was scared to see what was underneath. I called down to the front desk and told the guy I wanted someone up in 5 minutes to move me to another room on another floor and that it better be an upgrade. All he could say was “bedbugs? Are you sure, sir?” I was moved alright, but it was a downgrade. My new fancy room had probably been outfitted in 1982, and not updated or cleaned since. I could feel the grime from the carpet soiling my feet. It smelled of mildew. The grout in the bathroom was black. Everything was a little bit moist. The TV had one channel, and it was in Malay.

The beds did not seem to have any bugs, but I was not taking any chances. I broke out the big guns: permethrin. This is heavy duty stuff, used to treat clothes, mosquito nets, tents, etc. for prolonged outdoor use such as camping or jungle trekking. It lasts several washes, and I'd treated a few items of clothes with it at home. Warnings are all over the canister to NOT use indoors, NOT get on your skin, NOT breathe in, etc. This stuff was lethal and exactly what I was looking for. I used one of my facemasks from Vietnam and sprayed down the bedding. Then I covered my body and the sheets with an extra layer of Deet for good measure. I wrapped myself tightly in a travel sheet that I'd pre-treated with permethrin, let the vicodin kick in, and tried to sleep.

The next morning, I awoke, a little worse for wear, with only a few bites on my ankle.

Leaving on a Jet Plane

March 19
Chiang Mai, Thailand

I spent my last two days in Chiang Mai cooking and eating (took a cooking class) the wonderful food here, checking out some waterfalls and the anti-climactic “highest point in Thailand” which is nothing more than a sign to which you don't even climb, and stocking up on supplies at Boots, a UK pharmacy chain and the world's greatest drug store. (They could teach Rite Aid a thing or two.) I had planned to go see a Muay Thai fight between England and Thailand, complete with topless ladyboy sideshow, but a massive thunderstorm kept me planted at my guest house, which was fine too. I packed and thought about my time in Indochina.

I've got mixed reviews. Based on what I had heard and read, both Vietnam and Laos were pretty high on my list of expectations. Laos for its soaring limestone hills and untouched beauty, Vietnam for its people, food, history and scenery. Thailand I sort of knew what to expect and was treating it more as a stopover before heading south. And Hong Kong, well...

Hong Kong was fantastic and I look forward to stopping there on my way home. It's modern, clean, efficient and has absolutely superb food. I had not one bad meal there; even the cheeseburger in the mall was good. There is something cool to see around every corner and the mountains and harbor provide a gorgeous backdrop to the skyscrapers on Hong Kong island. Stolen blackberry and all – I can't wait to get back. There is some roast goose that's got my name on it.

I had a romantic notion of Vietnam. Why, I'm not sure. Maybe from books I've read, definitely from people I've talked to, especially for the food I'd heard about. Reality rarely upholds fantasy, this we all know. Mine was shattered sometime during the long bus ride to Hue, a city I still can't wrap my head around. I live in arguably the biggest and best city in the world, and I certainly do not want to spend any of my holiday time in one that pales in comparison. It was filthy and ugly and the people weren't very nice. They continued to become less appealing as I traveled north. Vietnam also has a serious garbage problem. It's evident everywhere. The cities are littered with plastic bags, cigarette butts, dogs drinking from fetid stagnant green puddles in the street. Picturesque countrysides are polluted with trash lining the road or blocking a drain pipe. People burn their garbage creating an unpleasant stench. If the government isn't going to hire someone to clean the trash, the mentality is to just leave it or let it burn. The mentality is also one of utter laziness, such as in the waitstaff on my Ha Long Bay cruise or the bus driver who didn't want to deal with me, or the men who do absolutely nothing but sit around and drink coffee or beer all day. Saigon had real charm to it; nice enough people and great food. Nha Trang, for all my whining, was a nice, mellow town, in the way that beach towns often are. Hoi An is the best place I visited, with the prettiest beach, most unique and delicious cuisine, and a place I'd go back to. Ha Long Bay is one of the most stunning places in the world, and man could it benefit from a luxury boat, akin to those that Burt Wolf cruises through Burgundy on with the Gypsy Kings. But the government won't allow it, so shoddy service and terrible food is what you get. Still was worth it. Hanoi is filthy, ugly, polluted, cold and the people have an attitude to match. Crossing the street anywhere in the country is a real challenge, as they will hit you, but in Hanoi you get the feeling that they want to hit you. I actually cut my time in the country short by a few days because Hanoi was such a bummer. I probably should have gone to China Beach and Danang, but having driven through and seen the mega resorts being built there, I'm kind of glad I didn't. I am very glad to have spent time in Vietnam, most of it good, but am not exactly eager to go back.

Laos was tainted for me due to the cuticle clippers incident, at least Vientiane was. Luang Prabang is a timeless, enchanting town though I don't know how westerners stay there for months unless they are getting paid to do so or running from the law. It's hard to breathe because of all the smoke and the communities in the surrounding country define poverty. People die or get maimed due to all the mines and bombs that are still live. I read a statistic that Laos is the most bombed country in history, and I believe it. Luang Prabang is definitely a peaceful place, but nothing I need to see again. Lao Airlines gets my vote as the worst airline on earth. When I was leaving the country, they had my reservation to Chiang Mai marked as flown. Reason does not work with those brainwashed by their communist leaders, and the simple fact that I had no entry stamp to Thailand, nor an exit stamp from Laos on my passport did not register with 3 different people. They just stared at me dumbfounded and kept pointing at the printout that said “flown.” I tried to also reason that the flight had not left yet, so I could not have been on it. No luck there either. I had to resort to calling the main reservation line in Vientiane myself. It was a very long 30 minutes to get that one sorted. I was ready to go to a place where I was sure my emails were not being screened, and I could access Facebook and YouTube.

Chiang Mai totally surprised me. I was treating it as a 2 day resting and refueling place before heading to Malaysia; that's the only reason I built it into my itinerary. I ended up staying for 5 days, and should have stayed longer. It's a great city with modern amenities (such as paved roads and Toyota 4Runners and buses with air conditioning). People speak English beyond “you buy something!” and the food is fantastic. The markets are sparkling clean and the meat and fish is all on ice, a concept that has not yet reached the neighbors. It has most of the conveniences of Bangkok but with none of the hassle. It's definitely someplace I'd go back to.

In all, it's been a good 5 weeks. Now it's off to Malaysia, which has repeatedly been described to me as "amazing."

green curry, by hand

 

now that's a tour bus

 

ruins, chiang mai

 

 

thai coke

 

in control

 

mahout, laos

 

bird's eye view

 

over the river and through the woods

 

laos waterfall

 

Tales From The Crypt

March 17
Chiang Mai

Chiang Mai, one of the oldest areas of Siam and once boasting its own king, is rich in history, both Buddhist and political. The outlying mountains have the highest peak in Thailand and the kingdom was once a force to be reckoned with. It has more wats in a concentrated area then Bangkok, and the center of Buddhist teaching in the country, the monastic university, is here. Needless to say, the place is teeming with monks..

On my first full day in town, I I decided to take it easy, visit some of the important wats, walk around and get a feel for the place. I was pretty agendaless save for finding the Air Asia office (easily located across the street from my guest house) to change my ticket to Kuala Lumpur to an earlier date, so that I could have more time on the beach (a decision I would live to regret).

The thing about Thai cities is that the streets are not always clearly marked and maps, for the most part, are incomplete and rarely to scale. It's easy for foreigners to get lost and the tuk tuk drivers know it. So, when any farang walks around with a map in hand, there is the constant bother of “tuk tuk?” or the other, more annoying tactic, whereby the drivers fall into step with you and try to make innocent conversation, “Where you from, you like Chiang Mai? Where you go? I drive you, good price.” It is a minor nuisance, though is much less forceful here than in Vietnam, so I tried to ignore it and get on with my day, chuckling every time I was called “sir.” Must be a Thai language thing. In Laos and Vietnam, I was always called “madam.” Not sure if I liked that title either, but it beat “sir.” I'd read my map wrong and ended up in an area of town I had no desire to visit, but found an interesting wat with a monk who was on his day off , hanging out and hoping to practice his English. So I sat down and talked with him for awhile. Gotta hand it to those monks, man, they know how to study. He'd only been studying English for 18 months and he made zero mistakes. I'm not sure if he knew the subtle differences between sweet and suite, but he probably did. It was definitely a pleasant way to get lost and I did not have to hire one of the pesky tuktuk guys.

The main highlight, if you could call it that, was wat Chiang Man. It is located smack dab in the city center and its foundations date back to the 1300s (though they look more ancient than that to me). It is shaped like a pyramid and the ruins appear old enough to be in company of those in Giza. Buddha sits in alcoves on 3 of the 4 sides, high up in the air (40 stories, maybe) and is unreachable. Stairs are blocked off. He is flanked on all sides by larger than life elephants as well as fire breathing 3 headed dragons. As this is sacred land, there are naturally other wats on the grounds. I spotted a reclining buddha, a fat jolly seated buddha, an altar with tens of golden buddhas.

There were two temples that stood out from the rest. They were dark from the outside, probably teak, and with very ornate decoration. Inlaid mother of pearl details adorned the entrances. The first temple was devoid of any sign in English, but I assumed it had to be of some importance to have a sign at all. I removed my shoes and walked inside, greeted by strange faces on the people exiting. I wondered what their deal was, until about a moment later. Inside, I was struck by shock, disbelief and mild horror. Upon the altar, seated in a glass case, was a monk. I'm not talking any old monk – this guy was austere, commanding. He looked downright mean. His eyes were open, so I figured he was in some sort of deep meditative state that allowed the eyes to remain open yet see nothing. It was creepy, but I got closer. I wanted a look into those eyes. What I got was a deep stare into a black abyss. Then it dawned on me. The deep meditative state had a name. It's called death. This guy looking back at me was a straight up corpse (propped up by what, I don't know. Enlightenment?) At first, I didn't believe it. I searched for signs of breath. None. Blinking? Nope. Eyes were glass. Then I though wax. Could this be Ripley's donation to buddhism? I got close. Ear hairs, check. Unkempt cuticles and dead skin on the fingers, check. A pimple on his neck, check. Scratch, probably from a rusty razor, on the back of his head, check. If it was wax, it was a damn fine piece of work. The groundskeeper said he was real, embalmed, and I tended to agree with him. It was still a stunner, and I left probably looking much like the people I'd seen on my way in.

I scurried next door hoping to see a giant sparkling golden buddha, and bam! Another dead monk in a glass case. This guy was more my speed, though. He was markedly older, with white head stubble, and his eyes were half closed. His face looked much more peaceful but I still was feeling ill at ease. I made a small donation and got the hell out of there, leaving a little spooked. There were 2 more temples to visit, and I decided to leave it to the loud Germans behind me to exploit. Maybe one of the monks would be alive and hiss them into silence.

Come and Knock on Our Door

March 16
Chiang Mai

Some people that I had dinner with in Vietnam were raving about a cheap and clean guest house in Chiang Mai, a city in Thailand's north that I did not visit 2 years ago. The guest house had a website, and while I'd emailed them about reservations, I got a non committal answer, “Sometime people stay long time, no sure about room, come check in person.” That was not exactly reassuring, but Chiang Mai is notorious for its cheap guest houses complete with complimentary bedbugs (I'd seen loads of backpackers with nasty rashes on their arms and legs only to be told, “Chiang Mai. Bedbugs, man.” Lonely Planet can only take you so far, and should not be used as a bible under any circumstances. Most of their info is dated the moment its printed, and I've found quite a bit of it to be flat out wrong. Relying on the advice of other travelers is crucial, so I headed to the spot my new friends recommended and hoped they had a room.

After my taxi turned down a narrow alley followed by another turn into an even narrower one, I was beginning to wonder if I had chosen unwisely. As soon as we pulled up at Bann Nud-Kun, I knew I'd be happy here. The giant green sign framed by spider plants with faces painted in the middle were inviting. Even more inviting was the man at the reception desk (Kun, I believe) who had my name written on the dry erase board on the wall. He was waiting for me, though he only had a room with a fan. All the a/c units were occupied. He showed me to my spotless room which was outfitted with something rare in these parts – screens! That means I wouldn't sweat to death at night as I could actually open the windows and not worry about mosquitoes. There were even screens on the bathroom windows - - and the shower was in a separate room from the toilet. I'd been showering over the sink or toilet since Hong Kong, and this was a most welcome surprise. The lobby was outfitted with all the things a good guest house should have: numbers of taxi companies, along with prices so you don't get ripped off, hospital numbers, bus companies, airlines, reliable tour operators. Most of the places I've stayed in had none of this crucial information, usually so that if you needed a taxi, the guest house proprietor would hire one of their family or friends to chauffeur you somewhere and charge you triple in the process. The common area was a shady cove with computers, tables, lounge chairs, two sturdy and comfortable bamboo hammocks, a fridge and a microwave. There was constant hot water and coffee, as well as about 50 different jars of teas with corresponding list of what ailments they would cure. Apparently rheumatoid arthritis can be cured by several herbal concoctions. Flatulence was another popular ailment, and thankfully one from which I did not suffer. For 12 dollars a night (10 if you stayed a week or longer), I could live here for awhile. And I soon learned that people did.

First I met Aimee (I think that's her name), a young American woman (another rarity in these parts) from Oregon who had been living here with her husband and 3 year old son for the past few months. He (the husband, who I never met) was a musician and they were tired of trying to make it on his salary in the States, so they took off to Asia to meditate on it. A girl in a group of three (or was it 4?) Australians had broken her ankle and was on crutches, so they'd all been living here for 6 weeks, and had planned to stay another 2 until the cast came off, but liked it so much they were all interviewing for teaching jobs, had paid for a 4 month stay and were trying to negotiate longer. Bridget, the Irish widow who lived in London and Long Boat Key, Florida, had just been on a 12 day trek in Burma and was passing through Chiang Mai en route to the islands. She had already committed to coming back for a month next year. Then there was Jim, the former member of the FDNY, doing god knows what over here, who decided he was going to be my new best friend. He was from Inwood and had a voice and accent identical to Ed Burns.I've met Ed Burns, and I can't stand his voice in his movies, nor can I stand it in person. So Jim's voice was not exactly reminding me of home in a good way, nor were his pro- Guiliani-reliving-9/11-every-day-of-his-life politics. He was an irritating son of a bitch. It really was a family atmosphere.

After a month in Vietnam and Laos, landing in Chiang Mai was bliss. I was greeted by an airport runway lined with actual lights, (none of those in Laos) and walked into a sleek and modern terminal. I was back in the “land of smiles” - not always evident in Bangkok if my memory serves correct, but so far, very true here. My female taxi driver (!) spoke great English and even told me not to worry about the Red Shirts protesting here (I arrived in the midst of the Bangkok demonstrations during which the pro-Thaksin population littered the government houses with their own blood), just in case I was worried about it. (I wasn't). “Chiang Mai people support Red Shirt but we use sticker.” She pointed to the tuk tuk in front of us, which had a pro-Thaksin bumper sticker. The roads – actual highways – were paved and populated with new cars from around the world. They were congestion-free and silent compared to the constant wail on the horn of the aggressive drivers in Vietnam. And the taxi? It had air conditioning. Ahh, modern civilization. It was nice to be back.

Gone Bamboo

I'm in Kuala Lumpur, having a relatively miserable time due to a fleabag hotel with bedbugs,cold showers, clogged toilets, no internet, mildew, shoddy a/c, among other things. (mind you this place was a hotel, not a tiny $10 guest house). Tomorrow I'm headed off to the Perhentian Islands which hopefully will make up for it. I will be off the grid there - no wifi, no bank machines, no electricity during certain parts of the day. Will catch up with the blog before I head to India, hopefully.

Alms collected

 

they got the good boat

 

Mekong, Elephants & Me

 

Down By The River

March 13-16
Luang Prabang

Luang Prabang, yet another UNESCO World Heritage site in Indochina came highly recommended by everyone I know or have met who's been there. “You must go see the waterfalls!” “See the caves!” “Don't miss LP – it's what Thailand was like before the farangs (white people) destroyed it!” and so on.

Destruction, hardly. But what the farangs did do was drive up the prices in this country. It is much more expensive than Vietnam, at least in the 2 touristy towns I visited. And unfortunately, the boom that's hit in the last 5 years (“main street” in Luang Prabang was apparently the only strip in town that was paved 5 years back) came a bit too soon for the local businesses to know how to properly deal with it. 35 bucks by American standards is not something you'd even consider spending on a motel room unless you wanted to get bit by rats in your sleep, but here that's generally considered mid-range accommodation. It's downright outrageous in the backpacker circuit. In Vietnam, it would probably mean a pool, free airport pick up and a gourmet dinner. I picked my guest house based on rave reviews as well as CNN (Australian Network news is killing me) and wifi. The place was spotless and new, with real mattresses which was a treat after sleeping on foam since Hong Kong. The owner picked me up at the airport himself and gave me a cold drink and some fruit when I checked in. However, the wifi was down until the morning I left and there was no CNN. Only HBO and Aussie TV in English. I tried complaining but it made no difference. So I spent most of my time in Luang Prabang away from my room, wheezing all the while since the air quality is so poor. (Burning of fields and trash is not regulated here, so everything is on fire all the time. The city is surrounded by mountains and they aren't even visible, nor is the sun or the restaurant down the block. I might as well still be smoking cigarettes.)

It is a beautiful, calm, peaceful old town. Many of the wats are from the 1400s, and the monks rule the place. Every morning at 6AM, they walk down the dusty streets in their bright saffron robes collecting alms, said to be their only meal of the day. The pious as well as a few tourists such as me sit or kneel at the curb (as you must always be lower than the monk) and pop a handful of sticky rice into their baskets. Nothing gets moving until this important task is completed. I was happy to see a few monks had been given bananas and even a cookie or two, I can't imagine they would live very long on only a few mouthfuls of sticky rice per day. Aside from visiting the temples in town, walking along the rivers' edges (LP is flanked by the Mekong on one side and the Nam Khan on the other, and they meet just outside town), eating at the excellent night market, sampling the tasty french pastries and crepes (I had a nutella crepe and almost forced myself to eat another one; it was a real treat after a month of noodles), there's not much to do in town. That's why main street is lined with tour outfitters, selling you any kind of Laotian experience you'd like, save for rolling around in the opium fields. I settled on a giant waterfall/swimming excursion one day, followed by a day of elephant riding and mahout training the next.

It was an hour long van ride to the elehpant farm, during which we got to see some of how the real Lao people live, which is to say: simply. Even in the poorest villages in Vietnam, most of the homes I saw had at least a concrete foundation, with walls made from bamboo. Not so much here. These folks lived in one room windowless huts, top to bottom made of bamboo. The foundations were mostly stilts, woven bamboo walls, palm or sugar cane fronds for ceilings. The only opening was the door – and of course all the thousands of holes where the walls were thatched together. My favorite part were the gigantic satellite dishes and scary electrical wiring that ran through all of these villages. They may not have running water or windows, but at least a couple of people in the villages had TV. I bet they had CNN! The hills were mostly teak forests in between the farms, which means dry, sparse, brown, dark and kind of ugly landscape. Then there are all the active landmines to worry about, which leaves fields of farmable land untouched. Eden it was not.

The elephant farm was pretty basic – 4 hut homes, 2 elephants, 1 out house, the family that ran the farm, and about 800 roosters/chickens and their offspring. I was thankful the avian flu scare is over, but still not keen on all these nasty chickens running around pecking at your feet and begging for food like dogs. If you've never seen a chicken run, you should google it. I tried to make them all run as fast as possible in the direction opposite from me.

Our first order of business was an hour long elephant trek up the mountain. If you've never ridden an elephant before, it's not exactly comfortable. The animal has a hundred pound wooden seat strapped to its back, then you add another 3-400 pounds of human weight to it. Wood does not exactly give, so as the elephant slowly lumbers up and down the hills, your spine bears the brunt of its movement against the back of the bench. You also hope that the bench is strapped on very tightly as slipping out while you're 9 feet in the air climbing at a 45 degree angle would not be pretty.

The elephant ride was pretty boring, mainly because the jungle was so dry and smelled of acrid smoke. What was also boring was the cave of 10,000 buddhas. Completely underwhelming dinky little cave that's been around for centuries. The ride there, however, was anything but. We had to cross the Mekong to get there, which was only the width of 2 football fields. 5 minutes by motorboat. That's when I got to see village life up close. We walked through the wretched village where I saw the most mangey dog I've ever laid eyes on, a duck that was surely at death's door (I prayed it was not lunch) and a cat not far behind it. Down to the river banks and we were assaulted by the filthiest children I've ever seen. They were all holding tiny little bird cages to sell “you buy biiiiiiiiiiiird,” to us to release the petrified birds in the cave. “No, I'm not buying your bird and no i'm not buying your friend's bird either.” I was in shock when one particular urchin demanded that I give him my bottle of water. “Me no water,” he kept repeating and pointing at the waterbottle in my hand. Thoroughly annoyed, I really wanted to scream “where the hell is your mother and why aren't you in school,” but just before I lost my temper, I noticed the Aussie guy recoil in horror and put a hat on his baby's head. I threw my water bottle at the boy and made way for the boat, later learning that all of the kids had lice so bad their hair appeared to be moving. Somehow I missed witnessing that. Small favors...

Our “motorboat” was basically a dinghy with a car battery attached to it. As we piled in, the captain was emptying all the water that had settled in the rear of the tiny vessel back into the river. This was not a promising sight. Half way across the Mekong and “put put put...” silence. The motor was dead. Now, one would think if you charge people good money to go on a tour involving a river crossing, you at least have a set of oars and some rope on board. One would be wrong if this line of thinking happens in Laos. Survival supplies located: one broken oar and no rope. And the current was strong. We were drifting. Things were not looking good, and I was getting myself used to the idea that we might be swimming for our lives when suddenly the lady in the front of the boat (who I thought was just hitching a ride) hurled herself at another boat crossing the river and miraculously managed to keep one foot planted and get one hand onto the other boat. She was essentially a human rope, using her body to tow us into the cave shores. One of our group grabbed onto her foot. As we got closer to shore, the human bridge had to break; it was too dangerous for her. We all did what we could to physically grab onto rowboats that were anchored and pull our little boat close enough to the others. Then the negotiation of other captains began- some of them wanted to actually charge us to walk across their boats onto the dock! Mind you, these are all 6-10 seater rowboats. It was absurd and tremendously annoying. Anything, including risking the safety of your passengers, to save on petrol or fixing your motor before it breaks down in the middle of the river to make a buck.

Amidst dirty looks and nasty comments, our guide negotiated a proper boat for the return across the river for the highlight of the day: swimming with the elephants. I honestly wasn't too keen on this idea. I had yet to ride on the elephant's neck and I had worn long pants on account of the bugs, forgetting to bring a bathing suit. I sat with the mom and baby in our group as the rest of the people helped to take the saddles and benches off the elephants' backs and climb up their faces to get on their backs, and then watched them dive into the river. After a few minutes of hesitation, there was no way I was missing out on this once in a lifetime chance. I jumped into the ice cold water and one of the elephants bent down under water so I could climb up on its back. This was easier than it looked, especially since I have short legs. I kept missing or getting thrown into the river, which would then carry me 10 feet away with its strong current, much to the delight of my companions. Finally on top of one of the animal, it was pretty amazing. Even when she kept blowing water through her trunk into my face, I really did not want to get down. It would have been a perfect moment, and briefly was, save for the fact that this is real life, and these are giant animals. The other elephant decided to take a poop and I watched it rise to the surface, break up and float by everyone swimming in its wake. From my high vantage point, I could also notice the creatures on shore: water buffalo, dogs, cats, chickens, humans. There was no sewage system out here, all the shit went into the river that I was swimming in. And I would have to get back into the water to get back to shore. It was momentarily revolting, but I held it together since nobody else seemed very phased.

Back at the hotel, I was thankful for a hot shower and the wonder drug Cipro. I started the course of antibiotics, wondering if Luang Prabang had any Brillo that I could scrub with.

Private Eyes, They're Watching You

March 12
Vientiane

Thoroughly convinced that I was being watched by Communist government spies waiting to plant drugs on me, or frame me for something else, I did not enjoy my time in Vientiane, the capitol of Laos. I am convinced that it is the sleepiest capitol city on earth. It felt more like Montauk in January. Coming from the nonstop insanity of Hanoi, it was a marked difference. The streets were virtually empty, nobody honked their horns, it was eerily quiet. I took that as a sign that it was too quiet, and resigned to get out of town as quickly as possible.

My first order of business was to change my ticket. I'd flown in to Laos 2 days ahead of schedule, and had been planning to stay in Vientiane for 4 days, making it now a total of 6. No thanks. Paranoia aside, there was absolutely nothing to do in this city. It had actually crossed my mind to try and get out of the country altogether, but I reasoned with myself that I had been granted a visa, I found no suspicious items planted in my bags, so I was probably OK. And besides, Luang Prabang (to the north) was supposed to be spectacular, so I just shortened my time in the country. 2 nights in Vientiane and 3 in Luang Prabang.

At the Lao Airlines HQ, I had an easy time changing my tickets. Total opposite of what happened at airport check in. It seemed too easy. I looked around for cameras and any familiar faces from the flight in. Coast seemed clear but I wasn't taking any chances – I walked away in a different direction than I arrived from. Anyone following me would probably think that I was tripping on acid, because I was probably acting like a total weirdo. But my decision to leave the airline office in a new direction proved to be a good one, because it led me to something I had not seen since I left home- a properly stocked supermarket. It was a mini mart by any standards, but they carried such luxury items as Harpers Bazaar, correctly made croissants, Cotes du Rhone and my new favorite thing: macadamia nut Haagen Das. I got a new sim card and some ice cream and decided to try and like Laos, though I still retired early that night and slept with one eye open.

Rice

 

Foggy Ha Long Bay

 

Catch of the day, near Hue

 

Floating Village & Shrimp farm

 

Floating village, Ha Long Bay

 

Pho

 

Ha Long Bay

 

Ha Long Bay

 

You Put The Load Right On Me

As I've arrived safely in Thailand, I can post this, and more about Laos, now. Having a hard time getting photos onto the blog too. Here's my story of leaving Vietnam and getting to Laos.

March 11, 2010
Hanoi to Vientiane

I decided I wanted to leave Vietnam earlier than planned the moment I got to Hanoi. Unfortunately, that was during a weekend and the Lao Aviation reservation offices were closed, as were those of my ticket broker in San Francisco. I foolishly left for Halong Bay (a wifi-free zone) minus the telephone number of either the airline or the ticket vendor. I returned to Hanoi on a Wednesday at about 5PM and learned that unlike the Vietnamese, who work every day of the week until all hours (the post offices are open until 11PM), the Laoations do not. 5PM and there was no answer at Lao Aviation. As it was 2 AM in San Fran with the time difference, I emailed my ticket broker and hoped to get out on Friday, a day ahead of schedule, and went to bed. I woke up Thursday morning to learn he had scheduled me on a flight out of Hanoi that afternoon. I'd planned to try and see Ho Chi Minh (his body lies in permanent state here, except when he's shipped off to Russia to be re-embalmed every few months) and then meet the gimp for dinner, but was happy to break those plans. I hit the post office to unload my Vietnam Rough Guide and send some post cards, had a final bowl of Pho, and caught a taxi for the airport.

When I got to the airport, things were not looking great. While my broker had emailed me a confirmation of the ticket change, the ladies at the counter could not find my reservation. My name was not on the e-ticket passenger manifest. She had my name, but no ticket #, in the computer system, and it was scheduled for Saturday (the original departure date) and was marked as a paper ticket. I tried to argue, but it seemed to be pointless. The “supervisor,” if you could call her that, had all the personality of a dirty dishcloth. She had no interest in helping me and also pretended not to speak English. They kept telling me my flight was on Saturday, and I kept telling them it had been changed. Needless to say, my temper was rising. No way was I spending 2 more nights in Hanoi. I was getting on that plane, no matter what. (Funny thing I've learned about a communist government: the people living under it do not question anything. It's not in their programming. E-ticket manifest says I'm not on the list, then I'm just not on the list.)

In the midst of the commotion (my voice rising, the 2 ladies at the counter basically ignoring me, even when I produced a ticket receipt for Lao Airlines complete with a bright red stamp that said “E TICKET RECEIPT” in big, bold letters), an American man looking to be in his mid to late '50s approached the counter and me. He was holding a pair of moustache trimming scissors and cuticle clippers. He asked to get his checked luggage back but it was too late. He turned to me and asked if I was going to Vientiane and if I would mind putting them in my checked luggage, with a joke about using them for terror purposes. His girlfriend did not want to lose them, so he told her he'd try to get another passenger to check them before tossing them in the trash. I very quickly weighed the options: I'm on the other side of the world, trying not to be a standoffish New Yorker, relying heavily on the kindness of strangers for advice and companionship, among other things. People have been pretty good to me, so a leap of faith and returned favor was due. Had I not been so frazzled, I might have told him to take a hike. He was about to be shit out of luck anyway, since the Lao Airlines ladies told me they could not help me. I raised my voice enough to draw attention, told them they were lazy bastards, and threatened to call the main reservations office in Laos. Lo and behold, as soon as I grabbed my bags and started to storm off, my reservation was miraculously found and my ticket issued. I took the guy's scissors, shoved them in the outside pocket of my bag and watched as it drifted off down the carousel, through the plastic sheets and out of sight. I immediately regretted my decision.

As I stepped into the immigration line (they have to check that you have not overstayed your visa, a painfully slow process), I was struck with a panic unlike I've ever felt before. Yes, he only gave me scissors and nail clippers. Yes, they would obviously be returned or confiscated by airport security if you tried to bring them in your carry on. Yes, the guy seemed legit as he asked for his bags back before asking me to help him. But I have watched too many episodes of Locked Up Abroad on the National Geographic Channel. I started to sweat and think about the possible consequences of my stupid decision. They were instruments that would obviously show up in an x-ray. The shady Vietnamese security forces would notice them as a tip off, and stuff my bag with heroin or black tar opium, the scissors would be the signal. One of two things would happen; I would be tackled by airport security in Hanoi, or I'd be allowed to fly to Vientiane and be thrown in a fetid Laoation prison upon arrival. My prospects were not looking good. I abandoned my place in the immigration line and ran back to the counter, begging to get my bag back (and also to try and spot the security cameras, that would serve as a record of my outburst and the hand over of the contraband, hoping the film would clear my good name. No smuggler would make a scene, this I convinced myself was in my favor). No such luck getting my bag back, but the woman at the ticket counter gave me the American's name and seat number (My sister has it. In case I run into any trouble – somebody call the embassy and report him!). I noted that security was not so swell here in Hanoi and got back in the immigration queue.

When you think you're a suspect, of anything, but in my case, of a potential frame, you notice more than you usually would. People pushing up on you from behind (did he just drop something into my bag?), people looking at you for longer than a split second, eye contact (which is discouraged in Asian countries), your breathing, whether you move the wrong way or look flushed, what you're going to say if things go bad. I got through security, and there was “Eddie,” waiting to introduce me to his Thai girlfriend and tell me that they were supposed to go to Bangkok but are avoiding it on account of the impending riots. (Was that good news or just bullshit conversation?) He offered advice on Laos, asked whether I liked Hanoi (on his 5th time here, he did not enjoy it at all), and was seemingly making the same conversation I've had with every other traveler I've come across. But I was calculating his every move. Thai girlfriend, good cover. Thai riots, better cover. Quick-dry performance clothes in shades of beige and khaki, salt and pepper hair and beard, long but neatly trimmed, typical travel look but potentially devoid of any hippie/expat-here-for-the-drugs-and-hookers look. I spent the duration of that flight sweating bullets, unable to read or listen to music, wondering whether the Lao government could be bough off to get me home, how long it would take for the jail water to make me sick, if they would feed me pig gruel, if I'd have to shave my head due to lice, whether I'd get rabies from a rat bite, and how long it would take for someone from the American embassy to visit me. Worst of all, would my family and friends think that I actually was smuggling drugs into a third world country? It was the longest 90 minutes of my life.

What followed, in contrast, was the quickest immigration experience I'll probably ever have. Visa on arrival was issued in about 2 minutes, passport stamped and luggage collected. I tore into my bag like a ravenous beast and found those scissors and cuticle clippers, handed them over to the girlfriend as if they were hot coals, and literally ran outside to find my hotel pick up. I guess the moral of the story is that people generally do not have bad motives, and that I am a little bit too paranoid, but fuck if I'll ever take anything from anyone in an airport EVER again. I'm at my swanky hotel drinking a giant Beer Lao and looking over my shoulder, still worried someone is coming to get me.

Ha Long? Just long enough.

March 8-10
Halong Bay

Photos of Halong Bay can be seen in any book, post card or travel show about Vietnam. It's one of the country's most famous landmarks and therefore its biggest tourist attraction. This fact means it is virtually impossible to get there without purchasing a prepackaged tour. I've been trying to avoid doing that as much as possible, but would have to give in on this one. Unless I wanted to take a local bus to Halong City, get charged tourist prices for it anyway, then negotiate a boat once I got there. I had planned to go for only one night, but the company I booked my tour through only had a 2 night trip available for the day I wanted to go. Seeing as how I get seasick and would be trapped on a boat with strangers for 48 hours, I wasn't too keen on this option. Max, the tour operator recommended by my friends, assured me the water was very calm and that I would have a much more enriching experience if I booked for 2 nights. Maybe that was true, maybe he just wanted to make more money off of me, but I had the time to kill. I'd also saved Halong Bay for last, having heard raves about it. I booked the two nights, hoping it would be the highlight of my time in Vietnam.

Luckily for me I checked the weather forecast and it was not pretty – clouds, rain, chilly. Unlucky for me, I only had a light rain jacket and one sweater for warmth. I packed as light as possible and hoped there were warm blankets on board. 8AM at the Kangaroo Cafe and the crowd was thin: a progressive family from New Mexico who had been traveling with their 3 kids for 18 months, two chain smoking Germans, our tour guide and me. We boarded the bus and ended up picking up 4 more passengers from Australia. One couple was retired and the other seemed to be relatively near my age. So that would be our group. I put my headphones on as we took off for the 3+ hour drive to Halong City in the rain.

I've found it's not possible for bus drivers to go for more than 90 minutes here without stopping to smoke, eat, stretch their legs and probably drink. Like clockwork, about an hour after leaving Hanoi we pulled into some roadside tourist trap (probably owned by the driver's uncle). It's the reason all road trips take an hour longer than they should. This place was pretty big, selling snake wine, pringles, post cards and other crap handicrafts guaranteed to fall apart the second you leave the store. I bought some cashew candies and waited for the bus to leave. It was then that my nightmare began: the 9 year old girl befriended me.

She offered me some of her candy, I politely declined, introduced myself to her father and headed back to the bus. She followed. “Will you be my friend?” “Sure,” (through gritted teeth). “Can I sit with you?” I asked her didn't she think she should sit with her mother for the next TWO hours? Her mother told her that she couldn't sit with me, and obviously to stop bothering me. Did she stop? Not exactly. This smart and spoiled and manipulative 9 year old brat waltzed up to me and said in earshot of everyone, “My mom said to stop bothering you. Am I bothering you?” It was at this moment that I knew I'd have comrades in the German gays, as they stood by watching and chain smoking and laughing at me with pity. I told the kid we'd have 2 days to be friends and that I was in the row of single seats on the bus (which I was) and that she could not sit on my lap.

Babies are fine, but I generally tend to not like kids between the ages of 3 and 20. This family of extremely smart, home schooled kids were very nice. I liked the parents a lot, I just did not like their parenting style or choices. Nobody, especially people on holiday, wants children hanging all over them. These kids, except for the 12 year old boy, were mental and physical nuisances for 2 days. The 5 year old just climbed all over everyone, attaching himself to your leg if you tried to walk away, and the 9 year old demanded attention 24-7. “can I make you a neclkace? Will you hold my hand? Lets play a game. And another game. And another...” It was exhausting and a real drain on all of us. I don't necessarily blame the kids, though they certainly all knew how to get what they wanted. I blame the parents for robbing these kids of any friends their own age to go fill their fantasies of living abroad for 2 years, and subjecting all the strangers they encounter to having their plans disrupted by their needy, attention starved children.

Since the weather was a constant 50 degrees and rainy or cloudy, afternoons that are normally reserved for swimming, kayaking, sunbathing, etc. were impossible. The rooms had no TV's, which meant that a bunch of strangers sat in the main galley and entertained the children, until one by one we sneaked off to our rooms. Nobody was a big drinker, so I felt like a derelict if I had more than 1 glass of wine at a meal. There was not too much to do except take in the excellent scenery in between rounds of “Hangman” and “I Spy.”

Foggy or not, Halong Bay is stunning. It's a giant green blue bay (1500 sq km or so) of thousands of limestone islands jutting out of the sea, stretching all the way to China. The water is calmer than some lakes I've seen, making sleeping (and napping, of which I did a lot) easy. For two days I read, slept and took photos in between meals (which were horrible), dodging the children, and excursions to the bigger islands (Monkey Island, where there were no monkeys, and Cat Ba island, which is inhabited but was creepily empty) and some caves.

The last morning it had warmed up to maybe 55 degrees, and was dry enough to sit on deck. So that's what I did on the 2 hour long cruise back to the mainland. Kids aside, it was a great way to end my time in Vietnam.

Citadel Hue

 

nha trang beach

 

99 bottles of pee on the wall

March 7, 2010
Hanoi

I've learned a new dating rule, and one that I did not know should be a rule until now. Always make your dates while both parties are standing up.

I had met a British guy named Stephen at the restaurant in HaNoi where I booked my trip to HaLong Bay. He was a chatty fellow, and when you're traveling alone, you have to take advantage of people who actually want to talk with you. He suggested that I check out the Temple of Literature (first Counfucian university in Vietnam from like 1200) and the fine arts museum, then hinted that he should show them to me himself. I agreed to meet him there, not really sure if it was a date.

I took a taxi to the Hanoi Fine Arts Museum, and sure enough, he was there waiting for me. I said hello and went to the ticket counter, only to be told he'd already purchased them. It was a date. He seemed nice enough to not send me running in the opposite direction, and I had nothing better to do, so we walked up to the museum entrance. Rather, I walked up to the museum entrance. He was lagging behind, and I heard a sort of shuffling noise. At first I thought my New York pace was to blame. Then I turned around. Turns out my first date in months had a serious limp. I guessed he either had a prosthetic leg or had suffered a major injury. It wasn't pretty and it wasn't easily overlooked. Seeing as how he was passing no self deprecating (or even straight ahead acknowledging) comments, I pretended not to notice. Now, I try very hard not to discriminate against people. I went to junior high with handicapped kids and never made fun of them. But is it too much to ask to catch a break? I travel to the other side of the world to get asked out by a gimp? I think this was payback for my trials at online dating, whereby I was matched up repeatedly with men in wheelchairs, and declined to go out with any of them.

In all honesty, the museum was kind of a drag. The main problem was that until we got up to 20th century painting, nothing had dates on it. I was not sure if I was looking at pottery from 200 AD or last week.. With Vietnam being the counterfeit capitol of the world, one can never be too sure. Once we started walking through the modern wing, it was obvious when the French got to town. Perfectly good studies of Van Gogh, Manet, Monet, Rousseau, Cezanne, Renior all hung in one gallery. Only these had women in conical hats instead of frilly dresses. I was at least hoping to see some original propaganda paintings from the '40s, but no such luck. We decided to bail on Confucius and go get some food.

Crummy western food inhaled and the afternoon was young. Did I want to go check out a bia hoi? Yes, yes I did. They are all over Hanoi, practically on every corner. Bia Hois are places that brew beer that morning, for that day only. It's cheap and cold and weak, and whatever is not consumed at the end of the day is thrown out. I'd have checked one out sooner, except for the fact that I'd not seen one woman sitting at any of them. The men get there at 8am and seemingly don't leave until closing time (unless they are tour guides or drivers, men do nothing but sit on their asses all day in this country). I wasn't sure I was even allowed in one. We sat down at a place that “sometimes smells strongly of urine,” according to my snazzy date. I expected him to suggest that we go elsewhere. Not a chance. It did smell like urine. Man, had I landed a catch. Going with the flow, I sat down on the 8 inch high stool, pretended I was in a fresh clean meadow, tried not to lean up against the piss wall behind me, and knocked back a couple cold ones. They didn't taste too bad, and had all the alcohol content of a diet coke. I was asked if I was hungry “the food's pretty good here.” I wasn't but my companion handed me a menu anyway. Among things such as “deep freid snack” (which I translated to mean deep fried snake), was the Wild Animals section. Steamed musk cat, dog with bamboo shoots, porcupine any way you like it and stewed camel would have to be ordered one day in advance. Was this guy kidding me? I decided it was time to relocate.

A plate of really greasy but really tasty spring rolls and two proper alcoholic beers later, night had fallen and I was turning into a pumpkin. I had put in almost 7 hours with this guy. The conversation was perfectly fine and he had great insight on Vietnam; I was really happy to have someone to chat with. But date time was over. He asked to see me again, and I told him sure, if I was unable to change my ticket to leave the minute I got back from HaLong Bay. Otherwise, it was time for me to go. He hailed a cab which I assumed we were going to share, dropping me off first. I did not assume I would be ordered by my date to ride shotgun. The taxis are tiny here, but why I was directed to sit in the front seat, I'll never know. At first I was offended, but then I was relieved. There would be no good night kiss, and that's just the way I wanted it.