Pictures Telling Stories

Posted on March 23, 2012 by Eddie

Yesterday, Thursday, was time for the second visit to Angkor.

The morning was all about trees. Specifically, at Ta Prohm – a pretty big temple in its own right; but the gawkers are on-hand to witness the spectacle that is the battle between nature’s insistence and the maintenance (or not) of the built environment.

trees1

trees2

They’re storming the walls! But they’ve also made a serious beach-head at the temple structures themselves.

trees3

trees5

Amazing! Also kind of a problem, ‘cause it’s such a big attraction that it’s difficult to gain a few moments’ time to get a photo without somebody in the frame posing for their own pictures. It’s worth the wait, however.

The vendors inside the park are incredibly insistent – to the point, really, of annoyance. Even right inside the temples, they’re there hounding one to purchase from the some incense with which to properly respect the shrine.

The temptation is to ignore them, or even tell them off. But it does occur to me that as much of a pain in the ass as it is to have to politely repeat hundreds of times over, “No, thank you,” it must be a even bigger pain in the ass to have to repeat the sales pitch hundreds of times over…and to have to do this day after day after day.

And, what the Hell, some of them are even kind of cool. This guy, when twanging away at his little twanging implement here, would have a look on his face suggesting that he was delivering to the potential buyer an experience superseding even the epiphany. After which, while following one down the path for many yards’ distance, he’d whisper in one’s ear, “Easy to play. I give you special price!”

Unfortunately, he turned out to be rather camera-shy; so his song-and-dance here is rather more subdued than usual.

Later, at Ta Keo, some more trees. As in, “We’re high up above the trees; this is a rush!”

takeo

Also at Ta Keo, a cool look up through the top of the central Prasat. In fact, there are many such cool looks to be seen within the Park’s confines – just happen to really like this particular shot.

takeo2

Finished off this area of the Park by catching up with the two missed temples from Day 1. These turned out to be smaller than I’d assumed upon briefly checking them from the road. Small, but quite beautiful structures the both of them (they’re located across the street from each other).

thommanon

And some particularly great sandstone carving work here.

For the afternoon of Day 2, the instructions were to return to Bayon (the first temple in Day 1’s itinerary) and “study” the Bas-Reliefs. Not one to buck authority, I done as I was told. And, man, speaking of epiphanies!

Spent a couple of hours drinking them all in – and may later return for yet more study.

bayon2

And if you’re into depictions of elephants, there are plenty of these – mostly in the middle of some crazy battle scene, though, the poor fuckers.

bayon3

Horses, too, along with plenty of fish and birds.

bayon4

Wow, I’ve not yet even visited Angkor; but feel I could die happy having witnessed these stories.

Last on the list for Day 2 is a visit to the most popular place from which to view the sunset, Phnom Bakheng. And I arrived to this temple at more less the perfect time to do so. But preferring not to ride back to town in the dark, elected to postpone this one ‘til later.

Figure I’ll use one of my two extra days (i.e., it’s a five-day itinerary, and I’ve a seven-day pass) to get a tuk-tuk to and fro’, leaving no worries about sticking around past nightfall.

On the way out of the park, my klutzism reared its head again. Well, more like absent-mindedness, if you like. Was riding on the road’s wide dirt shoulder, and came into the monkey area. Got to being so interested in what they were up to, that I crashed into a post supporting a guard rope. Pinched/smashed my foot between the post and the bike’s pedal.

It hurt real good one for a while, but doesn’t seem to have swollen very much. A little painful to walk on one day later; but I think it’ll be fine in a day or two. Let this be a warning: come to a complete stop before beginning to watch the monkeys!

To-day, Friday, the most interesting moment came while running a gauntlet of tuk-tuk drivermen. Was approached by what I assumed to be another of them; who, instead, first establishments my place of residence, then asked for a big favour.

To wit, he showed me on his cell phone a text he’d received, and wondered would I read it out.

fry an egg.
earn.

After many requests for me to clarify the difference in pronunciation between “earn” and “an”, he thanked me, shook my hand, and was off. I was sure that he’d be using this request as an entrée to sell me some item or service. But I guess sometimes people just wanna know the difference between “earn” and “an”.

I like gentleman’s arrangement of this old classic. Eerily, I’d had this song in my head a couple of days ago.

Posted in Culture, Grandeur | Comments Off on Pictures Telling Stories

DiYNAMIC THRILL UNIT

Posted on March 21, 2012 by Eddie

Update: Agh! Was having trouble getting images uploaded, and FTPed into the site, began messing around, and mistakenly deleted all the pics from this post! I’ve got most of them saved locally — but with different names; and it’d be very difficult to find them all again. Hopefully, you had a chance to check ’em out. Apologies for the inconvenience!

Update To The Update: Ah, found the pictures — had not emptied my recycle bin after all. Now the problem is that I’m not being able to upload pictures above some certain size; so some of them are gonna be smaller than normal. But they’re here, at least.

Temples of Angkor, y’all! The first visit was proceeding swimmingly enough. Had rented a bicycle at 6:30 in the AM, for the princely rate of $1 per day. Had biked it up to the Park, about thirty or forty minutes out of town by bike. Arrived to the first checkpoint…

…to be told that there is only one place at which one may purchase passes; about five kilometres back toward town. I couldn’t believe my ears, but eventually the nice clerk, and a recently arrived motorcycle cop, convinced me that it’s true; and showed me on the map where to go.

So that little shenanigans wasted a half-hour or so. But, soon enough, it was time to visit some temples. Angkor Wat itself isn’t ‘til the third day of my itinerary. I did steal a glance or two on my way past, heading toward Angkor Thom; but my first photo opportunity did not arrive until I passed a group of monkeys, er, well, monkeying around in the trees alongside the road.

monkeys

Shit, better be careful, or I’ll spend my entire seven-days’ pass just watching the damned monkeys!

As for the temples: I’d been prepared to be disappointed. Could they really be that incredible? Well, yes they could. If anything, all the superlatives one will read in any given place undersell the electrifying nature of these structures.

You want photos, you got ‘em. But be careful what you wish for: already three hundred, after only the first day. I’ll be adding to the set as I go, natch.

I guess it’s a combination of the temples’ vintage, the craftsmanship with which they were built, and the sheer magnitude – you’re up above the trees at the top of some of them.

Best of all, though, is the incredible carvings.

carving1

carving2

One thing that does kinda burn my britches, however, is the putting onto these ancient Buddhas of clothes. Okay, if this is how it was done in ancient times, I guess I don’t have a problem with it. But something tells me it’s not how it was done back when.

clothed

Kind of strange the way the traffic flows. One could be standing in one particular spot, waiting upon a seemingly endless line of people to clear the area and allow passage; while, fifty feet away, one could have an entire hallway all to oneself. Later in the day, I even visited an entire group of temples, set back in the woods a little bit, and saw maybe only three or four people total.

Anyhow, my favourite tellow-templer was as follows.

diynamic

Fun, too, was the Japanese group on a tram. A lady lost a dollar bill as the tram was driving by me. As it fluttered to the ground, I got off the bike and held it aloft. The Japanesienne whose dollar bill it was began screaming for the driver to go back for it. Which instructions were followed to the letter; and all the ladies waved and thanked me profusely for having rescued from certain doom their friend’s dollar bill.

japanese

I didn’t take a noontime break, as I’d thought I might do in order to escape from the sun. In point of fact, while it was indeed hotter’n Hell; there are so many trees around and about, that shade is never too far away.

This is especially true on the roads between sites, making for idyllic bicycle conditions. Must say, I felt rather sorry for the poor schmucks haggling with their tuk-tuk drivers for more time. Get a bike for a dollar, and see what you wanna see! The layout of the area is just big enough to keep the bicycler honest, but not so big as to make the getting around feel onerous.

It was partly cloudy on this day; which not only helped to keep the temps down a tad; but also made for some nice photographic backdrops.

clouds

At one of the parking areas, walking back from the pisser to head toward a temple group; one of the many sellers…

shoes

…sprang to action. “Sir, you want buy shoes? I have a new shoes!” See, these Cambodians, rather than heaping scorn or ridicule on the bare of foot, they go straight for the pocketbook.

Okay, I’m not a-gonna say that the Park’s trees are even more impressive than the temples. But…they’re pretty frickin’ great, too right.

abovetrees

Mosquitoes began popping up in the afternoon, just as the light was at its best.

light

Still, I soldiered on! And perhaps my favorite venue turned out to be not a temple, but a gate – just a gate in the big wall surrounding the Angkor Thom complex.

victory gate

Following the proposed five-day itinerary of The Angkor Guide, I got to everything save the last two on the list for Day 1. Either I’m particularly slow of poke, or ol’ Maurice, the guide’s author, is something of a task-master.

Actually did arrive to the final two sites; but noting their size, figured I’d not have enough remaining light to visit the temples, and still get back into town before nightfall. As it turned out, the timing was almost perfect. Only the last five minutes or so did I think it too dark to be fully comfortable.

Yeah, in Vang Vieng, motorcycles drive around at night with their headlights off. Here in Siem Reap, they do the same – but also on the wrong side of the road; right on the road’s shoulder, where the bicycles are driving. Sheesh!

Now, if somebody could please explain why it was that this song was in my head all day, I’d be fascinated to know.

Can’t even begin to say how long it’s been since I’ve heard it; and all of the suddenly there I am singing it right in the middle of the damned Temples Of Angkor! Weird.

Well, that shit all went down on Tuesday, yesterday. Tomorrow, back for Day 2.

A few funny things happened to-day, Wednesday.

First, I’d purchased a couple of small watermelons, and had been eating them back over at that same temple with the kick-ass band. Had four eaten halves on the bench beside me; and a lady came up and grabbed one, then two of them. She looked at me, I kind of nodded my assent, and she disappeared with them around the corner. No idea what she planned to do with them.

Then, I purchased still some more to take back to the hostel; and walking down the street, a local with a big, booming voice began making all manner of cracks and comments about it. Eventually, voice still booming, he asked if I needed a tuk-tuk for the day. When I replied that I did not, he lowered his voice dramatically, and offered, “Lady massage?”

Later on, I’d purchased some sapodillas and some cucumbers, and headed down to the riverside for some juggling. I young-ish man leaped over a row of plants (standing all of about six inches tall), was unable to keep his balance, and ended up on his backside. He rolled back up, and jumped up to his feet again — almost as though he were practicing his Chaplin routines. He then began to watching me ever so intently. I tried to say Hello, but he wouldn’t have of it.

Some tuk-tuk drivers came over as well, and they would say Hello to me. But they soon grew uninterested, and it was just myself and the failed plant-leaper. Finally, the son of a bitch walked over to my bag of sapodillas, and grabbed one up. “Hey! Hey! Hey!” I protested. He held eye contact for a couple of seconds – looking quite maniacal, I must say – and then walked briskly off.

What, I’m gonna chase him down over a freakin’ sapodilla? But I did wonder aloud, “What the…?” and looking around. One of the tuk-tuk drivers, having witnessed the scene, was shaking his head. Nothing left for me to do but chuckle, and go on back to the juggling.

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Cambodia, Holiday In

Posted on March 19, 2012 by Eddie

Okay, let us begin with a link – to the best news story of the year; maybe the decade or even ever.

Law enforcement officials across the country are puzzled over a crime wave targeting an unlikely item: Tide laundry detergent.

Theft of Tide detergent has become so rampant that authorities from New York to Oregon are keeping tabs on the soap spree, and some cities are setting up special task forces to stop it. And retailers like CVS are taking special security precautions to lock down the liquid.

Go read the piece in its entirety. You will be loving your life!

Now then, a few more words about the ride from Poipet to Siem Reap. First, baskets:

baskets

Second, that I done neglected to relate a pretty funny story told by the American. The Germans, like myself, had taken the train from Bangkok; the American the bus. He’d been staying close to the terminal, so it’d been a convenient option.

I asked him how the bus ride had been, and he told that they’d stopped for a shitter break, and he’d taken fifteen minutes or so puking out some kind o’ somethin’ he’d eaten in Bangkok the night before.

After which, he’d found that the bus’d gone and left without him. He’d then asked the clerk at the restaurant at which they’d stopped what was the deal?, and the clerk’d called up the bus driver (the American knew not how the clerk’d obtained the driver’s number). The bus’d then pulled over to the side of the road, and a guy had ferried the American to the bus via motor-car.

I asked if everybody had clapped when he’d returned to the bus; but he said that nobody had seemed to even notice his absence; but they’d all given him a strange look when he’d got on – apparently never having seen that particular bus pull that particular manoeuvre before then.

Friday night, after checking in, I wandered  over to the Market to grab some food. Here we go, two blokes playing some Takraw, but with an elongated shuttlecock instead.

Saturday set out to explore the town a bit. Pretty nice  place, though…too much traffic. What can one  say? It’s apparently inescapable.

A guy with a fucked-up squeak for a voice stopped me ‘cause he was astonished by my bare feet. But soon, he began asking other types of questions. Turns out, his son is in Miami, and is a General with the Marines.

I asked him why the Hell he’d allow his son to join the U.S. Marines, given that we’d bombed the ever-loving shit out of his country. “My son, not me!” he protested. But why had he allowed it?, I pressed. Said he hadn’t had a say in the matter, but was surely not happy about it.

When he received a phone call, he abruptly broke off the conversation, and departed the scene.

Walking through some or other Market, a flip-flops vendor asked me, “Sir, you need buy shoes?” Couldn’t help but chuckle.

A shop called “Rogue” will transfer albums to your device or hard drive for $1 each (50 free if you buy 100). Check out their top ten list.

cohen

Which, first off, if somebody’d asked me, “What  do you think is the No. 2 album in the Siem Reap piracy shop?” I’d never in a million years have guessed, “New Leonard Cohen.” Even had I known of its existence, I should not have guessed it.

Brings us to the second point: how come nobody ever warned me that there’s a new Leonard Cohen rekkid? You people know I’m traveling, and out of the loop and all. Give a brother some heads-up next time, willya?

Was doing some juggling down by the river, which doing was being keenly enjoyed by a young boy, and a not-young man. Asked the boy if he’d like to give it a try, but he declined. The man, name of “Tawan”, fumbled his way through it for a bit; but was more interested in chatting me up.

Said his cousin is going to be going to University in the States, and wanted to know if I could talk to him and give him some advice? Sure, why not? So he was going to go to the hospital for something, then get his cousin, and meet me back there at 2:00 in the PM.

He asked at which hostel I’m staying, and how much I’m paying, and my e-mail address. Said he needed to know this, in case I didn’t show up. I promised him I’d be there; that, in fact, I was going to sit and eat some food, and wouldn’t even be leaving in between.

He showed up around 1:30, sans cousin, but with tuk-tuk driver, asking if I were ready to go? Go where, I’m not going anywhere, I assured him. He quickly made for the  exit, and I demanded, “What is this, some kind of game?”

“No, no games. Neighbour…” and with that, he vanished, never to be seen again. What was his scam? Don’t know. Maybe to drive me to a different guest house, and convince me to stay there instead?

In any event, I guess I’m pretty naïve, as scammers always seem like such nice folk! Didn’t really suspect he was scamming until he asked for my e-mail address. Asking the lodging price might seem kinda weird, too. But, factually, it’s rather common for locals to ask where one’d purchased his huge armload of fruit, and how much’d been paid for it; and to then let one know whether one’d received a good deal. So I’m kinda used to this type of question.

Later, heard some more awesome music in the air. Whether live or recorded, I couldn’t establish. But hoping for the former, took it on the hoof to find the sound, which path led me over the river, onto a dirt road and into a village area. When I finally found it, it was now speaking rather than music. State propaganda, I assumed.

But it looked like there might be a temple behind the wall, so went to see. Temple indeed it was.

wedding1

Lo and behold: transmitting not state propaganda; but rather, a wedding.

Bridal party looks like it never escaped the ‘60s.

wedding2

The happy couple were exchanging vows, or something.

But then they began to sing to each other. Not that they’re any good at it; and not that the sound tech had properly set the mic levels. But the music is top.

I think that’s maybe the father of the Groom, looking so handsome. But  check the guy intruding into the frame in the foreground. I could never even dream of staging something like that! But keep on clicking the shutter, and you’re bound to get such happy accidents falling your way.

wedding3

As is the case throughout the region, the trees here are marvelous.

trees

Sunday, yesterday, visited some temples. No, not those temples. Just some modern, Buddhist temple action. But they’re quite remarkable in their own right.

The town’s main temple has a cool story behind it.

temple1

And its murals are outstandingly beautiful – including which, there’s some dioramaism going on, which makes for an interesting composition or three.

temple2

Here you go, true happiness and merit at any time.

temple3

Across the river are three more temples. At one, the Big Buddha image looks like somebody’s grandma. Either that, or I don’t know what somebody’s grandma looks like.

temple5

Fantastic murals here as well; including on the undersides of the roof overhang.

temple6

The Naga here look exceedingly happy.

temple7

Moving down to Wat Bo, a shitload of stupae on the grounds.

temple8

Better still…

temple9

What do you make of this strange little shrine? I think it’s kinda freaky!

temple10

temple11

I guess I’d missed some kind of huge wing-ding from earlier in the day. In one quadrant of the grounds, they were just stacking up the chairs, and cleaning the area around and abouts. And a Japanesian told me that there’d been at 7:00 in the AM a huge bonfire in this fire-pit structure. A climb up and look down in revealed the heat still emanating.

temple12

The last temple was kind of boring; although it did have some beautiful animal carvings on the window shutters.

temple13

The hostel has a rooftop gym – but it’s also great for just checking out the scene below.

rooftop

To-day, Monday, was supposed to be for boning up on the Temples Of Angkor, in preparation for tomorrow’s first visit. Still need to get busy with that.

But, come on, how righteous are these cats? As righteous as it gets, I’ll wager.

There’re tonnes of these “fish massage” joints in town. You stick your tired feet in the tanks, and I guess they nibble at them, giving a massage effect? Or something?

fishmassage

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Siem Reap-Off

Posted on March 17, 2012 by Eddie

[Written Friday, March The 16th, Night]

The Aranya Prathet/Poipet Border Crossing is, by many accounts, kind of the Mos Eisley Spaceport of Southeast Asia. “You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. We must be cautious.”

I’d read up in the guidebooks. I’d studied at the Internet. I’d dotted my “I”s and I had crossed my “T”s. I, Informed Traveler Guy, would not get scammed! And then? Like a featherweight schmuck fresh outta nursery school, I done got scammed. But only for about $5; so I’m actually rather counting my blessings.

The day began at 4:45 in the AM. Yikes! Have not arisen so early since…I guess since my still-not-regretted decision, a few years back, to stop accepting Breakfast shifts at work. Good practice, I guess; ‘cause to really get the most out of Angkor, one is supposed to greet the new day at 4:00 in the AM.

Trying not to awake my dormmates, I slipped out, went downstairs, turned in my key, and crossed the street to the train station. The ride was kinda smoky, as we were going through some burning areas. Also, not as scenic as I’d been led to believe it would be. And I need, before my bony ass stages a goddam rebellion, to figure out some sort of cushioning system for these third-class train trips (whose insanely low prices I’m genetically incapable of passing up). But, basically it was fine – and we arrived in Aranya Prathet more less on time.

Got I ride with a lady Tuk-Tuk driver. Only the second I’d ever seen; the other had been just recently – I think it was in Nong Khai. She was happy to accept the price I’d read is the going rate. Maybe could’ve offered lower; but, what the Hell?, gotta support the lady Tuk-Tuk drivers, innit?

She drove me to “Passport Control”, and attempted to drop me at the “Visa Border” shop. Not sure exactly what goes on here; but I gather it’s something to do with frightening wide-eyed border-crossers into believing that their documents are not in order, and that the shop’s services would set it to right.

The real crossing is a few hundred yards down the street. I requested the lady Tuk-Tuk driver to drop me there instead, and she proceeded to do so, no questions asked. I think the Tuk-Tuk drivers receive a cut of the take from every person dropped there; but I guess they don’t really feel like pressing the issue. After all, the rider could always get out and walk the rest of the way.

Okay, deep breath. One scam successfully avoided.

Kind of a lot of walking between stations at this crossing, compared to others I’ve visited. But, get stamped out of Thailand, apply for the Visa-On-Arrival, wait a few minutes for approval, no real problem. The fee was $20 for the official charge, plus an extra 100 Baht for…the officials’ pockets, apparently.

So this is something of a scam; but carried out by uniformed officials, so not easily avoidable. The fee appears to be negotiable, but as the guidebooks and sites talk of haggling it down to $5, 100 Baht seemed not to be worth risking the pissing off of the men with my passport in their hands.

Plus, they were all super-friendly and helpful. So, so far: maybe a little scratch, but nothing like a mortal flesh-wound. But then this is where it began to get confusing.

I stowed my passport away, thinking I’d not again be called upon to produce it. Walking to the next station, which I’d thought was the free shuttle-bus to the Depot, was joined by a gentleman explaining that I still needed to get stamped in to Cambodia, after which I could get the shuttle-bus, and then choose the means of transport to Siem Reap.

And, I couldn’t figure out if he was a scammer or not. It seemed like he probably must be; but his uniform looked pretty official, and he was as super-friendly as had been all the other government officials. And, he was certainly correct about needing to get stamped in at a separate station from that which issues the Visas. Besides, he left me there to queue up, and I figured that was the last of him.

But after the stamping-in, and the exiting of the building to now head for the shuttle-bus, he magically appeared again, and escorted me to the waiting area, where he’d a partner rounding up those who’d been in line before and after myself.

Pointed out the large sign explaining that the free state-run shuttle-bus departs every five minutes, and had us sit down and wait. There was a green bus there at the kerb, and I didn’t really understand why one couldn’t just board straight away; but, okay, whatever.

So then after a few minutes, the green bus up and drives away. I made a kind of half-assed attempt to run and catch it, to no avail. Turning to the helpful agent with a What Gives? look in my eye, I was told that this departing green bus was for the 2:00 run (or some shit I didn’t understand), and to just sit down and wait five more minutes.

Okay. Then a van showed up, the agents herded a bunch of us onto it, and off we went. During the five-minute ride, the agents made friendly chit-chat and taught us some basic Khmer language skillz; and soon enough, we were at the depot.

We were then shewn to the money exchange booth. During the ride, the agents had said that it’s more efficient to exchange Baht for Riel, because there isn’t a commission on this exchange, as there is with exchanging dollars. Wanted to get rid of some of my smaller-denomination Baht anyway, so I did it there.

Oops, I’m finding that this long day has rendered  me fairly damned groggy; so, To Be Continued…

[Written Saturday, March The 17th, Morning]

So at the Depot, you can purchase either bus or share-taxi tickets to Siem Reap, Battambang, Phnom Penh, Sisophon, and other destinations. There’re supposed to be four or five companies selling these same two services, but only one seemed to have its windows staffed.

The bus is $9 for a three-hour tour, and its departure was an hour away (though they’re known to often depart later than promised, hence my preference to use the taxi option); the taxi is $12 for a two-hour tour, leaving as soon as four riders have purchased tickets.

For some reason, the “guide” was quite insistent that I purchase a bus ticket, though I preferred the taxi option. The guide successfully scare-tactic-ed me into purchasing a bus ticket by saying that the taxi was unlikely to fill up, and that if the 2:30 bus did fill up, I’d have to wait ‘til the 5:00 bus.

So I bought the bus ticket; during which, the other “guide” came up to me and happily showed me that another guest had given him a $5 tip. So, after finishing up the purchasing of the ticket, the “guide” handling my “case” said, “Okay, I’m heading back to Thailand now…do you have anything for me?” Meaning a tip. I gave him a dollar, and sat down to try to figure out just what was going on.

The other “guide” unsuccessfully attempted to shame me into giving a bigger tip, by telling how pitiful their wages were, and cetera.

So, sitting waiting for the bus, and seeing a number of official government shuttle-buses show up confirmed that we’d indeed been transported by touts – but, the “official” buses had touts as well, leading people through the same routines. Huhn.

Got to discussing the matter with a German couple with whom I’d shared the train ride, and we couldn’t really piece together why the touts were so insistent that we purchase bus rather that taxi tickets, given that each company offered both services.

Upon reflection, my guess is that perhaps the state requires each company to offer both services, at the price determined by the state (all the companies have the same prices for all services); but that the bus service offers a higher rate of profit. Dunno, but this explanation seems plausible.

Another American showed up, and I watched him go through the same routine of wanting to purchase a share-taxi ticket, but being conned into getting a bus ticket. I lamented that the same’d happened to me, but, oh well. He said that he’d been told he could exchange for a taxi ticket even after the purchase of the bus ticket.

Intrigued, I confirmed with the clerk that this was possible, asked the Germans if they wanted to share with us, and we were brought to the taxi. Easy as that. A government official asked our nationalities, and at which guest houses we’d booked, and we were off.

The taxi driver was a broadly smiling fellow; and the music he was playing on the way here was really great — I rather prefer it to both Thai and Lao music, both of which I quite liked.

We stopped to get gas, then stopped down the road a piece, at “My home…my home.” I joked that he must have a peanut-butter sandwich waiting for him, which joke elicited a huge laugh from the other three riders. Much to my surprise, I must say, ’cause I had considered it a pretty lame attempt at humour.

The driver got out, opened the trunk, and gave his wife a bunch of burlap sacks and $20, and we were back on the road.

The American is an engineer from DC, who began his trip in September with short stays in Seattle and Vancouver. The Germans are traveling their way toward Australia, where they plan to spend a year working and/or WWOOFing.

During the ride, I began to wonder about the money exchange window. It hadn’t looked terribly official, now that I thought about it. Pulled out my phone and looked up the exchange rates; sure enough, the rate offered at that depot is quite a bit poorer than it should’ve been. Luckily, I’d only exchanged the 460 Baht, so only got gypped out of about $2.50.

Seems to me, however, that this is the most dangerous entrée in the scam buffet – though I didn’t see it mentioned anywhere in the guidebooks or on the websites.

We arrived to Siem Reap in the advertised two hours. At the edge of town, we pulled over, and met up with the driver’s brother, who speaks English, and who lives in Siem Reap. We were to get Tuk-Tuks to our guest houses, free of charge.

When my driver got me to his Tuk-Tuk, he asked me how much I was planning to pay him for the ride. I said that I’d been given to understand that it would be free of charge. Oh yes, of course it’s free of charge. But if you want to tip, you’re more than welcome to. Ah-ha. Then he took a fairly circuitous route to my guest house, had me for a minute or two thinking he was going to drop me off in the middle of no-man’s land, saying I could get back into town only if I paid a generous tip.

But at last, we did wind around back into town, he dropped me off at my place, and I tipped him two bucks.

So, I reckon the scammers took me for $1 to the guide, $2 to the Tuk-Tuk driver, and $2.50 at the money exchange window. And the taxi ride had actually been pretty enjoyable, with the good company and the awesome music. Could’ve been a lot worse.

There was also the 100 Baht at the Visa window, and the bus/taxi rates were about double or even triple what they probably ought to’ve been for the distance covered – but as these are “official” scams, and thus unavoidable (unless one is willing to fly in), I don’t really count these in the scam damages.

Huhn. This may be the most boring blog post ever written by any human! But, I’ve now done and written it, so may as well go ahead and press  “publish”…

Posted in Culture, Road Trippin' | 1 Comment

The Bangkok Express

Posted on March 15, 2012 by Eddie

Uh, what was that? Could hardly believe that just a few days ago I was in little tiny Phimai…

From which I nabbed the bus at 6:00 in the Monday AM to head to Khorat, and then the train to Bangkok. Train was pretty long ride, not very scenic, but rather enjoyable. In third class, the seats are for-sure on the hard side, but the price was so nice! Here’re the fares for each leg (one may recall that a single Greenback Dollar will get you thirty Thai Baht).

  • Phimai to Khorat: 1.5 hours, 50 Baht.
  • Khorat Tuk-Tuk from Bus Station to Train Station: 10 minutes, 60 Baht.
  • Khorat to Bangkok: 7.5 hours, 55 Baht.
  • Bangkok Subway: 5 minutes, 24 Baht.
  • Walking to hostel: no charge.

I had, as I say, booked at a brand new hostel (open about six weeks) whose proximity to Khlong Toei marked I did fancy. De Talak, a converted house, is owned and operated by a forty-year-old (as of to-day!) ball of fire name of “Rata”. Of Chinese descent, she has lived only in Thailand, and speaks only English and Thai.

She lived five years in Chicago obtaining a masters in Computer Aided Design. A degree which she’s never used — though she did attain an impressive command of English vernacular.

Previous to opening the hostel, she had begun the first plus-size clothing shop in Thailand; whose success was apparently rather a sensation: she was interviewed on the radio and the teevee show; and there was even a book-length interview published detailing her story. She expanded to wholesaling, with thirty establishments in her network. But once word got out, the competitors sprang up and began eating into her profits.

She opened the hostel, she told me, because she had once been a backpacker herself (not a hippie, she was quick to point out), and had fallen in love with hostels’ spirit of camaraderie, in distinction to traditional hotels’ here’s-your-key-now-go-watch-the-teevee-show coldness.

The very definition of going “above and beyond” to make her customers happy, she has managed to attract, in such a short time, a scintillating mixture of guests. The Australian motorcyclist of German descent, the Japanesians looking for used clothing — one of whom had learnt English by spending five months in the US of A just going to bars and “horsing around”, the Albanian here to learn Muay Thai boxing, the Spaniard to learn meditation, the Frenchman fresh off having lived four years in China translating state propaganda from English into French, the Nevadan grandmother obsessed with the stock market. To name a few.

Such an interesting and entertaining lot — but Rata herself surely the most entertaining of all, with a million-and-one fascinating and hilarious stories to tell.

When I asked her if the Durian had come to Khlong Toei yet, she was somewhat shocked. “Duwrian? You like Duwrian?” She pronounces that particular word with a slight lisp.

“It’s my favourite!”

She began madly waving her arms in the air, proclaiming, “Finally, I have found somebody to eat Duwrian with!” But then, the bad news: the Duwrian are “very late coming” this year. Perhaps a couple of more weeks.

Bummer. Mangos, however, are in season; and so, much less expensive than usual.

Monday night, the Frenchman and the Belgian were describing the pretty sickening delicacies upon which they had dined. The Frenchman quite likes dog, he says; but he had had to draw the line at the Chinese predilection for live mouse fetus. Also, he loves cats, so refuses to eat them.

The Belgian had had to draw the line at Elephant’s penis. Upon hearing, the Frenchman went into a minor tizzy, wondering what kind of person would be “crazy enough to eat Elephant dick?!?!” Needless to say, I was rolling on the floor.

They began arguing over what ostrich tastes like: the Belgian claiming beef mixed with chicken, the Frenchman duck mixed with chicken — neither would budge in his position.

I had been of the impression that Khlong Toei was primarily an early-morning Market; but Rata informed me that it’s a 24-hour proposition; and that night-time is when it’s at its most bustling, as this is when the restaurants come to make their purchases for the next day.

So the Frenchman and myself went over to check out the scene. An avid photographer, he informed me on the way there that we needed to be ready for a “street fight”, in case any people objected to having their pictures taken. “What?” I protested. “Thais love having their pictures taken!”

Much to my surprise, after his very first snap, from above the scene on the pedestrian walkway, a lady yelled up at him, cursing he and his camera. Uh…whoa. But this turned out to be the closest we came to inciting a “street fight”.

The market was, indeed, a madhouse. This is when the butchers come out to play, carving up huge mountains of meat.

It’s meat everywhere. Meatapalooza. Meatatopia. Meat madness. Meat meat meat meat meat.

Not all of it is pre-butchered, naturally.

Yum! It’s not only meat, though. Night-time is also when the huge blocks of ice are brought in.

And of course, there are plenty of vegetables about; so many, in fact, that the sellers spill out of the market proper and onto the adjacent street.

Tuesday morning, Carolyn, the grandmother (did I mention she’s insane in the membrane?) from Las Vegas, was describing to me her short-selling stock-market exploits, and trying to glean from me which brands of clothing I was apt to purchase. I guess she thinks that The Gap is headed down the tubes.

The Frenchman said that he wanted to create a brand, whose calling card would be quality and durability. “Too late,” warned Carolyn, “L.L. Bean already beat you to it.” The Frenchman then went on to relate how he’d once had a pair of shoes that’d lasted him eight years, lamenting that he’d not since been able to repeat that experience; then setting out some principles and theories and whatnot.

Each time he paused to take a breath, Carolyn interjected, with ever-increasing annoyance, “Ell Ell Beeeeeeeen!” Oh, boy, it was a hoot! But I couldn’t stick around too long, ’cause I was a man on a mission. Namely, to get my dimpled ass to Lumphini Park, where which to spend the day.

Gadzooks, what a blissful occasion it was to be back home in the Lumphini maelstrom!

Doing some juggling, I was approached by a musician from Southern Thailand, name of “Lazarus”. Well, at least I think that’s what he said his name was — though it’s not a particularly Buddhistic-sound name, I shouldn’t have thought. He could juggle three balls just fine, but was completely entranced by my four-ball patterns, imploring me to teach him how to do it.

I related that, as with all things juggling, the concept isn’t the problem. It’s all about the execution; and this can come only through practice. But I was happy to show him the patterns which I’d found most useful to learn with. He kept on begging me to show him, again and again, the nature of the patterns. Finally, as appreciative as anybody ever has been, he gave me a big hug, and was off.

Later on, I was sitting reading, and was approached by a group of University students, requesting to interview me. I was, of course, thrilled to oblige.

The gentleman to the cinematographer’s right was holding up questions written out in a spiral notebook. The lady to his left was the director. And there were two people flanking me on the bench, asking the questions.

Same old usual questions: from whence did you come, where have you been, what is your occupation, and so forth. But near the end of the interview, the question being held up in the notebook was, “Do like Thailand?” while the interviewer asked me, “Do you like Thai food?”

“Do I like Thai food or Thailand,” I asked, pointing at the sign. Then we all started cracking up. They never did clarify, so I went ahead and answered both questions (didn’t let on that, for me, Thai food means Thai fruit). After the interview, they repaired to a shady tree about fifty yards away to debrief, from where I heard them mercilessly skewering the interviewer for his untimely gaffe.

Shortly after the interview, the aerobics music struck up, taking me rather by surprise. I quickly gathered my shit, raced over to the site, pulled the juggling balls back out, and it was though I’d  never left. Lumphini!

I didn’t stick around for the second session, as Rata had said that as she didn’t have very many check-ins that night, she’d take me to where she thought we could get some Durian for not very much money.

On my way out, who should flag me down but ol’ Lazarus, sitting with a friend of his, and her son (name of “Teo”). Splayed out before him was any number of juggling balls of different type and colour. He begged me for a refresher course in the ways of four-ball juggling. So I again showed him the pattern, and wished him well.

Rata’d said to be back to the hostel by “five or six or seven”, but when I arrived, she told me 8:00. It ended up being about 8:30, as she had to first take a bunch of guests to her favourite dinner-time shop, which serves duck noodle soup. Apparently, you get all of the duck’s organs, but none of its bones.

So then,  she was taking myself to get Durian, and dropping three Swedes, riding on the back of her pickup, off at a Pad Thai shop she recommended. She offered, also, to drop at the subway a threesome headed for the night train to Chiang Mai. They were surprised by the kind offer, and she explained, pointing her finger upward at a forty-five-degree angle, that it’d be no problem, as, “I’m taking him to get Duwrian. To-day is Duwrian day!”

Shortly after setting out, we were pulled over at a police checkpoint; Rata and the copper engaging in a heated discussion, the only words of which I understood were “farang”, “Chiang Mai”, “Pad Thai”, and “noodle”.

Eventually, he let us go, and she told us that he’d wanted her to pay him a bribe for the right to transport the Swedes in the back of the truck — even though the law only prohibits truck-back riding while on the expressway. She’d finally been able to shame him, saying that she was trying to be a good host, showing the foreigners the friendliness of Thailand, but that the he wasn’t helping her out very well.

She offered to pick the Swedes up on our way back from getting Durian, but they said that they knew exactly where they were, and could just walk back.

So, we arrived to the Night Market she’d had in mind, but…no Durian truck. She took me instead to Tesco/Lotus, where the Durian was pretty expensive, and, she thought, not of very good quality. So, we returned empty-handed. Upon arrival, she announced that this trip was to be known as, and recorded as such in her logbook, “Duwrian Succofaw” — which means, if I understood her correctly, that the expected Durian bounty had proved to be a chimera.

Around about midnight, a bunch of us were sitting outside bullshitting, and Rata suddenly remembered the Swedes. Where had they gone? Had they gotten lost? Would she have to go looking for them? About twenty minutes later, they showed up, in good spirits. “Five hours! Five hours to find our way back!” (It’d actually been more like three, I think.) They said they’d asked five or six Tuk-Tuk drivers for directions, but none of them had been able to help.

Wednesday, yesterday, was my turn, as I spent the day in Chinatown, just being always and forever lost. The best kind of lost, however: lost in Bangkok Chinatown. I did visit some temples, but didn’t make a big study of it or nothin’. When next I return, perhaps.

Also took my first trip on a Bangkok city bus. Great fun, and much cheaper than the skytrain or subway. Best of all, believe it or not, was the horrific traffic, which greatly facilitated the watching of the goings-on on the streets and sidewalks below.

I had misread the map (well, factually, it’s more than a little ambiguous), and so ended up nowhere near where I thought I’d do with the chosen route. So, actually ended up using two buses to get from Chinatown to Lumphini — but it was still cheaper than it’d have been had I used the subway.

Arrived just in time for aerobics, lingered around a while, then wandered back to the hostel for another round — this one lasting well past midnight — of wonderfully entertaining discussions.

Including which, get this! Remember the German motormouth I wrote about from the last time I was in Bangkok? Turns out, he’s a scammer!

Rata had been saying that she’s been surprised at the diversity of guests who’ve stayed there in the few short weeks she’s been open; that she thinks she may even write a book about us. I asked if there’d been any criminal activity in the hostel (thinking that maybe she’d caught somebody selling drugs or something), and she explained about a German guy who’d had his bags stolen, and could he stay at the hostel until the embassy had time to get it sorted out, and blah blah.

Sounded familiar, so I started grilling her for details. Had he worked in construction? Had he been bald of head? Had he had to wait until the week-end had ended for his embassy to address his case? Had the fall of the Berlin wall been a nightmare, forcing him to employ a bunch of lazy-assed East Berliners who didn’t know the value of work? Had he wished for one minute alone with the thief?

Check, check, check, check, check. She thought she had a picture of him somewhere on her camera; but couldn’t find it. We’re quite sure it’s the same guy, though. Now she’s going to warn all the hostels in the city about this particular grifter and his particular game.

Frickin’ small, weird world!

To-day, Thursday, I had to relocate to a different hostel, near the train station, as the train to the Cambodian frontier leaves at 5:55 in the AM, while the subway doesn’t begin running until 6:00 in the AM. A quite nice place, with very friendly and helpful staff…but just not the same. Plus which, it’s costing me $12 for the night; by far the most I’ve yet paid for lodging.

Before I left, Rata promised not to eat any Duwrian until I returned, and it was time for some picture-taking.

That’s her cousin on my left, arrived from China about five years ago. Always eager to please, she speaks Chinese and Thai, but no English.

The hostel, I understand, has a Facebook page, to which she’ll be uploading pictures taken with her camera. So if anybody knows anything about Facebook (which I myself do not), you might be able to find them there.

One of the receptionists here at the new hostel told me where to find a coin laundry. When it wasn’t where I thought she’d said it’d be, I asked at another hostel if they knew where it was. The spritely receptionist offered to let me use their coin-op machines, warning that I’d need to purchase my own “washing powder”. So, I got me some laundry taken care of.

Posted in Culture, Durian | 1 Comment