Around the Block in Bangkok December 25th, 2006, 36,000 feet over the Pacific Ocean Prelude It starts on Korean Air flight 26 to Seoul. Midair one of the seven most attractive flight attendants in the free world (all on this flight), wearing an ephemeral blue scarf and chop-stick hair bow, offers me the choice of "beef" or bi bim bop. The significance of this is lost in print. As Ko pronounces it, "bi bim bop" is a homonym of "beef from home." Being from Pennsyltucky, I chose the "beef from home," which comes with seaweed soup and instructions. It did contain beef after all, marking the first in a long string of accidental and operationally necessary meat consumptions. It was wonderful, I must visit Korea soon. Maybe Ko will invite me to see her cows. December 28th, 2006, Bangkok Same Same, Only Different We land in Bangkok at midnight on the 27th, having skipped the 26th entirely. I never liked that day, anyway, with all the familial goodbyes and gluttonous hangovers. For 56 cents (20 baht) we eat Pad Thai with Egg from a street vendor on Koh San Road at 1am. The streets are alive. Inside a bar resembling the illegitimate child of Cha Cha and The Blue Moon, a littered gay Asian sporting Christmas antlers slaps my crotch as a gesture (of offer) of friendship. I decline politely. We finish our beers and crash in a guest house by 2:30. The next morning we're up at 8, out of the room by 8:30. We successfully secure our travel to the northern jungle, the southern islands and India, consume exotic American breakfast, and drink four coffees each by 11 AM. At noon we walk through the street vendors on Koh San Road and eat more street chow. The 7-11's are familiar, but the O.J. is sugar water and the coffee is NesCafe. We flirt with a Brit and board our 6pm bus to Chiang Mai - a ten hour odyssey which takes 13 hours. It takes the bus one hour and 6km to go around the block in Bangkok and point us in the correct direction -- we coin the first inside running joke. The time difference here is sensational. On the luxurious greyhound-style double-decker bus, when the lights dim the first time all the readers simultaneously reach up to turn on their individual reading lights. Almost all of them are broken, and the bus stays dark. We all laugh. At least the Air Con functions. We watch the sun rise on the 28th outside of Chiang Mai at a quickie mart. The sun doesn't so much rise, as bleeds through the pollution until eventually the sky's a well diluted solution of man-made toxins and cosmic radiation. We toast with bottled water (5 baht, 14 cents). The bus lurches forward. December 31st, 2006, Chiang Mai Exchange Rate Slaloming through class three rapids in Chiang Mai in the back of a pickup, we head with Jimi Hendrix, our Thai tour guide, towards the jungle. We exchange our hearts for the pleasure of meeting Miranda, who gently holds onto them with our names and other valuables. But this is Jason and Rishi, so we tumble through the treacherous spray and egg the river gods on. The jungle consumes us with no fanfare. No one notices three less bodies in civilization. We hike through Eden to a laughing, raucous waterfall. We splash, spray, shower and commune. We eat Phad Thai. Elephants take us through rice paddies, through a river, and outside ourselves. We loose our dignity and laugh ourselves sill hiking to the Karen village of Lon Mong Tah ("Big River", long drained for irrigation). Babies and virgins greet us. Mothers bring children to sing their local songs for us, and in return, we sing for them. (Rishi and I perform the American Standard "I'm a Little Tea Pot.") We all yell "Korea song!" until our shy Korean friends sing a carol into the raging fire. Oh my Buddha! The feast of local rice and veggies fuels our late night campfire songs and conversations. Huts and feral dogs guard our cool sleep from water buffalo and snakes. Predawn sounds of women cracking rice fades as the morning bleeds into the village sky. We part with Miranda, better for having met her, so much worse for having lost her. We expect as much from ourselves, finding Vena and Brady in her, and riding a traveler's high. We exchange Jimi for a new guide: Mr. P. He says, "We go!" and we follow his energetic short strides. "Snake!" for vine, "Cannibal House!" for hut, "Crocodile!" for stream. Same same, only different. We learn the language slowly. We exchange the Koreans for Ann & Chris and James. James's pack is larger than Mr. P. He is Australian, and therefore expansive. He and I trade stories of Queensland, all of which end with a roar - "It'll kill ya!" Ann and Chris are newlyweds from California. Ann pokes scorpions, Chris postulates. The water buffalo's bells go "donk donk, donk donk." We camp for the night by a breathtaking waterfall, our campfire just downstream on a rock only uncovered in the dry season. We each experience Pitch Blackness and sleep under extra blankets for twelve hours. There are no roosters this morning, nor eggs. We toast bread over the fire and walk through another Karen village. A bamboo raft built to be taken apart takes us kilometers down a river. James almost looses a leg, but we go back for it. Elephants' and humans' poo commingle in the water. We part ways outside of Chiang Mai, and vow to do this again some time. We all barely restrain from hugging Mr. P. Rishi and I catch a taxi, tuk-tuk, and an overnight train back to Bangkok. We'll have gone around the block again, in less than 4 days. We parted with as many friends as we gained. It's been a great six weeks so far. We've exchanged comfort of adventure, toilet paper for water, electricity for serenity; but as I train Rishi in the fine science of postcard writing, we exchange stories of our friends in Seattle. We hate to send you postcards. Our souls break to not have you all here with us. January 2nd, 2007, 3:30AM Mai Ow In a city completely shut down by bomb explosions six hours before midnight on New Year's Eve, Rishi and I find ourselves surrounded by thousands of screaming travelers and Thais counting down to 2007. We happen to be in the only street party in Bangkok not cancelled: the eccentric, wild, backpacker-oriented, 24-7-365 Khao San Road. Due to our lack of fluency in English-As-A-Second-Language, we don't even know that there have been explosions. We are littered on Sang Som, the cheapest and least pure of all Thai whiskies. We are walking through throngs of partiers up and down Khao San Road, in and out of the crowded bars. Huge balloons are being set free early, the street smells of Phad Thai, Thai Buckets (whisky, Red Bull, soda, ice), and grilled fish. As the time nears midnight, the bars empty and there are more people on the two-lane, pedestrian-only road than I have ever seen in one place. Rishi stands on plastic chairs - the view is awe-inspiring. We steal a toilet break from a bar, and Rishi spots a pool table. We watch an amazing display of eight ball acumen, and take the table with less than 15 minutes before midnight. Rishi doesn't know this, but my gut was telling me that the eye contact I had just made with a beautiful German woman was as good an invitation as a passport and boarding ticket. But Rishi wants to shoot pool, so we shoot. I break and sink the 8. I knew that wouldn't satisfy Rishi, so I pulled the 8 back up and we quickly shot through the rack. I run outside to find a tall thin man standing next to my German. I walk up behind him and gently push him off the curb into the mob of drunken lunatics. Jana looks at me, smiles, and we introduce ourselves. She is a school teacher in Thailand, about to be deported. Her friends and Rishi begin to dance on the plastic chairs as the horde counts down to zero over and over - every time we hit zero, Jana and I exchange kisses. The tall boy gets a kiss from Jana and she teaches me the Thai expression for "I don't want," which is "Mai ow." This will later prove to be the DEET which best repels tuk-tuk drivers and undesired meat. But alas, even with all the stars aligned and a belly full of noodles and whiskey, a refrain loops in my head: I absolutely do not believe in love a first sight. By the end of the evening, as we chow down on street vendor Phad Thai with Egg, Rishi and I are glowing with satisfaction. We managed to pull of a classic epic night in a city we are utterly unfamiliar with. We toast 5 baht water and crash in out guest house. January 3rd, 2007, 2:30AM The Act of Turning 30 It's January 2nd, the evening of. The sun is threatening to set as Rishi and I finish our fried rice and cans of Chang, beachside in a breezy bungalow on the tropical island of Ko Phangang overlooking the distant island Ko Samui. The sky is framed with low white stringy clouds; the island dogs and geckos brace for an amazing sunset. I relate my intention for the next day's Full Moon Party: I will collect a band of interesting people today, so we can show up ready to roll with the crowd of 10,000. We watch the most spectacular sunset I have ever seen. Already adapted to Island Time, Rishi falls asleep on one of the many colorful cloth hammocks. I watch the bobbing headlamp of a crabber 200 meters out from dry sand. (The tide recedes apparently indefinitely due to the shallowness of the beach; this shallowness also give the water a warmth and blueness that defy explanation.) From another set of bungalows the form of a woman appears in the darkness. I can't say I can tell anything about her beyond her gate, which is sleepy, hippy, slow, and meandering in the deep course sand. She sits alone and orders food through yawns. I have to start somewhere, I say to myself, and this woman appears more approachable than the gang of stoned Australians. We talk only briefly. She has just woken up (6:30pm). I retreat to give her space. After a few minutes of awkwardly sitting alone, I mosey over to the adjacent bungalow bar. It is brightly lit compared to the candlelit down-beat place Rishi is dozing. The bar area is open on all sides, with a number of large wooden tables. The table nearest the fridge and kitchen is inhabited by the five proprietors. Two other tables contain a band of unassociated Dutch men and a school of Korean women. The Dutch invite me to join them. We become immediate friends. The woman with the expressive gate joins us. She is also Dutch. Her name is Bodil. I watch her eyes flit about the room, her arms gesture at every word, and her hair fall constantly into her eyes. Reggae music oozes out of the large speakers behind us, and the ocean breeze gently ruffles the hair on the three sleeping dogs. Everyone drinks SingHa and Chang. The proprietors are extremely friendly and also Dutch. By 11pm, Bodil is dancing alone amidst the empty tie-dye chairs. I tell one of the Dutch men, a beautiful blonde intellectual with disarming charisma, to encourage his shy friend to dance with her. I do this out of fear. Every time I catch Bodil's gaze, my stomach knots and my smile gives away my hand, my email passwords and my social security number. At 11:45, I mention to Wert that I am about to turn 30. A heavily tattooed man named Greg overhears and pulls Bodil aside and a flurry of chair-trading takes place. At midnight, Bodil, Greg and one of the proprietors appear with a drink for me - the multitude sing a rowdy Happy Birthday Day (with thick Dutch and Korean accents) and the owners present me with a commemorative ceramic tile. There is a huge drum set on an elevated stage deeper into the thatched roof area. They hoist me onto a large bamboo chair facing center stage. The Dutch and Koreans gather around me while two of the proprietors explode into a drum duet rivaling in epic proportion and unlistenableness the great In Da Gadda Da Vidda. A huge prehistoric boxer comically barks at the stage with only slightly worse rhythm than the adorable drumming Dutch brothers. We toast many times and dance late into the night. I keep a thick, wood table between Bodil's eyes and mine, sensing danger of disastrous proportions in her smile. Yet, I hold her bare foot between mine as the Dutch man flirts hopelessly at close range. The night ends at two, each traveler staggering toward their respective bungalow. I sit on the sand and say her name into the night wind and the expansive sandbar. The moon in near full over Ko Samui. Not a bad first two hours of my 30th year. I found my crew. Let's roll. January 7th, 2007, 10:05 AM Stories In India, not all stories are chronological, logical, or told the same way every time. I have notes for the wonderfully eventful days of January 3rd, 4th and 5th. A month of notes. However, processing time for each story varies. The story of January 3rd, 4th and 5th, which is to say the story of Bodil, will take longer to process. Until then, this. January 7th, 2007, Bangkok airport. The plane which is to take us to India was characteristically 30 minutes late. Rishi and I took advantage of the airport's western-style toilets and abundant warm water. We both needed a shave as badly as a Laundromat. We laughed on uncomfortable, slippery, metal waiting room chairs, which like everything else in Thailand, were designed for short, narrow Thai bodies. We practiced our story telling - the most recent adventure: getting off the island of Ko Phangang. January 6th, 2007, Ko Phangang, Thailand, just after midnight. Bodil set her cell alarm for 6:45AM and also for 7AM. I watched her press the numbers into her Nokia keypad while I drew island trees in a flat sandy area at Rishi's feet. Rishi sipped his Chang on a plastic chair and stared blankly at the darkly receded ocean and the phasing distant headlamp of a crabber (like a short, mobile lighthouse in a vast flat sea). We three retreated to the bungalow shortly after saying our goodbyes to Greg, the Dutch proprietors, the two bungalow dogs and tiny black puppy. Sleep came instantaneous and without fanfare on two flat, hard king-size mattresses, foot-to-foot in a contained wooden room under thickly thatched roof and towering palm trees. Hours later, the wine of the resident six-year-old from the adjacent bungalow stirred me. Bodil's bare arms were illuminated by a struggling beam of murky light which pushed through the transparent flower-print curtains. What time was it? I fished for the cell, but it was somewhere under Bodil. I rooted through Rishi's bag to our only timepiece. Shit. 7:45. I sound the alarm and peaceful sleep noises are instantly traded for frantic flailing and groggy profanities. We throw everything into bags and frantically assess the situation. We have 45 minutes to get to the ferry terminal at Tongsala from the beach at Ban Tai, and we've missed our scheduled taxi by 25 minutes. Bodil passes me in the bathroom. She smiles broadly and rolls her eyes. I click my teeth and giggle. Rishi is moving fast, but his eyes are closed. We speed-walk five minutes through jungle and hit the main road by 8:05. We are excited and hopeful, but the prospect of spending another day on the idyllic island doesn't have a great enough impact to push us to run. Hailing a sawngthaew (pick-up truck taxi) will be a matter of luck only. No one will give us a ride as the taxi companies are government military mafia monopolies with muscle. We walk for 10 minutes passing more roosters and dogs than people. A sawngthaew pulls up at 40km/hr throwing dusty sand on our glasses. We jump in the back and pulls away at breakneck speed. We grip the clammy bars above our heads and laugh hysterically as we are tossed violently on the narrow, windy, barely-two lane road. The cab passes pedestrians, trucks, busses, cars and motorcycles on the left, right, center and shoulder; at one point we actually fly over a double-decker V.I.P. tour bus. "This man is a genius!" cries Rishi. We arrive in record time and board the high-speed catamaran with far more adrenaline than caffeine in our system. We share a fresh pineapple and water. I try desperately to end this adventure movie Hollywood-style, but I know there is no happy ending. Bodil and I begin the long goodbye - a boat, a bus, a taxi. When I kiss her on Khoa San Road, one leg on the back seat of her taxi to Sukcomvit, she smiles broadly and rolls her eyes. We kiss properly, like New York City honeymooners, honking and Thai expletives behind me, her bare arms illuminated by tuk-tuk headlights. I absolutely believe in love at first sight. As I walk alone back to our Happy House guest house via crowded alleyways, I pass smiling travelers and locals. I smile broadly at a German blonde and help her with directions to Th Phra Athit. She holds her hand a moment too long on mine. We part. I am standing on the corner in Bangkok, the same corner I counted down the last seconds of 2006, this time with a ticket to Chennai in my pocket. The last trip around the block only took five and a half days, but it felt like a lifetime. The next trip will not return me to this intersection for twelve days. January 7th, 2007, Bangkok airport. The plane to Chennai finally arrives. A mass of mustached men in untucked shirts descends the fluorescent ramp. In a few minutes we'll be sipping expired apple juice from airline juice boxes, and I will have four hours to organize the flurry of activity of the past few days into comprehensible stories. January 3rd, 2007 Ko Phangang, Thailand Island Time I woke up 30 to the sound of a feral island dog scratching flees off his hindquarters outside the woven leaf wall (or perhaps under the floorboards) of my island bungalow. I had a slight hangover. I worked my way out of bed and across the small room to the lowered bathroom. A sink, unattached to any drainage, and a severely stained yellow and black mirror greeted me. The shower wand dripped onto cracked blue tiles and drained into cracks around the western-style toilet, which smelled like Chang run quickly through overworked kidneys. I brushed my teeth and my spit toothpaste fell through the drain onto my toes. I shaved similarly. I left the bungalow and walked 10 meters to the common area: an open, raised, thatched-roofed, hammock farm overlooking the ocean. As I passed a bright orange hammock, Rishi quietly says to me "I ordered you a pancake 30 minutes ago; it should be here in 20 minutes." He was the only person there. I walked to the edge of dry sand and looked out to the ocean; then, I let myself look in the direction of the neighboring bungalows. 50 meters away a thin, well tanned woman wearing a bright orange bikini appears to be conducting the tide the way one would conduct a grade school orchestra. She moved her arms mechanically and awkwardly, but with a precision and repetition as if she were the master of a yet-to-be-classified yoga. As I walked towards her, I had an important pre-coffee decision to make. Should I wordlessly kiss her? I opt for direct without risk of slapping: "G'morning. What would you like for breakfast?" Bodil smiles, steps towards the ocean and rolls her eyes playfully. "I'm stretching then going for a swim. I'll be over after that, okay?" She spins in a circle and almost looses her balance. It's at this moment that I fall so comically and so suddenly into love that Bob Saget appears and awards me the weekly America's Funniest Home Video grand prize. I smile too broadly and turn back towards my bungalow. I place my light white island shirt over a stray piece of lumber. I swim out far enough to see outside our cove entirely, then put my feet down in the shallow water and walk slowly back. My pancakes are still not there, but Rishi has ordered some Nescafe. It is 9am, and the sun is already hot and high in the clear blue sky. Bodil and my pancake arrive together, from opposite directions. She introduces herself to Rishi and lays out on one of the pillow sets scattered around the bungalow bar. We spend the day lounging and eating and swimming, wholly on Island Time. Bodil wasn't an old friend. She wasn't new either. Frankly, she was quite disarming. I found my practiced lines to be ineffective and unnecessary, but she laughed at all my stupid jokes. Maybe I have known her for years. Maybe this is a honeymoon with a stranger. Even stranger thoughts clutter my mind, and I am happy that I am so practiced at falling out of love. By two, Bodil reads a book to me in her native Dutch. We are holding hands shyly like school children. I wonder if she knows she has my number, as we talk to travelers and Roni, the happiest hostess on the island. By 5pm we formulate our plan for the big night. Bodil has great plans to document tripping and whacked out people to sell to magazines. She is a freelance photographer. We'll stay up all night and capture people at their worst in the morning light. During the party, we'll document dancing and the high points. The Full Moon Party in Haatrin will draw over 10,000 people. Partiers will dance on the beach to a dozen deejays competing loudly, drink mushroom shakes, smoke copious amounts of quality island pot, and stupefy themselves with poorly filtered Thai whiskey. It promises to be a great photo op. We reconnect at 6pm and begin our 45 minute beach walk. The sun is setting and we stop often for Bodil to photograph. Rishi climbs a tree. We all pee behind a huge bolder. The tide is fast receding into the darkness. Halfway through the walk the guest of honor rises over the island palms. She is beautiful. We stop and watch her and I give myself permission to absorb the moment with no pressure to document it later. By the time we can hear the first signs of the party, we have warmed up adequately. The night has already been magical. It is now January 3rd in NEPA and Seattle. I lag behind the group and tell myself quietly that the next 24 hours is my gift to me. I take Bodil's hands and spin her, laughing. Rishi is jumping. There are hundreds of people disembarking a ferry ahead. They join us, as we join the throngs of European travelers making their way through a cavernous fluorescent street with motorcycles and trucks towards the beach. The energy is feverish. I can hear the music long before I can see or smell the ocean through hundreds of shops and vendors. Bodil's smiling broadly and dancing to her own music. Rishi is bouncing off the walls. I am jumping and speechless. We crest a small rise in the road and the music triples in volume, saltiness fills the air, and we can just about make out the tops of heads dancing on the beach. Monday, January 08, 2007 Pondicherry, Indian Indian Process The high-end sweets shop in Pondicherry has a wide selection of chevro to buy by the kilo. Chevro looks like sandy crushed cornflakes with nuts. I have fallen in love with the crunchy, spicy, nutty rice and flower bits mixture since it was introduced to me by Kaliban at the Pondi House. Here is the process by which I procured 100 grams for myself. The main floor of the sweet shop is white and open. Against the far two walls is a white display case with multicolored sweets and yellow chevro in white bins. I walk up to the chevro and order by pointing to the spicy mixture I recognize from the Pondi House. A mustached man bobbles his head and weighs out a small bag. He seals it with a space-age heat sealer. He hands me only a receipt. I walk across the store (which is empty as it is after the dinner hour) and hand my receipt and 15 rupees to another mustached man. He stamps my receipt PAID and gives it back to me. I walk back across the entire room, passing the first mustached man. I hand my stamped receipt to a third man, a security guard in urban camouflage, who compares it with an order receipt he received from the first mustached man. He stamps both receipts "DELIVERED" in red ink and hands me my doubly stamped receipt and mixture. I think they lost money on me, but that's the Indian way. Wednesday, January 10th Class Five Rapids In Bangkok, there are no traffic rules. Traffic flows like water in rapids, the slow bits moving around the fast bits and the southbound bits weaving seamlessly and speedily through the west- and northbound bits. No one stops. A blinker means: "Okay to pass me on this side," "I'm going to pass you on this side," and "I'm staying on this side" (to oncoming traffic when driving against it on the right or the left side of the road). Four-way flashers or hazard lights indicate "I am going to pass you any way possible as soon as possible." The Thai people always are smiling. The slowest vehicles bear far to the left, the fastest on the right. In Thailand, nobody owns the road, the lane, the intersection, nor any space around their vehicle. There is no individual right of way -- all travelers have equal rights and liberty. No one shows anger so long as the flow is preserved. Street lights (the few that exist in the large cities) count down the count down the seconds to change (both when green and red), and in due time go becomes stop becomes go. The quick small tuk-tuks and motorcycles move to the front of the line of stopped cars, trucks, and buses. Flow is preserved even at a red light. There are no collisions, no altercations, very few horns (though, a horn may let a slower vehicle know a close pass is about to occur, or if (Buddha forbid!) you stop) and absolutely no obscene gestures. At any time a two lane bi-directional road may contain four pedestrians, a pedal bike towing a vendor card, a tuk-tuk, a taxi, and a double-decker bus -- all passing the same point at the same time, at different speeds and in different directions. For foreigners like me, the experience should easily be frightening. Certainly, the quick breaking of a scrap metal truck in Bangkok is the only reason I'm still alive. After two weeks of acclamation, I now share the healthy blind faith combined with the necessary hyper awareness essential to navigate on foot. That said, you couldn't pay me enough to drive a tuk-tuk in Bangkok, because I know I wouldn't survive to spend the payment. In India, the only rule of the road is Right of Weight. The larger the vehicle and more protected the driver is, the more privilege they garnish at intersections, crowded streets, and while passing and turning. The highest animal on the food chain is the massive dump trucks/cargo trucks (10 wheels, bight yellow and orange flowers painted on the side, small child dangling from the passenger window wielding a stick). These trucks only bow to the bovine (who here is not an animal on the food chain, but a symbol of holiness). There are consistent conventions: unspoken agreement between all who use the road. When passing, or about to pass, honk a few times. When you don't consider your position flexible, flash your lights (as all passing vehicles are using the middle of the road in both directions, it is common to have too many vehicles hit a section of road at one time. If you can't get back to your side because of cows or slower vehicles, flash.). One long, loud honk is used to communicate dissatisfaction. Tailgating a scooter caring a family of four (mom, grandma, baby and big sis) with your bus is A-Okay, but should a collision of any sort occur, all niceties are thrown out the window. In the States, insurance and police are summoned by cell phones. In India, the two parties exchange obscenities and views on the accident to a background of angry horns and profanities. Then, as quickly as traffic stops, everyone is back on the road up to full speed (30 mph). In India, you must always be prepared to stop. There are police. The erect petrol barrel & steel fence chicanes to slow down traffic. This turns a 4 lane bi-directional highway into a one lane alley. Motorbikes and city buses play chicken at high speeds. Weight always wins. In all, it's not so amazing so many people can navigate the crowded streets so quickly. To be sure, the sensible rules and laws we Americans follow like sheep save lives and reduce stress; they also allow people who could never drive in a chaotic environment like this to get around safely. Still, the difference in temperament got me thinking. The greatest difference, perhaps, between American drivers and those I've seen on this trip to Thailand and India, is our respective senses of ownership and entitlement. Americans say "my lane," "my right of way," and expect structured yielding, merging, and healthy buffer space on all side of their vehicle. When those expectations are not met, the situation easily deteriorates into a thieving of property or Right, rather than just a simple driving maneuver. Remove the entitlement, and the lanes open up to all for equal use. If there are three cars headed south, and one north, shouldn't the four lane road accommodate this? Why shouldn't they pass side-by-side? What sense do the double-yellow lines make? I can see it in the way I drive. I can feel it in my bones here. The phrase, "I'm walkin' here!" comes to mind as motorbikes and mammoth trucks pass dangerously close to me. I want to make them swerve, to assert my space, to claim ownership of the three square foot area around me. Over uthampamp I tell Rishi's father my observations, and he corrects on thing: my behavior to assert my ownership of space by moving toward traffic is not instinct, but rather cultural behavior modification. He's right. All my instincts are telling me to walk on the sidewalk, and that's where I'll be. At least the gaping holes don't move or honk. Saturday, January 13, 2007 Auroville, India Traveling Companion After a certain amount of time traveling with the same person, it is impossible not to have a moment of weakness and show disapproval or frustration. It passes, of course, almost instantly. For both Rishi and I, today was one of those days: the fourth day visiting his parents in rural Auroville. Me with limited reading material (Rishi is reading my second book) and Rishi with dwindling patience (his mother forces him to listen to Auroville smooth jazz after dinner). Still, this is part of traveling and like every emotion from takeoff through touchdown, I find it worth examining outside the safe confines of my daily routine. Rishi and I have been friends for seven and a half years. A year or so ago I felt close enough to want to refer to him as a brother. Rishi has two sisters, though, so it had no chance of sticking. I don't know what it would be like to have siblings, so I try to not judge his frustrations nor take for granted his elation with his sisters. Having moved 3,005 miles from the house I grew up in, I often find myself in a situation very similar to Rishi's current environment. Both our mothers are excitable and absolutely unable to contain their boundless joy in sharing our company. They are loud and overly affable (the kind of people everyone likes), but this extra excited state is even enough to make our fathers roll their eyes. And our fathers, well, they've done their part in raising us and are now content to share conversation, beer and maybe just a little paternal wisdom. As for the supporting cast, they all want to see Rishi: old family friends, distant relatives, parents' coworkers, and personal acquaintances. To Rishi, this is as foreign and undesirable a concept as the smooth jazz oozing out of the stereo. Maybe he is struggling in a riptide of rebellious adolescence and incoming tide of nostalgia-filled adult hood. Maybe, like the way he fought the Indian Ocean breaking on the Auroville beach earlier that day, he is uncontrollably drawn to the churn even knowing the inevitable exhaustion he will face afterwards. I don't know what he's thinking, because I don't ask. He seems agitated enough, and we still have eight days of traveling left. I'll save it for the flight to Seattle. I'm sure he has questions for me, too. My trip to Scandinavia with Regina healed for me a few old wounds and drew us closer together than I thought possible. Afterwards, I saw Regina as the premier, practiced world traveler she was -- capable of braving the most treacherous terrain with fantastic humor and compassion. I can safely say anything I learned about traveling (and traveling with someone) I learned from her. And now, as I settle into the sweetest spot of a vacation (when home appears more distant than my current location), I wonder what I've learned from Rishi on this trip. Stillness? Patience? Certainly how to cross a busy street (and no, NYC friends, you do not know what a busy street looks like until you've been to India). January 19, 1PM, Bangkok Toilets You've all been wondering, so I'll break the suspense and answer the burning question on all your minds: What are the toilets like in Asia? For starters, in any tourist-centric place where westerners gather, a traveler will find western style toilets and ample (if thin) toilet paper. Mind you, the conventions one uses in the west for cleaning one's bum are not advisable here. No toilet paper should go in the toilet, even the western ones. You will find next to a western toilet a small hose like the extendable kitchen sink sprayer. This is to be used to clean your butt when you're finished. Then, a little TP to dry up, disposed in the small rubbish bin. Walk outside and wash your hands (not an optional step). After a few tries, this process will become second nature. Still, I don't think I'll be installing a sprayer in my bathroom. Now, eastern style toilets are a bit different. Basically, they are a porcelain basin set in the ground, with two squares for your feet on either side of the hole. Placing one's feed and squatting will align one's tush with the hole. Flushing is done by using the bucket of water and cup always present, which also act as the sprayer if none is to be found. This experience I found significantly less enjoyable, and I was very glad have had the foresight to bring a little toilet paper. Still, in the rural areas, where in America we might find a foul smelling porto-john or waterless blue hole, the eastern style toilet is much, much cleaner and has little or no odor (so long as the last westerner used enough water to flush). There are certainly hybrid toilets here as well, familiar seat with no flushing replacing the porcelain hold, but generally squatting and no TP is the gold standard. So now you know. And, when you visit the East, you won't have to fear the toilets. January 19th, 1PM, Bangkok India Accommodations For our time in India we moved between two houses in Pondicherry (south of Madras/Chennai) and Auroville. This region of India is known as "India light," though having an inside connection with Rishi's family, I experienced more immersion than the average traveler would enjoy. Rishi's family house in Pondicherry, known in conversation as the Pondi House or the Ambalal House (after Rishi's grandfather), is technically owned by the Aurobindo Ashram community. Rishi's mother's parents moved the family here, and the house will stay in the family so long as someone occupies it. Currently, Rishi's grandmother (Mummiji), great aunt (Kaliban), and uncle (Prakash) live there. Two servants (uma) prepare meals and keep the house immaculate clean, and Prakash's long time friend Lipi always seems to be poking her head in to stir things up with some excited laughing or joking. The house is situated in a cluster of blue and white three story Ashram houses, a few blocks from the Indian Ocean, on the east side of central Pondicherry. The Bay of Bengal crashes relentlessly against massive black rocks along a many kilometer promenade. Here we found a cubic zirconium in the ruff, a bar with rare AC and comfortable seating. A sizable market is nearby where one can find the superb quality shirtings one expects from India, complete with hilariously bad English an unquestionably poor craftsmanship. Surrounding the market concrete buildings house fine jewelers and sellers of handicrafts, clothes, and anything you would expect to find in a cosmopolitan city. The houses blend in architecturally with the others in the neighborhood, but stand out with their fresh, colorful paint jobs and well kept shutters and roofs. The Pondi House is three light blue stories with thick wooden shutters and doors. All the walls are poured concrete, as is custom in most of the houses in this region. The line between inside and outside is blurred -- the house is open in the middle and top, with balconies on all sides and floors. In the center of the house a large arboretum sends up thick vines and trees from the ground floor past the roof. There is hall on the second floor which opens on one side to an exposed sitting area with more plants. Each room around the outside of the house has its own thick, dark blue doors and shuttered windows facing towards the arboretum and out onto the street. There are no screens or glass. It's obvious a master botanist lives here. The plants and flowers are vibrant, exotic (even for India), lush and bursting out of their containers. The fridge is locked to frustrate the monkeys. Every food item is kept in identical tin containers with tight lids to discourage the squirrels (friendly, wild, small rodents fed by Prakash as pets) and huge crows. The kitchen is well stocked with veggies, curry ingredients, and cutlery. The walls facing the arboretum are the same light blue and white as the external walls, but each of the six rooms is painted a different vibrant color. I sleep in a pale green sitting room with flower-print cotton curtains (the flowers disappear in direct sunlight, magically), under a mosquito net, on a small cot. Four times a day a tortured elephant, Lakshmi, a symbol of the local favorite deity Ganesh, saunters past the house in a din of tinny bells. In the morning uniformed school children march to English/Tongal calls. Pondicherry, at least the little I saw of it, was not my cup of tea. Culture shock hit me harder here than anywhere else I've traveled. I felt constantly uncomfortable (blazing winter sun, endless supply of mosquitoes, bizarrely bad service) and was constantly reminded by everyone I met that I was out of place, and my customs were laughable. While every name, street and food was pronounceable, I couldn't keep them straight and constantly stumbled and bumbled through conversations (in English!). I rarely let my left hand near food or the table; still I preferred to use a fork if one was offered (to the amusement of the locals). The streets were loud and busy; the sidewalks were broken badly, unfinished and often foul smelling; the beggars absolutely broke my heart. The sensory overload limited my energy and desire to roam around. I also felt a bit guilty -- this was Home to Rishi, and I desperately did not want to be the stupid American with the sensitive western sensibilities. In the end, that is precisely the role I played. Back in Auroville, I felt easily at home. Rishi's parents have recently moved to a much desired house in the school Transition in the free-thinking community of Auroville, a 30 minute drive from the busy street of Pondicherry. Kirti is a school teacher and Rod gives lectures; they both act as care-takers in exchange for the lodging, which amounts to keeping the servants focused and busy, among other things. Rod and Kirti could not have been more hospitable. Once I acclimated to the heat and figured out that I could drink the water, Auroville's charm began to work on me. The Transition House has the same fuzzy line between inside and outside as the Pondi House. The house grows up organically out of the red sandy dirt like an intricate termite mound. It is red clay and cement, matching the ground in Auroville. The walls extend halfway to the ceiling; the top half is wire screen and glass window. The house is broken up into three pieces: a bedroom/living room, a kitchen/bathroom/dining room, and a toilet room, under one contiguous roof, but separated by doors and external sidewalks. There is a sitting area covered with a thatched roof over the largest section. Ants and mosquitoes run the outside and geckos patrol in the inside. It is comfortable and airy under the shade of tall tropical trees. It feels light years away from Pondicherry. The house is situated at the end of one path in a cluster of similarly red concrete/clay buildings that make up the grade-school Transition. The classrooms are standalone circular buildings about the size of a large gazebo, situated in clusters of two or three. The clusters are spread over a couple of acres of lightly wooded red sandy soil, such that it is impossible to see from one end of the property to another. Like Auroville itself, Transition's paths and one "road" wind in arches and circle around lush flowering shrubs and course patchy grass. Everyone's feet are reddish orange and anything not originally red eventually changes to match. The sun sets in a lavender sky unlike anything I have ever seen. Rishi's parents know they are blessed to be staying here, even though they miss some conveniences like phone, laundry, cable, and potable water from their tap. Speaking of water, the drinking water in Auroville is called "Dynamized water," a name a scientist gave to the water due to its special crystalline molecular structure which has numerous purported healing and health benefits. It tastes like water. There are labeled taps on the side of building where the water is freely available. Auroville is a place better visited for months at a time, as every action or event takes a long time to happen, and the real Auroville experience is in the motley community of long time residents, visiting students, and villagers. Hopefully I'll detail Auroville more in a future blog, but if you're interested, there's a lot of information about it on Wikipedia. January 19, 2007, Bangkok Let's Make a Deal Brace yourselves, you've never heard the likes of this from my mouth before: shopping in Thailand is fun. Rishi and I spent our last 24 hours in Bangkok doing literally twelve hours of market shopping in three different markets -- Khao San Road, Suan Lum Night Bazaar, and Patpong Night Market. The days before that, Bodil and I spent almost that much time in the local markets in and around Chiang Mai. The most accessible market for backpackers headquartered in Khao San Road is, not surprisingly, the day and evening market on and surrounding the main promenade, a four lane wide mostly pedestrian walkway stretching four city blocks. The buildings on KSR house more uppity shops with higher cost and higher profit margin products. Tightly sandwiching the sidewalks on both sides, stalls selling the familiar Thai tourist wears stretch on indefinitely, wrapping around the blocks from the main drag forming a maze of multi-block shopping. Stalls also face outward from the sidewalk onto the streets. This is typical of the other road/promenade setups. Shopping on KSR is a daytime activity. With the vast majority of stalls and shops closing by dusk to make way for the hoards of heavy drinkers, only the brave or super tacky stay open until midnight -- still one can find any product available during the day, just less selection. On KSR the typical products are Thai silks scarves, throws, tapestries, clothes, etc; cotton scarves; t-shirts with funny English, collegiate potty humor, drug references; knock-off brand-name apparel and jeans; and teak carvings, lights, kitsch and even enough Disney-esque tourist crap to keep the simpleminded occupied. At corners street vendors sell quail eggs, Phad Thai, rice dishes, waffles, corn on the cob, meat skewers, friend bugs, strings of grilled fish balls, dried sea life, and meaty soup for pennies. Some of the most interesting shops are in the alleys connecting KSR with surrounding markets. It would be easy to get lost or turned around in the crowds, similar stalls, and nameless streets and alleys. The night marks around Lumphini Park in Bangkok (an 80 baht tuk-tuk ride from KSR, unless you work a deal with the driver to pretend to scam you, then walk out of a tourist trap (which in Bangkok, really are traps) and speed away, then it'll be 60 and yet another memorable moment) have a completely different feel. They know kick off until after dark (6pm) and are geared for the more experienced bargain hunter. Suan Lum Night Bazaar is government backed, so the prices are pretty good and the selection is much wider and different than most other markets. Patpong is known for its high quality (and no quality) top-brand knock offs, where a Gucci label is stuck onto a purse that could be Gucci design, but definitely isn't, as it only costs $15. Both of these markets require serious bargaining, which implies you know the proper price for an item. Generally, the price a vendor shouts out is two or three times more than what a tourist should pay for it. Patapong stalls sandwich sidewalks and alleyways in a huge area, as well as a very long, cavernous promenade. The walls of the cavern are bars with "big music acts" that are unbearable from even a distance and strip clubs... so many strip clubs. It's hard to tell if anyone ever actually gets naked in Thailand; certainly the ubiquitous men with cards for "Ping pong shows" would like the young male tourist to believe there's an illegal haven for the unseemly and exotic just around the bend. Frankly, I think their information is probably just like every other stranger's advice here: a scam to give you just enough and take just enough to leave both parties almost happy. Let's talk about that for a minute. After a week in India, when I returned to Thailand I was warmed by their desire and ability to take my money and leave me with what I wanted, all in short time with good service. The Thais have figured customer service out. They are corrupt, for sure all the way to the top, but they don't let that corruption get in the way of handing out good bargains and timely service. Certainly they want everyone to spread the word that Thailand is a great deal and loads of fun. The tuk-tuk drivers are in cahoots with the suit salesmen and jewelry stores, the taxi drivers are part of the mafia, the shop sellers are all part of a multi-billion dollar industry to defraud the visiting public, and everyone, everyone, is out to get the tourist's baht. But, that said, they all work within a tightly defined and well organized system. And any system can be worked. So, once we figured out who has got their hands in each others' pockets, we were able to get good deals, good quality, and have a good time. Even the rip offs only steal quality -- rarely, if ever, will the consumer not get the product they were promised. Back to the stalls. Rishi adored Patpong and probably spent his rent in baht here, but with the exchange rate, that's like 50 bucks. Purses, wallets, bags, sporting apparel and goods, cufflinks, watches, and hats from the lowest quality raw materials and craftsmanship have a designer label slapped on them, and voila, you have a Gucci handbag. Heck, I didn't even recognize the names of half the brands, but Rishi was so happy I got a shopping contact high. Some of the goods in Patpong were actually quality. The watches, unfortunately, disintegrated on first wear, but the wallets and purses were pretty hot. As for haggling, I think I would have made my grandmother proud. I developed a method (based on Bodil's bargaining tips) to discover the proper price. Rishi used this with great results on tuk-tuk and taxi drivers. I would walk up to a vendor and haggle 1/3 or 1/4 of the price, much to their dismay. Eventually, I would find a price they couldn't meet and wouldn't try to meet, by walking away time and time again (from this same vendor) until they didn't call me back. Then, I'd find the next vendor with the same merch at the same quality, and add a few baht to my last lowest bid. Once we discovered that a scarf cost this and a t-shirt that, we could simply state the correct price, pretend to walk away, and bang -- instant sale. Haggling became easier. By the way, you know you have the right price if the vendor acts pissed but has a smile on their face. They wouldn't do it if they didn't love it, there's not a whole lot of money in it for them. I'll admit, I overspent on a few items and missed a few opportunities to buy at the lower-cost markets in Chiang Mai (I guess I was distracted). Still, every time I left a vendor with both of us laughing, having scored 3 times the merch for less than the original price of 1 item, I admit I had quite a high. All of the markets are expansive. Of the thousands of shops, one can expect to see the much of the same repeated ad infinitum. Yes quality and design vary enough to make browsing and hunting for the optimal deal intellectually stimulating. Add to that the barrage of colors, odors, sounds (the ubiquitous hill tribe woman croaking their wooden frogs) and textures the whole experience can be adventurous even without spending a dime (4 baht). January 21, 2007, Seoul, South Korea and Seattle, Washington Epic Rishi and I ran our vacation like we run our weekends: we settle for nothing short of epic. On our way from Bangkok to Seattle (BKK - ICN 4.5 hours; ICN to SEA 9 hours) we stopped outside of Seoul in Incheon, South Korea, for eight hours. Never to pass up an unanticipated opportunity (yes, even with the tickets in hand for four months we didn't notice the 8 hour layover until the day of our flight) we make an improvised excursion out of Incheon International Airport into central Seoul. We check out a Lonely Planet Seoul over 4,000 won americanos (by the way, this $4.06 americano is the most expensive cup of coffee I've ever purchased). Opting for the self guided rather than the guided tour (available at a counter in the airport, leaving hourly) we board a bus to Gyeonbokgung Palace. No, I can't pronounce that for you. There are also two large outdoor markets nearby, which intrigue us given our Thai shopping experience. I am wearing light zipper pants, a Ganesh t-shirt, my North Face wind breaker, Tevas, and my Chinese cap (the coolest cap in Bangkok). Rishi is wearing a yellow t-shirt, light zipper pants, a hoodie with a naked woman on it (totally illegal in Seoul), flip-flops still stained red, and his Chinese cap from Chiang Mai. We stroll past two men with AK-47s and step outside the airport to wait for the bus. It's zero degrees centigrade, 32F. Freezing. Cold. In the sun. We get off the bus amid neon and fluorescent signs in Korean and not a whole lot of roman characters. In short order our body heat is sucked in to the Seoul mountain air and we rely for warmth on the endorphins our bodies was using to combat sleep deprivation as we walk around massive palace courtyards. The reconstruction of this 500+ year old structure was conducted before Seattle had plumbing, back when Yestler was a dirt road for sliding old growth into the Puget Sound. We take some snaps, experience some ancient culture, watch the guards change, and head towards the market. The tables have turned: I'm no longer mentioned the heat and Rishi is constantly reminded that his feet are freezing. Must be the Russian in me. Rishi demands socks, so we score two pair for 4,000 won from a street vendor. Very fashionable. But, Rishi is not satisfied unless he's making a serious fashion statement (apparently the illegal naked woman isn't enough!) so he picks up a pair of classic Korean fuzzy bed slippers -- leopard print nonetheless -- and ditches his flip-flops. He makes the local laugh with his outfit and his charm. We're almost the only white faces, and certainly the most oddly dressed people in the neighborhood of Jongno-gu. After some strange vendor food and an hour of browsing we poke our heads into a wood paneled one room restaurant for my new favorite food: bibimbop. Dang, it was spicy and scorchingly hot, but it hit the spot and was only our third lunch of this endless Saturday (washed down by the last of my 5 baht Thai water). We walk back through the market without much fanfare, stopping once to give a professor a lesson in the finer points of past participles and noun phrases (I expect you to marry me, as [you had] promised [me].) I think we confused him, but anyone who thinks Americans know how to speak English is already confused. We refuel on two more americanos and grab the 60-minute bus back to ICN. This was bonus time. We hit the streets of Seoul at noon on Saturday, and thanks to the International Date Line, that's the exact same time Megan picked us up from the Seattle International Airport and dropped our smelly, delusional bodies on our respective doorsteps. We lived Saturday three times, in three countries, redefining epic. And what an trip! For me: 1 day in Bangkok, 3 trekking in Northern Thailand, 1 day in Bangkok, 5 lounging on Ko Phangang, 2 in Pondicherry, 3 in Auroville, 3 in Chiang Mai, 2 in Bangkok, and half a day in Seoul. Rishi traded three in Chiang Mai for three more in India. The lights on the 747 went out, and Rishi and I struggled to catch an hour or two of sleep. We end up sleeping only a few hours over the course of 48, but it was well worth it. We finished the trip still friends, alive, unmarried and unscathed. It is Sunday morning now, and I miss him already. We spend almost the whole trip side by side. Every experience shared. The time I wasn't laughing with Rishi, Bodil was making me laugh. I'm listening to Camera Obscura in my own house, which feels a little foreign. I slept 14 hours last night. Man, that was a great trip. I'll fill in the missing blogs over the next week or so, as I turn the notes and memories into readable entries, so stay tuned for a novelinni on the Full Moon Party, the night taxi to Chennai, my Chiang Mai affair, Matrimondir, the moped on a super highway adventure, and the Lake Estate. And of course, about 1,000 photos. Thanks for listening, y'all. Where are you going next? Me: Tran Siberian Railroad and Eastern Europe, spring 2008. 1