YOU KNOW WHAT......

I LOVE THIS COUNTRY.....

Boris

R.I.P.

Coming to Terms

Bear with me, for we all need time and space to vent ourselves out, to unscramble what is all tightly woven inside and throw it out there, out of the system. It is a sort of cleansing if you will.

Today, I believe I’ve made some important realizations about Japan and its people. It all starts with a trip to the gym.

I became a member of a local gym in February 2006, approximately one year and three months ago. I have been going to said gym irregularly but consistently since then. Typically, I do some running and some work with the machines, before showering and enjoying the rather nice communal bath facilities. Unfortunately, it is all a nice pretense for me because it at least gives my life some aura of health, which, with all the smoking, drinking, and generally unfit activities that I indulge in, is otherwise hard to come by. Anyway, beside the point. About one month ago, after I finished and was already in my car, a lovely, young female member of staff ran out to my car and, out of breath, told me that there had recently been a change of management and that they would like to see me for some reason. I didn’t have time quite then, so I told her that I would talk to them next time. In my ego-fueled fantasy world, I was already imagining all sorts of photo ops and benefits coming to me, for why on earth else would the management want to talk to me? But, to my disappointment, the next few times I came, no one mentioned anything and I assumed they had somehow satisfied themselves in other ways.

But, no. As I found out today, they were not satisfied. Having given them my card, as part of the usual procedure, I was in the locker room when a nervous looking member of the managerial staff, one whom I had never seen before, came in and immediately apologized for interrupting me. I figured he was part of the brass, simply because he was never out on the floor but rather somewhere on the insides.

Now, Japanese people are usually very nervous the first time they have to talk to a foreigner they don’t know (unless they’re drunk, of course) and this nervousness manifests itself in two ways. First, they try to dig up whatever minimalist English they remember from the time they all had to study it in school and put it on display. When that gets them past “Hello, how are you,” and they come up against a wall, they go into the second way, which consists of very simple routines in Japanese, usually about where that particular person is from or what Japanese food he or she cannot eat. If the foreigner happens to speak any Japanese at all, he/she is immediately complimented on their fluency. It is only after a little while, when the Japanese person more or less gets that the foreigner can understand that the conversation can turn to more substantial topics. This approach is perfectly understandable because, to the Japanese, it is unlikely that the foreigner will comprehend Japanese but now that the decision has been made to start a conversation, this is the way it inevitably unfolds.

But this man’s nervousness manifested itself in a way that was new to me. Instead of any English at all or even asking me if I understood him, he launched into a long diatribe about something or other using the most polite level of Japanese. Now, I’ve been studying for a little while, but mostly focusing on two levels. The first is what I use with my friends or people I know well. This is the plain form of the language or the one most amenable to quick, colloquial conversation. The other form is the regular polite form, which I use with my superiors or people I don’t know. The main differences between these two have to do with verb endings as well as the presence or absence of some helping verbs. While nowhere near fluent, I have come to understand the differences and when to use one or the other. But, the thing is, Japanese has another level of speech, called keigo, which is very, very polite and comes into two forms as well, the honorific and the humble. The honorific is used when referring to one’s superiors or to people outside the inner circle (whether that be family, company, club, etc.) and the humble is used when referring to oneself, one’s actions, or to the inner circle in any way. The former is all about showing respect to the listener and the latter is about lowering (humbling) oneself in front of them. Now, these forms are not just about verb endings but entirely different verbs, so to know it and to understand it requires a vast amount of additional study. The Japanese themselves often have trouble using it, but everyone must learn it in school. As for me, while I have studied a little bit, it is something I have almost never had to use or been confronted with. Keigo is simply not part of the foreigner’s experience in Japan.

But, nevertheless, here was this man, delivering a barrage of politeness at me and bowing incessantly. I caught bits and pieces, essentials, but overall, the flow of the talk was beyond me. I gathered he wanted to talk to me, so I put on my shirt and we walked back out to the lobby. We sat down and he started again. During the pauses, he would look at me and all I could do was smile, because I really was not understanding him. Finally, through gestures and whatnot, I figured out what we were talking about. It was my tattoo. And from there, I pretty much figured out what the problem was.

In Japan, there is a huge taboo against tattoos. Usually anyone sporting them is not allowed into public baths and in general, people do not have high opinions about the subject. I’m not exactly sure why this is but primarily it has to do with the yakuza. Many members of that organization are, apparently, heavily tattooed. We’re talking about whole torso images of dragons in extremely vivid color. And so, to keep the yakuza out of the innumerable baths around the country, anyone with tattoos is not allowed. I have been to many baths, however, and never encountered a problem. Before today, I thought that the Japanese simply assumed that as a foreigner, I could never be a member of the yakuza and I actually appreciated their tolerance toward me. One time, in a large public bath, I was told to drape a towel over myself, but beyond that, no serious problems.

I figured the conversation this time was headed in that direction again and just as I was about to volunteer covering my tattoo in the bath, I realized it was slightly more serious. He was not talking about me not going to the bath any more. Rather, he was, very politely, with a boatload of respect, revoking my gym membership. Frankly, I was rather shocked. After a few moments of a blank stare, I told him that I had been coming to the gym, tattoo and all, for over a year. He apologized some more, said something along the lines that some other members had complained to the new management. Still in a bit of a shock, I told him that I was leaving the gym at the end of July anyway and would it be possible for me to continue just until then. Like a car salesman, he apologized and said he had to go talk to the boss. I waited, rather put off by the whole thing.

He came back, more apologies and the basics of it came down to the fact that they were giving me until the end of May. Until the 31st, please come enjoy our facilities as much as you like, but come June, you’re not welcome anymore. That was the gist. Several times I asked him to clarify, to make sure that it was indeed until the end of May and he put it in plain terms that I could understand. I did not put up a fight or a squabble. When I was becoming a member, I had a Japanese friend with me and he told me tattoos weren’t allowed here. I knew about the rule. But, back then, no body from the gym side asked me about my tattoos and for almost a year and a half I did not have a single problem about it, ever. So, I had long figured that everything was ok and that an exception was being made for my non-yakuza foreigner self. Today, I was shown to be way wrong. I accepted my fate and trying not to be too angry proceeded with my work out.

But of course, I was fuming on the inside. How could they, now? Why? Who had complained? What was the big deal? Questions arising from my hurt ego. And once I realized that that was what it was, I started thinking about the ego a little bit more, in specific relation to the Japanese and, quite accidentally, I stumbled across a subconscious reason I was attracted to and ultimately ended up coming to live in this country.

Ever since I can remember, the schools of thought concerning the spiritual development of man that I have encountered (through reading, conversation, and practice) have all, one way or another, concerned the pacification of the ego. I will not get into it in detail here, but let me just say that, basically, they revolve around the idea that we can develop and grow spiritually by acknowledging that we are ruled by desires, confronting those very desires, and eventually (very far down the line) extinguishing them. The philosophies, religions, and world-views that base themselves on this central tenet have always had an appeal for me (even if it has, for the most part, been purely theoretical). As such, then, it is no wonder that the East has also been a central part of this. The central esoteric traditions of the West (whether it is in Christianity, Judaism, to some degree Islam) concerns spiritual development with regard to a deity. It is through a full and complete surrender of ourselves to a superior God that we can grow and become more complete human beings. This kind of faith-based approach never really hooked me and I was always more curious in what they had to offer over there, that is over here. And Japan, obviously, is a member of the Asian or Eastern club, and along with China, India, and the rest of continental Asia, it has its own extensive systems in operation with regard to this particular topic. When it came time to make the decision to come here, I went through a million reasons for doing so, but never specifically focused on this one. But undeniably, it was there, underneath the shadows, lurking, definitely influencing me. In fact, without it, I probably would not have come here…

And so, sitting there in the gym, I continued to think. How have I encountered this ego-pacification phenomenon here in Japan? In what ways, if any, have I fulfilled my desire to know about the East in this particular sense? And then, it hit me, blatantly. It turns out, the entire system here in Japan is designed to root out the ego. As I have undoubtedly written before, the communal nature of life here in Japan is undeniable. From the earliest social outings all through life’s stages, the Japanese are taught and trained to put the well-being of others first, to commit themselves to something greater than any individual cravings, to sacrifice an immense amount for the glory of the whole. Of course I’d spent countless hours thinking about this before, analyzing both its positive and negative points, mostly focusing on the wonderful attributes of a society that this created. But today, it dawned on me that this kind of mentality, spread across a homogenous nation, was in many ways a natural social extension of the very Eastern philosophy that had attracted me here in the first place.

It’s not an earth-shattering connection by any means, perhaps even obvious, and actually I was kind of disappointed in not having seen it so clearly before. But nevertheless, I don’t think it can be denied. Many schools, especially the Buddhist ones, teach us that man is essentially trapped in an endless cycle of suffering. Most in the West refuse to see it this way, but in the East, I think it could be taken as a given. From there, the schools go on to formulate the causes of this suffering (primarily some form of individual craving or desire) as well as ways out of it (the Middle Way, mediation, asceticism, yogism, etc.). Such it has been from the time of the Buddha on down and, if one chooses to believe so, embedded in the wisdom of the ancients, far older than even the truths of the Enlightened One, which are over 2,500 years old. Much like the Judeo-Christian way (with its Islamic offshoot) dominates the way most of the Western world thinks and behaves, the Eastern approach has come to permeate the way of life in many nations in this area of the globe. I have seen it first hand in many countries here. And, thus, logically, it cannot but make sense that the Japanese as a people and the way they have structured their society in many ways complements this tremendously old philosophy.

Whether consciously or not, the Japanese accept the suffering of life as natural and as a result, they are not a particularly ecstatic people. Recently, I read about a survey of the world’s youth that attempted to rank the degree of happiness of those between the ages of 18 and 30. To no particular surprise, the Japanese came in last, with something like 24% of the respondents claiming to be happy. Ok, so they acknowledge that life is not about the pursuit of happiness. But at the same time, the philosophy offers a way to extinguish the suffering by first realizing its causes and then working diligently to correct them. Being primarily a Buddhist nation, there is a collective approach in Japan to addressing this suffering. As mentioned, children are taught that it is the needs of society (on however small (family) or large (nation) a level) that are paramount. Individual needs are not important. They are considered products of a selfish ego and must be discarded in favor of communal ones. I see this play out in school all the time. There is almost no individual action. Most everything, from answering questions to eating, is done in groups. Of course, there are instances, such as taking tests, when students work individually, but again the justification here is that they need to do well in school so they can go to the best college so they can enter the best companies where they will work their best, sacrificing so much, for the benefit of their extended national family. The mentality is everywhere and I can continue listing example after example. That is not necessary however.

So, the point is that, here in Japan, the first step of that particular path is in many ways institutionalized in society. What results is a nation where selfishness is not clearly evident and sacrifice can be seen almost everywhere. This is exactly what attracted me and I am extremely grateful to have been able to witness it firsthand like I have. Whereas in the West, where the culture of individualism fuels the fires of ego rather than extinguishing them and anyone interested in following this path must fight society, in Japan, society itself is fundamentally conducive to the endeavor. If this is accepted and is indeed true, then the logical extension is that this is, if not the ideal, than at least a really good place to be if one wants to follow this path. Personally, I have always been interested in it and someday do hope to follow it more seriously, so the question becomes, shouldn’t I stay in Japan? Shouldn’t I remain in a place that is so welcoming of this philosophy as to make it a fundamental building block of society?

Well. Actually, the answer is no. I am indeed coming back to the United States at the end of July. I think, with due consideration of everything that has been written above, this requires an explanation. Here’s the paradox of it. The fact that it is institutionalized is not, as it may seem, a crucial starting point. No, quite the opposite. It dooms the entire endeavor from the start. Whoever a person is, no matter the background, country, location, biases, etc., etc., this path is always something that has to be undertaken individually and practically. A person cannot take anyone’s word for it. One cannot simply believe that suffering is everywhere, but rather has to experience it firsthand. The sages say that indeed we are all experiencing it constantly but the overwhelming majority of people are simply not aware of it. They frame their experiences in different ways and refuse to acknowledge that their lives are fundamentally flawed. Unless one practically tests, experiences, and discovers a truth one has been told or has read about, that truth will remain nothing but a theory, a handy explanation of things but with absolutely zero application to actually bringing about change.

In Japan, that very truth is drilled into everyone from the get-go and most everyone is certainly familiar with it, even if they don’t think about it on a daily basis. But rarely is it taken to the level that the philosophy requires. Rather, it is taken for granted and, like a mass-brainwashing, everyone falls in line, acting in accordance with tradition and social norms. Just because those social norms happen to coincide with some of the elements of the philosophy does not mean that they are practically applied. And so, what is the result?

Well, instead of a nation of enlightened beings who have freed themselves is a collective of like-minded masses that are still tied up in the same problems that everyone else has. (BTW, I have to beg forgiveness for the massive generalizations that are being made all over the place; I am just thinking on paper, not trying to write an academic thesis) But here’s the key difference. While individual egos are indeed trampled upon resulting in a society that is quite unique and unlike anywhere else, what emerges is a collective ego, a huge beast that is beyond conquering. While the idea is to stamp it out completely, this particular ego is so huge that it pulsates with the rhythm of an entire country of 150 million. True, this can potentially be applied to any country with any kind of national pride, but here in Japan it is evident to a much higher degree, partially as a result of the very institutionalization and corruption of that same philosophy.

The Japanese are very proud, as is any ego. Japanese food, culture, history, what have you is considered highly unique. Foreigners are not really expected to fully understand it or partake in it because they are not part of the collective ego. When a foreigner demonstrates an ability to somehow penetrate a part of the Japanese experience, the outward reactions to this, dictated by trained etiquette and reflective of individual rearing, are ones of surprise, disbelief, and ultimately encouragement. The Japanese are proud of what they have and want others to come to appreciate it almost as much. But not AS much. Inwardly, I suspect, many people unconsciously deny the possibility of outsiders coming in. This is precisely the nature of the conditioning of the collective ego. The uniqueness of the Japanese as a people is such that no one else can be like them, can even come close.

Like any ego, the Japanese one has its insecurities that it continuously tries to mask. Individual Japanese will always deny that they are good at anything. Asking my students if they are good at baseball unequivocally produces a negative response. Giving someone a gift is almost always preceded by pointing out how inferior it is. In fact, the most common way to start anything is by way of apology. This kind of humility, rejection of pride and the self on an individual level, certainly can be applauded. I continue to be amazed by it everyday. By extension, the collective ego, one would think, does the same to the rest of the world, bowing down, claiming inferiority. And yet, is this really so? Where are the best cars in the world made? What is the world’s third largest economy? Where is the standard of living among the highest in the world? What is considered to be the safest country on the planet? The Japanese themselves cannot deny the answer to these questions and the collective ego effectively addresses any concerns or fears of weakness that individuals may harbor. Again, I can go on and on.

For all the benefits of being in a society that functions based on the premises of an institutionalized Buddhism, the reason I cannot stay in Japan is essentially two-fold. The first part concerns a rather tragic layer that exists across almost all the individuals I have encountered (which gives me some leeway in extending this across the entire nation). In suppressing individualism in favor of a greater, collective good, not only the bad parts (selfishness, greed, dishonesty, etc.) are squashed, but the good ones as well. Such things as creativity, confidence, and imagination, which are all part of the bright side of individualism, fall by the wayside. One of the more difficult questions that my elementary school kids have trouble answering in my English classes is simply what their favorite thing is, whether it be a color, a food, an animal, etc. From first grade forth, they are instinctively drilled in the English language words for these things, so the trouble does not come from not knowing the vocabulary. Rather, it comes from the necessity to choose. It is almost like the favoritism of showing something a particular preference is somehow seen as a selfish act that cannot be allowed. With the older kids, any time I try to do an activity that requires some sort of independent thought or creativity, it always bombs, resulting in blank stares that portray a bafflement in having been asked to produce such an individual thing. This same quality is everywhere. Things are done in accordance with tradition, with the way they have always been done, and even though modernity sometimes forces changes, it is only when the collective accepts something that individuals will even begin to embrace the thought of change. To me, this is stifling beyond compare. I cannot be in a place where my creative freedom will always be at the mercy of some overarching thought police. I cannot give up my right to express myself how I want to and my right to express judgment based on my own individual beliefs and values.

The second part of the reason concerns the above-mentioned ego. I will simply never find a place for myself within it nor will I ever be accorded one. Even if I start a Japanese family or engage in work of a highly beneficial nature, there will always be a barrier. I will always feel like an outsider. As much as Japan is trying to become a globally-aware country and for all of its efforts at internationalization, for as long as I remain in Japan, the Japanese will genuinely continue to be impressed by my ability to use chopsticks or to say konnichiwa. Maybe these are just things that are said out of a discomfort or simply the need to say something, but the very fact that there is a discomfort and that it is these particular things that are said and not a compliment about clothes or some other ice breaker, is definitive enough for me. I have come to realize, on a personal level, that Japan is a country for the Japanese . . . that I will remain an outsider on the outside, no matter how deeply inside I can glance.

Of course, I am saddened by all of this. Like I said, there are so many great and wonderful things here that are simply impossible anywhere else. I will certainly miss them, both in the near and far future. In fact, I cannot even fully picture all the different things that will inevitably be lacking once I return. But, alas, this is how it must be. For all its promise and greatness, the fruits of Japan remain for the Japanese and whether they will someday take full advantage remains an open question. Many people will probably disagree with me and my experience in Japan has been just that, mine. But, nevertheless, I stand by these words. I have to. For the decision has been made and I must justify my actions to myself.

Let me conclude (wow, expectedly yet unintentionally this turned into another rather long one, starting with my desire to convey an isolated incident and ending with a beginning of sorts of a coming to terms with my experience over the last two years) by going back to the gym. I finished my workout, took a bath, and went to the counter to retrieve my membership card. It was handed back to me with a solemn apology as well as a note notifying me that I had two weeks left as a member. This would put the revocation at the end of April, not May like I had been told and had confirmed multiple times. While working out, I had suppressed my desires to just quit on the spot, in a bit of a minor outrage, and, having briefly thought about the above, I had settled with finality on the thought that “this is Japan.” I had decided to accept this rule about tattoos and take responsibility for having violated it. A rule was indeed broken and regardless of the virtues of the rule itself, it was a pretty solid case. But, or so I thought, I would at least have until the end of May, another month and a half, to continue using the gym.

Fat chance. The paper said two more weeks. So, naturally, I wanted to speak to the man from before, to have this clarified, to find out why such a discrepancy had occurred. I was told by the lovely lady to have a seat and wait. I waited, watching them run around, back and forth between the inside and the outside. Finally, another of the young ladies (staff, not management) came up to me and said hello, in English. This was followed by slow, clearly articulated questions of whether I spoke Japanese. And finally, I was told, in Japanese fit for a baby, that the manager had told me until the end of April. Definitively. No ifs, ands, or buts. I looked her right in the eyes and calmly, methodically produced my best Japanese to clearly tell her that he had in fact told me until the end of May. She smiled a beautiful smile, bowed, apologized, and told me that this simply was not true. Case closed.

Obviously, I had misunderstood the managerial Japanese…


P.S. I am well aware that this entire entry is the result of nothing else but a hurt ego, which kind of throws everything into doubt, eh?

P.P.S. My utmost condolences go out to the families of the Virginia Tech victims and to their memory. As it does to many, this event really baffles me and I am as concerned as ever about living in the United States, even though I know it’s where I want to be. At the same time (and here I allow myself a political incorrectness that is typically suppressed in public discourse) I cannot grant this event any more or less importance than, say, the scores of people, of innocent people, killed everyday in the markets in Baghdad. Their deaths are just as meaningless and their lives are just as valuable, in my eyes. And yet, nowhere is this connection made. We grieve for that which is close, familiar, and on home turf, but that which is far away, hidden deep inside our televisions, is not worthy of our compassion and our thoughts. So please, a moment of silence for all the suffering in the world…

after the ****e

Oh, how many times have I awoken after a long night of drinking to a trembling confusion inside my head? It’s usually the same. Countless hours drowned away in beer after beer, ounce after ounce, justified, weakly, as a necessary diversion to the hardships of life that take up the rest of the time. Of course, the moments of consumption are not concerned with either hindsight – the infinite prior hangovers that have tormented the past – or foresight – the obvious and inevitable reality of the next morning. Rather, they are filled with a supposed joy, with an oblivious lifting of the spirit that carries with it a departure of such regular human traits as decency, shame, restraint, and reason. This joy is not bad in itself, for otherwise a good human being could not continue to engage in it, but it does carry with it a sense of shame after the fact. The places, both physical and mental, I have found myself during such nights are as varied as the colors of the rainbow and yet, when compared to the places where that self has been lost, that variety appears as black and white. None of it real, none of it who I truly am, and all of it carrying the one inevitability that the next morning will bring pain, a pain that will very quickly superimpose itself on whatever positive happy memories are residually implanted on the mind.

Yes, I am sure that very pain is familiar to most, if not all. I open my eyes and there’s an ache inside my head. It is confined to my head as long as I do not move any muscle, and so I try to remain in a stationary position as long as I can, either desperately trying to fall back asleep or simply re-living some of the previous night’s exploits before they become too much of a bad memory. Before long, that lovely, indispensable piece of my anatomy, the bladder, forces an ultimatum upon my aching mind – either move and relieve me or face the warm, tinkling furies. And so, with little choice, I get up and stumble to the toilet. And the pain ache begins to spread. Going from a simple head-ache it traverses the forlorn body, resulting in a stomach ache here, a muscular discomfort there, and overall punctuated by a sense of trembling and confusion, a dizziness that makes walking, breathing, and any sort of general coordination difficult. I go and I come back. I lay down. With any luck, I can fall asleep again and when I wake up anew, it is greatly reduced and although I am not happy to be up and about, I can at least do that, as opposed to lying, lamenting in bed all day. Without that luck (as in the case of drinking on a work night or some other act of unbridled genius like that), I can get dressed and continue the waking nightmare and try to pretend for the benefit of others (who can immediately see past the pretense) that I am normal, functioning, and extremely happy to be alive. Whatever the case, it is only the most masochistic and self-deprecating individuals of the human race that can possibly call the morning after experience pleasant. But it is indeed that minority of people that may be the most honest, the most genuine exemplars of our breed. For the rest of us openly agree that it is at the pinnacle of among the more unpleasant of life’s experiences and yet, routinely act in ways to bring it about, again, and again, and again, and again ad infinitum. So, you tell me, who’s the smart one?

To make a long story short, last Saturday and Sunday I had just such a night and morning. Having just ended a not-that-long-to-be-completely-devastated-yet-not-that-short-to-be-completely-over-it relationship earlier in the day, I had some Japanese friends over to the house. We walked over to a near-by izakaya, enjoying the cool yet gentle spring breeze that precipitated down from a broody sky. Once there, we had ourselves a yakitori snack or two to accompany the mug upon mug of Kirin beer, a saddened person good friend. More people added to the mix and we soon took the party back to my house, where we also moved the consumption up a notch, from the everyman’s comfort to the more exquisite combination of tastes that emerged from my not insignificant collection of bottles that had been stacking up over the past few months. We talked, reveled, and continued a gradual process of losing ourselves into a collective confusion. At some point, when one of the party had certainly had enough and was, from the looks of it, enjoying a pleasant stroll through a dreamscape, my good friend Ryo discovered two gigantic permanent markers, black and red, that I had purchased sometime earlier to make a certain sign for a certain concert which would alert the attention of certain band members to the presence of certain diehard fans in the audience. With a deft hand and a surprisingly sober amount of skill, those markers were put to use to redecorate the said dreamer’s face a bit, resulting in joyous laughter for all. It was truly funny, even more so when the affected party woke up and casually strolled to the mirror to see what the fuss was all about. So, in the next two or so hours, while the victim was furiously scrubbing away and my Japanese ability went from non-existent to phenomenal and back again, the party began its twilight hour. The inebriation and all the joys that come with it gradually faded into a fatigue and the disappearance of any motivation to stay awake. Suddenly, what I had been chasing and trying to maintain through continuous consumption all night bid its adieu and I was left with a swaying body not really knowing what to do with itself. And, so, I said good night to my friends, went to my bed, and fell asleep to the distant chatter of by this point incomprehensible Japanese. Needless to say, as is always the case, not once throughout the whole night did the multitudes of prior hangovers provide any sort of incentive to stop nor any sort of effective foreshadowing.

With the alarm set for ten, I woke up without hearing it to the all-too-familiar yet never anticipated trembling. Just as my mind regained that degree of consciousness which it had lost sometime in the previous evening, I began to mentally prepare myself for the coming discomfort. And yet, as I quickly realized, the trembling was far louder and more powerful than it had ever been before. In those instants after waking, it also dawned on me that it was not just inside of my head. The entire room was trembling, vibrating with a sort of unearthly noise. My mind raced and quickly I remembered that during severe thunderstorms, the thunder sometimes rattled the entire house like it was doing now. As I calmed down a bit, assuring myself that it was a loud thunder boom that had awaken me, its refusal to stop made me jump out of bed. I looked around and, seeing my lamp make tiny leaps on my dresser toward the edge, my tired, hungover brain quickly jumped into an adrenaline overdrive. That which was never expected was happening. It was not my mind that was shaking, but rather the earth.

Often in life we find ourselves doing things and having trouble justifying them by any sort of plausible reality. Like fire drills back in school. Of course, we’d always be happy to get out of class for a while, but we never saw it as practical for none of us ever expected a real fire to break out. Similarly, especially living in Japan, there are constant earthquake drills and from way back, I remembered that the one thing to do in an earthquake was to stand in a doorway, the supposed strongest part of a house. And here I was, standing in the middle of my bedroom, panicking. The room was swaying to and fro, and while I remembered the doorway training, something told me the truly safest place would be outside, out in the open. I ran in my pajamas through the rumbling hallway and out the front door. A slight rain was falling and literally the whole world seemed to be moving in gigantic vibrations. It was as if something was trying to break through from beneath, breaking through deep layers of earth, sending the rumbles up toward the surface and shaking whatever lay on top. I stood there looking out in complete awe. I do not recall which was louder, the quake or my own heartbeat. Amidst all this was a sudden excitement at the fact of a truly new and previously unhad experience. And then, it was all over. Not more than thirty seconds had elapsed since I woke up. The earth stood still, as if nothing had happened. The only evidence to the contrary was the lamp, which had fallen over and some stuff hanging in my closet was now on the floor.

Painted face man and his girl friend were sleeping in the living room and did not even have time to get up before it was over. At first, looking at their initial reactions, my excitement appeared to be exaggerated. They seemed as if it was normal and expected. But soon, I realized that they were still disoriented from having just woken up and that the experience was as new, as exciting, and as scary to them as it was to me. We drank some coffee, calmed the nerves, and watched a bit of T.V., which within eight minutes of the quake was already full of news, information, statistics, and videos concerning it.

It was a magnitude of 6.9, which, I guess, is a middle of the road strength for an earthquake, but luckily it was epicentered off the coast, so the damage it caused was much less than it could have been. The hardest hit areas lie about one hour’s drive north of me and the town where I lived received about half of its strength. Whereas there was considerable property and road damage up north, in addition to about 150 wounded and even one death, where I am, it left no discernible effects. As we sat drinking the coffee and watching the news, there were sporadic shakes, aftershocks, that jolted the house but ceased in an instant. Later in the day, there were a few more major ones, lasting several seconds, but nothing with the original intensity of what happened at 9:42 AM on March 25th, 2007. Moral of the story – the discovery of the surest, most potent, and most reliable hangover cure yet…

A Very Special Thank You

For a change, it will be short and sweet. A few weeks ago, at the start of a mild and mellow February, my friend Walter came to Japan for a visit. It was not his first time here, so it was more about coming back to a familiar place rather than arriving ogle-eyed to a Land of Mystery. We spent the time in Tokyo, and surprisingly did not do much of anything. Rather, it was about enjoying the company of friends, with a powerful backdrop. He was here a total of five nights. And of those five, three were spent in the presence of something otherwordly. So, a very big thank you to Walter. And of course, a big thank you to A, J, D, and M.

WINTER'S JOURNEY 1

PART I: INTRODUCTION – TANGENTIALLY SPEAKING

Some may know that my thus-far chosen career path is that of a teacher. A teacher of history. Now, many of us may remember our own high school days, when we asked ourselves a certain question almost daily, occasionally several times a day. And that being, “Why do I have to know this?” It was difficult to answer that question then, but luckily for most of us, it has become irrelevant now. After graduation, we went on to college, to a career, where some of the things that were learned in high school proved useful, but many were shoved aside to reside in some nether region of our minds. Ask me to tell you something about chemistry and physics and all I can probably muster is the general idea of the periodic table of the elements and something about force equaling mass times acceleration. But beyond that is a mystery. Ask me about Calculus and I’ll say differential and integral, ask me to define them and you’ll get a blank stare. Same with French. Same with so many subjects. Well, that’s ok. Maybe it’s how it is supposed to be. But, for me, the above question is not irrelevant. In fact, it is now more relevant than ever, because if I want to teach history to the youth generation, which at the present time is more concerned with the excesses of modernity rather than the wonders of the past, I need to show it that knowing and thinking about our collective history not only develops an appreciation of life, thinking and reasoning skills, and an open-minded cultural awareness, but most importantly it can help us become actually intelligent and more-enlightened beings. For me, the question of why we should study history has been a perpetual source of headache for a long time because I could not formulate a succinct answer. I could not bring together various strands and ideas into a convincing statement of purpose. I could not even convince myself, much less others, that it was a worthwhile endeavor. But having taken a recent trip to Southeast Asia, I believe I have come much closer to that answer and by sharing a little about my adventure, I hope I can provide a good outline of it here…

In thinking about the advance of civilization, by which I mean the evolution and progression of human societies, we have to look back, way back. Where did the first societies arise? What was it that enabled human beings to emerge from caves and interact with each other on more than a purely familial level? How were they able to leave behind a record which has survived into modernity and notifies us of their existence? When we were students, we balked when we were asked to study geography, a seemingly tedious endeavor involving meaningless maps, charts, and statistical information that was of little immediate use. However, with regard to the present issue, it is precisely in the study of geography, or more specifically, of climactic patterns, that a worthwhile idea emerges. After the last Ice Age, which literally imprisoned humanity in those same caves, allowing only brief forays for hunting, the global temperature picture slowly began to take its modern form. Of course, especially nowadays, the highly vocalized global warming movement insists on one or two degree shifts over the course of centuries as a monumental catastrophe to the planet, but whether it is right or not is irrelevant here. What is relevant is that the equator and the areas immediately north and south of it have always had significantly warmer weather than their neighbors closer to the poles. The cradle of human society in Mesopotamia and the rest of the earliest civilizations emerged in areas close to the Equator, right at the transition point between the tropical and the temperate zones along the Tropic of Cancer (23.5 degress N). It was here that human beings first encountered a natural climate that allowed sedentary living and a sustainable growth in population. To avoid making this longer than it has to be, agriculture and irrigation, in tune with the changing of the seasons (in which temperature shifts were not very vast), enabled a large number of people to be fed and live together in one area as opposed to having to constantly move around in pursuit of migrating herds. In due time, various tools and advancements in rudimentary agricultural science allowed fewer people to produce enough food to sustain the entire population, which meant that professions other than hunter or farmer could emerge.

From here, three major developments took place. The first centered around the need for answers to all the baffling questions that Mother Nature threw at early man. Lacking the know-how of modern science, these early societies relied on the priestly class to provide solace to the multitudes that would otherwise be in constant terror over the incomprehensibility of the natural phenomena around them. (How would you interpret a massive lighting storm without knowing that it is simply a discharge of static electricity?) The second concerned the necessity for keeping order, for as more and more people occupied the same space, disagreements and arguments, especially over property, would certainly arise. To prevent the inevitable anarchy (which undoubtedly gripped the earliest of human communes), the idea of authority and a power structure to implement it was born. At first, these two developments were tied together, as is natural, because a priest figure who can unravel an otherwise complete mystery is bound to easily exert control over those lacking such an ability. Eventually, other factors entered into play and power came to be divided between royalty and religion, but I am getting ahead of myself. The third and final development concentrated on the idea of commerce in all of its various manifestations. As soon as a blacksmith and a cloth maker entered the picture, a way needed to be found for each of them to get food from the farmer and for the farmer to benefit from the other two. Again, at first, it was done directly, through barter. Later, it was organized by the local temple, and much later, there emerged a merchant class responsible for overseeing precisely such transactions. With these three developments intermingling, the evolution of human societies is said to have begun.

Thank you, Roman, for the history lesson. But I didn’t come here to read about history, but rather about your trip. Point taken, but do bear with me just a little more. It is important after all. So, as said before, it was right around the Tropic of Cancer that the Sumerians, Babylonians, Assyrians, Phoenicians, Egyptians, the Chinese, and Indians (and many, many others) established the first semi-permanent centers of civilization. At the pinnacle of their individual heydays, if one looks further north or south on the map, one no doubt finds nomadic tribes who, although out of the cave, still had not developed technologically to prevent the climate from influencing their ability to settle down and become complex societies. That’s how it went, thousands of years ago. Of course, back then, no one had the global reach that technology enables today, but nonetheless in answering the question of who were the greatest powers on the planet, one would simply have to look along the Tropic of Cancer. Skip forward to today. Where has this progression ended up? In effect, who are the dominant powers today and where are they located? What is the relationship between them and those glorious civilizations of old or at least the territorial areas they occupied? One can only ask, what the hell happened?

The above all belong to a category of broad historical questions to which there are many right, that is, conceivable answers. Herein lies a facet of the beauty of history (no, no not history itself, which is often quite ugly, but of its study). You see, the further we go back in time, the harder it is to distinguish fact from fiction, truth from conjecture, an occurrence from fantasy. Even in today’s world, with all of its instant communication and global media penetration, we still have to go largely on faith, on our belief that what we are being told and what we are seeing is the truth. Go back thirty, forty years and the picture gets more muddled, go back a hundred and the confusion increases, go back a thousand and all we have are bits and pieces of puzzle put together in the imagination of some scholar who tells a convincing story. All this, far from being bleak, is actually very exciting. It means that we can study what are taken to be facts and statistics, as well as existing theories, explanations, and analyses, and apply them to our own theories. We can come up with our own individual understandings of history, and because it is just for us, we will not be under the constraints of academics and the like who have to fit into established guidelines to be taken seriously. This way, we can make history fit our world view, thereby enlarging that world view beyond our simple, daily existence to encompass thousands of years of collective life. But I stray yet again.

So, here’s my on the spot take on what happened. A number of things. As civilizations became empires and populations stretched the limits of the land, expansion became the order of the day. But expand enough and you are bound to run into someone else expanding from the other side. So, there’s the inevitable clash and the technologically superior party becomes the conqueror, absorbing the vanquished in some fashion. Most history of the ancient world concerns precisely such handovers of power. Alexander, later the Romans, both but a few examples of the systemic rise and fall that colors the picture of history. Meanwhile, the locus of power was gradually shifting to the north. Why could it not remain along the Tropic of Cancer? Here’s where I can afford some creative freedom.

Imagine you are rich and idle, not facing the necessity to work and believing yourself to be free to do absolutely anything. Oh, what a dream this is, one that presumably multitudes upon multitudes of people across the entire globe have in common. Whether they admit it or not, it is one of the things that comes to their mind if they are asked to justify their existence. Now imagine the kind of decadence and breakdown of society that ensues were this dream to come true, for who would make all the stuff you would want to buy? A huge catch 22 it all is, because so many slave away under the banner of this dream in one form or another without acknowledging the fact that it is absolutely and systemically impossible to achieve it. The pie is not nearly big enough and the competition for what is available is so intense that only the “hungriest” will break through. And most are not “hungry” enough. Let me stretch it a little and relay this analogy back to the issue at hand. Although there has never been a perfect civilization, the greatest of the ancient ones came close to achieving this dream. Not on an individual level, for any society has those on whose backs it is built, but on a collective one. Laws, procedures, and ways of life were set in place and brought a certain amount of satisfaction to a great enough number of people that innovation, or a desire to improve, slowed down. Again, if you are rich and happy, there’s no impetus for change, for the necessity to change anything in your life to stray from the status quo is simply not present. And so, the status quo hardened into stone and civilizations were left to ride out its momentum.

But, what inevitably happens to someone who is rich? Well, someone else emerges who is richer and can afford three Lear jets as opposed to your measly one. While the denizens of the Tropic of Cancer were basking in their various glories, those of the North had to think longer and harder. Through the rudimentary channels of communication existing then, they borrowed from their southern neighbors but, driven by the coldness of their winters and the marshiness of their swamps, their ability for innovation was not lost, but rather nurtured. They had to think up ways to combat nature, travel the seas, organize, subdue enemies, grow food, etc., etc., that the Cancerians never even dreamt about. And they did, efficiently and profitably. It may have taken a while, but once they came on the scene, the world has not looked the same.

Beginning with the centuries of conquest and exploration some five hundred years ago, the Europeans and later the Americans subdued the old, old world. With the power of innovation on their side, they preyed on decadence and imposed their ways. And the people who had lived in much the same way for hundreds of years were powerless to stop it. Except the West, if you will, also invented the idea of progress, which basically states that innovation must never stop, that man’s never-ending drive to improve must never be allowed to desist. (We can argue here about the merits of so-called innovation, but we won’t). And so, not only did they leave little room for someone else to take their place, there was simply little physical room left, in global terms. The West, which is actually more like the North, became dominant. In the last twenty to thirty years, there has been some resurgence in the old, old world. For example, China, the Middle Kingdom, with a longer continuous history than any other territory on the planet, seems to have allowed innovation back into the system and is poised for a resurgence that would be the first of its kind in history. But, this is developing right now and its consequences will not be known for quite some time yet. What is a fact, however, is that the current picture of the globe is such that moderately young territories wield power and influence over those much older, with a much richer cultural and social tradition. And at the heart of this symbolic overlordship lies one of the greater injustices of the modern age.

Ok. Another pause. Hey, Roman, would you make a point already please? I’m kind of tired of reading about all this stuff because (a) you’re rambling and (b) what’s it all have to do with your trip anyway? Well, here it is. I have lived my life in both the West and the East (but always in the North, for Japan is fully in the “Western” club). I have even lived in that grey area between East and West that for a time approached innovation from a slightly different angle, at the cost of millions of lives and a crippling effect that now leaves it somewhat stranded and confused. But I have never lived in areas of the old, old world. I have visited, but never with the mindset that I had during this trip. And being there, this time around, made me angry, envious, proud, happy, sad, and generally confused. Not all simultaneously, of course, but throughout the trip I saw the ills and the joys of our world and how they play out in a place far removed from my personal experience. And you’ll just have to read on to see if I eventually do make a point.

WINTER'S JOURNEY 2

PART II: THE REPUBLIC OF CHINA – BRIDGING THE GAP

First stop, Taipei, capital of the country known as the Republic of China, or its more common name, Taiwan. This island nation has a bit of a crooked history. For a long time it was a sphere of influence of mainland China, until it became a Japanese colony after Japan’s victory in the first Sino-Japanese War at the end of the 19th century. So it remained until the end of World War II, when it was returned to the Republic of China, which itself was in the throes of civil war against Mao Zedong’s Communists on the mainland. In 1949, after the communist victory, the ousted R.O.C. government, led by Chiang Kai-shek’s Kuomintang, moved its seat of power to Taiwan, where it has remained to this day. Therefore, Taiwan has been greatly influenced by both of its neighbors and remains a popular tourist destination for both. Knowing this but not necessarily thinking about it, I began to discern this influence relatively quickly. I have lived in Japan for a while and I visited China (P.R.C.) last year, so in Taiwan, I saw a bridge between the two, slightly colored by its own indigenous history.

On the way from the airport via a nice, comfortable-seating (Japan) but quite old (China) bus, the first thing that struck me was the overwhelming presence of the moped. At least one for every car, they reminded me of scenes from Jurassic Park, where a large dinosaur (e.g. a brachiasaurus (sp.)) majestically strolls across a landscape and in between its legs are hundreds of smaller and more maneuverable dinosaurs, weaving in and out, always on the verge of knocking each other down or getting trampled by those monstrosities of legs, but always managing to somehow end up alright. At many points throughout this trip my life would be severely threatened by the moped, sometimes from without, other times from within. But I never ceased to be impressed by the finesse of operation and by the ever-present notion of danger, that if things went just a centimeter or two off, catastrophe would ensue. In the U.S., there is a two second following distance for cars. In Southeast Asia, it is more like half a second. And for mopeds, the whole notion ceases to exist. How they managed to pile up, nose to tail at every single red light, weaving in between cars, muscling for position, and taking off in a beautiful symmetry was baffling, and whereas in places like Interlaken, Switzerland and even Florence, Italy, I was excited and thrilled to rent and ride one, I would not dare to come close to driving a moped anywhere in this part of the world.

What occupied my mind most in Taiwan indeed turned out to be the unraveling of the cultural intermingling of this land and Japan and China. Both were present in various forms and perhaps it is precisely the lack of dominance by one or the other that gives the country its unique flavor. The first night, after finding my hostel and having a nice chat with a Polish-Canadian going by the rare first name of Roman, I rode the subway out to one of the city’s famed night markets. Although far from rush hour, the train was packed, giving me a chance to just observe the people in a more or less natural environment. First thing I realized was that I cannot tell the difference between Eastern Asians. Ask any Japanese person if they can, and they will overwhelmingly claim that it is the easiest thing in the world to do. Via common sense, I thought that after living on this end of the earth for a while, I would also become more discerning in terms of differences. Many in the West hold stereotypes (here I am reminded of a scene in Ricky Gervais’ Extras, where he and his woman friend are chatting to a movie producer and his girlfriend, who happens to be Asian, and the woman friend, who represents a not-so-bright-but-very-lively Brit, goes into the whole “Chinese, Japanese” eye-slant routine) based on media images or whatnot that do not really hold up in real life, and I thought being here would naturally and gradually dissolve them. I was wrong. Facially and physically speaking, I was not able to tell what country I was riding the train in. But, looking further, it became clearer. Last year, in China, I noticed that clothing tended to be simpler in design, with less flashy colors, and carried a generally older, somewhat faded appearance. Whereas in Japan, people tend to care more about the appearance of what they’re wearing, with the exterior façade of a person saying a lot about their inner being. So, on this train in Taipei, I, once again, saw a bit of both. Some elements of dress were impeccable. Brand new, ironed pants. A flashy designer coat. A fitting combination of accessories. But at the same time, the package was not complete. A man dressed in a nice suit would have old, dirty shoes. A woman decked out in a nice dress and shoes would be wearing a jacket that in no way could possibly complement them. It was an interesting blend to observe. Of course, I may be stretching the details here to fit the theme, but these things jumped out at me and later helped formulate the hypothesis, as opposed to vice versa.

So, first stop was the food market. Hundreds of stalls, arranged ramshackle, separated by narrow walkways with a never ceasing flow of human traffic, shoving elbows, stumbling over small metal stools, plastic covered tables, and a floor containing the dirty remnants of what literally minutes before had been raw. Not really restaurants, but rather counters containing fresh (???) ingredients and a few simple tools for preparing them into edible form. Staffed by rather unfriendly looking (meaning they were not necessarily happy to be there) but exceptionally efficient people, these veritable assembly lines produced a sloppy yet hot meal within seconds, which was consumed in just as long by hungry hordes. I noticed many tourists here, but also many locals, which clued me in to the fact that in Southeast Asia, eating at such roadside installations was fairly common and natural. The rest of the trip would reconfirm this again and again. With my size, I twisted and turned my way to a stool, pointed out what I wanted from a greasy menu to several different waitresses, and was brought two heaping plates of something yellow. As the general aroma of oil and the soundtrack of sizzle settled in, in true Taiwan fashion, I swallowed it all down, followed by a very respectable strawberry shake. I walked around some more, enjoying the factory like conditions of the place, a sort of controlled chaos, if you will. The color and smell was definitely unique and the sheer number of animal parts, vegetables, and just ingredients in general, heaped in piles just inches away from their destiny made for a memorable time.

As I made my way from there to the night market proper, I walked passed a Japanese tour group, the first of many and about 20 or 30 strong, and briefly listened in to the tour guide explaining the procedures for the next 43 minutes of the outing, including a double or triple reference to the dangers involved, a heartfelt urging to get out of one’s element and explore individually, and one or two apologies for the inadequacy of the tour as a whole. It did indeed bring a smile to my face. A smile, which quickly vanished as I got swallowed up with the rest of the crowd by the mountain upon mountain of STUFF. Anything imaginable, hung on storefronts, sprawled on the ground, filling every nook and cranny, and just dying to be exchanged for the hard-earned dinares that travelers tend to spend carefree. The space was so tight, it was like trying to get into a rock concert through one doorway, with the only way out being to get sucked into buying something. Needless to say, it was one of the first “I feel kind of sickened by all this” moments of the trip. More on that later, in due time.

I struggled my way out of there, found a supermarket and bought some water and, to my immense and pleasant surprise, a piece of my childhood. A kinder egg. Oh how I marveled at those amazing concoctions on the shores of the Mediterranean in Italy, always waiting to assemble the toy before eating the chocolate. I may even have an old collection of them lying around somewhere. In any case, it took my mind off things for a while. I went back to the hostel, practiced my Japanese for a while with two girls from Nagoya, and turned in on this, the first night.

When on vacation, people do many things. Some like to be cultural, taking in the sights and sounds of a place, thereby convincing themselves that their travel is worthwhile. Others like to be adventurous, looking for things to do that they cannot do at home. Some are bargain hunters, enjoying their time shopping so that they can return home with suitcases packed with new stuff. Yet others use the time to relax, to simply not do anything, which may be a world of difference from their other life. I found myself dabbling in a bit of each.

The next day, whose theme was rain, I started off by taking a bus past the Chiang Kai-shek compound to the National Palace Museum. Most of the exhibit halls were closed or being renovated, with a large number of the rest being devoted to stuff like earthenware or calligraphy. Being there made me remember what kind of museums I like. Turns out I don’t really want to see what rich people eight hundred years ago used to drink their wine or a piece of corroded metal that some claim was potentially a piece of an ancient oxcart. Rather, I am more of a fan of things that were made especially for the purpose of being admired by an audience, where an artist was responsible for a sense of communion through his creation. Old plates, while pretty, did not quite cut it for me and I left quickly and made for the other landmark that typically places high on the agenda of the aforementioned cultural types, a religious site, or the temple, which is its most common manifestation in this part of the world.

At the Confucius Temple, an ironic title since Confucianism is not really a religion but a temple is definitely a religious structure, there were almost no visitors at all. A slight drizzle gently reflecting off the gilded roof tops accompanied my stroll through the compound. It was a quiet, rather happy moment, largely due to the lack of other tourists who on innumerable future occasions would suck away any kind of true appreciation of the gifts that a culturally important landmark can offer. The temple and its parks and courtyards, while beautifully maintained, did not captivate in any significant way. It was, shall we say, a rather brisk stroll. However, the temple was nestled in a residential part of town, and on my way back to the subway station, I weaved in and out of roadside food stalls and observed a bit of the Taipei life. Under an archway, I spotted an inconspicuous stairwell leading to a basement, the entrance of which was covered with tattering posters of table tennis players. This aroused my attention, and thinking it was some sort of store, I walked down the poorly lit passage way. It turned out to be a local table tennis club, with maybe six or eight tables and a group of what seemed to be regulars just beginning their warm up. I had wandered in, they had noticed, and now, I stood there, deciding what to do. I said hello, but English proved quite useless here, so I tried Japanese, which had proven itself useful on earlier occasions. Turns out enough people there spoke enough of it (i.e. just about at my own level) for us to get by. So, I got to practice a bit with the Chinese (I wonder if the Taiwanese would get offended by this label, but they are the Republic of China after all) and perhaps not surprisingly was beaten by every single one of them. It was a nice and refreshing break in the middle of the day.

Nearer the evening, I ended up at the Longshan Temple, where the activity was much more hectic. Here, the outer perimeter of the main temple courtyard was made up of small altars or shrines, each containing a sculpture or two of some important figure along with various other religious paraphernalia. The locals were out in full force. Some were singing hymns in groups, but mostly they were queued up at these individual shrines, waiting for their turn to come up, kneel, light incense, and pray. As fascinating as it was to observe, it was confusing as well because I did not know what tradition this was or the meaning behind some of the more ritual actions that people went through. But being there in the middle of it filled me with something special, as I always enjoy seeing acts of true faith, that is those that concern the most sacred and inner of people’s beliefs.

After a coffee at a maid café (a big rage in Asia, probably carried over from Japan, where cafes with waitresses donning French Maid outfits are in vogue), I headed over to modern Taipei. Here, the Japanese side of things kicked in. Large, elaborate department stores. Flashy signs, Dior this, Prada that, a little Gucci here, a lot more Cartier over there. Boutique on top of boutique, surrounded by escalators and glass and expensive eateries and absolutely lacking in any kind of soul. Elegantly dressed people strolling around with their flashy paper bags, searching for something that they probably hope will bring them some sort of satisfaction. Walking through it all, my train of thought pulled into the station called injustice and stayed there for a while. Its lights and sounds would become an all too familiar place before long. In Taipei, I did not notice a downtown skyline that is a central part of many other modern metropolises. The buildings here, mostly stores and hotels, were large, but they were not skyrises. They formed a uniform line with the horizon, which gave the viewer a somewhat comforting feeling. And then, out of the literal blue, the whole thing was penetrated by a monster, rising up into the sky. Taipei 101. The world’s tallest building. Designed to look like a bamboo stalk, the eight distinctive sections were actually representative of gold ingots, which were used by Chinese royalty as currency. The whole building stands as a testament to Taiwan’s growth as an economic power. I did not get a chance to mount this impressive structure for the observation deck had already closed, but nevertheless, it was a fitting sight to see, for it stands as a great symbol of Taiwan’s future, one that is more independent of either China or Japan, neither of which have a building like this. The day ended with some Heineken and sweet and sour soup, an interesting metaphor for this trip.

WINTER'S JOURNEY 3

PART III: THAILAND – THE LAND OF SMILES

Next stop, Thailand, the Land of Smiles. Bangkok. The City of Angels. The most energetic and pulsating city in Southeast Asia. It has fascinated scores of writers, artists, and romantics for many, many years and I was honored to join that list, granted near the bottom. Disembarking from the plane, I felt the warm gusts of air seeping through the gate walk way, and hidden within them, a certain feeling of liberation, of leaving your problems at the door and embracing the beauties of life with a clean slate. The whole time in Thailand, I felt carefree, light as a feather, coasting along an invisible wave that cleared away all negativity in its path. Even in moments of distraught or anger, the wave soothed over and disintegrated any such emotion and quickly returned its rider to the Thai natural state – a smile. Undressing to a T-shirt, I hopped on the backpacker bus that slowly made its way through the mid-day traffic to Khao San Road, the young foreigner mecca of Bangkok. The noises and smells of the city filled the bus and for whatever reason I continued feeling liberated, at the most extreme ease. Traffic was horrible and at a five mile an hour pace I took in the city, or rather it took me in. The chaos, the stalls, the vendors, the mopeds, the cars, the tuk tuks (basically a bench for a seat attached to a motorcycle), the endless streams of pedestrians, and the sea of yellow. Even from the bus, I noticed the yellow shirts. An incredible number of Thais were wearing yellow shirts, with a strange insignia on the upper right hand side. Quickly it was explained to me that these shirts were the symbol of Thailand’s king, the longest reigning monarch in the world. And even quicker this explanation became self-evident, as the people’s love of their king was exhibited endlessly throughout the city in the form of huge posters and banners picturing the benevolent monarch extending his hand to all of his subjects. No where else in my experience has such devotion been so innocently shown to a living person. For over sixty years, he has been the symbol of the Thai people, infinitely loved and revered, almost divinely, and has kept the nation together through political and economic turmoil. The country has had countless coups (the most recent last fall) and has suffered economically (the 1997 southeast Asian meltdown and the 2004 tsunami) but the king has remained an enduring tribute to the resilience and loving nature of these people. And indeed, my sojourn there would not contradict this in the least. Finally the bus arrived, unloaded its evenly distributed weight of backpacker and backpacks, and I was left to find my lodgings for the next two nights.

Walking through those streets, bathed by an 80 degree sun, I was in a wholly new place. There was no Japan or China here. This city lived by its own pace and bowed down to no other. That is probably why it is such a huge and central tourist destination, for all those that come here are inevitably drawn to this spirit that can be seen, heard, and smelt everywhere. I dragged my bag behind me down a main road, down a side street, and finally arrived at my hotel, where a measly $28 a night got me a splendidly sized room with air conditioning and a balcony. Having settled, I ventured back out to Khao San road to find it inhabited solely by foreigners, with the Thai contingent serving them or selling to them. Most were tourists, some were expats, but something lent these travelers a binding air, as if all were there on some common purpose. Naturally, this could not be true, but sitting at a café, enjoying my first sip of Chang (the Thai national beer, in addition to Singha) and my first authentic Pad Thai, and looking at the throngs of passersby, I felt a communion with all those that had come here to temporarily escape their troubles. Walking back to the hotel, I tried my hand at the old haggling game, trying to secure a T-shirt with “Aeroflot: Soviet Airlines” and another with pictures captioned, “Good Bush, Bad Bush.” It was a marvelous experience, as the lady was all smiles, and there was none of that confrontational element that so heavily affected the effort back in China last year. Instead, we were playing a game, making up wonderful stories, trying to out do each other, in effort to not really buy or sell, but rather have a good time. In the end, she would not take my price, which was probably well above the range where she would still make a profit, and I walked away, actually feeling good. I had me a shower at the hotel and went out into the milky Bangkok night…

The next day was all cultural. There are many things for which Bangkok is famous, but out of the list of the top three, its temples, or wats, would definitely be included. The country is more than overwhelmingly Buddhist, so by natural extension the most representative figure of this tradition is the Buddha, and in Bangkok, the Buddha is second only to the king in terms of ubiquity. Whereas the king’s image can be seen in placards above highways, at entrances to houses, on lockets, T-shirts, jackets, umbrellas, virtually anywhere with some free space, the Buddha, on the other hand, requires a specific structure to house him, and like churches in the West, every neighborhood in Bangkok has its own unique temple. My first stop was the Grand Palace, which like the Winter Palace in St. Petersburg, is now largely ornamental. And of course the royal residence requires a Buddha of royal proportions. But more on that in a second…

One of the biggest complaints tourists make about Thailand are the scams. They are highly numerous and range in complexity. The simplest is a straightforward deception about prices, where things are sold at exorbitantly high prices because the customer does not really know any better. Among the more complicated ones involve buying really cheap VIP air-conditioned bus tickets to some destination in the south of the country, thinking one got a really good deal, and in the end being dragged around various factories where “cheap high qualities gems are for sale,” being duped into buying fake rocks, and the in the end having to stay at high-priced hotels. The most notorious scam artists in Bangkok have to be the tuk tuk drivers. There is no standard fare for hiring a tuk tuk, so prices must be negotiated before hand. State your destination, and haggle. Most first time tourists get ripped off left and right, paying twice or three times what an air-conditioned cab ride would cost to their hotel around the corner. Also, tuk tuk drivers naturally know their way around the city and so, unsuspecting tourists often ask them advice about where to go and what to see according to their own particular interests. Bad idea, for that person is likely to be taken to a place that pays the tuk tuk driver some sort of commission, which in turn translates to higher, exploitative prices for the tourist. And finally, they also like to approach you, ask you where you’re going, tell you that it’s closed at the moment, and that they have a much better itinerary for you, thus setting another expensive trap. In a country where tourism is the main source of revenue, such practices, while not necessarily positive, are not necessarily unpardonable.

So, anyway, on my jolly way to the Grand Palace, my path crossed that of a group tuk tuk drivers, who usually have a habit of congregating somewhere outside of a major attraction and trying to solicit rides. So, one comes up to me and’s like “where you going?” I was feeling chatty, so I indulged him. “Oh, going to check out the Grand Palace. Hear it’s a nice place.” And he’s like, looking me straight in the eye, “yes, yes it is, but you know, it’s actually not open to foreigners now. Special holiday, Thai people only.” I just smiled and continued, “oh really, well what time will it open up to us?” And his response, in the same vein, “hmm, not for another three hours. But I know this other beautiful temple, only a twenty minute ride away. How about it?” “How much?” “For you, my friend, only [the equivalent of $15].” “Oh, how lovely of you, thank you so much for such a wonderful deal,” I said, getting in the back of his tuk tuk…yeah. We both smiled nicely and politely at each other, as we both knew that the whole conversation was entirely not serious. I could tell that he could tell that I wasn’t taking him seriously and yet we still had a good chat. We said our goodbyes, and I left in an amused mood, for such is the nature of Thailand. Around the corner was the entrance to the Palace and not only were foreigners allowed, they were out in full force.

In Bangkok, I saw some of the most beautiful religious buildings I have ever seen. Stylistically and artistically, they looked like places where true communication with the other could transpire. Of course there are some mighty captivating cathedrals in Europe and inspired temples in Japan, but the wats of Thailand seemed to be of a different order. The first thing that aggressively attacked the senses was the color. Bright, shiny, shimmering golds and greens, sparkling in the mid-day sun, at once at odds with the Buddhist notions of emptiness and samsara, while at the same time fully reverent to the Buddha, who overcame them both. Walking among them, I got the feeling that inside a passage Elsewhere was waiting to be uncovered, if only one knew how. It was exhilarating, to say the least. At the center of the Grand Palace was Wat Phra Kaew, known at the Temple of the Emerald Buddha and also the most sacred spot in all of Thailand. On the steps leading to the entrance, hundreds of shoes scattered on the ground. Inside, at the back, the tourists, snapping away at the mesmerizing glitter in front of them. I joined with the Thai visitors, who after entering got on their knees and slowly made their way near the front, where they knelt in quiet prayer and contemplation. The object of their affection, a 45 centimeter tall seated Buddha, called the Emerald Buddha, but actually made of green jade and clothed in a gold garment that is changed three times a year according to the seasons. A rather small statue, actually, it sits on top of a tall pedestal and gazes out peacefully across the stretches of space time. And it is here, in the silence punctuated only by camera clicks, that the Thai people come to find salvation and peace. Until my legs started killing me, it was beautiful to behold.

After exiting the temple, I began to feel somewhat unwell, largely due to the unbearable crush of people. Families, tour groups, all kinds from all sorts of places, I could not really figure out what these people were doing here. Endlessly taking pictures without really even pausing to look at what they were capturing on film, they shuffled along, as zombies in the mid-day heat, yapping away, crossing off yet another bullet point off their lists. Hey, maybe I’m wrong and just angry, but I just couldn’t help feeling it, couldn’t help but think that the sacred energy of the place, on which the Thai people relied, which enabled them to enjoy contact with divinity, was sucked raw and made profane by the presence of so many who had no true business being there. Whether I too belonged in that group is a difficult question to answer.

So, I ran out. Up and down the stalls I walked, haggled here, made a purchase there. I bought a Thailand yellow shirt, which I will wear with a certain amount of pride, because I really appreciated the Thais’ love and reverence for the king, which, as I said before, was quite new and unique to me. Slowly, I made my way to Wat Pho, another definite cultural highlight of the city. Here, in a rather large and long room lay the enormous gold statue of the Reclining Buddha, which Buddhist sculpture will teach you is the Buddha in his post-human-death state, representing his ascendance into Nirvana and complete detachment from all things. Even though I knew this ahead of time, I was still not prepared for what waited. Yes, it was indeed the reclining Buddha, but of such unbelievably large proportions that it literally took my breath away. I stood, in complete awe, speechless. It is 46 meters long and 15 meters high, which in feet comes out to about 150 by 50. Now, when we come face to face with such a majestic creation, we all have different responses, different ways for dealing with the sensations that are being channeled through us. Personally, I saw the limits of human potential. This Buddha reached me, told me with overwhelming conviction that there is no place to go but here. I squatted down in a corner, took off my hat, and sat for a good twenty five minutes, not able to move, not able to think, just not able to anything. It was an immensely unique moment that I will treasure. Gradually, the shuffling of the feet past me and the incessant clinking sound that had been going on since I came in drew me back to the discomfort of this reality and I walked the 150 feet from the head to the toes and around the back. It was here that the clinking sound became clear – lining the back wall of the temple, all the way from the feet back to the head were 108 metal pots, suspended in mid air. At a table at the feet, I paid a small donation and received a small bucket filled with metal coins and queued up. A slow procession of people, each with a bucket, filtered passed the pots, dropping one coin into each. Naturally enough, it took a while and was responsible for the clinking sound that echoed throughout the building. Placing a coin in each of the pots is meant to bring merit, but for me, it gave me some time to sober up.

After that “experience,” I took a little sojourn at another smaller building, which housed yet another of the complex’ 1000 Buddha images, and as the mid-day sun wore on, made my way toward the Chao Phraya river, Bangkok’s main body of water. Here, a nice old man with almost no teeth took me on a long-tail boat tour up and down the river and I got to see more of Bangkok, old and new. At one point, two gentlemen in a row boat laden with goodies pulled up and I bought two beers and shared them with my driver, which in Thailand is a universally accepted tip. With the day coming to a close, I got off the boat near Khao San Road, proceeded to eat some super spicy soup (I couldn’t breathe properly for hours), and got back to the hotel. Here, after a short rest, I had the first of many Thai massages. Now, if you’ve never gotten one, it is a must. They are typically an hour, and the first time, ten minutes into it, I was cursing myself silly. Here’s this lady and she’s poking my body everywhere, causing this sharp and uncomfortable pain. And she’s not letting up, and she finding the exact spots where the nerves are so tight, it hurts at the slightest touch. And she ain’t just touching either. Oh, no. She’s pressing with everything she’s got. Her knees, her elbows, her knuckles. Jesus, it hurt. But, after forty or so minutes, the body was so relaxed, so unwound, that the pain receded and it was pure bliss. Like I said, it was to be the first of many.

After it was over, I wanted to go and buy the special pants that they make you wear for a massage, so in sloppy English I was told that it was at some Indian market nearby. Going outside, I flagged a tuk tuk, negotiated a price and was on my way. When we arrived, it turned out the market had long closed, but the driver still expected me to get out in what was now a dark and unpleasant alleyway. Doing no such thing and aware that Thai people tend to avoid hostile and loud confrontation most of all, I calmly asked him to take me to another market somewhere. He didn’t understand, waved his arms, and bitched me out, from what I could tell. He drove maybe fifty feet and offered the next corner as potentially more appealing to me. I told him no, he yelled some more, looked around hopelessly, and sped away. A short while later, we were back at my hotel, him virtually demanding that I get out. I told him to take me to a market near Khao San and begrudgingly he did so, and upon getting there, I paid him double the original negotiated price, and he still managed to drive off extremely angry. Never believe that a stereotype has no exceptions. Unfortunately, I never did find those pants. But I did enjoy more Chang and another pad thai, along with a new found discovery that will forever remain my top choice at any Thai restaurant – green curry. I ran into a French couple that I had met at the airport and we chatted away for a while in some mixture of French and god knows what. Tired and satisfied, I sent off some emails and went back to prepare for the next day’s difficult journey south.

A nice thing about traveling in Asia is there are some amazing deals to be found on the region’s budget airlines. My flight down cost me about $40 one way, on Air Asia, where they let you pick your own seat on a first come, first serve basis. After an hour’s flight, we landed at Krabi Airport, basically a runway with a building, and I shared a cab ride to a pier. Of course, to call it a pier is to do it undeserved justice. Rather, it was a small area shaded by bamboo, occupied by ten or so Thai dudes, sitting on the edge of a very large swamp (basically the bottom of the ocean at low tide). “Is this the boat to Rai Lei?” “Yeah, man, it’s here.” “Well, when is it coming?” “Relax man, it’ll be here.” And therein lies another of Thailand’s great comforts, the utter lack of concern for punctuality. The idea is, who cares, as long as you get to where you’re going. Nobody’s worried, and as for that little western notion of deadlines, well, leave ‘em at the door. Finally, way in the distance, a boat materialized, but to get there required a long trek across the ocean’s mud, which meant that my pants became a slightly different color. After a floating entry into a 10-person long-tail boat by 14 or so, we set off. The locals played some music, rubbed suntan on each other, and to the rhythm of 46 and 2, I watched the beautiful Thai coastline floating by. There’s no honest way to describe it, for words will always fail its beauty.

After about 20 minutes, we arrived at Rai Lei beach, a rock climber’s paradise. Composed of an East Side (read – mangroves and a horribly disfiguring low tide) and a West Side (read – beautiful beach and money), we were let off on the East and I now faced the task of finding my friend Blokh located somewhere on the island but exact whereabouts unknown. After about an hour’s worth of tugging an immensely heavy bag, I finally tracked him down and met up with him in our hotel and had a Chang and a Pad Thai to cement our re-union. He was there with a bunch of friends from all over (many were actually JETS from Japan as well, but from another prefecture) and I had me some companions for the next few days. The date, by the way, was December 31st, 2007. (Coincidentally, that very day in Bangkok, there were several quite serious bombings in the city, where some folks died and many more were injured, and many New Year’s Celebrations were canceled. Lucky me.)

Finally……swimming. Yes, in pristinely beautiful waters, I finally enjoyed the pasttime that has avoided me for almost two full years. I just floated, letting the gentle motion take me as I beheld the spectacle of sheer rock cliffs covered in trees, rising out of the earth and reaching for the sky. A slightly different yet equally satisfying form of peace, in contrast to the day before. Eventually, either Blokh or myself got the brilliant idea to rent a two-man kayak for a little cave and general open water exploration. Being the natural athletes that we are, we made it out about 300 feet or so, and yours truly immediately began bitching. We still had an hour and forty minutes to go. But, nothing left to do but suck it up, and so I did, and we got up real close to those jagged rocks sticking out of the water and barely managed to maneuver around and in between them. A true exercise in raw man power. With the sun beginning its descent into the depths, we stopped and genius me took a dive into the open water. Meanwhile Blokh was guarding my valuables (read: hat, T-shirt, Ray Bans) and making sure that the kayak would continuously be out of my reach, just to make it more interesting. Having had enough, I caught up with him, and temporarily forgetting about the laws of physics and all that, made a weakly timed lunge to get back aboard. Lo and behold. Blokh, with Ray Bans in tow, and the canoe capsized. Luckily, Blokh could swim, but unluckily, the Ray Bans could not, and so off they went in search of new adventures at the bottom of the ocean. Naturally, the whole thing was somewhat funny, but I like them glasses and also the T-Shirt. So, I made some blind dives to the bottom, which only resulted in a gash in my hand from the sharp rocks below. Faced with a maximum 40 minutes of sunlight we launched into Operation Ray Ban, which required first busting ass to the nearest beach, which was on the other side of the island from our own. Disembarking, I ran along, looking for snorkeling equipment, when I realized that it was a private beach, belonging to a large, luxurious resort hotel. No matter. I was a guest who lost important valuables in the ocean and had to rescue them. Amazing what desperation and not wearing a T-shirt will get you. So, with goggles and pipe on board, we busted back to the spot, but, again, naturally, in the initial excitement, the difficulty of marking an exact location in a rather large body of water was nowhere near our conscious activity. After another twenty minutes of futile dives, I mumbled a short but heartfelt eulogy, and, in the dusk, we set off on the return journey. When our beach came into sight, it was dark and our guiding lights were the preparations for the New Year’s Party taking place on the beach. Just a little more, come on. By this time, we were already an hour late and muscles were on the verge of retirement. But, at least the end was visible…or was it? It quickly dawned on us that we were looking at two beaches, divided by a significant jutting rock, and we had no idea which was ours. I guess there’s just something about kayaks (or just the word) that brings with it an inherent and amusing irony. This way, no that, and meanwhile these motorized long tail boats waiting to split us Right in Two are whizzing by, almost unseen. Finally, a decision to go left. More crazy rowing. No, wait. That’s not it. A sharp turn. After an immense effort, we made it to sand, only the hand of God guiding us to the right beach. As we dragged the kayak back along the shoreline, an amazingly beautiful dog sprang out of nowhere and jumped into the boat. It just sat there. Whatever. On the verge of death, we returned the thing to the extremely irate Thai dude and hurried back to prepare for the evening.

As you can imagine, this is where it gets hazy. I remember having steak for dinner and it being well below what I would call good. I remember starting on the Changs. I remember going from East to West, where the fireworks would be. I also remember the transition to the bucket, called the Samsung, which is a combination of cola, Red Bull, and an atrociously bad-tasting Thai whiskey, mixed together in a pail and consumed through straws. I remember congregating on the beach. I remember the paper lanterns, set off in the hundreds and illuminating the night sky. I remember the count down and the fireworks. I half remember walking back to the East side and chilling at a bar. I half remember meeting a group of French(ies) and practicing my by this point wonderful French. I half remember eating a corn on the cob and dancing with the French(ies). I half remember looking for the inconspicuously named Skunk Bar and, failing miserably, getting lost in the woods. I don’t remember being directed by a Jamaican to ask for something special at another bar. I don’t remember going there, asking for it, and having only half the amount of required money. I certainly don’t remember putting that special something to good use. I don’t remember Blokh growing more belligerent for some reason. I don’t remember more dancing, more frolicking. I don’t remember the beautiful sunrise on the East side. I don’t remember the walk back to the room and the not-so-gradual extinction of consciousness. Well, maybe if I try hard enough, I can.

Here’s a fair assessment of the next day – BLAH. So, first I BLAHed, and then I had some green curry and about seven coffees, before BLAHing again. Then I Skyped some folks at home to wish them a Happy New Year, then in progress, before engaging in some more BLAH. Eventually, I BLAHed my way back to the beach for a BLAHing swim. The day was over before I knew it, and in the dusk, we went to get some Thai massages, which was a welcome break to the BLAH. At night, we gorged ourselves, caught a Muay Boxing match, had a communal BLAH. Shortly thereafter I fell into a freaky BLAH-free zone, which resulted in about an hour and a half of straight dancing and then some more rocking out to an amazing sounding Thai rock cover band, which graced my ears with an extended version of Smoke on the Water, among other crowd favorites. Unfortunately, after this, the BLAH returned and there was only one way to kill it once and for all, sleep.

The ensuing days in Thailand were not particularly exciting, although they probably should have been. The key word for January second was transportation. A boat ride to the pier, a ride in the back of a pick up to the bus station, a bus ride to another pier, and a long boat ride to yet another pier, and lo and behold, after only about 9 hours of traveling we had gone from Rai Lei to Ko Samui, Thailand’s biggest and most famous island. Which, by the way, also means that it’s the most packed with tourist types, which in some minds is not so admirable. Scheduled for the following night was the world famous Full Moon Party, on neighboring Ko Pha-Nang, so we figured it would probably be a good idea just to rest tonight. We just relaxed, I spent an hour searching for an open laundromat to take care of an ever-increasing stink pile that I kept dragging from place to place, we had a nice small dinner during which I remembered that back in the states I always ordered a Thai Ice Tea, a fact that had completely slipped my mind in the country itself, and ended the evening with a low-stakes poker game, which was won by a girl (someone’s traveling companion) who claimed this was the third time she had ever played poker but cleaned out five guys without as much as blinking. To sum it up, a day of transit.

Next morning, bright and early (like twelvish), we set off for Ko Pha-Nang, a short twenty minute boat ride away. The boat was filled mostly with white foreigners who were, as I sadly realized over and over again on this trip, at least two years younger than me. In fact, that’s a reality that’s hitting me more and more now. At my age, someone can be five years younger than me and already be a fully fledged adult. That’s an idea that’s taking some getting used to. But anyway, we arrived at the island, and already I could tell what kind of day it would be. The little alleyways, lined with endless streams of shops, were nearly impassable, clogged by all sorts of human debris, automotive traffic, and the ever-present moped. In case you think, it’s possible to find an undiscovered spot in Thailand, better think again, because there are precious little secrets left, and if there are any at all, they will certainly cost a pretty amount to get to. We hired a van, which took us along the rolling and at times precarious jagged coastline to our hotel. The road literally inclined at angles as ridiculous as almost 45 degrees and looking out the window at the beautiful yet oddly angled ocean added to the surrealism of the place. We got to our bungalows, sufficiently out of the main party zone to actually be quiet, but not secluded enough to feel like you are away from it.

We lounged around. Having worn oddly fitting sandals almost the entire trip, my feet were a blistered mess, so I spent a good hour and a half walking up and down the main drag looking for a suitable replacement, but alas, the Asia Shoe Curse spread down here as well. I found one suitably sized pair, paid a small fortune (for Thailand), and within five minutes of walking in them, almost had one of my toes rubbed off. So much for comfortable shoes. Another curry and two or three more Changs and we were ready to head back to the main beach. We all piled into a van and, singing and tingling with anticipation, drove off into the shiny night, indeed illuminated by a beautiful full moon.

The scene was rather chaotic. We got off near a narrow alleyway, this time lined with small stalls selling plastic buckets. You buy a bucket, and the rest of that story has already been told. Armed with three buckets, our group moved on, or rather, battled on, through the immense crowds, to the beach, where the bulk of the party was held. Stretching for about a kilometer end to end, the beach was fronted by a variety of bars, each equipped with a sophisticated sound system, blaring a wide variety of music. Almost all the space was occupied, and taking one look down the beach, the crowd stretched all the way. Quickly we realized that the group could not stay together very long at all and indeed, one by one people fell off, and within twenty minutes, it was just three of us making our way to the Mountain Lodge, as the eastern edge, where the Space Shakes came highly recommended. This was a full moon party after all, so a little communion with nature was right what the new age doctor ordered. Alternating sips of bucket and shake, we also partook in some joyous medicine, justifying the whole thing as a night of excess. And it certainly was that. Up and down that beach we walked, and as the night grew on, so did the sense of commotion inside my head. I was wearing loose fitting white cotton pants and a white cotton shirt and a skull cap that I had purchased earlier. Looking like that, I rather resembled a Muslim and it was interesting to see people’s reactions to that. I saw many strange and rather uncomfortable looks, especially in concentrated areas, where people quickly stepped out of my way, obviously not really knowing how to deal with a devout-looking Muslim at a party that violated so many Islamic precepts. But as I said, those thoughts were gradually taken over by an increasing confusion.

Some of the bars played good music, but none of them had a clearly defined dance floor and whenever I stopped to actually dance, inevitably people would keep bumping into me from all sides, preventing any kind of positive groove. It kept happening wherever I went. Eventually, it became almost unbearable and I simply gave up trying to dance. I found a table at an out of the way bar and sat, listening to the Doors and watching the scene unfold. As the night wore on, the entire beach turned into potentially the biggest meat market of all time. Drunken spaced out hordes who had satisfied some of their excessive bodily needs were now looking to satisfy others and the entire picture was not pretty to behold. And in the meanwhile, chemically speaking, there was some sort of cancellation process in place and all I was left with as a result was a burgeoning head ache. Getting on 4 AM, I was full moon partied out and by this point I was feeling increasingly alone, even though I was literally surrounded by thousands of people. Trying to find a taxi in that mess was difficult, so I braved the moto taxi, where a courageous driver carried my bulk of a self on the back of a tiny moped up and down those treacherous 45 angled twists and turns and, as the morning sun shone its first rays on those hedonist shores, I crawled into a hammock, warded off an army of mosquitoes with the push of a button, and counted my lucky stars that I was safe and sound, back in good old 1955.

After waking up, the next 24 hours were spent getting myself back to the Bangkok airport. First, there was a boat ride back to the mainland, followed by a long van ride to the Surathani train station, where we boarded an overnight train bound for Bangkok. We were in the second class sleeper car and, to my immense surprise, we were the only foreigners on the entire train. It was a rare and rather delightful experience, because we were treated to a slice of the real (i.e. non-foreigner-tainted) Thai life and even though the train was old and not done up to the would-be expectations of foreigners, it was one of the nicest train rides I’ve ever taken. And, as a bonus, I almost completely fit into the bunks without having to lay half way across the damn car. As the beautiful Thai country side flew by and I sat on the steps in between cars, dangling my feet in the air and smoking, the warm breeze took my thoughts to a relaxed, beautiful place where worry was not on the menu and bliss was equally shared by all. After a fitful yet relaxing sleep, we arrived at the main Bangkok train station early in the morning and caught a cab to the airport, where we went our separate ways. I got on my Bangkok Air flight bound for Siem Riep, Cambodia. At $300 round trip, the 35 minute flight was by far the most expensive per kilometer that I have ever taken, so it was little wonder that the plane was filled with foreigners from all corners of the earth except the ones where a luxury such as flight was far beyond perhaps even the wildest imaginations. At the airport, I paid $20 (US) for a visa and entered one of the most fascinating countries I have ever been to.