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…
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.
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.
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.
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.
PART IV: CAMBODIA – A PLACE APART
Picked up by a moto taxi, the driver took me down the main road into the city. Lining the road were five star luxury resorts, catering to the flocks, and in between were the local residences and shops. The contrast, straight off the bat, was phenomenal. It was literally shantytowns interspersed between gigantic buildings that looked like they belonged in downtown Tokyo rather than in this jungle country, where the air was constantly thick with a murky combination of auto exhaust and a fine dust from the red dirt that most roads were made of. We pulled into my hotel, where I paid the rather expensive (for Cambodia) rate of $9 a day for a single room, changed into shorts and went out into the 80 degree January evening. Too late to visit the temples, I hired out a driver who took me to the Tonle Sap lake, the largest in Cambodia, for a sunset boat ride around the floating village. Located several kilometers outside of the town center, the trip took me through parts of the country side, providing an exposure to how Cambodians really lived.
As I’ve already said, I’ve seen similar things before - during high school, in rural Mexico, and last year, in parts of China. Given a bit of a stretch, they also exist in parts of the United States, such as Appalachia and parts of the Midwest. If asked for a word, poverty comes to mind, but it’s not quite accurate. For poverty to exist or to be properly understood, something above must exist. In the developed world, this is the class system, with a small upper class, a vast middle class, and the lower class, the lower strata of which is said to live below the poverty line, and therefore in poverty. But in Cambodia, outside of the palatial residences accessible to foreigners and the handful of rich Cambodians living out of sight (and probably in Phnom Penh, the capital) everything was poverty.
As we drove down a paved road which soon became covered in dried mud rather than asphalt, the scenes unfolding around me seemed unreal. The same automotive mayhem as everywhere else, but mostly mopeds and various other strange biwheel constructions. The few cars that were there were early 90s green Toyota Camrys. The tour buses, so visible in the city, were few and far between, except those carrying loads of Japanese tourists to the same lake destination. It was common to see entire families on one moped, with the smallest child up front, propped against the frame, with another child behind him, then the father, then another child, and the mother bringing up the rear. How they managed to maneuver around in the swarm of other traffic continues to elude me. The road was lined with literally shacks. At first, they appeared like some kind of shops, but upon a closer look, they turned out to residences. These people lived there. Basically, it was an elevated room, built on stilts to protect against the floods, made entirely of wood, and housing all of a family’s meager possessions. It was still light, so the people were outside. Shirtless children running around, mangy looking dogs chewing on God knows what, people sitting around, not doing much of anything. Chickens and pigs everywhere. And the dust, the incessant dust. Riding through all of it, I went through a mixture of awe, admiration, and sympathy. This is their way of life, I thought, this is what they know and the only thing they know. My privileged background gnawed away at my conscience as we made the twists and turns through the country and neared the lake, where I was charged an obscene $20 (which is enough for a family to live on for at least a week, if not more) to board a rickety boat, which took me down the muddy tributary leading out into the open lake.
Here was the floating village, which turned out to mean simply residences on the water, built on stakes jutting into the shallow river. As the sun began its descent, I could see people collecting inside the houses, sitting down to dinner. They cooked around a stove at the side of the room, which appeared to be the living room in the most genuine sense of the word. As we made our way down the river, I listened to my driver, who, in a difficult English, attempted to tell me about his life, about the tribulations of rural Cambodians, about how he and his seven brothers and sisters have to get by, how every single house on the river is flooded and washed away and rebuilt during every monsoon season, and how it is necessary to rebuild in the same spot because it is close to the fields where these people work. I listened and I watched. I must have counted eight or nine other boats filled with Japanese tourists, all snapping pictures, all potentially thinking the same things I was. My driver told me that the Japanese are actually the most common visitors and that they really help the Cambodian economy. I could believe it.
The small river twisted and turned and eventually, we came to the lake itself, a vast body stretching out of the line of sight. We got off at a general store, I bought a few beers, shared them with the driver and the boat operator. We made our way out into the lake a little ways, where we watched the beautiful sun, the same as everywhere else, slowly settling down into the horizon, illuminating the stretches of beautiful jungle lining the coast for miles and miles around. Slowly, we turned the boat around and headed back. The houses had electricity, usually consisting of a single light bulb, and many even had T.V.s, which were now seemingly the centers of attention of the occupants. At some point, our boat’s motor broke down, and it took a good twenty minutes to repair it. By the time we got back, it was already dark and the scarce street lights made the bumpy ride back adventurously interesting. My driver took me to get a massage, then to a nice place to eat. At night, I ventured into the nightlife district (basically one street filled with Western type bars, pubs, and restaurants, dubbed Bar Street in the guidebooks) and commingled with the likes of myself, travelers who had come to marvel at the ancient beauties of this land and received a healthy dose of the reality for the majority of the world’s people.
Several hours after sunrise the next day, I was in the back of a tuk tuk, making my way to the vast wonder that is the Angkor Archaeological Park. Undoubtedly Cambodia’s main attraction of the global spotlight, this is an immense concentration of temples and other structures that stand today to remind us all of the once flourishing glory of the Khmer civilization. The earliest temples, built around the end of the ninth century of the Common Era, are scattered around Siem Riep province, but as the ancient kingdom expanded and consolidated its power, its capital arose at Angkor, where the majority of the temples now stand. Although the architectural and artistic styles evolved and changed over the kingdom’s five hundred year history, the purpose of the temples did not. Centering around the royal palace (which today, ironically, is largely inexistent), each temple was built by an Angkor king and dedicated to a specific deity, who was believed to be the guardian god for that particular administration. Active worship and rituals took place at the temple, as well as many other state and official occasions. When the king died, the temple reverted to a place of worship of the dead king. In this way, each peg in the dynastic line would be revered and remembered by all succeeding generations. And this also explains why so many temples were constructed within such close proximity of each other. All in all, today, over forty sites are accessible to tourists. Naturally, they are in various states of deterioration, with some mere piles of rocks but others retaining the majority of the grandeur that once represented one of the greatest powers in this region of the world.
And so, after paying the dues and receiving my laminated pass, my driver for the day, Mr. Hen Chenda, dropped me off at the base of Bakheng Hill, stop number one of the two day mini tour.
My words cannot do these temples justice. For a little more fairness, go see my pictures, but even then they do not capture what needs to be seen, heard, breathed and felt. Having climbed up to the top of the hill, I had a clear view for miles and miles around. It was a beautiful sunny day and the splendor took some minutes to take completely in. In addition, this was actually the only moment of my entire time at the park where I felt some sort of unexplainable connection with a time now long gone, a sort of communion, if you will, with the people who constructed and worshiped at these temples. At the time, I attributed this largely to the absence of the immense crowds of tourists, which from that moment forth would mar any other quiet and tranquil area in the park. From the beginning of the ascent to the return, I encountered exactly three people, so for the most part, I had the vast area to myself. Even though the temple itself was not in exactly pristine shape, it was nevertheless preserved enough to picture what it may have once looked like. As I sat there, taking it in, and briefly reading over the guidebook, I reflected some more on the history of the country.
Cambodia has always been located as a kind of cross-roads in Southeast Asia, as a kind of bridge between the greater Chinese and Indian empires to the North and West and the seafaring peoples of the islands to the south including Malaysia, Indonesia, and greater Oceania. So, naturally enough, many different traditions and cultural implements passed through Cambodia at one time or another and its own culture took shape as a conglomeration of various other regional attributes. The Khmers, who unified the kingdom and expanded its boundaries well beyond its current borders into Thailand, Myanmar, and Vietnam, were thus subject to many different influences from the outside. It is not surprising, then, to find that the religion of the Angkor kings was a fluid mix of Hinduism, Buddhism, and a more ancient animist paganism local to Cambodia itself. At many of the temples, statues of the Buddha and various Bodhisattvas once stood along side those representing the immense Hindu pantheon. And although each temple was predominantly dedicated to a deity of one faith or the other, the religious intermingling goes to show that a key quality cherished in this part of the world, then and now, was tolerance. Unfortunately, none of these statues remain in the park. Most have become victims of looters and have probably found their way into the homes of private collectors, others have been moved to the museum at Phnom Penh, but the walls and stones, and the elaborate miles of carvings and bas-reliefs still stand. It is these that make a trip here fascinating, for sketched into the walls of Angkor’s temples are mythical and actual histories that trace the development of not only Buddhism and Hinduism, but the Angkor people as well. It is no wonder some people spend weeks here.
Through a series of wars, the Angkor kings were eventually weakened and had to seek refuge in a safer place, moving the capital to Phnom Penh. Cambodia itself faced invasion from the outside and instability at home, and while some of the temple compounds remained active as Buddhist temples, most of them fell prey to their biggest enemy of all, the subtropical jungle. When the French, Cambodia’s overseers for almost a hundred years (it was part of French Indochina), began restoration efforts in the mid-19th century, the temples were so consumed by jungle growth that it was a miracle they were discovered in the first place. Scores of years would go by before they were reconquered from nature’s fury. To this day, this is still clearly visible. One temple was deliberately left in its originally discovered state. Another temple, my favorite actually, Preah Kahn (Tomb Raider), is still at the mercy of the jungle, as powerful trees tore through parts of the structure, corrupting it, and actually becoming a major support pillar to the walls. Once the trees die, they collapse and deteriorate, thus leaving major weak spots and often leading to a more general collapse. Although millions of dollars are now at play in reconstructing, rebuilding and preserving these temple treasures, it will be a long time yet before they can regain their former glory. Additionally, even though major restoration was carried on through most of the 20th century as well, it had to be stopped in the late sixties with the beginning of civil turmoil in Cambodia and could not be resumed again until the 90s, when the civil wars finally came to an end. Shockingly, the country was not officially opened to tourism until 1999, but it has since become a definite stop on the itinerary of the Southeast Asian traveler.
Eventually, I came down from the hill and was taken to Angkor Thom, which was at one time the site of the royal compound, a city within a city that housed the administrative units of the empire. Some of the grandest temples stand here. Even trying to write about them all is fruitless, so I’ll spare the details. Climbing the steep stairs, looking at the bas-reliefs, catching the shade in secluded corners, all would have been rewarding activities if not for the throngs. I very soon became suffocated by the overwhelming presence of people, snapping pictures, talking loudly, listening to their guides with a potential but unconvincing interest on their faces. I’m not sure why I was so irritable, for they had as much right to be there as I did and I had no right to judge them on their decision to be there, but nevertheless it was very difficult for me to truly do these temples justice. As my guide took me from site to site, I became increasingly exhausted and unable to concentrate fully. After yet another curry for lunch, we visited a few more temples and finally came to the big one, the one most people associate with Cambodia and with Angkor, Angkor Wat.
The majesty of the five towers, coming into full view from quite far away and growing ever bigger upon coming closer, truly justifies why this particular temple is so renowned all over the world. For one thing, it is the biggest religious structures on the planet, and with the likes of the Notre Dame and its compatriots in Europe, as well as some pretty monumental Buddhist temples in the East, that is saying a lot. It is layer upon layer of complexity, concentric circles surrounded by walls harboring vast landscapes which range in content from the creation of the world, to the great battles of Hindu lore, to the everyday struggles of the Khmer people. As one climbs higher and gets closer to the central tower, representing Mt. Meru, the Hindu Olympus, which is a gateway to the divine realm, one senses the great power that once rested here. The elaboration, both of the remaining stones, and the one evoked by the imagination, guides one to a place where great beauty and a direct contact with the gods once existed, and although today it has become a crawling ground for tourists from all walks of life, it is nevertheless the one temple where a connection to the glory of the past is most directly felt. I walked around, took the requisite pictures, and although the temple has some great vantage points for a grand sunset view, the day was cloudy and it was growing dark fast. It was here that I met and chatted with some Buddhist monks, who candidly told me about their lifestyle and what it is they are hoping to achieve. And sitting there, in the central courtyard of Angkor Wat, looking at the juxtaposition of the fleeting, represented by the crowds, and the eternal, represented by the temple itself, I had another one of those rare moments of tranquility, of a satisfying inner peace, without anxiety, without worry, and without any trace of the preoccupation that usually plagues the mind wherever it happens to be. I bid adieu to the monks and walked with the crowds down the long bridge over the moat, found Mr. Chenda, and made my way back to the hotel.
Earlier that day, I actually met two people I knew at the temples, the first unexpectedly, and the second with much less surprise. First I met Bernie, who is a fellow English teacher in Japan who happens to live literally a six minute drive from where I do. We are not really friends, but seeing her all the way out in Cambodia caused a brain cell or two to tremble, thinking about the meaning of such an encounter. The second was Kevin, one of the people we had traveled with in Thailand. We had agreed to meet up, but never really made concrete plans to do so and it rather happened by accident. Later that night, we got some Mexican food, which in Cambodia, is far from Mexico quality but topped the Japanese version with flying colors. Later, we made our way to Bar Street, where another interesting encounter occurred.
We were shooting pool in a bar, and it was still early, so not very crowded, when I noticed the presence of four or five lovely looking ladies, dressed rather provocatively, and showing way more interest in our pool game than is typical for me, my looks, and my billiard skills. Now, naturally, had my life turned out differently and I had been a pool virtuoso, I would have been more deluded about this situation, but it became quite clear, quite quickly who exactly these ladies were and what they were after. But, no harm in playing a game of pool. So, we shot a couple of games and something else became clear as well. This second realization was actually more fun than the first, in a way, because it created a whole new kind of interaction mechanism for me and kind of propelled me into a whole new ballgame. In the end, nothing happened, just a few games of pool, for once prices were put on the table, it all kind of lost its appeal. But nevertheless, it did make for an interesting social experience. Needless to say, they were lady boys. I’ll leave defining that up to the imagination.
Afterwards, we went to another bar, with a dance floor, filled with foreigners, with the only reminder of Cambodia being the drink prices, and at the end of the night, ended up in a real Cambodian night club, primarily populated by locals and those looking to service them. As I was later told, that industry is quite active in Cambodia and other parts of Southeast Asia, which is a widely known fact. What is much less well known is the fact that over 80% of it exists for the local, native population and not the millions upon millions of tourists who come through the region. Thinking about all that kind of turned me off a good time, so, calling it a night, I slowly made my way home.
The next day was occupied by more temples and while I said earlier that I can understand their appeal enough to require a week’s stay, I do not understand how such immense crowds could be tolerated. Although I had purchased a three day pass, I realized that two would be more than enough. No, the real jewel of this day came in the evening. After a short nap and a massage (people, people, come to Asia, where you pay $6 for two hours, not $45 for 20 minutes), Mr. Chenda took me to his friend’s wedding party. He had told me about it before, and since I had hired his services for three days, he was technically working for me and could not go to this party. But, there was no way I was about to get in his way of going and so I graciously and excitedly accepted his invitation. Unfortunately, we arrived after the ceremony (to which he had gone while I was taking a nap in the afternoon), but just in time for the party. Set up far from the tourist areas, it was basically a large canvass sheet flung over an alleyway, suspended from the roof of two buildings. Underneath, about twenty round tables were set up, with a dance and singing area at one end. By the time we arrived, most of the food had been eaten, but I was amazed to see some brought over to our table fairly quickly. I’m not really sure what it was, but it was delicious none the less. Chenda introduced me to his friend, the groom, who graciously poured Asahi for me. We drank it with ice and later, when the ice ran out, we were drinking it warm. Round after round, both of drinks and karaoke flew by as I was continuously amazed at the warmth and hospitality of these people. Knowing enough about how they lived and what they earned, this kind of generosity could only be explained by their true inner goodness. I congratulated the wife, drank rounds with happily drunk adolescents, learned a couple of traditional Cambodian dances, most of which centered around a rhythmic walking around in a circle with certain hand, arm, and leg gestures, and by the time people were clearing out and heading home (no doubt most had work early in the morning), I was sufficiently satisfied with my Cambodian experience to call it the best part of the trip.
On the way back, Chenda invited me to his house. We drove down a bumpy road in complete darkness, for the only light was the single bulb in his moped. In Cambodia, some places get electricity for only a quarter of the day, another fact of many I learned from a well-traveled Russian I met a couple of days before while sitting on a bench in downtown Siem Riep, wondering how six or seven city blocks in the prime area of town could suddenly go completely dark, which they had, blacking out the streets for a good three hours. We took a turn from the main road and down some side streets and finally he parked his moped outside of a little hut. Four straw walls and a straw roof. We walked in. It was around one in the morning. What met me was a surreal scene. In the middle of the room, a large bed. Surrounding the bed, the barest of necessities: clothes hanging from hangers in one corner, an all-purpose desk-table covered in papers and books in another, and in between all sorts of odds and ends collected over the years. Other than the bed, the room had barely enough space for one person to move around, and yet Chenda lived here with his wife, his two children, his brother, and his brother’s fiancée. Perhaps the brother and fiancée had their own room, but I wasn’t sure because the entire family was awake and waiting to meet me. They offered me a bottle of water and I sat speaking with Chenda’s brother, whose English was good enough for him to become an actual tour guide, a position of hope and some prosperity to the locals of Siem Riep. We talked about all sorts of things, he asked me about my life, I asked him about his. The lamp flickered. In addition to the night sounds of the nearby jungle, there was an incessant clicking, coming from a contraption that looked like a tennis racket but actually designed to kill mosquitoes by electrocuting them. The whole family appeared kind and curious, looking at me with a certain degree of awe on the one hand, but also with a discernible shame on the other. Shame of their meager life, I would imagine. I could not find the right, simple words to tell them that there was absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, that their life was so pure, so free of the typical bullshit that plagues more well-off families, that I felt so honored to have been invited in, to share a tiny part of their inner happiness.
We bid our goodbyes and Chenda drove me back to the hotel, and the whole way there I could not shake the thought that I had just witnessed what is a daily experience for the majority of the world’s population and definitely could not shake the guilt that came with realizing that not once had I seriously thought about that fact.
The next day, I loafed around, went shopping for some last minute stuff, met some incoming travelers at the hotel, told them about my trip, and around six o’clock set off for the airport with Chenda. He dropped me off, we exchanged addresses, and I gave him the last of my US cash, which for me would have lasted perhaps a typical weekend night or two, but for him would be enough for his whole family to live on and equaled about a month’s wages. From the moment of entering the airport to the time of arriving in my hotel room in Bangkok for literally a night’s stay, I was overwhelmed by a very powerful emotion. The airport was packed to the brim with travelers. The Japanese, the Koreans, the Chinese, the Europeans, the Russians, the Americans. A veritable melting pot. Later, I spotted one Cambodian on the plane, a terrified-looking adolescent girl whose facial expression made it obvious that it was her first plane flight. In addition to the airport workers, I didn’t appear to see any others. All around me, many languages were spoken, undoubtedly going over the experiences of the trip, what was done, eaten, or seen. It was an entire airport of people whipping out their pens and placing check marks in their little notebooks labeled “Places to See.” With a considerable degree of sadness, I place myself in the same group. Now, many would argue that this kind of tourist activity is the life-blood of the Cambodian economy, and I am sure it is, but how people get over the contradiction between their own well-off lives, which enable them to make such a journey, and the poverty all around them, is amazing to me. I’m giving them the benefit of the doubt and assuming that it is inevitable that they would at least feel the pangs of this paradox clutching them at some point, but, just like me, once they were reunited with the familiar, back in the luxury of a modern airport, once again surrounded with the likes of their own, it quickly melted away, shelved somewhere as a unique experience to bring up when regaling others back home about their trip. I must say, mine lingered longer, causing me to look at these people with a disdain, on several occasions even building to the point of nausea, but back in the Bangkok hotel, with a nice room service curry and a Manchester United game on the T.V., I was miraculously cured. By the time the morning arrived, it was remarkable how surreal those feelings seemed.
The final day was once again about travel. For the sixth time I arrived in Bangkok’s brand new international airport and got on my flight to Taipei, where I had to spend about six hours lounging around the airport before boarding my evening flight for Osaka. Back in Japan, in the dull of winter, in the crowds, munching on my curry and rice omelet which cost about the same as a nice dinner and massage in Thailand, I thought about this trip, about how lucky I was to have seen what I did. I thought about how amazing the world is, about how expansive the array of experience, both practically and spiritually. And as I drifted into sleep on my night bus back home, this journey undoubtedly became etched into my unconscious as one of the best trips of my life…
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.
