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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.