Full Moon Madness

You know about the infamous Thai Full Moon parties right? You know, every month 50,000 people gather to drink and do drugs under the moonlight? Oh yeah, they’re all the rage. Everybody goes. Everybody.

Okay, well, not me. Prior to going to Thailand, I knew about the Full Moon parties. I also knew that I never went to any sort of Spring Break at the beach deal. No. I was L-A-M-E, and I continue to B-E. My friend who had gone to a Full Moon party told me to avoid it at all costs as it was essentially Spring Break for Swedes. And as much as I like the Swedes (mostly because they aren’t Norwegian, and we all know that I don’t get along with our Nordic brethren), I didn’t want any part of it.

However, can you really pass up the opportunity to go out on the night of the brightest full moon of the year? No way. You can’t. And even though I was nowhere near any of the islands where the true Full Moon parties are held, local bars did what they could to cash in on the action. So our little troupe of harried travelers went to our very own Full Moon Party, and it was something else. And by something else, I mean…it wasn’t exactly a party. It was really just a night at a bar that included severed toes, home movies, prostitutes, and quadruple-patty-burger-eating Canadians. What more could you want?

After watching a magnificent sunset from Railey Beach, we took our taxi boat back to Ao Nang, piled into a tuk-tuk, had a delicious dinner, and went back to the hotel to change. I decided take that opportunity to wow everyone on Facebook with the “fact” that I was going to a Full Moon Party, knowing full well that I was full of poo. At nine o-clock, Diane and I and our crew headed down to the main drag in Ao Nang to hit up the Chang Bar. Why the Chang Bar? Because it was A) a good bar, B) did not allow prostitutes, C) had a pool table, and D) was hosting a Full Moon Party (which basically meant that they re-named their nightly drink special which was a free shot of your choice of tequila or Sambucca).

We were ready. We were pumped. Okay, maybe I was the only one that was pumped, but I was excited to go out to a bar. I don’t know why exactly since I go to bars regularly, but I just was. Maybe it was the moon.

We walked into the bar, which was down an alley filled with shops selling clothes and sunglasses, and found a table. Upon sitting down, Diane caught my attention and asked me for some help. Not knowing what she needed I turned to her.

“Can you get me a band-aid? I think I cut my toe.”

I looked down at her toe, and it was bleeding profusely. “Uhh, yeah. Sure thing.”

I ran over to the bar manned by a lady boy, of which I would learn later was not the Chang bar but a completely different bar altogether (despite the fact that it was located ten feet away from our table) and asked if he had a band-aid. Unfortunately for me, he had no idea what I was requesting, so I ran over to the pharmacy a few doors down. I quickly made my purchase and returned.

Being that I AM First-Aid Certified, I felt confident that I could handle this little cut toe issue. I asked Diane how she was feeling. She responded by telling me she couldn’t feel her toe. I opened up a band-aid and leaned over to doctor her toe when I noticed that I couldn’t actually see her toe. No, all I could see was a mountain of blood, and the more I looked at it, the more I feared that she hadn’t just cut her toe, but cut her toe off.

Not wanting to tell her what I feared, I informed her that we would need to go to the bathroom to clean it off. Her flip-flop was covered in coagulated blood and was too strappy for her to put back on, so I sacrificed my own foot and shoe for her benefit (and if you know anything about me you know that I HATE bare feet in public. HATE it. It’s gross. You don’t know what’s on the sidewalk…and you REALLY don’t know what’s on the floor of a Thai bar and its outdoor restroom, but my inner Florence Nightingale took over).

We hobbled over to the restroom, attempting to avoid puddles of who-knows-what along the way. Once inside, I had Diane drape her leg over the sink and discovered that water faucet could not reach her foot. Being the quick-thinker that I am, I knew that we needed a bucket of some sort to pour water over her toe, and the closest one…was in the toilet. Yes, you see, in most Thai toilets, you have to use water to manually flush them, so there is always a vat of water next to them with a bowl that you use to pour into the basin once you have completed your business. I looked over at Diane, knowing exactly how disgusting the proposition was, but also knowing that my options were limited.

“This is really gross, but are you okay with using the scoop from the toilet bucket?”

“Yes.”

“Good, cuz it’s all I’ve got.” I grabbed it, and started filling it with water from the faucet. It took a few rinses, but thankfully, it was clear that her toe was still intact, though badly cut, and to my untrained eye, looked as though stitches would not be necessary (which was my big fear as we hobbled over to the bathroom (risking hookworm along the way)).

As we were rinsing her toe, people came in and out of the restroom commenting on the scene at hand. Everyone was surprisingly supportive and not grossed out by the equipment being used in our terribly un-sterile make-shift hospital room (probably because once you’re in Thailand, your whole idea of clean changes).

Despite the fact that I was challenging my tendencies toward relative cleanliness, I did feel strongly that the wound needed to be disinfected. I asked Diane to sit tight (or stand, as it were) while I ran back to the pharmacy to buy some antibiotic cream. As I ran out or the restroom and down the alley, I came upon Sam, our tour guide. In an attempt to help, he had gone with the bartender to find antiseptic and had it in his hand. Together we delivered it to Diane and applied it to her toe. We then washed off our flip flops and returned to the table where the Full Moon Party was commencing.

I wasn’t going to let a little thing like a bloody stump prevent me from getting my drink on, so I did not. With just a little prodding, I convinced Diane to go in on one of several buckets of gin and tonic with me (which was a deal and a half). We also ordered our free shots of tequila complete with salt and lime—unfortunately for us, the waitress returned with Sambucca shots complete with salt and lime. And even more unfortunate, we didn’t discover the mistake until after we had drunk them, complete with salt and lime. Gross. Did I mention how much I dislike licorice? Gross.

We all settled into the bar and the people watching. We were especially curious about what was happening at the bar ten feet away from us where scantily clad Thai women were hanging all over large, middle-aged white men (which was different from the ladyboy bar where a similar scene was taking place). No prostitutes in this bar, huh? It was especially entertaining as we watched a group of four youngish guys interacting with the attentive ladies, thus commencing our game of “European or Gay”. I voted European based on one member of the foursome, but Diane was sticking to her guns on Gay.

We eventually asked about the “No Prostitutes” proclamation at Chang Bar and learned that the other two bars that were both within ten feet of our table and obviously had prostitutes of either the female or ladyboy kind were completely different establishments. Apparently there was an invisible line that prostitutes dared not cross (though upon observing the suspect interaction of a young German couple and the bar-back, we suspect that the rule might not apply to male prostitutes).

As everyone was busily people-watching, I felt the need to dance, and dance I did. I danced so much that I found myself on Dutch home movies. I was even interviewed in one about my dance skills. Americans may not see it, but the Dutch think I’m a good dancer. And I’ll admit that I have tried to find it on YouTube, but every time I look up “Dancing Girl in Thailand” I get something else altogether that will probably land me on some sort of Government Watch List.

Sometime after midnight, Diane and I decided it was time to find our way back to the hotel, since we both had activities planned for the morning (rock-climbing for me and kayaking for her). Upon leaving the bar, I took a purposeful wrong turn in hopes of getting french fries from Burger King. Diane resisted at first, but came around pretty quickly. Though, just as I was about to make my way to the door, a Canadian fella stopped me.

“Don’t do it!” He said. “We just had the Four Patty Burger, and I feel like throwing up. Don’t do it!”

“Of course you feel like barfing. That’s disgusting. I just want fries.” I laughed.

“Don’t do it! Promise me!”

And then we all started to chat. Diane recognized them first.

“Were you in the Chang Bar?” She asked.

“You’re the girl that was dancing!” One of them exclaimed, pointing at me. “We were just talking about you. I saw you and said, ‘There’s someone who just doesn’t care.’”

“You’re the guys that were awkwardly talking to the prostitutes!” I laughed.

“Hey, you don’t know that. They could have been really into us.”

“Uh-huh.”

They introduced themselves to us and we learned that three of them were from Canada and the fourth was from Spain. And then I forget who, but either Diane or I revealed that they were part of our “European or Gay” game. I stood firm in letting them know that I went with European based solely on the appearance of their Spanish friend…and then I may have let it slip that Diane called gay based on the other three.

And then we became fast friends. Eventually Diane went inside to buy french fries while the Quad-Patty-Burger-Eating Canadian followed her in begging her not to order a hamburger. We made plans to meet up the next night with the understanding that there was only at 30% chance that either party would show.

We then bid adieu to our new, straight Canadian (and Spanish) friends, and made our way back to the hotel for a brief slumber before embarking on chest-hair growing physical activities with killer hangovers and little food.

To be honest, I think the madness hit the day after the full moon, but that might have been my aching muscles and starving belly talking.

Another Day on the Beach (Or Why Do Unattractive People Sunbathe Topless?)

Well, we made it to the beach.  After a few relaxing and delightful days staying in a treehouse bungalow in Khao Sok National Park (where I encountered monkeys who showed zero interest in my outfit), we piled into a VIP bus complete with the option of karaoke (though we opted to watch the third installment of the Mummy series) and drove to Ao Nang (which, according to Lonely Planet is the armpit of Thailand, but will be my home base for the next week).  It's a lovely beach (despite what Lonely Planet or the Dutch girl and the New Zealander said) and the water is so shallow that you can walk for at least a half a mile during low tide without ever getting the water past your knee.  The town is...well, a bit over-run by tourists (as this is a major transportation hub for people going out to the island, Phuket, and other Andaman sea destinations).

We spent our day wandering around, having coffee in tattoo parlors and crying over our food (okay, so I was the only one crying and eating, but it was just so darn spicy!).  As I ate through my tears, I noticed a group of kids working on an English project.  Basically, they had a list of conversational questions to ask people in English.  Being the natural helper that I am, I wanted to be interviewed.  So, we finished up our food.  I wiped my tears and approached the shy girl.  Immediately we were swarmed with kids, listening to our answers and asking us questions.  They were very sweet, and we were suddenly rock stars.  After quite awhile we managed to excuse ourselves and walk away.  A half an hour later, they spotted us walking on the beach and came running down looking for autographs.  Rock stars indeed.

And that was our day.  We saw some unfortunate nudity (which, for the record, is illegal in Thailand) and then went to Reileh Beach where I got to check out the princess cave...oh, and I also watched a beautiful sunset whilst eating corn-on-the-cob.

Once the sun went down, the full moon rose...and the fun was only just beginning.

Snack Attack!

Oh Pringles!  Why must you exist?  You are the new Goldfish, which were the new Pringles, which were the new Cheez-Its, which were the new Goldfish, etc.  I came all the way to SE Asia, and here I am, eating Pringles like it's raining dehydrated potatoes.  Why did I have to see you in the 7-Eleven?  I was doing just fine when Lays were the only potato chips available because they don't put crack in their chips, not to mention the fact that they are less entertaining since you can't make hilarious duck lips with them.  Is there nowhere to run?  Will I never be safe from deliciously salty snacks?  Will I ever stop eating like a 5-year-old?

On a somewhat unrelated note, what's up with the abundance of fried chicken in Southern Thailand?  Did I die and wake up in Mississippi?  I am so down with the what the Rock is cooking around these parts!

Night 1 at the Raft House: Fried Fish - Muy delicioso!
Night 2: I was disappointed to learn that fried fish was not on the menu, but my hunger strike was called off almost immediately when they delivered...FRIED PORK BALLS!

Heaven!  I'm in Heaven!  What's a quasi-southern girl to do?

The abundance and variety of deep fried deliciousness in the south of Thailand brings up a curious question (and I have to give Diane credit for this particular musing).  Is it possible that the southern part of all countries share the culinary aesthetic of deep fried fanaticism?  If so, I have DEFINITELY found my people.

Now I Get It

I never understood the beach vacation...until now.  When it comes to travel and recreation, I generally subscribe to the go/see/do school.  I've never been a beach-goer.  Don't get me wrong, I like the beach, but I just don't know what to do with myself for hours on end.  Same goes with camping (though that has more to do with me not liking being dirty).  Or hanging out by a pool.  I like to be active, even if that activity is something I'm really really bad at (like say, kayaking, hiking, competing in any sort of race, or, as is the case since I've returned from this trip, getting out of bed before noon).  I'm sure it's something I inherited from my parents what with their preference to go on action-packed vacations (where most of the action is driving around in the car).  The one time I wanted to try out the "beach vacation" was our family trip to Hawaii in December of 2002.  And that totally failed, not because of me, but because my parents couldn't fully grasp the concept (nor could they stick to their edict of "We're all adults, so we can split up and enjoy individual activities" because this vacation turned into an all-or-nothing drive-a-thon).

My brother and I tried to stand together on the "lazy day at the beach" strategy, but Dad's need to keep moving never made it possible.  Rather than allow us a day to do as we pleased, we were lured into the backseat of the rental car and driven around O'ahu all day long.  Don't get me wrong, we had a good time going to Pearl Harbor, stopping at the Dole Pineapple Plantation, and checking out the North Shore (where we got our first beach stop, which consisted of dad stopping on the side of the road and saying, "Okay, there's the beach.  You have five minutes."  (And people think I'm a ball-buster when I try to get them in and out of Grace Cathedral in less than 10 minutes.))

Needless to say, that didn't satisfy our beach-going desires, so we commenced the moaning and groaning which led to a second (and much more uncomfortable and less-satisfying stop).  Hearing our cries, the 'rents made a decision to quell our misery by pulling into a parking lot at a beach, where Dad turned to us and said, "Alright.  There's the beach.  If you two want to go, that's fine.  Your mother and I will stay here with the car."

Surprisingly that kind of selfless compromise worked only my dad's favor because my brother and I just felt weird and awkward going to the beach while our parents waited for us in the car in a crowded parking lot.  Did I mention we were full-grown adults at this time?  Closer to thirty than twenty?  Needless to say, we returned to the car after two minutes and continued the endless drive.

Given that experience and a myriad of other botched attempts at hanging out and doing nothing somewhere other than my couch (where I have no problem whatsoever), I have never had a successful beach holiday...until now.

We took the night train down from Bangkok and ended up in Surat Thani at 6:30 in the morning.  All I wanted was a shower, and that shower was never going to happen which made me very upset (because for a person who dislikes showering, I hate being dirty--it's one of my grand ironies).  We grabbed some breakfast, then boarded a bus to Khao Sok filled with entitled and endlessly bitching college kids, then transferred to a truck which delivered us to a boat where we boarded and cruised through Cheow Lan Lake until we arrived at our home for the next two nights--a raft house resort in the middle of the lake.

Suddenly, I was less concerned about my lack of a shower because this place was magical.  Each of us got our own bamboo huts, and we spent the next two and a half days hanging out on our respective porches and swimming in the lake.  Our hosts called us to the main raft at meal time where we ate like kings.

And now I get it.  At last!  I didn't have to rise early.  I didn't have to worry about a schedule or opening hours.  All I had to do was sit around, read, write, swim, and eat (and unfortunately, I had a wee eating issue when an entire colony of ants found their way into my small bag of almonds.  Had I not looked down and noticed them as I popped the nuts in my mouth, I probably would have eaten them without worry--and yes, I see the irony that I was unwilling to eat ants with a side of almonds after eating fried maggots).

All I had to do was relax, and I took the opportunity to get my non-bathroom "me" time in my little hut.  It was bliss.  However, I'm glad we left after a couple of days because I'd hate to get burned out on my new discovery.  I'm sold on the beach vacation, but only for a couple days at a time (ed. unless of course the beach vacation is in my living room in which case I can keep it up for weeks).

The Train! The Train!

I've said it before, and I'll say it again...  This is, by far, the best travel experience I've ever had.  Take tonight for example.  We boarded a train in Bangkok headed for Southern Thailand and within the first hour of our trip managed to make friends with everyone in our car from our fellow passengers to the train staff.

Diane and I discussed our shared inability to befriend strangers a couple weeks ago.  No one ever talks to me.  Seriously.  I once sat at a bar for 5 hours and even the bartender wouldn't make conversation with me. As nice and friendly as people seem to think I am, it isn't enough for anyone to feel any desire to approach me or even consider a chat when I'm alone in public.  But I think I might have turned a corner tonight.

It all started with a couple of French guys.  They were having trouble setting up their table.  Since I had watched our train attendant (who happened to be a ladyboy, which pretty much meant that we'd be friends), I offered to give them a hand.  After that little bit of interaction, my soon-to-be French friends occasionally made conversation with us.

But really, what got the ball rolling was our ladyboy attendant.  When asked his name, he simply said, "Tonight, I'm Frank."  And from that point forward, we were besties.  Having just left the train with a Disco Car, I inquired about it with Frank.  He sadly informed me that this train didn't have one, but confided in my that not only was there a secret party...but that I was definitely on the list (and yes, I realize how creepy that sounds, but it was pure innocence).

Diane and I pulled out the dominoes I bought on our 45 minute sojourn to Laos and started playing (and to all my Texans out there, I attempted to get everyone into 42, but I was met with fierce resistance, so we just played straight dominoes...and I also couldn't get anyone on board with the correct scoring marks, but I still managed to teach them the value of a point-system).

We played a couple rounds, and occasionally Frank would walk by and check on the hot domino action, when finally he asked, "Is it okay if I join?"  We acquiesced, and he squeezed his way into the seat next to Diane (which was really only big enough for one person, but he had no qualms about personal space).  He quickly got into the groove of the game (though I admittedly waived a couple rules for the sake of the game), until he was called away by his work.

We took a quick break, and I found myself over at with the French guys where they were playing a game with the New Zealander.  I joined in that game for awhile, then Frank sauntered over and insisted on playing as well.  Much like he had done with Diane, he squeezed himself into the seat next to one of the French guys who had a look of utter horror on his face.  We played for awhile, then the train's military cop walked over and Frank started chatting with him.  I was certain that Frank was in trouble for playing games and not working, but as it turned out, the military cop was his brother and wanted to watch us play the game in hopes of joining in as well, leading me to wonder...does anyone work on this train?

After a few rounds, we all took a quick break and had a dance party at the request of Frank who only wanted to listen to Kylie Minogue or Madonna.  Once the dance party was complete, we started playing card games.  As the night wore on, everyone in our section of the car was joining in the games whether they were passengers or staff.  I never managed to find the secret party, but I kind of think it was happening in our car.  It was so much fun and so completely unbelievable for me, a girl who never talks to strangers.

And that's just how this trip keeps going.  I'm making friends.  One lady boy at a time.  And the (straight and married to French women who were absent from this holiday) French guys...well, they seemed genuinely disappointed that we weren't going to join them at the Full Moon Party in Ko Samui.  I am becoming the traveler I always wanted to be.

I AM the popular table.  Take that seventh grade!

Ah Bangkok, I Almost Forgot How You Smelled

Returning to Bangkok after two weeks in Northern Thailand felt a little like a homecoming.  As our taxi rolled over to Banglamphu from the train station, I couldn't help but feel that comforting sense of familiarity that you get when you come home (or in my case, when you go anywhere that you've lived (and enjoyed living in) at some point during your life).

The traffic.  The people.  And of course, the smells.  Bangkok has that special mix of odors that no other city has mastered (and I've been to many stinky places).  It's that magical combination of open sewage, fried food, spices, body odor, alcohol, trash, vomit, and in the case of this morning after the streets were cleaned, wet dog.

What can I say?  It's nice to be home.

Won't You Take Me To...The Disco Car?

Those Thais are clever, and man do they know how to compromise! 


We took the overnight train from Chiang Mai to Bangkok and were introduced to...the Disco Car.  Yes, after years of foreigners drinking and carousing on the train until late into the night, bothering the locals who were trying to sleep, the train came up with a plan.  Add a Disco Car.  On this particular train, there is one car reserved for drunken revelry, complete with flashing lights, bartender, and DJ.  When the Disco Car was introduced, it was open all night long, but that proved to be a problem as drunken foreigners loudly stumbled through the cars, disturbing the sleeping set as they tried to remember where their beds were.  In an answer to this, the Disco Car now closes at 11pm.  And boy is that Disco Car popular.  I would have spent time in the Disco Car if I hadn't been so content in my own car, but it was quite a sight to behold--filled wall to wall with loud, drunk French people.  It was like walking into a dive bar, where everyone was a local, and they all liked to sing. 


Simply brilliant. 


And something that should DEFINITELY be incorporated onto the McKinley Explorer trains in Alaska.  I'd have so much more fun standing around in the Disco Car rather than standing around in the bathroom during my "me" time on the 8-hour ride (and just to give a little insight into my life and habits, the bathroom is always my go-to place for "me" time, at work, at a bar, at the mall, anywhere.  Seriously.  I used to nap in the bathroom at work (though that shouldn't be any reason why someone wouldn't want to hire me...in case any potential employers are trolling the interweb for reasons NOT to call me in for an interview), but that's a tale for later).

Ever Wanted to Know Exactly How to Make Heroin?

Well, the recipe is just a plane ride, a train ride, a bus ride, and a songthaew (covered pick-up truck) ride away at the Opium Museum in the Golden Triangle.  That's right kids, you too can learn the intricacies of growing poppies, harvesting them for opium, and creating the black tar that can then be smoked or turned into a variety of drugs (including heroin).

Oh yes, you will read folklore about the poppies, those beautiful flowers with deadly consequences.  You'll learn how the hill tribe people of the Golden Triangle were introduced to the poppies as a major cash crop by the Chinese, British, and French in their attempt to earn a quick buck using cheap labor.  You'll be given a thorough description of exactly how (and with which tools) and when to cut, dry, and scrape the poppies to extract the black tar.  Then you'll learn how prepare it, weigh it, and package it for sale.  You'll also see and read a detailed explanation of how to smoke opium, complete with a life-sized diorama of a man in a shack, assuming the opium-smoking position lying on mat, properly holding the pipe, and resting his head on the pillow (and I will admit that as a life-long drug-phobic, I was startled when I walked by because it looked like the guy could have been alive and in an opium haze--and quite frankly, it wouldn't have surprised me if there had been a real person getting high in there).

Once you feel confident in your opium harvesting techniques, you'll wander through a hall of paraphernalia (which were really cool-looking) from opium pipes (carved out anything from teak to ivory), opium pillows (which in most cases were beautifully and intricately carved out of stone), and opium weights (which, if I didn't know what they were, I would think were really cool-looking toys/figurines).

After completing your walk through that area, you'll be confronted with the hard truth about the banning of growing opium.  Yes, the hill tribes suffered.  No, they didn't want to comply.  Yes, the Thai government, along with the help of the US DEA, did everything they could to re-educate the hill tribe people and give them alternative crops.  No, the hill tribes still aren't happy that they can't grow opium because coffee and tea simply don't yield the same kind of profits.  And why was their cash crop taken away?  Because, as if opium isn't bad enough (aside from the fact that it does make the best painkiller available, and thus is legally grown in India for that sole purpose), opium can be manufactured into other more potent and easier to smuggle street drugs...like heroin.  And it seems that the Golden Triangle (being the area where Thailand, Myanmar (Burma), and Laos intersect) was (until Afghanistan knocked them out of the #1 spot a couple years ago) the world's largest illegal opium producing area (and the world's center for heroin smuggling).

The next part of the museum tour takes you into a room where you learn a little about the science behind creating drugs (aside from straight opium) out of the base product.  You know, things like morphine, heroin, methadone, and oxycontin.  They go so far as to list out the exact recipe and procedure for making heroin.  Let me just repeat that.  There was an enormous poster listing, not only the necessary ingredients, but the step-by-step process of making heroin.  Ummm...did the Opium Museum use the crystal-meth-how-to internet sites as their resource for what information is appropriate for the general public (and did I mention that photography and journaling was totally allowed inside there)?  Personally, I felt a little weird being the holder of such knowledge, and I wasn't the only one.

My Canadian friend looked over at me as we were reading the poster, and he asked, "Do you find it strange...?"

And I didn't hesitate to complete his sentence, "That we just learned how to make drugs?"

"Yeah.  Should that be in a museum?"

"Not sure.  It's interesting...but kinda creepy."

"And maybe a little unnecessary and...oh, I don't know, too in-depth?"  The Canadian added.

I agreed, then directed my eyes to the next part of my opium education.

Right next to the heroin recipe was....(drum roll please)....the biography and horrors of the notorious Burmese drug lord, Khun Sa, who controlled the heroin trade for close to 50 years.  Reading that made me feel a little better about the museum because it did showcase the kind of dangerous underworld (complete with paid militias and constant warfare) that the illegal drug trade forced upon the region (which was in stark contrast to the first part of the museum which seemed to acknowledge the negative aspects of opium use, but overshadowed those negatives with the positive economic outlook provided by the sale of it).

Looking to learn more (as if this wasn't enough)?  Well, that's all you're going to get, because the next part of the museum contained a room full of photos of giant Mekong catfish (and they are gi-normous), and long-necked women.

But never fear, no museum exit is complete without forcing you to go through the gift shop, and in this gift shop you can purchase all the opium paraphernalia that you could possibly want.  Seriously.  And if you didn't get EVERYTHING you needed, fear not.  There's a pharmacy next door.

Monkeys Stole My Pants

...well, they tried to anyway...while I was wearing them. Here's how it all went down (and, by the way, if you see these monkeys, don't be surprised if they are wearing women's pants or even drinking beer and playing poker for that matter):

On our way to the Myanmar (formerly Burma) border, we stopped at a monkey temple. Despite my recent run-in with monkey boxers, I was still optimistic about the little scamps. I mean, look at Curious George! He was just a little mischievous, but his friendship with the man in the yellow hat always led him down the right path. Surely these monkeys would be different. They do live at a temple after all!

Sadly, I was wrong...again.

We got to the temple, and, as usual, there was a large sign warning against about 25 activities that might upset (read: rile up) the monkeys including feeding them, petting them, being too interesting, you know, the usual. Being that I didn't have a random stray dog with me this time, I figured I was probably safe (and I was prepared to be VERY uninteresting) and that the long list was one of paranoia on the part of the keepers. Now I know that not only was I not safe, I was REALLY interesting.

When we pulled up to the main part of the temple, monkeys were everywhere...well, mostly in the trees, but there were tons of 'em. Mommies, daddies, babies, the whole kit 'n caboodle! We wandered around watching them, photographing them, smiling at them ever so innocently while they plotted away at our eventual demise.

The monkeys came down from the trees when the keepers allowed some people to feed them bananas. The monkeys (which were macaques, and given my limited yet negative experience with them, I believe are the meanest monkeys around) swarmed the couple, and the keeper had to swat at the woman because (like and idiot), she was trying to pet them and wanted to pick them up. Apparently she is immune to rabies (or she enjoys shots). And that's when I became aware of...

Monkey attack #1:

The wife of the Canadian (who was also a witness of the monkey/dog fight a week before) was innocently walking toward us when a monkey approached her, grabbed her bag, started rummaging around, then stole her water and ran up the tree where he not only took off the plastic wrap, but opened the bottle and drank the contents. When questioned as to why she didn't try and prevent the monkey from stealing from her (by someone that also didn't seem to understand the concept of potentially rabid wild animals...and the even worse effects they would have on pregnant women), she simply replied, "I wasn't fighting him. If he wants my water, I'll gladly spend the dollar on a new one."

As we marveled over the sight of the monkeys being generally mischievous, their brethren started inching closer (mostly, I'm guessing, because the people feeding them were forced to stop after the reprimand over petting the animals). Heeding the advice of our guide, I became extremely uninteresting. I didn't talk. I didn't move. I just stood there, until I absolutely had to move because one of them was way too close. As I tried to slowly and lazily lose the monkey who was trailing me, the keeper motioned to us to back away from the tree under which we were standing. Why? Because it was time for....

Monkey Attack #2:

Dr. Evil (the monkey up in the tree above us) was busily breaking off branches and other large tree limbs with a single purpose in mind--to hit us on our noggins from about 50 feet above. Oh it's true. He would rip off the branch, then hold it, waiting for someone to walk under the tree, at which point, he would throw it at them. I'm guessing this wasn't the first time because the keeper was very careful as to where to have us stand.

While watching this odd and malicious behavior, a couple monkeys decided to tango with me, leading to...

Monkey Attack #3

They started by grabbing at my bag (which had, well, nothing in it except for a book). They quickly lost interest in that and backed off. Unfortunately for me, they had their eyes set on other things, namely, my pants. Yeah, the ones I was wearing. One monkey walked behind me and grabbed my pants with his hands and started yanking. Within seconds, four monkeys were grabbing my pants, but not just with their hands, they were pulling my pants off with their teeth. And guess what? So not sexy.

Needless to say I was a little more than freaked out, and I was having to dig deep to remain uninteresting, but it wasn't working. I just started announcing, "Monkeys have my pants! Monkeys have my pants!" while standing there, feeling my pants slowly succumb to all of the pulling.

My guide stood next to me and calmly whispered, "Just stay calm and slowly walk away."

To that I replied, "I can't! My pants will come off. They won't let go."

"Oh." He said. Then he motioned for the keeper to come over. The keeper grabbed his bamboo stick and walked over to me, shooing the monkeys off of my pants and away from me. he then advised me to go back to the truck because they weren't going to leave me alone.

I calmly walked back to the truck, as one the monkeys trailed a couple feet behind. I could tell he was still after my pants, but he wasn't getting them without a fight (well, okay, I'd probably give them up pretty quick because my honest concern was that their mouths were way too close to my legs, and I REALLY didn't want to get bitten as they continued their quest to de-pants me), but luckily that fight never happened.

I got into the truck, my little monkey friend sat right next to it, causing me to wonder if he might join me. Then a few minutes later, everyone else joined me, and we drove away...with all of our pants...and a little bit of our dignity.

Bugs & Buckets*

* The title was given to me by the Canadian who came up with it for a scrapbook he will never make.

When you finish up a 3-day trek through the hills (read: mountains) of Northern Thailand, what's the first thing you want to eat?

Well, I wanted nothing more than an In N Out burger. Since that wasn't an option, I settled on bugs. (ed. to be fair, I DID eat other things, so the bugs were more of a special treat at the end of the day. you know, like a bowl of ice cream or popcorn.)

After spending the afternoon recovering from the miles of uphills and seemingly endless downhill hiking, we went out for dinner at the night market in Chiang Rai. Most of the delicacies available at the night market were fried, and thus, right up my alley. My first course consisted of fried shrimp and fried chicken...and I threw on a skewer just to add the illusion of health to my chosen meal. Then my Canadian friend, who had been talking up a storm about eating bugs ever since we met, took note of the fried bug stand near our table. Being that I'm always interested in seeing other people make poor choices, and, for that matter am generally a willing participant in, not only, making my own poor choices, but going along with the foolishness of others for no reason in particular, I encouraged him to buy a plate of something spectacular.

The Canadian left the table, and when he returned...what was on his plate? Fried worms. Okay, so they might have been maggots. Who can really be sure? I never claimed to be an entymologist, so all you really need to know is that it was a plate of fried bugs, and three brave souls out of seven decided to take the plunge.

We were poised and ready (and one of us claimed to be a strict vegetarian, but spent most of the evening eating my leftover chicken fingers). With little prompting and cameras at the ready, we popped a few in our mouths and chewed...and chewed...and chewed...and, well, tasted nothing. I am of the opinion that fried maggots taste like exoskeleton--not because I've eaten exoskeleton or am a connoisseur of our armored friends, but because it seemed to me to taste like I imagine exoskeleton would taste like (given my limited experience of accidentally inhaling bugs on bike rides).

Unsatisfied with stopping at worms, I urged the Canadian to go for something more exotic--the large waterbugs. He left the table for a spell and returned empty-handed, unable to follow-through with the purchase. I decided then and there that if he couldn't do it, I would. I waltzed over to the bug counter and proudly ordered the large waterbugs (which look like enormous cockroaches). As I waited for my order, a German couple snapped photos of me and the buffet of bugs before me.

Within minutes, six large waterbugs were in my hot little hands, and I admittedly, really only wanted one, so I knew I'd have to get some more recruits so as not to waste such a precious delicacy. I arrived back at the table with my bounty and quickly grossed out and intrigued the members of our group. While it did take a bit of prodding and time to contemplate such a culinary extravaganza, the Bug-Eating-Trio were all over it.

The Canadian and the vegetarian were the first to have a go. I snapped photos as I watched them bite off the heads of their prey. Then, it was my turn. On the count of three, I ripped its head off with my teeth, and started chewing...and chewing...and chewing...and chewing...and...chewing. And once again, it didn't taste like much of anything. Dare I say it tasted like LESS of anything than the maggots. While it didn't taste like much, it was a very work-intensive meal. I think we chewed on our bugs for a good ten minutes before we were done.

After the feasting on insects, we decided to wash the good times down with a couple buckets of whiskey and coke. Wigs were worn (which distressing me that this is the second time in recent history that I've worn a bar wig in a foreign country that probably doesn't have the same concerns over health and safety as we do in the good ol' US of A), songs were sung, and I was thrilled to have a toilet inside the hotel room for the first time in a week (not because I was sick, but because I was tired of debating the necessity of using the facilities based on my hesitance to walk outside in the dark to find them).

It was a good night. And I wouldn't change a thing...except maybe NOT to have put Red Bull in the first whiskey bucket because that's just nasty.

Massage Melange

I have a history with massages in Asia, and it's not a pretty one. You see, my first (and prior to this trip to Thailand, only) experience was in Xi'an, China. Several of the people with whom I was traveling (including my brother) had gotten massages, and they raved about it. They also told me that you a) keep your clothes on, and b) are in an open room with all of the massage-goers.

With that knowledge, my friend, Adam, and I went to the massage palace next to our hotel. Unfortunately for us, the menu was exclusively written in Chinese. In an attempt to make-do, we pointed at the massage option listed at our desired price-point, and the adventure began. We were directed upstairs and split up into two private rooms. Once inside our rooms, we were given satin pajamas into which to change. Sadly for me, the belt I was given to tie the top onto me was only about 8 inches long and (surprise, surprise) wouldn't wrap around my waist, so I did what I could to secure it, but decided to just hold it with my hand until someone could help me. At the time, I also had a money belt, and while I wrestled over what to do, in the end I decided to keep it on figuring that it would impede the massage in any way if it were on my stomach (wrong).

Once I completed my costume change, I sat in the room, waiting for my masseuse, wondering what was going on, and worried that we had walked into the wrong kind of massage parlor (if you know what I mean). After a bit, a girl wearing a traditional Chinese masseuse uniform walked in (later I found out that Adam's masseuse was dressed in such a way that you might have thought she was out clubbing). I wanted to tell her about the shirt, but she spoke no English whatsoever, and I just felt awkward. So I let it go.

The massage began, and it was fine...until it became like no massage I had ever had in the past. She started moving down my chest, thus making me terribly uncomfortable. And, I wasn't the only one who felt that way. My jimmy-rigged knot came loose and my shirt flew open. The girl panicked and stood up. I quickly covered myself and showed her the belt. A wave of relief swept over her face. She then excused herself and returned with a substantially longer belt. My shirt was then fixed, and I felt better.

Then, she started massaging my stomach and was baffled by the presence of the money belt. I was baffled by the stomach massage. I removed the money belt, and she continued by poking at my intestines. Once that bit of fun was over, she moved onto my legs and started getting dangerously close to my naughty bits--so close that I started to worry that I really HAD gone to the wrong massage parlor, and wondered what was happening next door in Adam's room.

She finished that terribly horrendous bit and had me flip over when she kneeled on my shoulders and started sliding down my back. By this point, I was so uncomfortable that anything beneficial that could have come from the massage was totally lost. After what felt like 10 years, the massage was finally complete. I thanked my masseuse and met Adam outside.

The walk back to the hotel was an awkward one.

Adam: How was your massage?
Me: It was good. You?
Adam: Fine.
(We walked for a bit in awkward silence.)
Adam: I have to ask you something. Did you... Did she... At any point...
Me: Was the massage weird and uncomfortable?
Adam: Yeah. Did she get really close to your...groin area?
Me: Oh yeah. You?
Adam: Yep. I didn't know what to do! I was freaking out.
Me: Me too!
Adam: I decided that if it was going to be a happy ending, I'd just start screaming your name for help.
Me: And what would that accomplish?
Adam: I don't know, but maybe she'd think you were my girlfriend and stop.
Me: Thank God it didn't come to that.

And that was my first Asian massage.

Given that experience, I wasn't so sure about the world of Thai massage (especially since someone told me that the massage I got was just like Thai massage). While in Chiang Mai, I went for it, and in one hour I was convinced that the massage I got in China was definitely strange. Thai massage is more of a beat-down (not that that one wasn't) and assisted stretching and less uncomfortable closeness (either that or I've grown as a person). I was also convinced of something else, and that was that I needed to get more massages.

I quickly remedied that a couple days later on the first day of our hill trek. We got to a Lisu village, and the village women were available for massages, so we took them up on it. I managed to get a dud. It started out okay, but it got progressively worse as my lady started just lightly petting my legs. Wondering if this was everyone's experience, I started looking around the room. It appeared as though everyone else was getting stretched and twisted, while I was still having my lower legs lightly patted.

I was getting frustrated, but didn't want to complain. So I just lay there, festering. And then my lady pointed at my pants and said something to everyone else. She gave me a weird look, then never made eye contact again. The massage kept going downhill, and she appeared to dislike me. I had no idea what was going on, so I just lay there. When the second-longest hour in massage history ended, we all bid the ladies adieu. I looked down at my pants and discovered that my fly had been open the entire time. And that's why my lady hated me. I was a dirty foreigner (though, in my defense I had long johns on, so it's not like she even saw my underwear, but I guess that's not the point).

Since then I've had several more massages, and each one gets better than the last. So long as my pants stay zipped, and my shirt stays closed, Asian massages are magic.

You Don't Know What You've Got Til It's Gone

Cinderella sang it, and it's oh so true. You know something I don't give much thought to? Toilets. Yeah, I take those suckers for granted all the time...at least until I travel.

Now I see myself as a worldly gal, one who can pee in the most grungy of places (like on my shoe, or in that squat toilet in Nizhny Novgorod, Russia's train station that was sitting on a pile of broken tile forcing me to balance quite precariously whilst doing my business, or even the constantly clogged toilets at CBGB's where my friend, Jen, once dropped her make-up brush), but I'm not sure I was truly prepared for Thailand. Sure I was warned, but I figured that I survived China, and I really don't have a problem squatting (especially if I'm wearing a skirt), so it couldn't be THAT different...right?

Everything was fine to begin with... Then I went on a three-day trek through the mountains (though they call them hills around these parts) of Northern Thailand. The toilets there (and, to be fair, throughout the entire country) require much more participation the user's part than any other toilet I have encountered. The scarcity of bathrooms that you might find in a Starbuck's in suburban America (note: I did NOT say downtown San Francisco) led Diane and I to come up with a 5-point toilet rating system. Anytime you are paying for a toilet, you want it to be a 5, but that is rarely the case. The scale looks like so:

Western-style toilet: 1 point - Squat toilet: 0
Flushing toilet: 1 point - Manual flush (which is to say you dump water in the toilet to make it flush): 0
Toilet paper: 1 point
Sink with running water: 1 point
Soap: 1 point

If the bathroom smells rank, you can deduct half a point. Also, if there are towels, you can add a bonus point (though later on, we were forced to change the scale to be 6 points and include towels--more on that later).

Most hilltribe toilets were 2's...and were outdoors, thus forcing the user to walk barefoot in the dark should nature call in the middle of the night.

You can imagine my glee when I woke up in a hotel the night after we returned and realized that the toilet was just a few steps away...in the same room as me...and it flushed. It was like dying and going to heaven.

And then we went somewhere else, and the whole cycle started again.

Things that make you go, Really? No. Seriously?

We went hiking in the the mountains of Northern Thailand, and I came away with at least one random, yet curious observation. You can get excellent cell service in the middle of the jungle in the remote mountains of Thailand, but you can't get cell service in my apartment in the middle of San Francisco--the hub of all technology--unless you press your face against the middle, back window and tilt your head slightly to the left. Even then it's iffy.

What's that about?

Furthermore, I discovered that you can ALSO get excellent cell reception in the middle of the f-ing ocean...and not in my apartment.

Wow. Really? No. Seriously?

Those US mobile providers need to take notes.

Culture Clash

So, today the Australian woman with whom I'm traveling compared Thai toilets to American ones, saying they were just the same. This was while we were at the home of a rural hilltribe family. Their toilet? A squat toilet which required you to flush it by pouring a bucket of water into it.

Immediately upon hearing this, I was appalled. Mostly because I can't imagine an American who would buy a house with a toilet that required them to squat, and lord knows we love our toilet paper...and don't even get me started on getting our hands dirty to make the thing flush.

The conversation all started with Diane made the statement that Thai people must be shocked when they see bathrooms in America or other countries because we devote huge amounts of space to having a toilet area, shower are and sink area. Our idea bathroom allows us plenty of room and separation between the elements of the bathroom. In a Thai bathroom, it's an all-in-one affair with the shower being a handheld nozzle next to the sink, above the toilet. Most bathrooms occupy a space of about 5ft by 5ft. Unless you're living in a fourth floor walk-up in NYC, your American bathroom is considerably different.

So you can imagine my shock at the Australian woman's assertion that Thai toilets were just like American toilets. She quickly backpedaled and said that she didn't mean that we have squat toilets. No, her comparison had to do with the water level in American toilets. Apparently, she felt fear every time she sat on a toilet in America, thinking she might fall in.

It takes all kinds.

Later on in the trip, the same woman compared my traveling solo to Cambodia with her traveling alone to London to visit her daughter who lived there. Yes, traveling ALONE to a 3rd world country still recovering from genocide and under the rule of what is essentially a military dictatorship is EXACTLY like going to London.

End. rant.

PS. Diane is now coming with me to Cambodia, so you needn't worry. I'm just doing Laos solo.

So far, so good -- Would You Care for a Tattoo with Your Curry?

I have to say that Thailand may be the best travel experience I have had to date. I've never felt such camaraderie with my fellow travelers or found locals to be sol willing to help (without wanting money in exchange for their generosity). We had a free day in Chiang Mai and decided to take a cooking class. I have to admit that I was skeptical and not terribly excited by the prospect, but it turned out to be a highlight. Not only did I learn how to make some delicious Thai food, but I got to hang out with fellow travelers, laughing at ourselves and sharing insight into the places we had been. It was a glorious day!

After class we went for $5 massages, walked aroudnm the Old City, and sat down for dinner at a little restaurant that doubled as a tattoo parlour and guesthouse. We were totally unaware of the tattoo parlor at first. The restaurant was chosen solely based on the fact that they served massaman curry, and I wanted to eat something with potatoes. So, beyond a quick check of the menu, we did no further research.

We walked in, and the owner pointed us to a table. As we attempted to sit down, a pampered shihtzu made it clear to us that we were not welcome at that particular table. How did we know it was her table? She was standing on it, snarling at us.

The owner quickly shoved some restaurant supplies aside at a different table and had us sit there. We ordered our food and a couple of beers. That's when we finally acknowledged the constant buzzing sound that was coming out of the back of the restaurant. It didn't take long to notice the tattoo parlor behind us. It was about that time that we realized the owner's husband had made a quick run to the corner store to buy our beers. Talk about service!

With beers in hand and curry before us, we had the best meal one could imagine having in a tattoo parlor. The only thing that could have made it better would have been band of monkeys playing bongos in the corner.

It just goes to show that appearances are deceiving. You never know what you're walking into until you're halfway through it.

How bizarre, how bizarre...

When night falls in Chiang Mai, the markets open. Diane and I spent our night attempting to barter our way through the Night Bizarre. We were fairly successful with our not-so-well-honed bartering skills.

For the most part, we wandered around looking at the hundreds of stands, occasionally asking about prices, but not buying so much. Then we found ourselves smack-dab in the middle of a hard-sell, and neither of us knows how it happened. All we were doing was walking. Diance glanced over at a white shirt, and before she could event register as to whether ot not it was something she might be interested in owning, a lady boy popped out of nowhere, throwing the shirt in her hands and tying a pair of pants around her.

"Where are you from?" The lady boy asked.
"America." We responded.
"Oh! California?"
A little surprised, we said, "Yes."
"I've been to San Francisco (ed. soooo not surprised by that one.). I went to Chinatown, and what do they call the fishing place with shops?"
"Fisherman's Wharf."
"Yes! Oh, I loved it there. Now you," he turned to me. "You need an orange shirt."

Magically an orange shirt appeared in my hand. Before I had time to turn share a glance with Diane, he was dressing her in a pair of pants."

"I show you how it works. See, you wrap it around, you understand? Then pull it under, you understand? And tie at the front, you understand? Yes. Very nice. Now I show you on me." He grabbed a pair of the pants from the pile and quickly wrapped them on himself. "This is how they look. Not for boys. Only girls wear these. Not for boys. I just put them on to show you. Not boy pants. Understand?"

"Yes," Diane said. "But I don't want pants. Maybe a skirt?"
I jumped in, "Can I get a green shirt instead of orange?"
"Yes!" He wrapped a skirt around Diane and handed me a green shirt. "Okay, let's talk turkey."
We laughed.
"I give you price, then you give me one. I show you on calculator." He pulled out a calculator, showed us his first offer, then said, "Your turn."
We countered.
Then he said, "My turn."
We looked at it, countered again, and....
"Deal!" He shook our hands, took our money, and sent us on our merry way, still unsure as to how that all happened in the first place.

The next night we happened upon him as he was dressing a confused Dutch woman in the pants. She was laughing and saying, "What is happening? I'm Dutch!"

He carried on, asking her if she understood, assuring her that the pants were not meant for boys. Then he spotted us. His face lit up, and he proudly told everyone what we purchased the night before and asked if we wanted more. We declined and said goodbye.

And that's how you keep the people coming back!

That, and my friend, Tong, who sold me a skirt. I bartered him down from 350 baht to 290 baht. Iw alked away, shopped some more, then realized that I accidentally gave him 390 baht. Thirty minutes had passed, but I felt it was worth a try, so I went back to him. He was happy to see me. I asked him on what price had we agreed, and he told me 290. I then told him that I mistakenly gave him an extra 100 baht. He was totally surprised, pull out the money, and said, "Oh no! You're right. I'm so sorry. I didn't even notice."

He gave me the extra 100 baht, and we both apologized profusely.

That would never happend elsewhere! That's why I have a friend in Tong...unlike any friendship I could possibly forge with a car dealer.

This whole karma thing works out well for me, the consumer.

I Love the Elephants!

After a fun and fairly restless night of sleep ont he train, we found our way to
Chiang Mai in Northern Thailand. Once we dropped our luggage at the hotel, our first stop was...the elephant conservatory!

We arrived just in time to watch the elephants take a bath, then see the demonstration on how they were used in logging. As soon as that finished, we booked it over to the "loading dock" to ride our very own elephants. It was fun to say the least, as well as a little hairy going downhill since we weren't harnessed to our seats and could have easily fallen off had we not employed the death grip. Good times indeed!

ONce we finished our rides, we thanked our elephants by feeding them sugar cane. One elephant was a bit greedy. He blocked the other elephants and took all of the sugar cane. What he couldn't fit into his mouth, he just held in his trunk. Who knew there were lunchroom bullies in the elephant world too!

Making All My Karaoke Dreams Come True--One Country At a Time

I will dominate! Mark my words. I will make the magic happen. You heard me alright. My quest to sing karaoke in every Asian country I visit is quickly coming to fruition. To be honest, I didn't even know this was a goal until I was knee deep into the game.

My first foray into the Asian karaoke scene was in China. We found a karaoke bar that was not a thinly-veiled prostitution front (as are, apparently, the norm) in Beijing. It was called "Happy Bar", catered to Australian ex-pats, and was decorated with enormous murals of Che Guevara's visage. The staff's uniform? Che shirts. Oh yes, and there was a stripper pole in the middle of the stage which my brother used rather adeptly during one of his performances. Random? Definitely. Too much? Never.

My second? Japan. After much convincing, I dragged my friends to the same karaoke bar that Scarlett Johanssen and Bill Murray went to in "Lost in Translation". I had to promise that we would only stay for an hour. At first, my companions refused to sing, thus making it L-A-M-E. Then, the spirit of song made its way into their hearts, and they later admitted that an extra hour would have been nice.

Thailand brought the karaoke to me. While were were in Kanchanaburi, we spent one night on a raft, which was kind of like a floating barge. Three large rafts were tied together and pulled by a speed boat. The back raft was a sunbathing spot, where we tied intertubes and floated along with the barge. The middle raft was our sleeping quarters, bathroom, and kitchen. The front raft was our dining room during the day, and our disco at night--complete with fog and lights.

During the day we made stops at a couple pretty impressive temples that required us to walk up 300 or so steps to reach. When night fell, we had dinner, and our karaoke-loving host set up the karaoke lounge. Later we would find that he opens up every karaoke set with "Hotel California". At first, we were the only two participants, but it didn't take long to get the whole gang on board. At 10pm, the karaoke abruptly stopped and we were suddenly thrust into a bizarre disco for about 20 minutes. The smoke machine, disco ball, and lights were a bit excessive considering the fact that only three people were dancing (mostly out of a deep sense of responsbility to make our hosts feel that their efforts were appreciated), but it was fun nonetheless.

And with that, I checked off another karaoke destination. Cambodia and Laos are coming up, and I suspect they might be a bit trickier. Time will tell!

Liability Waiver Who?

There really is something magical about Asia. Some might say it's the colors and smells, the excess use of neon lights, or pherahps the feeling of welcome (or at least the constant state of shock and awe that everyone you pass seems to be in when they spot you, the foreigner). Personally, I think it's the availability of potentially life-endangering activities without the need to sign one of those pesky liability waivers (or got through any sort of safety inspection or training before commencing said activity).
I suppose when you live in a place where the mere act of crossing a street (or walking through a pedestrian walkway in a shopping market) immediately thrusts you into a game of Frogger with vehicles (cars, buses, tuk-tuks, motorcycles carrying a family of seven) speeding at you from all directions with no intention to slow down or avoid you, that insisiting someone fill out a liability waiver for anything from diving to zip-lining is just plain silly.

I first acknowledged this phenomenon in China when I paid $2 to take a zipline off of the Great Wall. As my friends and I completed our jumpes, we laughed at the improbability of doing such a thing with so little preparation in our own countries. "Hey, did anyone fill out a liability form?" No. "Uhh...did we get a quick safety briefing?" No. They just took our money, quickly strapped us into the harness and sent us on our way, flying over a lake. Fun? You betcha'! Something you could do in the US of A without a half-hour video and safety inspection after filling out and signing a 20-page legal document declining your right to sue should anything go wrong? No way, Jose.
Safety truly is an afterthought here. Want to ride a bike or even a motorcycle? Rent one. Want a helmet? Why, are you some kind of wuss? Thinking of kayaking down the river, but have never set foot on a boat? Hop in! You'll learn as you go. What's that? The gondola is closed due to 100 mph winds? We'll just find another one down the road that'll take us to the top of the mountain. How about a nice rock-climbing lesson? Come on over...you will have to sign a form accepting their insurance policy (which is the closest I've EVER come to signing anything remotely close to a liability form).

Thailand is crazy when it comes to transportation. I had no idea that you could fit an entire family from grandma on down to baby onto one tiny motorcycle, or that you could drive a motorbike while your girlfriend sits side-saddle behind you holding a full-sized 20" television in a box, but you can! Hell, the most frequent transportation we take is to pile into the back of a pick-up truck with a sketchy cover and no tailgate, then speed down the highway for a couple hours. No one ever falls out, so we must do alright.

The most hilariously shocking example on this trip was our visit to the tourist trap that is the Bridge of the River Kwai. There isn't much to it except the opportunity to walk over the rebuilt bridge (see the movie to find out the history of the good old Death Railroad, and to learn to mispronounce the word, "Kwai"...it should be pronounced like "Square" without the "S"). When we got there, we took the requisite photos and started to walk onthe bridge. I determined after the first ten steps that it was in my best interest to walk on the metal center rather than rotting wood planks on the side. After walking a little ways, we came upon a warning sign that said something to the effect of, "Be careful walking on the bridge as it is a working railroad bridge. IF you see a train move aside quickly." Really? That's the nod toward safety on on operating railroad bridge? How about, don't walk on the bridge, lest you get hit by a train? That so wouldn't fly anywhere else! Oh yeah, that and the fact that there was no railing and enormous, gaping holes that the largest of people could easily fall through.

While such a warning sign and the obvious dangers of walking the bridge (along with the number of people that refused to step aside and let people pass as they all walked back and forth across it) might be a deterrent for some, it just made the whole excursion more of an adventure.

Asia truly is a magical place.

Monkey vs. Dog

My gorilla suit sure could have come in handy the day I went to Erawan Falls National Park. Sure it started off fine. We loaded up into the back of a pick-up truck, rode a couple hours to the park, bought some lunch, then walked over the waterfall. We found our way to the second level, jumped in to enjoy our free "fish massage" which was just a weird, tickly experience of having a swarm of fish bite our legs relentlessly.

Once we finished our swim, we headed up to see all seven levels of the waterfall, which was a little over a one kilometer hike. Prior to getting to the waterfall we were given guidelines on appropriate apparel. The Thai people (and really SE Asia as a whole) appreciate conservative dress, specifically for women. We were instructed not to wear bikinis and to swim with a t-shirt on. Our trusty guide noted that we would probably see people from the former Soviet Union wearing a little bit of nothing, but warned us NOT to take our fashion cues from them (which, honestly, is a good policy for anyone regardless of the social customs of wherever you happen to be).

As we hiked, up the hill, we passed scads of scantily clad women, and most of them...were Russian. At first I laughed at my own puritanical surprise and my shock at those crazy Europeans and their lack of body shame, and then I spent a half an hour climbing rocks behind a woman wearing a thong and what may as well have been pasties. I don't care how well you've managed to fend off cellulite or how large your breast implants are...that shit should not be paraded through a damn jungle. I now see why the Thai people are so offended by the crass Westerners.

Around the sixth level, I got seperated from the rest of my companions because I was stuck behind three Russian couples taking their bikini prom photos on the rocks. Once the photo session finished up, I carried on with my climb to the seventh level. It was tricky to say the least, but at long last, I made it. Oh the joy! Unfortunately for me, I made it with only 15 minutes before I was supposed to catch my ride at the bottom.

I scurried as much as I could down the hill, but fear of my own clumsiness slowed my roll. A friendly dog and a group of Russian guys were behind me for a bit, so I started up a half Russian-half English conversation with them (the guys, not the dog). As we walked, we found ourselves at a clearing. The friendly dog had discovered the monkeys.

Now prior to getting to the first level of the waterfall, there was a warning sign that said something to the effect of, "Be careful of fierce monkeys. They will steal your belonging." (No, that's not a typo.) Up to this point, I hadn't seen any monkeys, and I couldn't imagine that any monkey would be fierce. I mean, come on! Who didn't watch BJ and The Bear? The greatest buddy show ever about a trucker and his monkey who fought crime and solved mysteries as they drove cross-country?

Apparently, I was wrong.

The dog barked wildly at the group of monkeys that numbered around 7 adults and 2 babies who were all in a tree over a narrow part of the path (thus blocking everyone from continuing). The head monkey screeched at the dog and occasionally took a swipe. We all took photos. At one point, the dog backed off, and the Russian guys took a break for it. I, unfortunately, really wanted more monkey photos, so I stayed behind. That was a bad move on my part. The fight flared up and dog completely blocked the path. I really wanted the dog to give up, but he stood his ground while the head monkey became more agitated.

Finally there was another slight break, though the head monkey was hanging from the tree right in the middle of the path. My new Russian friends kindly waited for me on the other side and encouraged me to walk over. I hesitated, but I didn't think it was going to get any better, so I slowly made my way over to the path while all parties were silent. As I quickly walked under the tree, the head monkey started screeching and took a swipe at my head, sending me off whinneying through the trees. He didn't touch me, but he was darn close.
The Russians and I continued down the path. As I stumbled over the rocks, my Canadian friend caught up to me and we shared stories of the monkey fight. In the end we were a half an hour late, but what better excuse do you have than, "I got caught in a monkey fight?"

Too bad for me it wouldn't be my last 'cuz I could really use that gorilla suit after all.

Bad Grammar

No, I'm not speaking Thai-lish these days, I'm just not proofreading. Forgive the mistakes.

More posts to come, but my 30 minutes is up.

TTFN.

Ten Baht Tuk Tuk

As much as I'd like to start this off with a pop culture reference to the song, "One Night in Bangkok", I just can't--mostly because I spent three nights in Bangkok, and it just wouldn't make sense. So, here goes my next tale of tuk-tuks.

On our second full day in Bangkok, my traveling companion (who will, from this point forward, be referred to as Diane) attempted to explore the city by foot. We managed to walk a good five blocks before a local stopped us to chat. He suggested a couple good places to go and warned us not to accept a tuk-tuk fare of more than 10 baht. The reason being that the tuk-tuk drivers can drive us, the dumb tourists, to the jewelry emporium and the suit tailors in exchange for gas coupons. As we he was explaining this to us (which is something that the guide books also discuss and make a point to warn you about), a young tuk-tuk driver approached us offering us a 10 baht ride. Being that he was somewhat more honest than say, the tuk-tuk driver we'd had the day before who told us the whole ride would be 200 baht, then tried to raise the price four times throughout the trip, informed us that to get the price we had to go to these tourist traps. At first we were a bit skeptical, but once we confirmed that there was no requirement that we had to buy anything at the shops, we agreed to go for it. After all, he did agree to take us to two temples on different sides of town for a quarter.

As we motored in and out of traffic, we talked tour driver, whose name learned was PK at the end of our journey. He was a mere 17 years-old, having come from Phuket to Bangkok two years prior to make money for himself. He was a student and didn't have many friends because the other kids at school looked down on him for his profession, of which he apologized for the reputation of tuk-tuk drivers who scam tourists. He also told us that Thai girls didn't like him because he didn't make enough money. It was admittedly a little sad, but the kid seemed to be doing okay in life.

He drove us to the temples, then once we saw our sights, he said, "Okay, now you help me out. You don't have to buy, just stay long enough and oooh and ahh over the necklaces." We walked into the diamond exchange or whatever the place was, talked gemstones...and ended up with some silver jewelry because, well, we're both jewelry girls. The next stop was the tailor shop where the man tried to convince us that we needed suits and party dresses. Sadly, he couldn't persuade a couple of tour guides that we needed to dress up for work (especially since Diane leads camping tours), so he was out of luck until we spotted the scarves. Luckily for PK, we appeared interested enough that he got his gas cards.

As the 3-hour tuk-tuk tour came to an end, PK informed us that he thought we were very beautiful and wanted to know our ages, but we wouldn't tell. We all bid adieu, then went to get $4 pedicures.

And that was our second day in Bangkok.

Later that night we met our tour group, and I kept my lips zipped as one person in particular ranted over paying 400 baht to get from the airport to the hotel (I paid 13) and the 250 baht she paid to get four blocks (we paid 10 for 3 hours of good time).

I guess we're not so dumb after all.

Zen Master

Yesterday was my first day in Thailand, and I discovered something about myself. I have grown as a person. Oh yes, The ants are no longer in my pants. That's right people, I didn't get all agitated when I boarded a random bus headed for who knows where. I just went with it.

And that's so not me.

In my former life, I would have chosen NOT to get on any bus. And if I had gotten on the bus, I would have outwardly panicked throughout the entire drive, flipping through my book, frantically searching for a map to somehow make things better. But not this time.

I left my hotel and got into the hotel's car. He asked me which terminal I was going to (since he was taking me back to the airport). I told him I wasn't sure and explained that I was taking the bus to the city.

"Then why are you going to the airport? You should go to the bus terminal."

I shrugged. "Okay. That works too."

So he drove me past the airport to the bus terminal, the whole time inquiring as to why I would choose to take the bus instead of the cab. My answer (which I realize may have befuddled him considering the income disparity between our two nations) was simply that it was cheaper...and because it would be an adventure.

He dropped me at the bus terminal and directed me to the back. I was looking for bus # AE2. I didn't find AE2, rather, I was directed to bus #556. I boarded the bus that was filled with Thai people and a Norwegian couple. The bus pulled out of the space, and the attendant came through collecting our money. I handed him 150 baht (the equivalent of about $5), and he gave me a puzzled look. He motioned to the Norwegian couple and asked, "For everyone?"

"No, just me." I replied.

He then handed me back all but 13 Baht (the equivalent of a quarter). It was then that I first suspected I might be on the wrong bus. According to my guidebook, the bus cost 150 baht, so had I found myself on public transit? And, even though it said Khao San Road, where exactly was it taking me? I considered these questions and looked down at my bag wondering if it might be wise to take out my book. After a good 15 seconds of semi-serious thought, I opted to look out the window and check out the Thai landscape.

As we hurdled down the highway into Bangkok, I looked over at the traffic. We came to a crawl, when I noticed the bus next to us--the airport bus...bus # AE2. It was filled with white folk. I laughed a little in my head. That was my bus. But my bus appeared to be going in the same general direction, so I decided to let the gods of travel take it from there. We drove into the city, and I made note of passing the Democracy Monument (which I knew was relatively close to the part of town in which I was to stay). The bus made its first stop (which lasted a total of 5 seconds, making me realize you have to know when to get off and make a break for it).

After a few stops, we came to yet another and the attendant walked over to me, saying, "This is you. Khao San Road." I thanked him and exited the bus. Still having no clue where I was, but not wanting to stop in the middle of the crowd to figure it out, I walked down the street for a few blocks until I found a clearing where I pulled out my book. After a quick survey of the map and my current position, I saw that I stopped at the exact spot where I needed to cross the street. As I made this glorious realization, a friendly Thai man asked if I needed assistance and directed me to my street.

It took one block before I knew I was going the right way. How did I know? White people. Hundreds of them. I wandered down Khao San Road which is a spectacle at all times of day, though especially at night (think Mardi Gras or what Halloween in the Castro used to be like--minus the stabbings). As I wandered, I came across a large, angry American who had just been swindled out of 500 baht when he followed a man into a back alley hoping to have his fortune told. The man made a spectacle of himself, yelling about his lost money, pounding his chest, and posturing as a gorilla might.

I quickly did the math in my head and felt little sympathy for the galump. It was just 20 bucks, and while it is a damn shame that he was bamboozled, it was his own fault. And besides, I was cheated out of 400 bucks in China, so I really have no sympathy.

I finally passed them and made it to my hotel, and once I did, I felt nothing but pride. I never lost my temper (which has happened in the past), and I just trusted that I would find my way. And I did.

Zen found.

The Crocs That Saved Me

....a true story by all of the toes on my right foot...

Say what you will about Crocs (my traveling companion already did by merely saying, "Nice Crocs", which may seem like a benign comment, but really...admiration was not in her voice because....Crocs are sooooo dorky), but these babies saved my toes AND toenails yesterday.

Had I been wearing flip flops (like I've chosen today), then I'm sure i would have lost my toes. I kicked at least 3 curbs, and my feet were stepped on at least 5 times. Did it hurt? No. Because I had Crocs. The downside was that i did manage to get a couple blisters, so I had to administer some surgery in the middle of the night. But that's it!

And speaking of people stepping on me. I'm no tall gorilla, so it shocked me when I almost walked into a full-grown adult because I didn't see them--they were a whole head shorter than me.

I'm a giant at 5'4.

Farewell Cankles!

The nice thing about travel-induced cankles is that it doesn't take much for them to go away. Last night, I got to my hotel around 2:00 AM, then had a panic not knowing if tipping was something that you do in Thailand. At first I didn't (and according to my book, it isn't expected), but then I felt a wave of guilt (mostly because I was concerned with tipping karma), so I ran outside to find the guys that drove me and carried my luggage. They seemed very pleased that I gave them the equivalent of 60 cents.

After cleansing my karma, I went to bed and had to do everything I could to NOT think about the fact that I lost my water bottle on the plane. Now, I know you're probably thinking, "Water bottle? Who cares!" But it wasn't any water bottle. It was a gift from my mom, and it had a filtration system...and apparently it was very expensive. I tried to retrieve it, but it wasn't to be. Someone on Korean Air is now the happy owner of my water bottle. Seat 48E was the luck winner!

Once that was cleared from my head, I went to sleep, and I did okay. I only woke up 4 times (which was better than the night before when I had dreams that I had to drop my friends off at 2 different airports before catching my flight--and I didn't wake up shrieking (like I did on the plane) because I thought I'd left my rings on the plane (because I left them in a safe deposit box)), so it was a good night.

The best part about it was that when I woke up, I peaked under the sheets to check out my cankles, and they had almost disappeared. They're still there, but getting smaller! I'll have normal feet tomorrow. Goodbye Fred Flintstone!

And now, it's time I started my journey into the Bangkok. Until then, fair readers. (You are coming back, right?)

Oh wait, but before I go...is it weird that the place where I had breakfast is playing country music almost exclusively. I kind of want to wait around and see if they play that Tim McGraw fan with the line, "Jesus is My Friend, America is my Home." I like to imagine that he had more lines like, "I like Ice Cream. Bubblegum tastes good."

Now it's off to town.

Old Habits Die Hard

On my last day in San Francisco, I decided that I needed to eat something very American for lunch. What did I do? I had a burger at Red Robin. Then, as I was driving back to the city, what did I do? I stopped at the mall with the sole purpose of going to Mrs. Fields to buy a cookie cup (because I LOVE to eat sugar covered in artificial colors that do NOT occur in nature--there are photos to prove this). If I had gone to Chevy's for dinner, my guilty pleasure dining day would have been complete.

Since I didn't do that, I did something else. I paid WAY too much for a bag of goldfish crackers...that I consumed on the plane while watching 6 movies. What will I do on my next flight without kid snacks?

Tourist Fashion

Ah, travel. It brings out the worst in people's fashion choices. In the short time I've been leading tours, I've witnessed these bad choices. For whatever reason, people choose to wear clothes on vacation that they would never (and should never) wear in public when they are close to home. I'm talking people wearing ripped up jeans and nasty, falling-apart t-shirts. Shirts with ridiculous slogans on them that they got for free at a fast food restaurant opening. It's appalling. They're still IN public. Just because they don't know anyone in the place they are doesn't mean they're suddenly invisible.

Often I find myself making fun of these people in my head. And now...I'm one of them. What is my faux pas? Crocs. I bought a pair of crocs specifically for my trip to China a couple years ago. I only wore them in China, and they've been in my closet ever since. Now that I'm en route to Thailand, what am I wearing? Crocs.

So it seems that I'm no better than anyone else. Though, the nice thing (or interesting thing) about wearing Crocs on a long plane ride is that you get to see how much your feet swell. I'm already through the 12 hour plane ride to Korea, and I'm about to board my 6 hour flight to Bangkok. I would put money down that my Crocs will be very snug by the time I land, and as I walk into my hotel, it will be like I'm walking on pillows.

Ah, travel fashion!

Adventures in Shapewear

Ah, shapewear. How long I’ve avoided you. Oh, it’s true I’ve toyed with idea of buying you a time or two. It probably would have helped if I had gone through with my purchase before the dreadful wedding guest dress disaster of ’07, where I broke the zipper on my bestest guest dress minutes before we were supposed to leave…and got stuck in said dress requiring my mom, aunt, AND cousin’s assistance in freeing myself from my own prison of shame. Then again, you probably wouldn’t have saved me in the end because I knew I was taking a risk in not bringing a back-up dress, but I figured if I just wished hard enough, the dress would still fit. I’m afraid I was a hopeless case.

So what happened that led me to make the big purchase? Alaska, that’s what. There’s just something about being in the biggest state that makes you want to grow. It’s totally out of one’s control—what with all the free cookies. I know my argument may falter when you find out that I managed to pack on another five pounds while at home in Oklahoma for the past two weeks, but I still blame Alaska.

I blame Alaska in the same way that I blame Mexico. It had nothing to do with my own personal lack of self-control that I ended up immortalized in film (on someone else’s camera) dancing around a bar in a wig (that was not mine) and ended my Mexican adventure sitting alone at table on the sidewalk, holding hands with a stuffed orangutan before I was shoved into a cab and somehow delivered back to my room on the cruise ship where I would occasionally wake up yelling about the sweater I lost in Mexico (and is probably currently being worn by my orangutan friend). We’ve all had those experiences in Mexico. My cousin told me so…of course, most of us weren’t in our 30’s when we had those experiences… I also blame Mexico for the trail of destruction I discovered at 6 o’clock in the morning after I crashed a company holiday party a couple weeks ago (of which, I came out as a star—those [insert company name here] people loved me, which makes me think my antics were witnessed by no one…thankfully). I’m still not exactly sure what happened, but I need to study the layout of my apartment (and perhaps add some directional signs), so I don’t confuse the entranceway with the porcelain god. (I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure I decided that 10 feet was close enough. What my subletters don’t know won’t hurt them.)

So as you can see, I am merely a pawn in this miserable game. Left to my own devices, I’d be a supermodel with a pristine living space. Unfortunately, Alaska and Mexico are forcing my hand. And that’s why I bought the shapewear.

What exactly put me over the edge on buying the shapewear? Well, it was the mere fact that my jeans didn’t fit. Back in April, I bought two of the most expensive jeans I’ve ever purchased under the stipulation that I could not gain weight, so they would fit for eternity. Unfortunately, Alaska did her damage. So, upon my return (just before going to Japan and that fateful cruise to Mexico), I decided to take matters into my own hands and find a temporary solution to the muffin-top debacle. That solution? Shapewear.

Did I wear it in Japan? No. Did I wear it on the cruise? No.

The first time I wore it was almost two months later. I was leading a private wine tour for my friend’s company, and I thought, “Hey! I should try this out.” In the morning, I put on the cinching undergarment and was impressed by how much better my clothes hung on me. I went about the morning, feeling fan-freakin-tastic. Then, as the day wore on, I started to feel self-conscious that my sweater might ride up (or my jeans ride down), and I wouldn’t know because I couldn’t feel it happen (due to the shapewear). And then…everyone would know. Yes, I do cause my own problems, thank you for noticing. The rest of the day found me constantly checking my shirt and pants. By the end of the day, the legs had rolled up, forming a tourniquet on my upper thigh. I thought I was going to have to amputate my leg. Once the tour was done, I jumped on MUNI, headed home, and adjusted the shapewear.

Yeah, I know what you’re thinking, and I’m thinking it too. Why would I just adjust the shapewear? Why not TAKE IT OFF? The answer is a simple one. Because that wouldn’t make for a good story…well, actually, at the time it was just my own laziness. Once I was at home, I had a couple hours to pack for a trip to the East coast, so I rushed around doing that and ran out of time to take the shower I planned on taking, which also led me to NOT take off the shapewear.

I wore that torture device on the plane—on the red-eye. I have NEVER been more uncomfortable. An hour into the 5 hour flight, I rolled it down, allowing my belly to breathe (though sacrificing my hips). As I slept, I think every part of my body swelled up, except what was bound in the shapewear. I awoke in Boston feeling awful. My first stop at the airport was the bathroom, where I slowly (because there was no fast-motion option for removing my jailor) pulled off the shapewear, and as I did, I felt the greatest relief. I stood in the stall for a good five minutes, reveling in my newfound freedom. Once I was clothed, I sashayed by the mirror and decided that I looked just fine without the shapewear that I had been wearing for 24 hours non-stop, and I went out into the world—a new, exhausted, muffin-topped woman.

And then I wore the shapewear again the night of the holiday party. It wasn’t so horrible that night (except that I decided to put control-top pantyhose on over them). Apparently, I did get fed up with them upon my return home. How do I know? Well, during my CSI SF investigation, I discovered them next to the sink in the kitchen. That’s right, I disrobe in ALL rooms. And, for the record, I haven’t worn them since.

So now that I’m returning to San Francisco with the knowledge that I am an unstoppable cookie and chip eater, what am I gonna do? Wear the shapewear? No. I’m going to Thailand. Surely THAT country won’t force my hand like Alaska and Mexico. Expect to see me on the TV with a public service announcement about how Thailand made me lose 15 pounds. Sure Jenny Craig couldn’t do it, but surely the mere thought of eating a Cambodian deep fried tarantula will help curb my appetite. I’m in last resort territory (next, of course, to doing something other than watching Hulu in bed all day long—but who wants to exercise and eat right when you can watch episodes of “The Greatest American Hero”?). It’s Thailand or bust, cuz that shapewear is so 2009.