Let this be a lesson to you. No one at the late-night taqueria is looking for love. They're just looking for food. And there is nothing attractive about a man moaning at random before he's even ordered.
Ya hear?
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Late night at Taqueria Cancun
When you're at Taqueria Cancun at 2 o'clock in the morning, and you've decided to make a last ditch attempt to find a girl for the night, don't moan and groan behind her. Seriously, if you are hungry, keep that business to yourself. No one is at Taqueria Cancun because they like the atmosphere. They are there because they had too much to drink and need a little something to soak up the a-a-a-a-a-alocohol. So the girl in front of you that is most likely 10 years your senior doesn't care to listen to you moan. She doesn't want to hear you groan. She just wants her super quesadilla. The only way that you can be of help is to give her the 53 cents she's short..but you didn't. And you had it. You were just selfish. Luckily the guy behind the counter either believed that she'd make it right the next day or over-charged you for her lack of funds. Nevertheless, your offer to allow her to sit at your booth with the rest of your friends was futile because all she wanted to do was take her food home and sit in front of the tv, shoving it in her mouth just before retiring for the night...'cause that's how she rolls.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
And Bangkok, I'll Never Forget How You Smell
Well, today is my last day in Thailand. When I woke up this morning, it didn't seem like such a big deal, but now that I'm a thte airport trying to spend the last of my baht I misguidedly exchanged hoping to buy one last article of clothing, I'm a little sad. I could stay here. In fact, there was a moment when I thought I might blow off my flight.
The majority of my day was pretty run-of-the-mill last day material--mani/pedi, leg waxing, massage. The usual. Then I made the fatal error of exchanging $10 with the intent to buy a shirt. Unfortunately for me, said shirt didn't fit. Even after six weeks in SE Asia, I am still too big for the one size fits all clothing they sell on the street.
Having failed that mission, I had no choice but to spend my 400 baht at a bar. While at the bar, I made a new British friend (who happened to live in the south of France). We were having such a good time that I could have come close to missing my bus to the airport. Alas, my sense of responsibility came out for a visit, and I left. Too bad for me, the bus, which was actually a shuttle, did not share my sense of responsibility. Not only was it late, but it was overbooked. What could have been a disaster, ended up being a stroke of luck for me a couple Japanese guys.
While eighteen smelly travelers squeezed into the van with all of their luggage, the two Japanese guys and I luxuriated in an air-conditioned taxi. As we drove down the highway, we passed the van and congratulated ourselves on being so lucky, for to say the van looked uncomfortable would have been an understatement. We chatted all the way to the airport having quickly made friends with each other, making me feel, once again, that this past six weeks has been my best travel experience yet.
Once at the airport, we parted ways, I changed clothes, checked in and found a place to spend the rest of my baht. My airport dinner made me cry, just like every other meal I had in Thailand (because of my insistence on eating spicy food, not because I blubber every time I eat), making it a fitting end to a wonderful trip.
Farewell Thailand!
And, Bangkok, I'll always remember how you smell.
The majority of my day was pretty run-of-the-mill last day material--mani/pedi, leg waxing, massage. The usual. Then I made the fatal error of exchanging $10 with the intent to buy a shirt. Unfortunately for me, said shirt didn't fit. Even after six weeks in SE Asia, I am still too big for the one size fits all clothing they sell on the street.
Having failed that mission, I had no choice but to spend my 400 baht at a bar. While at the bar, I made a new British friend (who happened to live in the south of France). We were having such a good time that I could have come close to missing my bus to the airport. Alas, my sense of responsibility came out for a visit, and I left. Too bad for me, the bus, which was actually a shuttle, did not share my sense of responsibility. Not only was it late, but it was overbooked. What could have been a disaster, ended up being a stroke of luck for me a couple Japanese guys.
While eighteen smelly travelers squeezed into the van with all of their luggage, the two Japanese guys and I luxuriated in an air-conditioned taxi. As we drove down the highway, we passed the van and congratulated ourselves on being so lucky, for to say the van looked uncomfortable would have been an understatement. We chatted all the way to the airport having quickly made friends with each other, making me feel, once again, that this past six weeks has been my best travel experience yet.
Once at the airport, we parted ways, I changed clothes, checked in and found a place to spend the rest of my baht. My airport dinner made me cry, just like every other meal I had in Thailand (because of my insistence on eating spicy food, not because I blubber every time I eat), making it a fitting end to a wonderful trip.
Farewell Thailand!
And, Bangkok, I'll always remember how you smell.
Lao Airlines: You Are Safe With Us
Dear Lao Airlines,
I am writing to say that I am impressed. Yes, I was somewhat afraid to get on your plane, seeing as you are known to have a bad safety record (although that can all be chocked up to speculation since you don't publish it in the first place). And well, your fleet mostly consists of the Old Chinese planes that have a penchant for engine failure...but you seem okay. Sure the first flight was bumpy, and I'm not sure if it was the air, the plane, or the pilot who was responsible. The take-offs were rough, and the landings were, by far, the worst, most jerky, and hardest landings I've ever experienced. That aside, your service was excellent. You do all the things US carriers stopped doing. You serve food and drinks (without charge). The flight attendants were friendly. You pass out handi-wipes. And, when you cancel a flight, you don't stop at putting the stranded passengers up in a decent hotel, you also provide them with dinner and entertainment for the night. Also, my second flight was far less eventful and on a new plane, so it really made me question all the fear-mongering I had drilled into my own mind.
I appreciate what you are trying to accomplish with the "You're Safe With Us" slogan, but you have a ways to go to reverse the negative public image. It's a nice start regardless. Safety aside, your customer service is excellent, so kudos to you.
Bravo, Lao Airlines! I made it to my destination, twice in a row.
Yay for small victories.
Sincerely,
Cardelia Boardeaux
I am writing to say that I am impressed. Yes, I was somewhat afraid to get on your plane, seeing as you are known to have a bad safety record (although that can all be chocked up to speculation since you don't publish it in the first place). And well, your fleet mostly consists of the Old Chinese planes that have a penchant for engine failure...but you seem okay. Sure the first flight was bumpy, and I'm not sure if it was the air, the plane, or the pilot who was responsible. The take-offs were rough, and the landings were, by far, the worst, most jerky, and hardest landings I've ever experienced. That aside, your service was excellent. You do all the things US carriers stopped doing. You serve food and drinks (without charge). The flight attendants were friendly. You pass out handi-wipes. And, when you cancel a flight, you don't stop at putting the stranded passengers up in a decent hotel, you also provide them with dinner and entertainment for the night. Also, my second flight was far less eventful and on a new plane, so it really made me question all the fear-mongering I had drilled into my own mind.
I appreciate what you are trying to accomplish with the "You're Safe With Us" slogan, but you have a ways to go to reverse the negative public image. It's a nice start regardless. Safety aside, your customer service is excellent, so kudos to you.
Bravo, Lao Airlines! I made it to my destination, twice in a row.
Yay for small victories.
Sincerely,
Cardelia Boardeaux
Monday, February 15, 2010
Luang Prabang, You Make Everything Better
I probably could have rolled in Sarajevo during the Bosnian war and would have been just as relieved to get off that bus. Yowza! That may have been the most uncomfortable seven hours I've ever spent, and that's saying something. I've had plenty of uncomfortable moments that stretched on for far too long.
We shared a tuk-tuk into town with some of our other harried travelers and started the process of finding a place in which to rest our weary heads. The beginning of our quest felt annoyingly similar to our first couple of hours in Vientiane, though in a much nicer and more quaint town (there's a reason it's a UNESCO World Heritage Site). As usual, the prices in Lonely Planet were WAY out of date (and my Scottish friend was not adept at putting a damper on his disappointment. After a quick survey, we found a nice enough spot for a reasonable price (which, quite frankly, almost anything was a step up in class and comfort from the treehouse we called home in Vang Vieng). It was close to the center of town, and just as we finished getting our keys, the English guys who sat in front of us on the bus grabbed the last two rooms as their original plan completely fell through.
Our night consisted of wandering around town, visiting the night market, and eating in an alley. It was lovely. What was even better was that I was finally starting to appreciate Laos in the way I had hoped I would. Success. As we discussed our plans for the next day, we both agreed that renting bicycles was the way to go. We thought we would ride them to the waterfall that was 35 kilometers out of town. And we would have...had the bike rental place been equipped with mountain bikes. Rather, they only offered up beach cruisers, and, being that I AM a skilled triathlete (and have ridden on the wrong kind of bike far too many times), I knew that no mountain would be climbed in single-gear beach cruiser. Instead we decided to sign up with a tour that would drive us to the waterfall. We ended our night with a little HBO (see, this guesthouse was fancy) and a can of Pringles.
The next morning, we took a pleasant stroll around town, visiting the monasteries and enjoying some tea at a local coffee shop. In the afternoon, we joined our group and rode to the waterfall. Fifteen minutes into the ride, the Scot gave me a knowing look. We never would have made it to the waterfall. I can only imagine that he too had found the spot where I (and possibly he) would start lashing out at the world because the ride was far too difficult. The waterfalls were beautiful, and we swam at every level. It was a great day.
Upon returning to town, we showered and got dressed for our last night out on the town. Once again, alley food was on the menu, and we enjoyed a little last-minute night market shopping. Since I had to meet my English friend across the hall at 5:00am to catch our tuk-tuk ride to the airport (as he was the only member of his group brave enough to fly on Lao Airlines. His other friends were planning to take the bus all the way down to Vientiane...and then take a boat, and then a train...all in the name of fear and caution), I ended up falling asleep at the late hour of 8:30pm.
The next morning, my English friend and I commended ourselves on our bravery and enjoyed a perfectly average flight (in a new plane, leading me to believe that Lao Airlines was making some positive changes). We both arrived in Bangkok without incident, and we wished each other happy travels.
And that, my friends, is how you turn lemons into lemonade.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Bumpin'
Alas, the day arrived when it was time to bid adieu to Vang Vieng. I have to admit that I was a little sad to go. I would have enjoyed a day of tubing, and despite the fact I kept running into obnoxious Americans who make it hard for me to travel because they give others such a bad impression, there were plenty of fun, tame people as well.
We booked the VIP bus to Luang Prabang the night before after toying with the idea of taking the night bus. The guy from the tour office seemed to think the day bus was better, and the Scot was keen to see the countryside. So, just before 10am, the van came to pick us up. Twenty people crammed in and two Israeli girls held up the whole van because they wanted to get baguettes (and apparently one wanted extra time with the love of her life that she had just met at the river).
We finally got to the bus and were the last load of people, leaving some terrible seating options. The Scot and I ended up having to sit in the very back of the bus, squashed next to two of the Israeli girls. As we pulled out, it became immediately apparent that the air-con wasn’t much more than a weak fan, lightly blowing hot air. Then after two minutes of serious driving, the bus stopped. One of the Israeli girls ran back, frantically shouting at her friends. She ran off the bus. No one knew what was happening. All five girls were on and off the bus. Then the girl sitting next to us told us that her friend left her passport at the guesthouse. The English guys in front of us asked, “Is that the same girl that held us up before?”
The answer? YES.
Ugh.
A tuk-tuk came and took them away. Their friend said that they were going to get on the bus tomorrow, but our bus never moved. It just stayed there…for forty-five minutes until they came back. The bus ride was already too long, and we had only driven two kilometers.
Over the next seven hours, the bus bumped, rattled, and swayed through the mountains. I clung to the handle on the seat in front of me the entire ride because we were bumped out of our seats so much. I even had to close my eyes numerous times to avoid seeing how close we came to the edge of the narrow road as we passed large trucks on the curves.
The Scot questioned our choice to take the day bus because it was so terribly uncomfortable and unbelievably hot. I, on the other hand, believe that daylight made it the better choice. I’m not sure I’d want to be on that bus at night with the narrow road and the sharp turns…and the lack of light.
After what felt like an eternity, we made it to Luang Prabang. Everyone was relieved. We piled out of the bus faster than any bus load of kids I’ve ever witnessed (and I make them race off of my bus). It was such a relief to be somewhere NOT on that bus…and that’s when our housing adventure began.
We booked the VIP bus to Luang Prabang the night before after toying with the idea of taking the night bus. The guy from the tour office seemed to think the day bus was better, and the Scot was keen to see the countryside. So, just before 10am, the van came to pick us up. Twenty people crammed in and two Israeli girls held up the whole van because they wanted to get baguettes (and apparently one wanted extra time with the love of her life that she had just met at the river).
We finally got to the bus and were the last load of people, leaving some terrible seating options. The Scot and I ended up having to sit in the very back of the bus, squashed next to two of the Israeli girls. As we pulled out, it became immediately apparent that the air-con wasn’t much more than a weak fan, lightly blowing hot air. Then after two minutes of serious driving, the bus stopped. One of the Israeli girls ran back, frantically shouting at her friends. She ran off the bus. No one knew what was happening. All five girls were on and off the bus. Then the girl sitting next to us told us that her friend left her passport at the guesthouse. The English guys in front of us asked, “Is that the same girl that held us up before?”
The answer? YES.
Ugh.
A tuk-tuk came and took them away. Their friend said that they were going to get on the bus tomorrow, but our bus never moved. It just stayed there…for forty-five minutes until they came back. The bus ride was already too long, and we had only driven two kilometers.
Over the next seven hours, the bus bumped, rattled, and swayed through the mountains. I clung to the handle on the seat in front of me the entire ride because we were bumped out of our seats so much. I even had to close my eyes numerous times to avoid seeing how close we came to the edge of the narrow road as we passed large trucks on the curves.
The Scot questioned our choice to take the day bus because it was so terribly uncomfortable and unbelievably hot. I, on the other hand, believe that daylight made it the better choice. I’m not sure I’d want to be on that bus at night with the narrow road and the sharp turns…and the lack of light.
After what felt like an eternity, we made it to Luang Prabang. Everyone was relieved. We piled out of the bus faster than any bus load of kids I’ve ever witnessed (and I make them race off of my bus). It was such a relief to be somewhere NOT on that bus…and that’s when our housing adventure began.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tubing in the Vang Vieng
Oh Vang Vieng, I had you all wrong! My first impression was such a bad one (but can you really blame me?). Today was fantastic! Tubing in a cave? Driving through the beautiful countryside! Kayaking down the river with limestone mountains surrounding us. It was magic.
And the tubing bars? So much fun. Sure I kayaked over, but I see the appeal. Hanging out on the river at the make-shift bar of your choice? Hard to beat. Add to the zip-line swings operated by 8-year-old boys, and you’ve got a blast on your hands. Yes, I was fully aware that two 8-year-olds were in charge of my safety, and yes, I did feel a little leery of it. But it all worked out. I’m alive. Besides, it not like I went on the death slide. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. I had you all wrong. Well, not completely. You have to admit that there are a bunch of douchebags here, and they all seem to be Americans—specifically the a-holes that annoyed everyone in the Friends bar tonight as they loudly questioned where they could find some weed, discussed the assets of all the girls they planned to poke tonight, and complained about all the food they ordered, as well as the quality of the waitstaff…but that’s not your fault.
I guess I'm just trying to say...Vang Vieng, you're alright with me.
And the tubing bars? So much fun. Sure I kayaked over, but I see the appeal. Hanging out on the river at the make-shift bar of your choice? Hard to beat. Add to the zip-line swings operated by 8-year-old boys, and you’ve got a blast on your hands. Yes, I was fully aware that two 8-year-olds were in charge of my safety, and yes, I did feel a little leery of it. But it all worked out. I’m alive. Besides, it not like I went on the death slide. You have to draw the line somewhere.
Anyway, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry. I had you all wrong. Well, not completely. You have to admit that there are a bunch of douchebags here, and they all seem to be Americans—specifically the a-holes that annoyed everyone in the Friends bar tonight as they loudly questioned where they could find some weed, discussed the assets of all the girls they planned to poke tonight, and complained about all the food they ordered, as well as the quality of the waitstaff…but that’s not your fault.
I guess I'm just trying to say...Vang Vieng, you're alright with me.
Friday, February 12, 2010
MTV Spring Break Laos: Vang Vieng Edition
A few weeks before my trip to Laos, we were in the Golden Triangle, which is the area where Thailand, Laos, and Myanmar (Burma) meet. It also was the place where opium was grown and smuggled for decades. While there, I read an article about the budding tourist market that was Laos about ten years ago. What did I learn? That people went to Laos (Vang Vieng in particular) for cheap drugs—specifically for opium. Visions of seedy opium dens danced in my head and made this goody-two-shoes slightly uncomfortable with the prospect of coming to this place alone (or at all for that matter).
Also while on that little jaunt to the Golden Triangle, we took a quick boat trip over to the Laos border where Diane and I enjoyed a beer and checked out a poster given to the bar by the Laos Ministry of Tourism to help educate foreigners on appropriate behavior in Laos. It was covered with somewhat satirical, yet alarming, cartoons depicting inappropriate behavior while in Laos. The poster covered such topics as conservative dress, no touching monks, feet belong on the ground (which is something I might want to include on my tours, and the always necessary cartoon depicting a guy overdosing on heroin while his girlfriend stumbled around with a huge bong in her hand. Just say no, kids.
I couldn’t help but ask myself what I was getting myself into. I did my best to shrug it off and convince myself that things had changed and laws had strengthened in the country over the last decade, but I was still concerned. One saving grace so far in my journey was that the three people I had encountered on my way to Laos shared my feelings, giving me reason to believe that I wasn’t going to walk into Marki Post’s Lifetime Movie, “Chasing The Dragon”.
The day came (not quickly enough, I might add) for us to hop on the bus to Vang Vieng. We waited dutifully at our guesthouse, waiting to be picked up, but no one came. We asked the owner, and he assured us that the van would be there to pick us up very soon. Finally, at thirty minutes past the bus departure time, the van came to pick us up. The Scot and I loaded our stuff and settled in for what we thought would be a long journey. Suffice it to say that we were a mixture of surprise and shock (and a tiny bit embarrassed) when the van drove half a block away to the bus that was waiting right around the corner.
Seriously? The bust was fifty feet away from us the entire time, and no one bothered to fill us in on that little fact? We held up the entire bus because the bus company needed to ensure that the van driver had a job?
We boarded the bus and found a seat. As we settled in for our five-hour ride, I looked around the bus and immediately felt out of place. Not only was I probably the oldest person on board, I was probably the most square (next to my teetotaling Scottish friend, of course). At our first break, the Scot struck up a conversation with an Australian girl who was returning to Vang Vieng after a quick visa run. Apparently she loved the place so much, she had been there for two months. You may be asking yourself, what did this lovely girl do with her time? Enjoy the stunning scenery? Hike the limestone mountains? No, don’t be silly. She got trashed every day at the river, and she was on a mission to make sure she had time to do it again today.
Upon discovering that I was an American, she quickly started quizzing me on schools. She was planning on a semester abroad and couldn’t decide between University of Florida in Miami or Gainesville. When I asked her course of study, she informed me that all she was really looking for was a good party scene and some beach time. She purposely chose spring semester because it was essential that she be there for spring break. For a brief second, she expressed interest in Boston, but I crushed that dream when I explained that Boston is cold and the beach isn’t a welcoming place until July.
And she is just an example of the many people with whom I was sharing this ride. I have to admit that while I never enjoyed a spring break experience at the beach, I’m not sure that I would have wanted to be there in the first place. And, in that moment, I was pretty sure that I was on my way to my own personal version of hell.
The bus pulled into town around 3pm, and we ended up sharing a tuk-tuk with our Aussie friend and a group of very spoiled American youths (and I know this makes me sound old, but I am…what is up with the entitlement?). The Scot and I quickly escaped our companions and searched for a place to stay, preferably on the quiet side of the river. We ended up choosing a very basic bungalow for a very cheap price.
Once in our new home, we quickly changed clothes, as our plan was to go tubing. On our way to rent tubes, we got sidetracked by the possibility of taking a tubing/hiking/kayaking trip the next day. Since we only had an hour and a half for tubing that afternoon, we decided to can the idea altogether and wander around town. While out and about, I was the victim of a scornful look from a local woman. Although I was wearing a swimsuit under a sarong, my shoulders were bare, and this was apparently unacceptable to her. I have to admit I was a little surprised by her horror, considering there were girls where string bikinis, out of which their assets were hanging. Compared to them, I was a nun.
That night, we found ourselves in one of the many bars that plays endless reruns of Friends. I camped out there until I was tired and made my way back to the bungalow. As I was walking down the street, I saw a local family enjoying a night of karaoke. It took all I had to not ask if I might join in (and continue with my quest to sing karaoke in every Asian country I visit), but I got shy…and that turned out to be my only opportunity.
The journey home continued, and as soon as we got into our bungalow, we discovered the reason for the cheap accommodations. We had unwittingly found ourselves on the noisy side of the river. Dance music blasted from several different bars all night long. The party didn’t stop until 5am, and I was never so happy for that hour of sleep. Thank you Vang Vieng.
Also while on that little jaunt to the Golden Triangle, we took a quick boat trip over to the Laos border where Diane and I enjoyed a beer and checked out a poster given to the bar by the Laos Ministry of Tourism to help educate foreigners on appropriate behavior in Laos. It was covered with somewhat satirical, yet alarming, cartoons depicting inappropriate behavior while in Laos. The poster covered such topics as conservative dress, no touching monks, feet belong on the ground (which is something I might want to include on my tours, and the always necessary cartoon depicting a guy overdosing on heroin while his girlfriend stumbled around with a huge bong in her hand. Just say no, kids.
I couldn’t help but ask myself what I was getting myself into. I did my best to shrug it off and convince myself that things had changed and laws had strengthened in the country over the last decade, but I was still concerned. One saving grace so far in my journey was that the three people I had encountered on my way to Laos shared my feelings, giving me reason to believe that I wasn’t going to walk into Marki Post’s Lifetime Movie, “Chasing The Dragon”.
The day came (not quickly enough, I might add) for us to hop on the bus to Vang Vieng. We waited dutifully at our guesthouse, waiting to be picked up, but no one came. We asked the owner, and he assured us that the van would be there to pick us up very soon. Finally, at thirty minutes past the bus departure time, the van came to pick us up. The Scot and I loaded our stuff and settled in for what we thought would be a long journey. Suffice it to say that we were a mixture of surprise and shock (and a tiny bit embarrassed) when the van drove half a block away to the bus that was waiting right around the corner.
Seriously? The bust was fifty feet away from us the entire time, and no one bothered to fill us in on that little fact? We held up the entire bus because the bus company needed to ensure that the van driver had a job?
We boarded the bus and found a seat. As we settled in for our five-hour ride, I looked around the bus and immediately felt out of place. Not only was I probably the oldest person on board, I was probably the most square (next to my teetotaling Scottish friend, of course). At our first break, the Scot struck up a conversation with an Australian girl who was returning to Vang Vieng after a quick visa run. Apparently she loved the place so much, she had been there for two months. You may be asking yourself, what did this lovely girl do with her time? Enjoy the stunning scenery? Hike the limestone mountains? No, don’t be silly. She got trashed every day at the river, and she was on a mission to make sure she had time to do it again today.
Upon discovering that I was an American, she quickly started quizzing me on schools. She was planning on a semester abroad and couldn’t decide between University of Florida in Miami or Gainesville. When I asked her course of study, she informed me that all she was really looking for was a good party scene and some beach time. She purposely chose spring semester because it was essential that she be there for spring break. For a brief second, she expressed interest in Boston, but I crushed that dream when I explained that Boston is cold and the beach isn’t a welcoming place until July.
And she is just an example of the many people with whom I was sharing this ride. I have to admit that while I never enjoyed a spring break experience at the beach, I’m not sure that I would have wanted to be there in the first place. And, in that moment, I was pretty sure that I was on my way to my own personal version of hell.
The bus pulled into town around 3pm, and we ended up sharing a tuk-tuk with our Aussie friend and a group of very spoiled American youths (and I know this makes me sound old, but I am…what is up with the entitlement?). The Scot and I quickly escaped our companions and searched for a place to stay, preferably on the quiet side of the river. We ended up choosing a very basic bungalow for a very cheap price.
That night, we found ourselves in one of the many bars that plays endless reruns of Friends. I camped out there until I was tired and made my way back to the bungalow. As I was walking down the street, I saw a local family enjoying a night of karaoke. It took all I had to not ask if I might join in (and continue with my quest to sing karaoke in every Asian country I visit), but I got shy…and that turned out to be my only opportunity.
The journey home continued, and as soon as we got into our bungalow, we discovered the reason for the cheap accommodations. We had unwittingly found ourselves on the noisy side of the river. Dance music blasted from several different bars all night long. The party didn’t stop until 5am, and I was never so happy for that hour of sleep. Thank you Vang Vieng.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Take A Step Back Into Laos
With all of the random craziness surrounding my departure from Cambodia (which easily could have been avoided, or at least expected, had I made a second confirmation call and believed what Lonely Planet said about Lao Airline’s propensity for canceling flights at the last minute), I didn’t have a chance to truly digest the adventure that was now upon me. Well, actually I tried to ignore the part where I was knowingly putting my life at risk.
See, as I may have mentioned before, I was flying on Lao Airlines, and that simple fact should give anyone a reason to pause and take a quick inventory of their life’s achievements…and maybe call all of their loved ones before boarding the plane. Why? Well, if you are the sort of traveler who is interested in safety records, good luck finding one. This particular airline doesn’t bother to publish them, so no one really knows the statistics. In fact, all anyone knows is that the majority of their fleet are old Chinese planes that have a tendency to not stay in the air…and most foreign government agencies opt for other transportation options. But I don’t work for the UN, so I’m in a totally different league here (and Lao Airlines was my only flight choice from Siem Reap to Vientiane). Besides that, I like to believe that I’m invincible and my number is nowhere near the top of the pile…and I REALLY didn’t want to take my other option which involved a nine hour bus-ride to Bangkok, followed by an overnight train to Chiang Mai, followed by another four hour bus ride and a five hour boat ride. While this option would have cost me a third of what I paid to fly, I felt that the emotional toll of 27 hours of traveling was far worse than a quick ride on a rickety old plane. So it was with great trepidation that I boarded the plane, but I knew I had to take this flight if for no other reason than to be in Laos…so I could turn around and jump on another Lao Airlines flight a few days later. I know, I’m a big fat ball of bravery. There’s no shame in being impressed by my sheer disdain for self-preservation in the name of convenience.
As we boarded the 70-seater propeller plane, I did what I could to set my mind at ease. After all, I’d been on much smaller planes than this particular one (and how was I to know that just six months later, I’d be on a plane that was literally falling apart in the air as my guests and I flew over the Yukon Territory into Dawson City where the plane was then grounded for a week because of mechanical failure—not to mention a failure of the ceiling panels to stay on the ceiling). Upon entering the cabin, my eyes darted around, taking in everything. Colorful seats? Nice touch. Wall-sized photographs of the sights of Laos on the front wall? Well done. Safety speech? Check. Pleasant flight crew? Bingo. Suspicion that this just might be one of the older Chinese planes with the lackluster safety record? You betcha.
There were only about twelve passengers, but that didn’t stop the airline from squeezing us all together in the middle of the plane. I was seated next to a chatty Filipino guy who was really nice (and also feared for his life). Normally, when I’m faced with a situation where I’m nervous, having a friendly person to whom I can talk non-stop is a good thing, but on this day when I had a nasty hangover while flying on a small plane…all I wanted to do was to breathe in blue and breathe out pink while gripping the armrests. Such activities were not in the cards for me, so I talked to my seatmate (while occasionally glancing back at my Australian friends who snickered at my unfortunate luck).
As the plane took off from the runway, my new friend and I silently gripped our armrests (and he offered to hold my hand should I get nervous). To say the take-off was rough doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m just glad I was wearing a seatbelt; otherwise, I would have been in a different row. Once we reached cruising altitude, I felt a wave of relief (despite the fact that the turbulence never let up—which was, in no way, the fault of the plane or the crew).
The flight attendants eagerly distributed food and drinks to all the nervous flyers. As I watched them, I wondered how they must feel about working on these planes every day. Are they aware of the reported risks? And is there a chance that the risks aren’t as great as we had all been led to believe?
After an hour in the air, we made a very bumpy, roller-coaster style landing into a town in Southern Laos called Savannakhet. Unbeknownst to me and almost everyone else, this was not a direct flight to Vientiane. We all had to exit the plane, where we were corralled into a tiny two-room airport and sent through passport control. None of us had visas, so we had to purchase them one at a time from the officers at passport control. For whatever reason (though I suspect the reason was corruption), the price of the visa was different for every passenger. Canadians were charged $42, while US citizens skated by with $36. The EU (with the exception of the UK who were charged $38) managed an easy $31 for their visas. We all found it rather suspicious (the Canadian in particular who wondered out loud if they assumed Canadians were too nice to complain and were thus charged more than Americans), especially when my Australian friends managed to barter down the cost of their visas from $35 to $31. It also didn’t help our suspicions as we witnessed the immigration officers laugh as we all questioned the sliding scale price.
Once our visas were in hand, we were all shuffled into the other room of the airport where we waited for a half an hour before we were allowed back on the plane to continue our journey to Vientiane. While in the waiting area, I befriended a nice, young Scottish kid who was traveling solo for five months. He was in search of a travel buddy for his week in Laos, and while I was dead-set on my solo voyage, I did like the idea of a little company. So I took the second plane ride to mull over the possibility while chatting with the chattiest man alive, gripping my seat, and trying not to vomit as the plane bounced and skidded down the runway in Laos’ capitol city.
As I waited for my bag, the Scot asked if I wanted to share a tuk-tuk with him into town. I decided to go for it, so once we had our things, we headed out into the world, searching for a cheap ride. The Scot was a much harder bargainer than I. Following his lead, we utilized the “walk away” strategy in getting the price we wanted. It took time and tenacity, but was effective in the end.
The taxi driver that accepted our low bid drove us to the guesthouse we requested. As we drove he inquired about our budget for the hotel. When we arrived, he motioned to the girl at the desk, and I realized then that he was expecting a kickback from the guesthouse for delivering customers. Unfortunately for us (and the driver) the guesthouse only had one room, and that one room had a double bed…and it cost three times the price quoted in Lonely Planet. Being adamant about not sharing a bed (and preferring separate rooms), we left. The taxi driver drove off in a huff, and we had to start the process all over with a tuk-tuk driver who was demanding a ridiculous fare to drive a half mile down the road. Unwilling to back down, we strapped our backpacks on and started to walk when he suddenly decided to accept our original offer.
We got to the second guesthouse, and I sent the Scot in to check it out. He walked out in a few minutes to tell me that their prices had climbed and the only had two rooms left: one with a fan and one with an air conditioner (which was considerably more money). They showed us the fan room, and much to our disappointment, it only had one double bed. At that point, I was willing to pay more for the air conditioned room and let the Scot pay half the price for the fan room, but in the spirit of information-gathering, I opted to go on a quick search for the guesthouse I originally planned to use. Too bad for me, I got totally lost and walked down the wrong street (which, I’d like to add, is very uncommon…I have anything, it’s an excellent sense of direction).
I returned after twenty minutes to the chimes of lies from the tuk-tuk driver who was sitting outside the guesthouse. “You were gone twenty minutes, and after you left, two people came in and took the last rooms. It’s full. I’ll drive you somewhere else, and you’ll have to pay me.” I just glared at him, knowing that he was lying. “Don’t bother going in there. Your friend left. He went somewhere else.”
“Really? He left? Did he take my bag with him too? You’re lying.”
I walked in, and much to my non-surprise, the Scot was standing by the desk. “ Did anyone come in here and take the rooms?”
“No. No one has been here.”
“That liar!”
I regaled him with the tale of my fruitless search and offered to take the more expensive room, since it was getting late in the afternoon. As we worked out the payment with the owner, he decided to take that opportunity to mention that the air-conditioned room had two twin beds.
The Scot looked at me. “Hey, I know we just met, but…”
Without hesitating, I said, “Yes. Let’s share it.”
And the deal was done. And I had a roommate—a very young, polite, and respectful one at that who reminded me of my brother and treated me like I was his sister (so it worked out pretty well).
After we settled into our room, we found another tuk-tuk driver to take us to a couple of the main sights in the capitol city before they closed. We paid far too much for the ride then wandered along the waterfront until we found a steal of a deal on dinner.
Vientiane was okay. I didn’t find myself overly impressed, and I hoped that the rest of Laos would be better, since my first few hours centered around arguing with lazy, yet opportunistic scam artists. (And I have my own opinion as to why this is the case, but I'll keep my trap shut.)
We bid the day adieu and waited to see what morning would bring.
See, as I may have mentioned before, I was flying on Lao Airlines, and that simple fact should give anyone a reason to pause and take a quick inventory of their life’s achievements…and maybe call all of their loved ones before boarding the plane. Why? Well, if you are the sort of traveler who is interested in safety records, good luck finding one. This particular airline doesn’t bother to publish them, so no one really knows the statistics. In fact, all anyone knows is that the majority of their fleet are old Chinese planes that have a tendency to not stay in the air…and most foreign government agencies opt for other transportation options. But I don’t work for the UN, so I’m in a totally different league here (and Lao Airlines was my only flight choice from Siem Reap to Vientiane). Besides that, I like to believe that I’m invincible and my number is nowhere near the top of the pile…and I REALLY didn’t want to take my other option which involved a nine hour bus-ride to Bangkok, followed by an overnight train to Chiang Mai, followed by another four hour bus ride and a five hour boat ride. While this option would have cost me a third of what I paid to fly, I felt that the emotional toll of 27 hours of traveling was far worse than a quick ride on a rickety old plane. So it was with great trepidation that I boarded the plane, but I knew I had to take this flight if for no other reason than to be in Laos…so I could turn around and jump on another Lao Airlines flight a few days later. I know, I’m a big fat ball of bravery. There’s no shame in being impressed by my sheer disdain for self-preservation in the name of convenience.
As we boarded the 70-seater propeller plane, I did what I could to set my mind at ease. After all, I’d been on much smaller planes than this particular one (and how was I to know that just six months later, I’d be on a plane that was literally falling apart in the air as my guests and I flew over the Yukon Territory into Dawson City where the plane was then grounded for a week because of mechanical failure—not to mention a failure of the ceiling panels to stay on the ceiling). Upon entering the cabin, my eyes darted around, taking in everything. Colorful seats? Nice touch. Wall-sized photographs of the sights of Laos on the front wall? Well done. Safety speech? Check. Pleasant flight crew? Bingo. Suspicion that this just might be one of the older Chinese planes with the lackluster safety record? You betcha.
There were only about twelve passengers, but that didn’t stop the airline from squeezing us all together in the middle of the plane. I was seated next to a chatty Filipino guy who was really nice (and also feared for his life). Normally, when I’m faced with a situation where I’m nervous, having a friendly person to whom I can talk non-stop is a good thing, but on this day when I had a nasty hangover while flying on a small plane…all I wanted to do was to breathe in blue and breathe out pink while gripping the armrests. Such activities were not in the cards for me, so I talked to my seatmate (while occasionally glancing back at my Australian friends who snickered at my unfortunate luck).
As the plane took off from the runway, my new friend and I silently gripped our armrests (and he offered to hold my hand should I get nervous). To say the take-off was rough doesn’t even begin to describe it. I’m just glad I was wearing a seatbelt; otherwise, I would have been in a different row. Once we reached cruising altitude, I felt a wave of relief (despite the fact that the turbulence never let up—which was, in no way, the fault of the plane or the crew).
The flight attendants eagerly distributed food and drinks to all the nervous flyers. As I watched them, I wondered how they must feel about working on these planes every day. Are they aware of the reported risks? And is there a chance that the risks aren’t as great as we had all been led to believe?
After an hour in the air, we made a very bumpy, roller-coaster style landing into a town in Southern Laos called Savannakhet. Unbeknownst to me and almost everyone else, this was not a direct flight to Vientiane. We all had to exit the plane, where we were corralled into a tiny two-room airport and sent through passport control. None of us had visas, so we had to purchase them one at a time from the officers at passport control. For whatever reason (though I suspect the reason was corruption), the price of the visa was different for every passenger. Canadians were charged $42, while US citizens skated by with $36. The EU (with the exception of the UK who were charged $38) managed an easy $31 for their visas. We all found it rather suspicious (the Canadian in particular who wondered out loud if they assumed Canadians were too nice to complain and were thus charged more than Americans), especially when my Australian friends managed to barter down the cost of their visas from $35 to $31. It also didn’t help our suspicions as we witnessed the immigration officers laugh as we all questioned the sliding scale price.
Once our visas were in hand, we were all shuffled into the other room of the airport where we waited for a half an hour before we were allowed back on the plane to continue our journey to Vientiane. While in the waiting area, I befriended a nice, young Scottish kid who was traveling solo for five months. He was in search of a travel buddy for his week in Laos, and while I was dead-set on my solo voyage, I did like the idea of a little company. So I took the second plane ride to mull over the possibility while chatting with the chattiest man alive, gripping my seat, and trying not to vomit as the plane bounced and skidded down the runway in Laos’ capitol city.
As I waited for my bag, the Scot asked if I wanted to share a tuk-tuk with him into town. I decided to go for it, so once we had our things, we headed out into the world, searching for a cheap ride. The Scot was a much harder bargainer than I. Following his lead, we utilized the “walk away” strategy in getting the price we wanted. It took time and tenacity, but was effective in the end.
The taxi driver that accepted our low bid drove us to the guesthouse we requested. As we drove he inquired about our budget for the hotel. When we arrived, he motioned to the girl at the desk, and I realized then that he was expecting a kickback from the guesthouse for delivering customers. Unfortunately for us (and the driver) the guesthouse only had one room, and that one room had a double bed…and it cost three times the price quoted in Lonely Planet. Being adamant about not sharing a bed (and preferring separate rooms), we left. The taxi driver drove off in a huff, and we had to start the process all over with a tuk-tuk driver who was demanding a ridiculous fare to drive a half mile down the road. Unwilling to back down, we strapped our backpacks on and started to walk when he suddenly decided to accept our original offer.
We got to the second guesthouse, and I sent the Scot in to check it out. He walked out in a few minutes to tell me that their prices had climbed and the only had two rooms left: one with a fan and one with an air conditioner (which was considerably more money). They showed us the fan room, and much to our disappointment, it only had one double bed. At that point, I was willing to pay more for the air conditioned room and let the Scot pay half the price for the fan room, but in the spirit of information-gathering, I opted to go on a quick search for the guesthouse I originally planned to use. Too bad for me, I got totally lost and walked down the wrong street (which, I’d like to add, is very uncommon…I have anything, it’s an excellent sense of direction).
I returned after twenty minutes to the chimes of lies from the tuk-tuk driver who was sitting outside the guesthouse. “You were gone twenty minutes, and after you left, two people came in and took the last rooms. It’s full. I’ll drive you somewhere else, and you’ll have to pay me.” I just glared at him, knowing that he was lying. “Don’t bother going in there. Your friend left. He went somewhere else.”
“Really? He left? Did he take my bag with him too? You’re lying.”
I walked in, and much to my non-surprise, the Scot was standing by the desk. “ Did anyone come in here and take the rooms?”
“No. No one has been here.”
“That liar!”
I regaled him with the tale of my fruitless search and offered to take the more expensive room, since it was getting late in the afternoon. As we worked out the payment with the owner, he decided to take that opportunity to mention that the air-conditioned room had two twin beds.
The Scot looked at me. “Hey, I know we just met, but…”
Without hesitating, I said, “Yes. Let’s share it.”
And the deal was done. And I had a roommate—a very young, polite, and respectful one at that who reminded me of my brother and treated me like I was his sister (so it worked out pretty well).
After we settled into our room, we found another tuk-tuk driver to take us to a couple of the main sights in the capitol city before they closed. We paid far too much for the ride then wandered along the waterfront until we found a steal of a deal on dinner.
Vientiane was okay. I didn’t find myself overly impressed, and I hoped that the rest of Laos would be better, since my first few hours centered around arguing with lazy, yet opportunistic scam artists. (And I have my own opinion as to why this is the case, but I'll keep my trap shut.)
We bid the day adieu and waited to see what morning would bring.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Leaving Cambodia...Or At Least Trying To
You have to pay more to leave Cambodia than you do to get in the first place…in more ways than one.
Departure day was upon us, and Diane was the first to go. Our tuk-tuk driver came by at 11am to pick her up, leaving me all alone with a free afternoon and a nasty bout of…let’s call them stomach issues. I decided to partake of a foot massage (notice the correct usage of the term “to partake of” unlike an aforementioned incident of the obscene overuse and incorrect use of the phrase) and a leisurely lunch (of none other than my favorite Khmer dish, larp (pronounced “lahp”) which would have been even better with a delicious pomelo salad, but my stomach simply couldn’t handle too much that day). Once I completed those grueling tasks and wandered around the Bar Street area (yes, you read that correctly…and…it is as advertised), I slowly found my way back to the guesthouse to wait for my tuk-tuk driver.
Fifteen minutes prior to my departure, a driver came by and told me he was taking me to the airport. Confused, since he wasn’t the driver with whom Diane and I had been working (and because Diane didn’t pay for her trip to the airport in our attempt to ensure that I got a ride to the airport that afternoon), I explained that Leoung Sei was my driver. The guys at the guesthouse insisted that this driver was sent in his place and pushed me out of the courtyard. I got in, the whole time feeling like something wasn’t right and worrying that I had found myself in the middle of some bizarre scam, but I didn’t know what else to do. When we arrived, I handed over the money for both trips to the airport and attempted to make my way inside—and that’s when the trouble really began.
Four officers guarded the front door. As I approached, they created a human barricade and demanded proof of my flight details before allowing me inside. I showed them my itinerary and was met with suspicious looks and whispers. One of the guards told me that they wouldn’t usually let me in given the circumstances but were willing to make an exception. Not knowing of what circumstances they were speaking, I just shrugged it off and walked into the building. A quick survey of the twelve ticketing booths was far from reassuring. Why? Because Lao Airlines was nowhere to be seen. Being the eternal optimist, I figured that I had arrived too early for my flight check-in time (and that assumption was correct as I arrived four hours earlier, rather than the two that they require).
I decided to find a bench and settle in until Lao Airlines set up for business. It’s not like I had anything better to do, and when you’re nervous about flying on an airline with such a sketchy safety record that even the UN won’t allow their people to fly on their planes, who doesn’t want a couple extra hours to come up with fifty terrifying scenarios right before boarding a flight headed for what was the poorest country in the world up until two years ago?
So, I sat. I waited. I watched people check in for their flights to Vietnam. After an hour and a half, I started to get a little concerned that there were still no signs of Lao Airlines in the terminal. It was at that point that I decided to ask an expert. Okay, that might be taking it a little too far. I decided to ask someone that might know more than me. A young army officer was walking by, so I asked for his assistance. The confused look on his face after reading my itinerary didn’t make me feel any better. Being the helpful lad that he was, he went to talk to someone else. Armed with new information (and of course a semi-automatic assault rifle), he proudly told me that I could check in for my flight in a half an hour. He also told me how pretty I was…repeatedly. In fact, he swung by several times to let me know that he thought I was REALLY attractive and offered to sit with me until Lao Airlines opened up their booth. Unfortunately for him, his superior officer informed him that he had to guard the airport rather than just me.
At last, the final half an hour passed. I anxiously looked over at the booths, but Lao Airlines was still a no-show. I watched another couple approach the counter that I suspected to be the future home of a Lao Airlines agent, just to see them turn around angrily. My officer friend ran over to them, then scurried over to me to inform me that the flight had been canceled. He was so apologetic and so flattering as he expressed his appreciation for my immense beauty once again before directing me to the airline offices in the building next door, that I almost didn’t want to leave the terminal area.
I joined up with the couple, a delightful pair of newlyweds from Australia, and we hunted down the offices as a team. Once we got inside the building, we split up and roamed the halls until (about 20 seconds later) we found the Lao Airlines office. As you might expect, it was closed. A woman from another airline came running down the hall offering her help. Sadly for us, she was far from helpful. The only help she was willing to offer was to tell us that Lao Airlines was closed—a fact we were already well-aware of. She also mentioned that we would have to go to their offices downtown. Being that we had no idea where “downtown” Siem Reap was located, that piece of information was useless. We asked for a phone, but were shut down. She claimed that there were no phones in any of the offices. Really? None? How do you people get anything done around here?
After much frustrating back and forth (during which the woman gave me a clue as to the whereabouts of this downtown office), the Australian husband walked into the Air Asia office and managed to convince them (quite easily) to allow us to use their phone to call Lao Airlines. I suppose now would be a good time to explain why the phone call was so important. It was 4:55pm. All of the airline offices (including the already closed Lao Airlines offices) closed at 5:00pm. Had we not phoned the Lao Airlines people, they never would have waited for us at the other office (which did exist after all). The Lao Airlines folks instructed us to come to their downtown office, insisting that EVERYONE knows where they are located, so an address was totally unnecessary.
We three brave travelers hailed a tuk-tuk, explained where we wanted to go and agreed on a price (all this after getting a guarantee from the driver that he knew exactly where we wanted to go). The tuk tuk pulled out of the airport and we traveled about a mile or so down the road when the driver pulled over next to a field. He turned to us and said, “I’m sorry. I lied to you. I don’t know where the office is. I think it is back at the airport. I’ll drive you back, and I won’t charge you more for it.”
All three of us lost it. Why? Why lie? And why would we have to pay you MORE money for taking us nowhere? Before the man of our group totally lost his top, I pulled out a helpful piece of information given to me by the very UNhelpful woman at the airline offices. “Do you know where the Vietnam Airlines office is downtown on the main street?” The driver nodded. “You aren’t lying this time? This is important. The Lao Airlines offices are next door. Can you get us there?” He agreed, and we were off once again with nothing but a hope and a prayer that we would get there.
Ten very tense minutes later, we pulled into the Lao Airlines office. At that point, we decided to dismiss our tuk-tuk driver altogether. We walked into the office, and they were quite accommodating. They claimed that they canceled the flight a couple days prior but couldn’t reach us. The only problem with this scenario was that I had called about the flight the day before and it wasn’t canceled, but I’m not one to split hairs.
The three of us were transferred to a flight the next morning. The airline put us up in a decent hotel (which was nicer than anywhere else I had stayed in the country during my week), they bought us dinner, a show, breakfast, and provided transportation to the hotel and to the airport the next morning. Not bad for a tiny budget airline with a not-so-favorable reputation (and far better than what any US carrier would do for you in the same circumstance). The night ended up being a little too enjoyable as was evidenced the next morning by our throbbing headaches when we met up in the morning to make our second attempt at leaving Cambodia.
Take two was a breeze. We were able to check our bags without incident. The boarding passes were handed over without hesitation. Everything was going swimmingly until we walked toward security. Just before security, travelers have to pay a tariff. It’s called a departure tax, and for whatever reason, the airline doesn’t bundle into the price of the ticket, which would really make more sense. Rather, everyone has to pay $25 to fly out of Siem Reap. Twenty-five dollars. Why am I so insulted? Because it only cost me $20 to get INTO Cambodia (for my visa). Why must it cost $5 more to leave? Despite my inner protestations, I paid my tariff and went through security.
Once through security, we sought out a coffee shop to purchase water in hopes that it might help our aching heads. As we walked in, an irate French woman was busy screaming at the severely underpaid cashier about the price of coffee. Her argument was that $2.50 was an outrageous and downright criminal price to pay for a cup of coffee. According to her, the coffee at the Siem Reap airport was more expensive than any cup of coffee one might purchase in the entire city of Paris (she obviously doesn’t frequent Starbucks). As she was screaming and making failed attempts to barter down the price, some American girl popped out of thin air commenting on how ridiculous food prices were at the Siem Reap airport as compared to anywhere else in the world.
Now I don’t know where these two bargain hunters usually go when they are purchasing food and beverages at the airport, but in my experience, all airports are expensive. And, really? While coffee at the Siem Reap airport costs more than coffee in the city itself, the airport coffee is still far cheaper than any other airport coffee you might stumble upon in an industrialized nation. You know, the kind of place these two weirdo complainers call home. The screaming and complaining persisted, even after the French woman had made her purchase, and then just as mysteriously as she had arrived the annoying American commenter whose only true purpose was to further fuel the eternal flame of anger in the French woman just vanished.
And that’s when I decided to board my flight because it was finally time to leave Cambodia.
Departure day was upon us, and Diane was the first to go. Our tuk-tuk driver came by at 11am to pick her up, leaving me all alone with a free afternoon and a nasty bout of…let’s call them stomach issues. I decided to partake of a foot massage (notice the correct usage of the term “to partake of” unlike an aforementioned incident of the obscene overuse and incorrect use of the phrase) and a leisurely lunch (of none other than my favorite Khmer dish, larp (pronounced “lahp”) which would have been even better with a delicious pomelo salad, but my stomach simply couldn’t handle too much that day). Once I completed those grueling tasks and wandered around the Bar Street area (yes, you read that correctly…and…it is as advertised), I slowly found my way back to the guesthouse to wait for my tuk-tuk driver.
Fifteen minutes prior to my departure, a driver came by and told me he was taking me to the airport. Confused, since he wasn’t the driver with whom Diane and I had been working (and because Diane didn’t pay for her trip to the airport in our attempt to ensure that I got a ride to the airport that afternoon), I explained that Leoung Sei was my driver. The guys at the guesthouse insisted that this driver was sent in his place and pushed me out of the courtyard. I got in, the whole time feeling like something wasn’t right and worrying that I had found myself in the middle of some bizarre scam, but I didn’t know what else to do. When we arrived, I handed over the money for both trips to the airport and attempted to make my way inside—and that’s when the trouble really began.
Four officers guarded the front door. As I approached, they created a human barricade and demanded proof of my flight details before allowing me inside. I showed them my itinerary and was met with suspicious looks and whispers. One of the guards told me that they wouldn’t usually let me in given the circumstances but were willing to make an exception. Not knowing of what circumstances they were speaking, I just shrugged it off and walked into the building. A quick survey of the twelve ticketing booths was far from reassuring. Why? Because Lao Airlines was nowhere to be seen. Being the eternal optimist, I figured that I had arrived too early for my flight check-in time (and that assumption was correct as I arrived four hours earlier, rather than the two that they require).
I decided to find a bench and settle in until Lao Airlines set up for business. It’s not like I had anything better to do, and when you’re nervous about flying on an airline with such a sketchy safety record that even the UN won’t allow their people to fly on their planes, who doesn’t want a couple extra hours to come up with fifty terrifying scenarios right before boarding a flight headed for what was the poorest country in the world up until two years ago?
So, I sat. I waited. I watched people check in for their flights to Vietnam. After an hour and a half, I started to get a little concerned that there were still no signs of Lao Airlines in the terminal. It was at that point that I decided to ask an expert. Okay, that might be taking it a little too far. I decided to ask someone that might know more than me. A young army officer was walking by, so I asked for his assistance. The confused look on his face after reading my itinerary didn’t make me feel any better. Being the helpful lad that he was, he went to talk to someone else. Armed with new information (and of course a semi-automatic assault rifle), he proudly told me that I could check in for my flight in a half an hour. He also told me how pretty I was…repeatedly. In fact, he swung by several times to let me know that he thought I was REALLY attractive and offered to sit with me until Lao Airlines opened up their booth. Unfortunately for him, his superior officer informed him that he had to guard the airport rather than just me.
At last, the final half an hour passed. I anxiously looked over at the booths, but Lao Airlines was still a no-show. I watched another couple approach the counter that I suspected to be the future home of a Lao Airlines agent, just to see them turn around angrily. My officer friend ran over to them, then scurried over to me to inform me that the flight had been canceled. He was so apologetic and so flattering as he expressed his appreciation for my immense beauty once again before directing me to the airline offices in the building next door, that I almost didn’t want to leave the terminal area.
I joined up with the couple, a delightful pair of newlyweds from Australia, and we hunted down the offices as a team. Once we got inside the building, we split up and roamed the halls until (about 20 seconds later) we found the Lao Airlines office. As you might expect, it was closed. A woman from another airline came running down the hall offering her help. Sadly for us, she was far from helpful. The only help she was willing to offer was to tell us that Lao Airlines was closed—a fact we were already well-aware of. She also mentioned that we would have to go to their offices downtown. Being that we had no idea where “downtown” Siem Reap was located, that piece of information was useless. We asked for a phone, but were shut down. She claimed that there were no phones in any of the offices. Really? None? How do you people get anything done around here?
After much frustrating back and forth (during which the woman gave me a clue as to the whereabouts of this downtown office), the Australian husband walked into the Air Asia office and managed to convince them (quite easily) to allow us to use their phone to call Lao Airlines. I suppose now would be a good time to explain why the phone call was so important. It was 4:55pm. All of the airline offices (including the already closed Lao Airlines offices) closed at 5:00pm. Had we not phoned the Lao Airlines people, they never would have waited for us at the other office (which did exist after all). The Lao Airlines folks instructed us to come to their downtown office, insisting that EVERYONE knows where they are located, so an address was totally unnecessary.
We three brave travelers hailed a tuk-tuk, explained where we wanted to go and agreed on a price (all this after getting a guarantee from the driver that he knew exactly where we wanted to go). The tuk tuk pulled out of the airport and we traveled about a mile or so down the road when the driver pulled over next to a field. He turned to us and said, “I’m sorry. I lied to you. I don’t know where the office is. I think it is back at the airport. I’ll drive you back, and I won’t charge you more for it.”
All three of us lost it. Why? Why lie? And why would we have to pay you MORE money for taking us nowhere? Before the man of our group totally lost his top, I pulled out a helpful piece of information given to me by the very UNhelpful woman at the airline offices. “Do you know where the Vietnam Airlines office is downtown on the main street?” The driver nodded. “You aren’t lying this time? This is important. The Lao Airlines offices are next door. Can you get us there?” He agreed, and we were off once again with nothing but a hope and a prayer that we would get there.
Ten very tense minutes later, we pulled into the Lao Airlines office. At that point, we decided to dismiss our tuk-tuk driver altogether. We walked into the office, and they were quite accommodating. They claimed that they canceled the flight a couple days prior but couldn’t reach us. The only problem with this scenario was that I had called about the flight the day before and it wasn’t canceled, but I’m not one to split hairs.
The three of us were transferred to a flight the next morning. The airline put us up in a decent hotel (which was nicer than anywhere else I had stayed in the country during my week), they bought us dinner, a show, breakfast, and provided transportation to the hotel and to the airport the next morning. Not bad for a tiny budget airline with a not-so-favorable reputation (and far better than what any US carrier would do for you in the same circumstance). The night ended up being a little too enjoyable as was evidenced the next morning by our throbbing headaches when we met up in the morning to make our second attempt at leaving Cambodia.
Take two was a breeze. We were able to check our bags without incident. The boarding passes were handed over without hesitation. Everything was going swimmingly until we walked toward security. Just before security, travelers have to pay a tariff. It’s called a departure tax, and for whatever reason, the airline doesn’t bundle into the price of the ticket, which would really make more sense. Rather, everyone has to pay $25 to fly out of Siem Reap. Twenty-five dollars. Why am I so insulted? Because it only cost me $20 to get INTO Cambodia (for my visa). Why must it cost $5 more to leave? Despite my inner protestations, I paid my tariff and went through security.
Once through security, we sought out a coffee shop to purchase water in hopes that it might help our aching heads. As we walked in, an irate French woman was busy screaming at the severely underpaid cashier about the price of coffee. Her argument was that $2.50 was an outrageous and downright criminal price to pay for a cup of coffee. According to her, the coffee at the Siem Reap airport was more expensive than any cup of coffee one might purchase in the entire city of Paris (she obviously doesn’t frequent Starbucks). As she was screaming and making failed attempts to barter down the price, some American girl popped out of thin air commenting on how ridiculous food prices were at the Siem Reap airport as compared to anywhere else in the world.
Now I don’t know where these two bargain hunters usually go when they are purchasing food and beverages at the airport, but in my experience, all airports are expensive. And, really? While coffee at the Siem Reap airport costs more than coffee in the city itself, the airport coffee is still far cheaper than any other airport coffee you might stumble upon in an industrialized nation. You know, the kind of place these two weirdo complainers call home. The screaming and complaining persisted, even after the French woman had made her purchase, and then just as mysteriously as she had arrived the annoying American commenter whose only true purpose was to further fuel the eternal flame of anger in the French woman just vanished.
And that’s when I decided to board my flight because it was finally time to leave Cambodia.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Toilet Talk: Cambodian Edition
For a country that is portrayed as being backwards, Cambodia goes all out on their toilets. We found “6’s” everywhere. Everywhere. At first we assumed it was the result of using WC’s in foreign-friendly restaurants. Then we went on the bus to Siem Reap and stopped in a roadside restaurant where the toilet was…a “6”, though I took off half a point for inconvenience since the toilet paper was by the sink and nowhere near the toilet. Once we arrived in Siem Reap, the toilets continued with their perfect 6.0 rating. That is, until I went to Angkor Wat. Somehow I managed to find the only toilet in all of Cambodia (or at least the places where I went in Cambodia, which were, admittedly, tourist centers) that was not a “6”.
We were still in the temple area, and I was struck with a sudden and urgent need, so I followed the signs to the toilets. Upon reaching it, I could tell from a distance that I had found a traditional toilet. For 2000 riel (50 cents), I bought three squares of tissue. Without that tissue, the toilet would have been a “0” (for a reminder of the toilet ranking system, refer to this post). I’m quite content using whatever toilet is available, so the whole affair with manual flushing, tossing the tissue in the bin outside, and not washing my hands didn’t phase me in the least, that is, until Diane went to a different toilet and returned to triumphantly inform me that it was, in fact, a “6”. Not only was it a “6”, it was absolutely free. Damn the luck! I figured she deserved a break since she bartered a woman down to $10 for a book, and then, once the transaction was complete, was swarmed with at least eight other people offering to sell her the same book for a dollar.
We went on our merry way and only encountered bathrooms with perfect scores from that point forward. Now that I have regaled other travelers with my tale, it seems that there is a consensus, and I AM the ONLY person that found a “1”…or at least, the only person that was willing to pay for the privilege.
We were still in the temple area, and I was struck with a sudden and urgent need, so I followed the signs to the toilets. Upon reaching it, I could tell from a distance that I had found a traditional toilet. For 2000 riel (50 cents), I bought three squares of tissue. Without that tissue, the toilet would have been a “0” (for a reminder of the toilet ranking system, refer to this post). I’m quite content using whatever toilet is available, so the whole affair with manual flushing, tossing the tissue in the bin outside, and not washing my hands didn’t phase me in the least, that is, until Diane went to a different toilet and returned to triumphantly inform me that it was, in fact, a “6”. Not only was it a “6”, it was absolutely free. Damn the luck! I figured she deserved a break since she bartered a woman down to $10 for a book, and then, once the transaction was complete, was swarmed with at least eight other people offering to sell her the same book for a dollar.
We went on our merry way and only encountered bathrooms with perfect scores from that point forward. Now that I have regaled other travelers with my tale, it seems that there is a consensus, and I AM the ONLY person that found a “1”…or at least, the only person that was willing to pay for the privilege.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Siem Reap: Temples, Tuk-Tuks, and Karaoke
Our third day in Cambodia found us boarding a deluxe bus headed to Siem Reap. What made it deluxe? I think it was the free water and the TV. And what did they play on TV? Cambodian karaoke videos. No lie. I was wondering how I’d get my karaoke fix in Cambodia, especially since I made no effort to go to the place I saw as we were driving around Phnom Penh. But then, with this stroke of luck, I decided (at Diane’s suggestion) that five hours of karaoke videos could count (especially since the videos were graphic depictions love stories gone awry complete with alcoholism and suicide).
However, fate decided to step in and make the deal even sweeter. On our first night, we went out on the town to enjoy a bucket of gin and tonic (which included a free t-shirt—score!), and we started talking to the young Australian couple seated next to us. As it turned out, they loved karaoke too. So after a few beers and a couple games of pool, we found a tuk-tuk driver that new of a karaoke joint, and we were off.
We drove through the night, clueless as to where we were going, and then…we arrived. Where? Well, none of us had any clue (though I managed to find it two days later on my way to the airport). We got out of the tuk-tuk, and I instantly knew what kind of establishment we were about to patronize. In the parking lot, there were a few pairs of Western men, hesitatingly getting out of their tuk-tuks, vocalizing their misgivings about going into the brightly-lit building. My group exchanged looks, and we decided, “We’re here. Let’s just do it.”
A man greeted us outside the door and walked us into the first room. An aisle was created in the middle of the room, lined on both sides with about four rows of chairs, filled with girls. Girls dressed in short, tight-fitting dresses, high heels, and loads of make-up. We turned to the man and said, “We just want to sing.”
He took us to a room that cost $15/hour and included its own bathroom complete with shower. I know what you’re thinking, they thought of everything! Who doesn’t need a shower after a killer karaoke performance of Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart”? Yeah, they totally thought of everything. The man hung out in our room with us for quite awhile (and I like to think it was because we were entertaining since we really were at the karaoke place for the purpose of singing karaoke). He started to bring in some ladies, but determined that we really weren’t interested, so we were merely accompanied by one girl whose job it was to operate the machine. She was quite friendly and made song requests for us, so it felt like she was part of the group.
We sang for two glorious hours and paid ridiculous amounts of money for the alcohol that was served. When we left the building, there were far fewer girls seated in the “display” room. Those that were there appeared to be miserably unhappy, and we suspected that our presence probably didn’t help matters. Our tuk-tuk awaited us outside. We jumped on board and headed back to town, laughing the whole way about our innocent adventure to a prostitution front. And THAT is what counted for karaoke in Cambodia.
The next day we met our tuk-tuk driver and went on a tour of three of the temples: Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, and Ta Prohm. Simply put, it was awe-inspiring. As always, I started feeling like I should be more impressed as we walked through Angkor Wat. It IS a UNESCO World Heritage site after all! Then we drove to Angkor Thom. As our vehicle rounded the corner, both Diane and I stopped speaking. Impressive indeed.
We wandered the temples in 90-degree head until our hangovers couldn’t take it anymore. I will admit that I regret not taking another day to explore the temples. They were spectacular. So I guess that means there’s always next time.
However, fate decided to step in and make the deal even sweeter. On our first night, we went out on the town to enjoy a bucket of gin and tonic (which included a free t-shirt—score!), and we started talking to the young Australian couple seated next to us. As it turned out, they loved karaoke too. So after a few beers and a couple games of pool, we found a tuk-tuk driver that new of a karaoke joint, and we were off.
We drove through the night, clueless as to where we were going, and then…we arrived. Where? Well, none of us had any clue (though I managed to find it two days later on my way to the airport). We got out of the tuk-tuk, and I instantly knew what kind of establishment we were about to patronize. In the parking lot, there were a few pairs of Western men, hesitatingly getting out of their tuk-tuks, vocalizing their misgivings about going into the brightly-lit building. My group exchanged looks, and we decided, “We’re here. Let’s just do it.”
A man greeted us outside the door and walked us into the first room. An aisle was created in the middle of the room, lined on both sides with about four rows of chairs, filled with girls. Girls dressed in short, tight-fitting dresses, high heels, and loads of make-up. We turned to the man and said, “We just want to sing.”
He took us to a room that cost $15/hour and included its own bathroom complete with shower. I know what you’re thinking, they thought of everything! Who doesn’t need a shower after a killer karaoke performance of Bon Jovi’s “Shot Through the Heart”? Yeah, they totally thought of everything. The man hung out in our room with us for quite awhile (and I like to think it was because we were entertaining since we really were at the karaoke place for the purpose of singing karaoke). He started to bring in some ladies, but determined that we really weren’t interested, so we were merely accompanied by one girl whose job it was to operate the machine. She was quite friendly and made song requests for us, so it felt like she was part of the group.
We sang for two glorious hours and paid ridiculous amounts of money for the alcohol that was served. When we left the building, there were far fewer girls seated in the “display” room. Those that were there appeared to be miserably unhappy, and we suspected that our presence probably didn’t help matters. Our tuk-tuk awaited us outside. We jumped on board and headed back to town, laughing the whole way about our innocent adventure to a prostitution front. And THAT is what counted for karaoke in Cambodia.
The next day we met our tuk-tuk driver and went on a tour of three of the temples: Angkor Wat, Angkor Thom, and Ta Prohm. Simply put, it was awe-inspiring. As always, I started feeling like I should be more impressed as we walked through Angkor Wat. It IS a UNESCO World Heritage site after all! Then we drove to Angkor Thom. As our vehicle rounded the corner, both Diane and I stopped speaking. Impressive indeed.
We wandered the temples in 90-degree head until our hangovers couldn’t take it anymore. I will admit that I regret not taking another day to explore the temples. They were spectacular. So I guess that means there’s always next time.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Bug Dreams Lost
Well, I came all the way to Cambodia with a single objective—to eat a tarantula. Did I succeed? No. We got to Phnom Penh, and I saw the carts of bugs: worms, crickets, snakes on a stick, and I was IN! …just not at that particular moment. I declared night 2 to be Cardelia’s Bug-Eating Bonanza, but once I ate my lok lak (which is similar to Vietnamese Shaking Beef, and is delicious and my favorite Cambodian meal), I was too full. It was decided that the bugs would have to wait until Siem Reap.
Once there, I was on a quest…albeit a casual one. Unfortunately, all I found was a grilled frog (and it was delicious…tasted like chicken and was even better than the fried frog legs I ate at Anchor and Hope when they first opened). I also found snails, but I had no real interest in those. So, my dream was lost. I will have to return home having only eaten grubs and large waterbugs.
Tis a pity.
Once there, I was on a quest…albeit a casual one. Unfortunately, all I found was a grilled frog (and it was delicious…tasted like chicken and was even better than the fried frog legs I ate at Anchor and Hope when they first opened). I also found snails, but I had no real interest in those. So, my dream was lost. I will have to return home having only eaten grubs and large waterbugs.
Tis a pity.
Pig in a Poke
Now I’m not squeamish. Nope. Not at all. Seriously. I’m not…for the most part anyway. I’ve been to local markets all over the place, and I’ve seen pig heads, cow heads, animal legs, chickens being killed along a river…you know, the usual. I’ve meandered through stalls of skinned frogs and dead bugs. A quick walk through any Chinatown brings you face to face with hanging ducks, snakes, and other weirdly gross things that people like to eat. None of those things bother me. I recognize that in America, we have become separated from our food so much that we sometimes fail to associate meat with its origins. I understand why some people have a problem seeing all of this, but I don’t find it shocking in the least. Smelly, yes. Shocking and unexpected, no.
I will tell you what I didn’t expect to see though, but first you have to read about my day. On our second day in Phnom Penh, Diane and I took the full tour, including a trip to the Royal Palace, the Russian Market, and then to the gruesome Tuol Sleng Prison and the Killing Fields at Cheong Ek. The first half of our day was, by far, the most pleasant. The second half was horrifying and eye-opening as we wandered through the former school turned prison where thousands of Cambodians were tortured by their own government and then to the farm where even more people were slaughtered and left for dead.
I’ve been to Auschwitz, and I was only able to take it for a finite period of time. The thing that made me sick was the room full of human hair left from the victims after their bodies were burned (and having to exit the camp via the gas chamber pretty much sold me on never going to another concentration camp again). Even today, when I go to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, I have to walk away from the photo of that room full of hair.
So what freaked me out and instantly made me sick and full of pain at the Killing Fields? It wasn’t the tower of human bones. It wasn’t knowing that I was walking on a mass grave still filled with thousands of corpses. It wasn’t seeing the speaker system that they set up in the trees to drown out the cries and moans of the people who were beaten and tossed into the pits, left to die underneath the weight of other lifeless bodies. It was a tree. The children’s tree, so-named because it was the tree that the Khmer Rouge used to crush the skulls of babies before throwing them into the pits. And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore (and was somewhat relieved to have a little macabre laugh at the sign reminding people that grenades should be left at the door before entering the museum (because where else would people be carrying grenades as if it is a normal accessory?)). With that said, I have no regrets about going. As hard as it was to see it, genocide is something that people should see and should know about. It just isn’t right, so there is a reason that these places are left as memorials to the horror that once took place there.
When we finished our solemn tour of the Killing Fields of Cheong Ek, we loaded back into our tuk-tuk, doing what we could to avoid the throngs of children begging us to buy them a coke and headed back toward town. We traveled down the road for several miles, passing motorbikes loaded with families, farm trucks loaded with equipment (and usually housing a couple workers on top), and even a motorbike with an attached grill (that was in use as it was in motion). After awhile, a pickup truck approached us from the rear (and this was not the unusual part seeing as we were tapping out at 25 mph). As they passed us, the six passengers in the cab (you read that right) stared at us as though we were aliens. We smiled and waved, and then we saw something that instantly made our jaws drop wide open. What could possibly have been so shocking and unexpected after the day we’d had? Well, I’ll tell you. The back of their truck was loaded with the bodies of at least fifteen dead pigs, piled on top of each other and practically bursting out of the ropes that tied them down. Diane made a funny and described the scene as being literally hog-tied. And THAT was what I never saw coming.
I will tell you what I didn’t expect to see though, but first you have to read about my day. On our second day in Phnom Penh, Diane and I took the full tour, including a trip to the Royal Palace, the Russian Market, and then to the gruesome Tuol Sleng Prison and the Killing Fields at Cheong Ek. The first half of our day was, by far, the most pleasant. The second half was horrifying and eye-opening as we wandered through the former school turned prison where thousands of Cambodians were tortured by their own government and then to the farm where even more people were slaughtered and left for dead.
I’ve been to Auschwitz, and I was only able to take it for a finite period of time. The thing that made me sick was the room full of human hair left from the victims after their bodies were burned (and having to exit the camp via the gas chamber pretty much sold me on never going to another concentration camp again). Even today, when I go to the Holocaust Museum in Washington DC, I have to walk away from the photo of that room full of hair.
So what freaked me out and instantly made me sick and full of pain at the Killing Fields? It wasn’t the tower of human bones. It wasn’t knowing that I was walking on a mass grave still filled with thousands of corpses. It wasn’t seeing the speaker system that they set up in the trees to drown out the cries and moans of the people who were beaten and tossed into the pits, left to die underneath the weight of other lifeless bodies. It was a tree. The children’s tree, so-named because it was the tree that the Khmer Rouge used to crush the skulls of babies before throwing them into the pits. And that’s when I couldn’t take it anymore (and was somewhat relieved to have a little macabre laugh at the sign reminding people that grenades should be left at the door before entering the museum (because where else would people be carrying grenades as if it is a normal accessory?)). With that said, I have no regrets about going. As hard as it was to see it, genocide is something that people should see and should know about. It just isn’t right, so there is a reason that these places are left as memorials to the horror that once took place there.
When we finished our solemn tour of the Killing Fields of Cheong Ek, we loaded back into our tuk-tuk, doing what we could to avoid the throngs of children begging us to buy them a coke and headed back toward town. We traveled down the road for several miles, passing motorbikes loaded with families, farm trucks loaded with equipment (and usually housing a couple workers on top), and even a motorbike with an attached grill (that was in use as it was in motion). After awhile, a pickup truck approached us from the rear (and this was not the unusual part seeing as we were tapping out at 25 mph). As they passed us, the six passengers in the cab (you read that right) stared at us as though we were aliens. We smiled and waved, and then we saw something that instantly made our jaws drop wide open. What could possibly have been so shocking and unexpected after the day we’d had? Well, I’ll tell you. The back of their truck was loaded with the bodies of at least fifteen dead pigs, piled on top of each other and practically bursting out of the ropes that tied them down. Diane made a funny and described the scene as being literally hog-tied. And THAT was what I never saw coming.
Cambodia: Kingdom of Wonder
Whoever came up with Cambodia’s slogan, “Kingdom of Wonder” knew what they were talking about. So far, having just seen Phnom Penh, all I can say is…as advertised!
For starters, US Dollars are the preferred currency, so much so, that ATM machines only dispense USD. The only way you get Cambodian riel is if you require change under one dollar. And speaking of riel, Cambodians aren’t interested in receiving it (it’s kind of like the smaller Chinese coins that all merchants freely hand out but none are willing to take as payment). For the most part, prices are presented in USD, so it’s not as if this is Soviet Russia where everybody wants USD, so they engage in under-the-table transactions. The Cambodian national bank only deals in the currency of another nation. Tres bizarre!
Phnom Penh is nothing like I expected, yet it is everything I thought it would be all at the same time. It is deservedly known as the “Tarnished Pearl of Asia”. The streets are lined with crumbling French colonial buildings, some of which probably should be condemned (and perhaps are, but that doesn’t stop the impoverished masses from needing a place to live and calling it home regardless). Occasionally you might see some guy walking around with a machine gun. Yeah, you read the right, average, everyday, non-law-enforcement types pack serious heat out in the open for all to see. The roads are cluttered with thousands of motorcycles carrying up to five (count ‘em!) full-grown adults at once. Paved streets intersect with dirt roads at random. You can’t walk on the sidewalk because there are at least five motorcycle repair shops on every block, making the sidewalk a parking lot and the street a pedestrian walkway, albeit a dangerous one since you have to dodge cars, bikes, and motorcycles (and Lexus SUV’s that have the name “Lexus” emblazoned on the side, so no one has any doubt as to what kind of car the person is driving).
I’m fairly sure that there are only three traffic lights in the entire city, turning transportation into a chaotic, yet well-choreographed dance. The streets are filthy; the air is full of dirt. Beggars are scattered along the waterfront. Many are mothers with small children. Some of the children are severely deformed with a disease similar to elefantitus. Many beggars are missing or have deformed, unusable limbs (most likely from land mine injuries or resulting from malnutrition and a tainted food supply—all preventable in industrialized nations). Children run from restaurant to restaurant trying to sell books and postcards to tourists, armed with tenacity and clever senses of humor. At first it surprised me that the restaurant staff didn’t shoo them away, but after spending some time here I realized that, perhaps, Cambodians have a strong sense that whatever their station in life, it could always be taken away without warning. And because of that, I think they are understanding and sympathetic of struggle—because no one lives without struggle and fear.
Despite all of the dirt, grime, poverty, and sadness, Phnom Penh has a charm to it that is unmatched so far in my travels. The people are lovely. Everyone we encountered spoke excellent English (including and especially the kids trying to sell their wares to the tourists), and people were happy to chat. The streets are alive at night. Despite the prevalence of beggars, I never felt overwhelmed or under siege.
It feels like a smile goes a long way here. I have no doubt that being generally pleasant helped us get personal attention and good service while we were out on the town. I know that this all may sound naïve because I was a tourist, so obviously people wanted my money, leading them to be nice to me…but I really think the people are genuine. There are plenty of places that rely on tourism for their income, yet are terrible to the tourists—you know, like a touristy restaurant in Paris…or, say the Russell Stover’s Factory store in Corsicana, Texas. I didn’t find the Cambodians that I encountered to be resentful of the tourists (though as my trip continued to even more touristy areas, it became clear that everyone did want a piece of me…but still it wasn’t as bad as the whole of China).
When it comes to service, Cambodia is all that and a platter of escargot. The attention to detail, service, and presentation at the restaurants was something to be admired. Our first stop was at a lovely restaurant we found in our guidebook. Our mission: Eat Khmer food. Mission accomplished and then some (including a bathroom worthy of a “6” rating, which seems to be the norm around these parts)! Our waiter was a very funny, slightly flirty, handsome young man. He directed us to a few dishes that were delicious and was very attentive. When we finished our meal, he chatted with us for twenty minutes or so, telling us about his hometown (which happens to be where the Irawaddy Dolphins are, and I regret that I didn’t have enough time to go up there and see them for myself). As much as he wanted to tell us about where he came from, he wanted to know about America. His questions made him all the more endearing. He wanted to know what kind of animals we had—specifically, if elephants and tigers roam in the wild. I have never met anyone that truly didn’t know much about my country, so it was fun to tell him about it.
He also asked me a question that I still think about. “Is it easy to live in your country?” How do you answer that? My initial reaction was to say no. Of course it’s not easy to live in my country. It’s not easy to live anywhere. But then, as I thought about the reasons why it’s not easy to live in my country, they all revolve around it being a wealthy nation. Our problems are problems of wealth. It’s expensive. It’s a pain in the ass to get health insurance if you don’t work for a company that provides it, and even when you do have it, you have to pay an arm and a leg to get anything done. The US is huge, so if you move away from your family, you have to put money, time, and effort into seeing them. If you live in a place like San Francisco, you probably can’t afford to buy property if you’re making the median income. We have crime. We have drugs. We have racism and sexism. We have a huge homeless population (and members of that population might answer this question differently than me). We have a public school system that could definitely use improvement…if only we could afford it. Hell, we have enemies that want all of us to be blown to oblivion. We have problems. But as I started to answer his question with my cries of woe, I looked at him, and I realized that my problems weren’t as bad as the ones he probably faces. I flew halfway across the world to go on vacation for two months because I was bored and unemployed, and he probably can’t afford to travel the eight hours by bus to see his family on a regular basis. I am able to support myself, and I haven’t worked in months. My half of our $20 meal would have taken him two days of work to buy. Just for the sake of comparison, I’m not in the habit of spending the equivalent (let’s say $200 a meal) on my own dinners on a nightly basis when I’m at home (I’m not saying I haven’t…but it isn’t something I do with any regularity…or when it isn’t being paid for by an expense account). I don’t fear my government. I may not always agree with them, but I have no reason to believe that they might kill me and everyone I know. I don’t have a fear of anyone taking away my life, my livelihood, my everything. And that’s why I answered, yes. Yes, it is easy to live in my country. We have our problems, but I am very lucky to have been born in America because I have so many opportunities at my feet.
We bid our waiter friend adieu and took a walk around the waterfront. The park was filled with families spending the evening together, picnicking, playing games, and just enjoying one another’s company. I felt completely safe, and I appreciated how tightly knit the families and neighbors seemed to be. I can only imagine that it is partly a reaction to all of the horrors they faced during Pol Pot’s reign when whole families were slaughtered. The median age in Cambodia is something like 27, and it’s not because people had a bunch of babies 27 years ago. It’s because the government killed one-third of the population. That kind of terror must live on for generations, and I really think the Cambodians appreciate what they do have as they re-build their country.
I must say that I was totally blown away by Phnom Penh. Everything about is beguiling from the juxtaposition of crumbling buildings and luxury vehicles to the resilience of the people and their seemingly happy demeanor despite the obvious struggles they face. Here I thought I was going to walk into a war zone, filled with chaos and fear, but I went to a place that is unlike any other. Sure it’s rundown, but the feeling you get from the city itself and people who live here makes it well worth the visit.
For starters, US Dollars are the preferred currency, so much so, that ATM machines only dispense USD. The only way you get Cambodian riel is if you require change under one dollar. And speaking of riel, Cambodians aren’t interested in receiving it (it’s kind of like the smaller Chinese coins that all merchants freely hand out but none are willing to take as payment). For the most part, prices are presented in USD, so it’s not as if this is Soviet Russia where everybody wants USD, so they engage in under-the-table transactions. The Cambodian national bank only deals in the currency of another nation. Tres bizarre!
Phnom Penh is nothing like I expected, yet it is everything I thought it would be all at the same time. It is deservedly known as the “Tarnished Pearl of Asia”. The streets are lined with crumbling French colonial buildings, some of which probably should be condemned (and perhaps are, but that doesn’t stop the impoverished masses from needing a place to live and calling it home regardless). Occasionally you might see some guy walking around with a machine gun. Yeah, you read the right, average, everyday, non-law-enforcement types pack serious heat out in the open for all to see. The roads are cluttered with thousands of motorcycles carrying up to five (count ‘em!) full-grown adults at once. Paved streets intersect with dirt roads at random. You can’t walk on the sidewalk because there are at least five motorcycle repair shops on every block, making the sidewalk a parking lot and the street a pedestrian walkway, albeit a dangerous one since you have to dodge cars, bikes, and motorcycles (and Lexus SUV’s that have the name “Lexus” emblazoned on the side, so no one has any doubt as to what kind of car the person is driving).
I’m fairly sure that there are only three traffic lights in the entire city, turning transportation into a chaotic, yet well-choreographed dance. The streets are filthy; the air is full of dirt. Beggars are scattered along the waterfront. Many are mothers with small children. Some of the children are severely deformed with a disease similar to elefantitus. Many beggars are missing or have deformed, unusable limbs (most likely from land mine injuries or resulting from malnutrition and a tainted food supply—all preventable in industrialized nations). Children run from restaurant to restaurant trying to sell books and postcards to tourists, armed with tenacity and clever senses of humor. At first it surprised me that the restaurant staff didn’t shoo them away, but after spending some time here I realized that, perhaps, Cambodians have a strong sense that whatever their station in life, it could always be taken away without warning. And because of that, I think they are understanding and sympathetic of struggle—because no one lives without struggle and fear.
Despite all of the dirt, grime, poverty, and sadness, Phnom Penh has a charm to it that is unmatched so far in my travels. The people are lovely. Everyone we encountered spoke excellent English (including and especially the kids trying to sell their wares to the tourists), and people were happy to chat. The streets are alive at night. Despite the prevalence of beggars, I never felt overwhelmed or under siege.
It feels like a smile goes a long way here. I have no doubt that being generally pleasant helped us get personal attention and good service while we were out on the town. I know that this all may sound naïve because I was a tourist, so obviously people wanted my money, leading them to be nice to me…but I really think the people are genuine. There are plenty of places that rely on tourism for their income, yet are terrible to the tourists—you know, like a touristy restaurant in Paris…or, say the Russell Stover’s Factory store in Corsicana, Texas. I didn’t find the Cambodians that I encountered to be resentful of the tourists (though as my trip continued to even more touristy areas, it became clear that everyone did want a piece of me…but still it wasn’t as bad as the whole of China).
When it comes to service, Cambodia is all that and a platter of escargot. The attention to detail, service, and presentation at the restaurants was something to be admired. Our first stop was at a lovely restaurant we found in our guidebook. Our mission: Eat Khmer food. Mission accomplished and then some (including a bathroom worthy of a “6” rating, which seems to be the norm around these parts)! Our waiter was a very funny, slightly flirty, handsome young man. He directed us to a few dishes that were delicious and was very attentive. When we finished our meal, he chatted with us for twenty minutes or so, telling us about his hometown (which happens to be where the Irawaddy Dolphins are, and I regret that I didn’t have enough time to go up there and see them for myself). As much as he wanted to tell us about where he came from, he wanted to know about America. His questions made him all the more endearing. He wanted to know what kind of animals we had—specifically, if elephants and tigers roam in the wild. I have never met anyone that truly didn’t know much about my country, so it was fun to tell him about it.
He also asked me a question that I still think about. “Is it easy to live in your country?” How do you answer that? My initial reaction was to say no. Of course it’s not easy to live in my country. It’s not easy to live anywhere. But then, as I thought about the reasons why it’s not easy to live in my country, they all revolve around it being a wealthy nation. Our problems are problems of wealth. It’s expensive. It’s a pain in the ass to get health insurance if you don’t work for a company that provides it, and even when you do have it, you have to pay an arm and a leg to get anything done. The US is huge, so if you move away from your family, you have to put money, time, and effort into seeing them. If you live in a place like San Francisco, you probably can’t afford to buy property if you’re making the median income. We have crime. We have drugs. We have racism and sexism. We have a huge homeless population (and members of that population might answer this question differently than me). We have a public school system that could definitely use improvement…if only we could afford it. Hell, we have enemies that want all of us to be blown to oblivion. We have problems. But as I started to answer his question with my cries of woe, I looked at him, and I realized that my problems weren’t as bad as the ones he probably faces. I flew halfway across the world to go on vacation for two months because I was bored and unemployed, and he probably can’t afford to travel the eight hours by bus to see his family on a regular basis. I am able to support myself, and I haven’t worked in months. My half of our $20 meal would have taken him two days of work to buy. Just for the sake of comparison, I’m not in the habit of spending the equivalent (let’s say $200 a meal) on my own dinners on a nightly basis when I’m at home (I’m not saying I haven’t…but it isn’t something I do with any regularity…or when it isn’t being paid for by an expense account). I don’t fear my government. I may not always agree with them, but I have no reason to believe that they might kill me and everyone I know. I don’t have a fear of anyone taking away my life, my livelihood, my everything. And that’s why I answered, yes. Yes, it is easy to live in my country. We have our problems, but I am very lucky to have been born in America because I have so many opportunities at my feet.
We bid our waiter friend adieu and took a walk around the waterfront. The park was filled with families spending the evening together, picnicking, playing games, and just enjoying one another’s company. I felt completely safe, and I appreciated how tightly knit the families and neighbors seemed to be. I can only imagine that it is partly a reaction to all of the horrors they faced during Pol Pot’s reign when whole families were slaughtered. The median age in Cambodia is something like 27, and it’s not because people had a bunch of babies 27 years ago. It’s because the government killed one-third of the population. That kind of terror must live on for generations, and I really think the Cambodians appreciate what they do have as they re-build their country.
I must say that I was totally blown away by Phnom Penh. Everything about is beguiling from the juxtaposition of crumbling buildings and luxury vehicles to the resilience of the people and their seemingly happy demeanor despite the obvious struggles they face. Here I thought I was going to walk into a war zone, filled with chaos and fear, but I went to a place that is unlike any other. Sure it’s rundown, but the feeling you get from the city itself and people who live here makes it well worth the visit.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Flyin' (Faux) First Class
You never know when or how good fortune will strike, but you should always snatch it up, savor it, and keep your trap shut when it does. On our last day in Bangkok, Diane and I indulged in full body treatments at a spa, then packed our belongings, and boarded the airport bus. The ride was a long one, mostly because I was struck with an immediate and urgent need to visit the nearest facility (regardless of its rating on our 5 point scale) and had the misfortune to wait until AFTER we checked into our flight to take care of said business. Perhaps the girl at the check-in counter sensed my “situation” and took pity on us with our seat assignments. Or, maybe it was just luck. Whatever the case, we soon discovered that we were part of an elite group of flyers on Air Asia. We may as well have been the stars of Real World MCXVII because we were playing in a totally different field than all those other suckers.
Once through security, we cruised the duty-free shops, enjoyed a refreshing beverage (and I purchased those aforementioned Goldfish crackers), and then headed to our gate. The staff looked at our tickets and ushered us over to the seating lounge closest to the doors. After sitting there awhile, we noted that only seven people were in the section. Our first assumption was that it was going to be a sparsely populated flight. Upon making such a comment, we then directed our eyes toward the hordes of people gathered behind the customer service desk—standing. Diane and I looked at each other with wonder and surprise. Did we get first class? Is it even possible to get first class when you paid $100 for a ticket? With giddy anticipation, we awaited the boarding process.
They called the first five rows (of which we barely made the cut in row 5). We walked down the ramp on to the plane and discovered, much to our dismay, that there was no first class, at least not in the way you’d expect to see it (you know, with larger seats and a partition that prevented the peasants from spying on your and largess up in first class).
Odd. We shrugged our shoulders and settled into our seats, ready to watch the parade of plebeians pile onto the plane. Being that we were completely separated from everyone in a very spacious seating area, I was surprised to see the number of people on the flight. It was practically full behind me. However, the first five rows remained empty save for us seven lottery winners that were sitting there. As we taxied on the runway, the flight attendants clearly told everyone to remain in the assigned seats. Just as we were about to take off, some guy from row 10, who looked like he came straight from a cockfight, infiltrated row 3. Within seconds he was booted from the seat, though he apparently could have stayed had he been willing to pay an additional 250 baht ($8, a far cry from the $40+ you pay for the roomier economy seats on American carriers).
The plane took off, the fasten seat belts sign dimmed, and my friend from the monster car rally snuck over to row 4 just as the food and drink service started (of which Diane and I were curious to find out if our faux first class benefits extended to free food and beverages…it didn’t, by the way). The flight attendant again told the man he couldn’t sit there unless he paid her 250 baht, and he started yelling about how unfair it was that he was stuck in row 10 when there were plenty of empty seats up front. For the first time in Asia, I saw a Thai person raise her voice and demand cooperation. The man angrily left the seat; huffing and puffing all the way back to row 10.
The rest of the flight was uneventful, leaving us to wonder what the benefit of the first five rows was that anyone would pay extra for the privilege. It wasn’t for the same lack of legroom and food for purchase that you got in rows 6 and beyond. So what could it possibly have been? And why were we sitting there? We saw the light once we landed in Phnom Penh and it was time to exit the plane.
I was busy gathering my stuff when the angry villagers attempted to storm my castle. Three of them made it through before I stood up and blocked traffic, allowing my fellow aristocrats a chance to get out of their seats. We all shared a laugh and exited the plane. Being that we were among the first ten people in line, we breezed through immigration (despite the fact that we had to pay them extra money in both Thai baht and US Dollars in order to obtain our visas). As we walked away from the immigration desk and over to the baggage carousel where our bags were front and center, we glanced back at the massive line behind us. And that’s when it all became clear. I’d totally pay an extra eight bucks to avoid standing in that line for a half an hour. Who cares about free food and drinks or extra legroom when you can enjoy the convenience of entering a country in under three minutes?
The stars were shining on us that afternoon, and all we could hope was to have that luck follow us into town.
Once through security, we cruised the duty-free shops, enjoyed a refreshing beverage (and I purchased those aforementioned Goldfish crackers), and then headed to our gate. The staff looked at our tickets and ushered us over to the seating lounge closest to the doors. After sitting there awhile, we noted that only seven people were in the section. Our first assumption was that it was going to be a sparsely populated flight. Upon making such a comment, we then directed our eyes toward the hordes of people gathered behind the customer service desk—standing. Diane and I looked at each other with wonder and surprise. Did we get first class? Is it even possible to get first class when you paid $100 for a ticket? With giddy anticipation, we awaited the boarding process.
They called the first five rows (of which we barely made the cut in row 5). We walked down the ramp on to the plane and discovered, much to our dismay, that there was no first class, at least not in the way you’d expect to see it (you know, with larger seats and a partition that prevented the peasants from spying on your and largess up in first class).
Odd. We shrugged our shoulders and settled into our seats, ready to watch the parade of plebeians pile onto the plane. Being that we were completely separated from everyone in a very spacious seating area, I was surprised to see the number of people on the flight. It was practically full behind me. However, the first five rows remained empty save for us seven lottery winners that were sitting there. As we taxied on the runway, the flight attendants clearly told everyone to remain in the assigned seats. Just as we were about to take off, some guy from row 10, who looked like he came straight from a cockfight, infiltrated row 3. Within seconds he was booted from the seat, though he apparently could have stayed had he been willing to pay an additional 250 baht ($8, a far cry from the $40+ you pay for the roomier economy seats on American carriers).
The plane took off, the fasten seat belts sign dimmed, and my friend from the monster car rally snuck over to row 4 just as the food and drink service started (of which Diane and I were curious to find out if our faux first class benefits extended to free food and beverages…it didn’t, by the way). The flight attendant again told the man he couldn’t sit there unless he paid her 250 baht, and he started yelling about how unfair it was that he was stuck in row 10 when there were plenty of empty seats up front. For the first time in Asia, I saw a Thai person raise her voice and demand cooperation. The man angrily left the seat; huffing and puffing all the way back to row 10.
The rest of the flight was uneventful, leaving us to wonder what the benefit of the first five rows was that anyone would pay extra for the privilege. It wasn’t for the same lack of legroom and food for purchase that you got in rows 6 and beyond. So what could it possibly have been? And why were we sitting there? We saw the light once we landed in Phnom Penh and it was time to exit the plane.
I was busy gathering my stuff when the angry villagers attempted to storm my castle. Three of them made it through before I stood up and blocked traffic, allowing my fellow aristocrats a chance to get out of their seats. We all shared a laugh and exited the plane. Being that we were among the first ten people in line, we breezed through immigration (despite the fact that we had to pay them extra money in both Thai baht and US Dollars in order to obtain our visas). As we walked away from the immigration desk and over to the baggage carousel where our bags were front and center, we glanced back at the massive line behind us. And that’s when it all became clear. I’d totally pay an extra eight bucks to avoid standing in that line for a half an hour. Who cares about free food and drinks or extra legroom when you can enjoy the convenience of entering a country in under three minutes?
The stars were shining on us that afternoon, and all we could hope was to have that luck follow us into town.
Airport Goldfish Strike Again!!
With four glorious weeks in Thailand, Diane and I headed to the airport to fly out to Cambodia. At first this little adventure was to be a solo voyage, but after experiencing a week’s worth of Bangkok (which is equivalent to anything over 48 hours in Vegas), Diane decided to switch up her plans and change her flight to see Cambodia, Kingdom of Wonder.
Once at the airport, we headed over to the always tasty Black Canyon Coffee Company, and what did I find?
GOLDFISH CRACKERS!!!!
I haven’t had goldfish since I paid $6 for a bag of them at SFO. I couldn’t pass up a chance like this. They were only $4, which is still highway robbery in both Thailand AND the United States, but I just had to have ‘em. Diane tried to save me from myself, but I was pretty convincing. That, and I wanted to get the pizza-flavored ones because I hadn’t eaten those since the third grade.
And just in case you were wondering….delicious. And…I made them last two whole days.
Once at the airport, we headed over to the always tasty Black Canyon Coffee Company, and what did I find?
GOLDFISH CRACKERS!!!!
I haven’t had goldfish since I paid $6 for a bag of them at SFO. I couldn’t pass up a chance like this. They were only $4, which is still highway robbery in both Thailand AND the United States, but I just had to have ‘em. Diane tried to save me from myself, but I was pretty convincing. That, and I wanted to get the pizza-flavored ones because I hadn’t eaten those since the third grade.
And just in case you were wondering….delicious. And…I made them last two whole days.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Licky Licky Bang Bang
The first time I learned of ping-pong shows was when I saw Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in the theater. It was the scene where they end up befriending the town outcast and find that he has a Thai wife who runs off to the local bar and shoots ping-pong balls out her, well, hoo-ha. At the time I didn’t understand what the scene referenced. I got the part about the man marrying a woman from Thailand, and I figured out that she was a prostitute of some sort. I just didn’t understand the bit about the ping-pong balls.
Now I do. Well, to be fair, I was enlightened prior to my 34th year, but now that I’ve spent more than one night in Bangkok, I know first-hand what it’s like to witness a ping-pong show. And to be honest, it’s far from pretty and closer to horrifying.
I don’t know what you think of when you think of ping-pong shows, but I thought razzle dazzle—seriously. I was thinking it would be more like a kitschy drag show and less like a sad den of sex slavery. And because I was so optimistic about the potential entertainment that awaited me, I was pro-ping-pong-show from the get-go.
Now I did keep this goal of mine under wraps for quite some time. Even when the Canadians regaled us with stories of all the ping-pong show options in Phuket (which, much to my surprise, I learned included much more than ping-pong balls), I just laughed and acted put-off. But really, I wanted to see one for myself. I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to drag anyone with me on my little perverted adventure.
After four glorious weeks in the land that was once Siam, our final night was upon us. You can imagine my excitement when our guide mentioned that he was taking us to Patpong. That’s, right, Pat-friggin-pong. The red light district. Ping-pong pogo sticks, I was gonna see a show! Well, I didn’t know that, but I had a feeling. I asked Sam if he was going to take us to a ping-pong show, and he was coy. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one that asked. All five us were down, and our man, Sam, made it happen.
We taxied over to a fancy 5-star hotel next to Patpong (uh-huh, that’s where the nice hotels are) and had dinner. After our deliciously fishy meal, we walked over to the main drag of Patpong where the streets are lined with go-go bars, and the sidewalks are filled with night market stalls catering only to the tacky taste of tourists. Sam searched for a specific establishment because he didn’t want us to get ripped off, as is often the case at such places. Many times, you have to pay a hefty cover, then are forced to buy drinks, and in some cases, they’ll lock you inside the bar for a few hours until they are satisfied with the amount of money you spent in their bar. I know, it sounds like the sort of place I should frequent on a more regular basis.
At last, Sam found his spot, which had moved locations and changed its name to Super Pussy. He negotiated with the doorman, and walked out to inform us that we all had to buy a drink (alcoholic or not) for 200 baht (around $6). He then told us that he would not go inside with us and was very concerned that we were all definitely okay with going into the ping-pong show. You see, it was against company policy for him to take us there, so he was trying to cover his own ass (and I can’t say that I blame him). We all assured him that if we went inside and were offended and hurt, we would only have ourselves to blame. He told us he’d meet us at the hotel in a half an hour, and I was the first to pipe up and say, “We need more time than that!” I re-negotiated and gave us 45 minutes to an hour.
We girls traipsed into the bar (because our one male traveler was off to the ATM) following the bouncer to our seats. The whole bar was empty except for the strippers. They seated us directly in front of the stage, giving us the best possible view of the “equipment”. Within a minute, someone came over to take our drink orders. Seconds later, a gaggle of girls crowded in on us asking us our names and wanting to become besties. They also wanted us to buy cocaine. How do I know? Because they kept asking me, “Coca, lady? Coca?” while touching their noses. My Dutch friend was under the impression they really liked Coca-Cola. I had to explain that they really just wanted to get high on her dime and that cocaine in Thailand is actually pure heroin. Yeah. Nice.
While we were bombarded with these girls, our drinks came and the bar madam came over demanding immediate payment (and I have to admit she was a little scary…and she was fully prepared to tell us how much the girls would cost us should be interested in a little "licky licky bang bang"). We handed over our money, and the girls kept insisting on getting up close and personal with us. My negative stance on “coca” and socializing made them lose interest in me fairly quickly. The girl from New Zealand was a different story. From the day she set foot in Thailand, poor little NZ was spotted from miles away by anyone that wanted to sell her some piece of crap for far too much money. These girls knew a sucker when they saw one and would not leave her alone. She eventually got away from them, but it took some doing. What she really needed to learn was to just not be nice and accommodating because sometimes the polite smile and “no thank you” doesn’t translate into other cultures. But, I guess it’s easy to get into these jams when you’re 20-years-old and think you know everything about the world.
With the girls moving on to some other unwitting tourist (which happened to be the male member of our group who finally wandered in), we were able to sit back and watch the show. As we walked in, a girl was shooting ping-pong balls out of her hoo-ha, then she stood up and started pulling out a chain of…razors. Yeah, you read that right. Razors. Now ask yourself, did she do this with pizzazz? Did she seem like an engaged performer? No. No would be the correct answer. She was totally dead behind the eyes. This woman who was probably very young, but looked very old and was totally stoned. Stoned beyond the point of being human. She was nothing, and felt like I was watching someone slowly kill herself.
Behind her stood six girls who would dance (and when I say ”dance”, think strip club dancing where they really just stand there and maybe sway in a very disinterested way). Much like in a strip club, there was absolutely nothing sexy or campy about the scene (and if you’ve never been to a strip club, it’s nothing like Demi Moore’s Striptease. It’s really just bored, naked ladies strutting around a small area, and you quickly become desensitized to it—at least if you’re me). The girls, who did have mad skills with their “no-no” zone, and the lifeless back-up dancers were not the intriguing spectacle that I had envisioned. Rather, they seemed like lost souls who were trapped in a hellish existence. And to be quite honest, I would not be surprised if they had an owner.
After the razor woman left the stage (which required a handler as she was too far-gone to figure out how to exit the stage), we saw someone empty a water bottle and refill another one, we saw another draw a picture, and we saw yet another woman pop balloons with darts. And by that time, a half an hour had passed. Much like Sam had anticipated, we were done. The five of us looked at each other at the same time and knew it was time to leave.
So we did. And we all wanted to take a shower because we felt even dirtier than we did after hiking for three days in the hills of Northern Thailand or camping for two nights on a deserted island.
Now I know that I never need to go to a ping-pong show again. I may not be part of the solution, but I don’t think I can continue to be part of the problem.
Now I do. Well, to be fair, I was enlightened prior to my 34th year, but now that I’ve spent more than one night in Bangkok, I know first-hand what it’s like to witness a ping-pong show. And to be honest, it’s far from pretty and closer to horrifying.
I don’t know what you think of when you think of ping-pong shows, but I thought razzle dazzle—seriously. I was thinking it would be more like a kitschy drag show and less like a sad den of sex slavery. And because I was so optimistic about the potential entertainment that awaited me, I was pro-ping-pong-show from the get-go.
Now I did keep this goal of mine under wraps for quite some time. Even when the Canadians regaled us with stories of all the ping-pong show options in Phuket (which, much to my surprise, I learned included much more than ping-pong balls), I just laughed and acted put-off. But really, I wanted to see one for myself. I just wasn’t sure if I was going to be able to drag anyone with me on my little perverted adventure.
After four glorious weeks in the land that was once Siam, our final night was upon us. You can imagine my excitement when our guide mentioned that he was taking us to Patpong. That’s, right, Pat-friggin-pong. The red light district. Ping-pong pogo sticks, I was gonna see a show! Well, I didn’t know that, but I had a feeling. I asked Sam if he was going to take us to a ping-pong show, and he was coy. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one that asked. All five us were down, and our man, Sam, made it happen.
We taxied over to a fancy 5-star hotel next to Patpong (uh-huh, that’s where the nice hotels are) and had dinner. After our deliciously fishy meal, we walked over to the main drag of Patpong where the streets are lined with go-go bars, and the sidewalks are filled with night market stalls catering only to the tacky taste of tourists. Sam searched for a specific establishment because he didn’t want us to get ripped off, as is often the case at such places. Many times, you have to pay a hefty cover, then are forced to buy drinks, and in some cases, they’ll lock you inside the bar for a few hours until they are satisfied with the amount of money you spent in their bar. I know, it sounds like the sort of place I should frequent on a more regular basis.
At last, Sam found his spot, which had moved locations and changed its name to Super Pussy. He negotiated with the doorman, and walked out to inform us that we all had to buy a drink (alcoholic or not) for 200 baht (around $6). He then told us that he would not go inside with us and was very concerned that we were all definitely okay with going into the ping-pong show. You see, it was against company policy for him to take us there, so he was trying to cover his own ass (and I can’t say that I blame him). We all assured him that if we went inside and were offended and hurt, we would only have ourselves to blame. He told us he’d meet us at the hotel in a half an hour, and I was the first to pipe up and say, “We need more time than that!” I re-negotiated and gave us 45 minutes to an hour.
We girls traipsed into the bar (because our one male traveler was off to the ATM) following the bouncer to our seats. The whole bar was empty except for the strippers. They seated us directly in front of the stage, giving us the best possible view of the “equipment”. Within a minute, someone came over to take our drink orders. Seconds later, a gaggle of girls crowded in on us asking us our names and wanting to become besties. They also wanted us to buy cocaine. How do I know? Because they kept asking me, “Coca, lady? Coca?” while touching their noses. My Dutch friend was under the impression they really liked Coca-Cola. I had to explain that they really just wanted to get high on her dime and that cocaine in Thailand is actually pure heroin. Yeah. Nice.
While we were bombarded with these girls, our drinks came and the bar madam came over demanding immediate payment (and I have to admit she was a little scary…and she was fully prepared to tell us how much the girls would cost us should be interested in a little "licky licky bang bang"). We handed over our money, and the girls kept insisting on getting up close and personal with us. My negative stance on “coca” and socializing made them lose interest in me fairly quickly. The girl from New Zealand was a different story. From the day she set foot in Thailand, poor little NZ was spotted from miles away by anyone that wanted to sell her some piece of crap for far too much money. These girls knew a sucker when they saw one and would not leave her alone. She eventually got away from them, but it took some doing. What she really needed to learn was to just not be nice and accommodating because sometimes the polite smile and “no thank you” doesn’t translate into other cultures. But, I guess it’s easy to get into these jams when you’re 20-years-old and think you know everything about the world.
With the girls moving on to some other unwitting tourist (which happened to be the male member of our group who finally wandered in), we were able to sit back and watch the show. As we walked in, a girl was shooting ping-pong balls out of her hoo-ha, then she stood up and started pulling out a chain of…razors. Yeah, you read that right. Razors. Now ask yourself, did she do this with pizzazz? Did she seem like an engaged performer? No. No would be the correct answer. She was totally dead behind the eyes. This woman who was probably very young, but looked very old and was totally stoned. Stoned beyond the point of being human. She was nothing, and felt like I was watching someone slowly kill herself.
Behind her stood six girls who would dance (and when I say ”dance”, think strip club dancing where they really just stand there and maybe sway in a very disinterested way). Much like in a strip club, there was absolutely nothing sexy or campy about the scene (and if you’ve never been to a strip club, it’s nothing like Demi Moore’s Striptease. It’s really just bored, naked ladies strutting around a small area, and you quickly become desensitized to it—at least if you’re me). The girls, who did have mad skills with their “no-no” zone, and the lifeless back-up dancers were not the intriguing spectacle that I had envisioned. Rather, they seemed like lost souls who were trapped in a hellish existence. And to be quite honest, I would not be surprised if they had an owner.
After the razor woman left the stage (which required a handler as she was too far-gone to figure out how to exit the stage), we saw someone empty a water bottle and refill another one, we saw another draw a picture, and we saw yet another woman pop balloons with darts. And by that time, a half an hour had passed. Much like Sam had anticipated, we were done. The five of us looked at each other at the same time and knew it was time to leave.
So we did. And we all wanted to take a shower because we felt even dirtier than we did after hiking for three days in the hills of Northern Thailand or camping for two nights on a deserted island.
Now I know that I never need to go to a ping-pong show again. I may not be part of the solution, but I don’t think I can continue to be part of the problem.
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