The Overpacker

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Friday, April 9, 2010

I was drunk. Not sloppy, mind you, but you wouldn’t want me behind the wheel. I was sitting on Becca’s balcony with Franck, polishing off a bottle of red from their wedding. A lovely Cuban cigar smoldered in my hand. We were below the lip of the clear balcony railing, sheltered from the warm night breeze. None of this was according to plan, but then again, when was it ever?

I’d hoped to go to a muay thai fight at Lumphini Stadium tonight, but the Red Shirts were out in force and had spoiled my plans. It wasn’t the first time and I have a feeling it won’t be the last. The street festival from the night before had turned a bit nasty. All day I’d read reports of Red Shirts taking over TV relay stations and breaking through police and army lines. The Reds had even placed monks at the front of their lines and tried to advance on a police headquarters. In response, the police had gathered up as many female officers as they could and put them at their front, counting on the fact that monks aren’t allowed to touch females. It was part revolution, part farce.

The Reds had stepped up their pressure on the government in the face of the upcoming Songkran holiday. They wanted a new government before heading home for the holiday. I’d probably have been able to go to the fight unmolested, but at Becca’s suggestion I decided to play it safe.

Instead of watching two men beat each other senseless, I had a dinner of street food with Becca and Franck. We were only occasionally interrupted by baby Ananda’s cries for mommy’s boob.

The evening typifies what I love about being on vacation. Sure, it would have been nice to take in Thailand’s homegrown sporting event at the nation’s premiere venue but, because I lacked obligation, I stumbled upon a more perfect evening.

Before dinner, Frank put a bottle of red in the freezer to chill (I think this peculiarly French). In the dinner preparations, we all forgot it was there. Becca, Franck, and I plowed through fish with vegetables and chili paste, fried chicken, yam soup, and red rice. We had nothing but food on our minds. After dinner, Franck showed us pictures of his scuba dive trip to the Maldives. We all watched silly clips on YouTube and old videos Franck had made for his friends.

That’s when he remembered the wine and, a bit later than planned, broke it out. I can’t say either of us intended to finish the thing since it was so late. Becca was exhausted from a day of taking care of baby and headed off to bed. I hung out, missed the last boat from the condo complex, and decided to relax and just take a cab back to my hostel.

To that point, we’d only finished half the bottle. I gathered up my stuff and prepared to head home. That’s when Franck suggested I have a Cuban on the balcony. Considering the American embargo on such luxuries, how could I refuse?

Now that I think about it, a disproportionate number of my fondest memories involve cigars. After struggling to light the thing in the wind, we sat down and polished off the rest of the wine. We talked about working in Thailand, diving for a living, what we’d do if we weren’t lawyers, and getting older. The city lay before us, quiet and dark.

When I’d dragged the American contraband down to a nub, we got up and Franck pointed me in the direction of a cab. I walked down the quiet soi to the main road and hailed the first open taxi. In broken Thai I directed the driver to my hostel. He flipped on the meter and we were on our way.

A pickup truck full of Red Shirts zipped by. We edged past the site of last night’s Red rally. Cars honked their horns in support and Reds waived flags in response.

Then the taxi rolled on and all was quiet. The Reds had once again foiled my plans. All day, I’d done nothing; for some reason, though, I felt like I’d done all there was to do.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: For best results, take your holiday during an attempted revolution.

Not So Stupid Tip: To hail a cab, bus, or to get someone to come closer to you, don’t do the American version of the underhand wave. Instead, raise your arm and open and close your four fingers. If you want to be more vehement, wave downwards with your wrist or whole arm; it’s the Asian sign for, “Come here.” The American versions can come off as either confusing (best case scenario) or vulgar (not best case scenario).

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Thursday, April 8, 2010

I like big crowds for the same reason I like the ocean; they make you feel small and insignificant, like you’re in the middle of something powerful that you can’t control. In doses, it’s a humbling feeling and gently reminds you of your mortality. That’s why I went for a stroll through the center of the Red Shirt demonstrations. I ignored supposed dangers of the masses and joined the crowd to see what was what.

What was up was a rally. I’d already seen a baby one of these. Today, I saw the mama bear. I’d read a lot about how the Reds were mobilizing for a dramatic move before next week’s Songkran holiday. I’d heard about the violence committed by some of their supporters. Things like car bombs, rocket propelled grenades, burning buses, and, the staple of any dissident uprising: rock throwing. I’d also heard from Anne that the Reds were peaceful and any violence was done by people trying to discredit the movement (i.e. the government).

I didn’t know what to believe. The news organizations here are mostly government owned, so listening to them is like wholeheartedly believing your mother when she says you’re smart and good looking. She may be right, but then again she thought you were beautiful when you were born two weeks late and emerged looking like a seven pound rotten prune dipped in corn syrup. It’s a take you don’t leave unquestioned.

The English papers here are, to be generous, poorly written and spotty in their coverage. I read one piece that said the Reds had stormed parliament and later withdrew, righteously parading around a gun they’d seized from a government bodyguard. The paper suggested that the Reds believed the gun showed the government was up to no good. The two paragraph article did not, however, offer any further explanation. Aren’t bodyguards supposed to pack heat? Why do the Reds think this is a big deal? You’re not going to explain this to your English reading audience; instead you’re going to commit five grammatical and spelling errors in the lead sentence? Shit, I can do that. Sign me up. Pay me!

The best thing I’ve read on the crisis was an NPR article e-mailed by a friend. That was about a week ago. American media wasn’t going to start paying attention until a brown person kills an attractive blond American. Bottom line is, if I was going to get a semi-unbiased, up to date idea of what the hell was going on, I’d have to see it for myself.

Given the constraint that I don’t speak Thai and therefore had no idea what the speakers were saying (did he just say “rise up” or “thanks for all the cheese”?), here’s what I saw.

I’d guess there were 15,000 people. More than some estimates, less than others. The crowd was packed near the stage and thinned out as I moved further away. It stretched out 500 meters from the stage, but not much further. There were also people seated under the skyway for the BTS Skytrain just to the left and right of the stage.

The Red Shirts had centered the demonstrations on Bangkok’s central shopping district, specifically the Ratchadamri/Ratchaprarop intersection. The thoroughfare is maybe eight lanes wide and home to Gaysorn, Thailand’s most exclusive shopping center. It’s the kind of place that offers the services of a life coach who will help revamp your sense of style and your sense of entitlement.

In the shadow of Gucci, Ferragamo, and Hermione hocking Burberry, the mostly poor and rural Reds held their rally. Yes, you read that right. Hermione from Harry Potter is shilling for Burberry; in her 30-foot high poster she’s holding a preposterous number of bags. It’s excess looking down upon the oppressed.

Gaysorn was closed as were nearby Siam Paragon, Siam Center, and Central World. First world commerce had ground to a halt for fear the Reds might turn to looting and violence.

Capitalism stops for no one, though. In place of the large shopping centers there were impromptu food stalls and Red Shirt paraphernalia stores. Enterprising Thais sold red colored apparel. Some items were emblazoned with the logos and slogans of the revolution (e.g. “Truth Today” and “Love Taksin”). Some items, like the red pimp hats I saw, were unadorned and probably just pulled out to take advantage of the red circumstances. Even in the midst of chants to dissolve the government, some savvy masseuses had set up a massage parlor. How can you not have a soft spot for a movement that takes the time to get its feet rubbed?

That’s when it struck me. This felt more like a street fair or concert than a revolution. Supporters were out with their families camped out on the asphalt on picnic blankets. On the fringes of the event were food stalls and t-shirt vendors. As you moved closer to the main stage, the number of vendors increased, some seated on mats selling plastic clapping devices, bandanas, and Taksin trinkets. It was like the political version of Lollapalooza ’98.

When I looked at some of the pictures I’d taken, I thought the camera lens was smudged until I realized that the smudges were just smoke rising from the barbeque food carts. Overall, it was a festive atmosphere with the occasional group chants.

The Red Shirts even took the time to stop, stand, and play the daily 6 p.m. national anthem. A Yellow Shirt might argue the Red’s sincerity, but it’s inarguable that the crowd at least went through the motions of remaining loyal to the crown.

It was a sophisticated operation. Speakers were scattered throughout the surrounding streets, all properly timed and calibrated so that there was no reverb or echo. There were video cameras everywhere and even one on a boom that swept back and forth in front of the stage. Screens were scattered to the left, right, and front of the stage projecting images of the speaker and the crowd. The Red supporters might mostly be poor, but someone had spent a small fortune producing this spectacle.

The event even faced the most fundamental concert problem: the “where shall we piss” dilemma. To deal with this, someone had erected makeshift stalls where one could do one’s business. When I saw this, I tried not to think about the puddles I’d been stepping through as I walked through the crowds. (I didn’t see where anyone could poop, but that’s probably for the better.)

As I walked through the venue, one man held up a picture of a government official and what looked like his bodyguard hiding a shotgun under a jacket. People gathered round to take pictures of the picture. I still don’t know why this was a big deal, but it was.

Heading home, I still didn’t know what to think. To me, it seems like this is a disparate movement. Most people seem peaceful, thrilling in taking over a major intersection and drawing attention to their concerns. At the same time, there appears to be a significant portion that are more radical and willing to throw down. You could tell that just by the look on some of the speaker’s faces.

The whole situation makes me a bit sad. There’s a lot of blame to go on both sides. It’s clear that the government has one of two problems: either one of perception or one of reality. They’ve either failed to give the poor and the rural Thais something the Thaksin administration did or they’ve failed to adequately explain what they plan to do or have done.

The Red Shirts clearly do not trust this government and that, by my reckoning, is the government’s failure. To the Red Shirts, the current government’s legitimacy was questionable from the beginning. That’s because, if I read the situation correctly, this government displaced a government elected by the rural and the poor by going through the courts and via a (crown supported) military coup. Those circumstances are at the heart of the Red’s pleas for democracy. An effective government would have immediately found a way to gain the trust of people like the Reds. That hasn’t happened.

On the flip side, the Red Shirts seem to put way too much faith in one man: Thaksin. Disregard the fact that this guy’s been convicted of conflict of interest charges (i.e. he made a lot of money while in office through dubious business transactions). Disregard the fact that he seems to have tried to drag down the middle class to curry favor with the poor. Disregard that he’s in exile abroad and only countries like Saudi Arabia and Dubai will give him safe harbor. The fact is, the Red Shirts see him as a savior. They seem to think that if he comes back, everything will be better.

That’s a bridge that I couldn’t buy with Obama and I sure can’t do it here. The fact is, there are no saviors. At least not any that I trust. One man cannot right a ship as big as an entire country. If he does, then guaranteed his hands are dirtier than the soles of my slippers after walking through the rally. That man has thrown dissidents in jail, suspended civil rights, utilized death squads, robbed Peter to pay Paul, terrorized academics and priests, and, for fun, stabbed baby kittens in the face. That’s just the way the world works.

Now, some Red Shirts don’t seem so naïve. One Red’s reported to have said, “All governments are corrupt. At least Thaksin was corrupt for us.” I’ve cut my teeth on Rage Against the Machine, the Governator, and Paris Hilton and that’s more cynicism than even I can muster. It makes “meet the new boss, same as the old boss” sound like a Christmas lyric.

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Programming Note: I didn’t feel threatened the whole evening. People did look at me a bit strangely, though. I figured it was because I looked Thai and wasn’t wearing any red to a Red Shirt rally. Turns out ignorance is bliss. I’d chosen to wear a San Diego Charger blue t-shirt. In a country where color matters, I’d inadvertently picked the color of a group of people who’d violently fought against the Reds in their uprising last year. We’re talking people who went to battle and put down a Red rebellion.

It probably explains why people were looking at me funny and why I only saw four people with blue shirts, all of whom were wearing red sashes tied around their necks. Becca thinks I was spared by the presence of my camera. I think she’s being a bit paranoid. Regardless, this once again proves that whatever skill I might possess, I am 20 times as lucky.

Dateline: Suburb on the outskirts of Bangkok, Thailand – Wednesday, April 7, 2010

Nothing much to report today. After the chicken farm tour yesterday, I crashed at my uncle’s place. I decided to stay in. That meant sitting at my uncle’s place doing laundry, editing and compressing pictures, and catching up on writing. Between surfing the internet and working the washing machine, I pounded out word after word on chickens and, more importantly, the scuba dive trip. I finished the chicken entry, but have not finished the dive trip. It’s taking a lot longer than I’d hoped.

I do have a couple interesting tidbits from my day in. First, the washing machine. The one here uses a hose in the bathroom to fill up the washing drum. You dump in the soap in the drum, then drop in your clothes and set how long you want the machine to agitate. Here’s where it gets different.

When the machine is done sloshing around your clothes in soapy water, you drain the machine by flipping a switch. A valve opens on the bottom of the drum and the machine drains onto the floor. A drain takes all that water away.

This process explains a previous mystery: why is there a lip on the bathroom floor? The machine drains faster than the room will drain. If you didn’t have the lip, water would flood the toilet area and the hall outside. The lip prevents that from happening.

After the machine has drained, you take your soapy clothes and put them in a smaller drum on the right side of the machine. That drum spins the water out of the clothes. Then, you pull the clothes out of the spinner, dump them back into the main drum on the left, flip a switch to close the drain, then fill the thing back up again with water, this time for the rinse cycle. You set the machine to agitate again. Once that’s through, you put the wet clothes back in the spinner, wring the water out, then pull the clothes out and hang them on a line.

It’s a much more time intensive process than the all-in-one washing machines back home. It’s a damn sight better than what I’ve been able to do by hand. My cargos are as clean as they’ve been since I got here.

For lunch I had a cup of noodles, Thai style. It came with little shrimps, an oil packet, and a chili packet. Best of all, it came with a little folded up fork. This is brilliant. I didn’t even need to find a utensil because one was included for me. America, we need this innovation at home.

When my aunt and uncle got home, we went to dinner and pigged out on Thai fried chicken, papaya salad, seafood papaya salad, fish cake, and fried fish. Note, you’re allowed to eat fried chicken with your hands here. That’s what my uncle insisted that I do. Being Filipino, he didn’t have to ask me twice.

For dessert I had green rice noodle things in coconut milk, cream, and ice. My aunt thought it was too sweet. I’m a sugar junky, so I thought it was just right.

Afterwards, we visited my uncle’s daughter and her husband. They’d just given my uncle and aunt their first grandchild. They wanted to drop by and tell baby goodnight. A nice gesture, I thought, but I couldn’t help but wonder whether grandkid #2 would get the same treatment when he or she eventually came along. I have a feeling kid #1 doesn’t care. I know I didn’t (no offense, bro).

And that’s that. Wish I had more, but some vacation days are more work than they are fun. When I read that last sentence over, it makes no kinda sense. I may have broken my vacation.

Dateline: Phetchabun and Lopburi Provinces, Thailand – Tuesday, April 6, 2010

Mervyn visited a couple of chicken factories in the provinces north of Bangkok. We sat down with him to ask him a few questions about his experience. This is a transcript of that interview.

Interviewer: So, you toured a chicken factory. That seems like an odd thing to do while on holiday. What led to your visit?

Mervyn: Well, a friend of my dad’s is an executive at one of the largest chicken producers in Thailand. They distribute to most countries in Asia and to Europe. He asked if I wanted to visit a couple of his chicken factories while I was here. I’d never been to a chicken factory before, so I said, “Yes.”

Interviewer: But you’ve never severed a limb or spent three months in a Chinese gulag either. Those are “once in a lifetime” opportunities, but I don’t see you rushing off to buy a table saw or agitate for human rights in China.

Mervyn: An astute observation. Your two examples seem dangerous and scary, though, and I’m mostly a coward. Plus, they’d probably permanently alter my quality of life, whereas I didn’t see that happening visiting a chicken plant.

Interviewer: We’ll get to whether the visit to a chicken death camp altered your life. First, let’s talk about the trip to the factories. My understanding is that they’re not near Bangkok. How did you get there?

Mervyn: I met my uncle at his office. . .

Interviewer: Wait, you have an uncle?

Mervyn: Oh, yeah. Sorry. I call my dad’s friend “uncle. “ It’s an Asian thing.

Interviewer: Oh really? I didn’t know that.

Mervyn: Yeah. I call all of my parents’ friends “uncle” or “auntie.” It’s a sign of respect. In Asian cultures, it’s sort of a no no to call elders by their first name unless it’s preceded by some sort of honorific. When I was growing up, I thought that everyone did something like that. That is, until I met a White friend whose parent’s insisted I call them by their first name. That kinda freaked me out. I probably would have been more comfortable if they’d have introduced themselves to me naked.

Interviewer: If you say so. . . So you went to your “uncle’s” office.

Mervyn: Yeah. I met him there and he loaded up two vans with lesser chicken executives and we headed out to visit two factories. The first was about 2 hours away. The second was about an hour or so past that.

Interviewer: That’s a long day.

Mervyn: Tell me about it. It didn’t help that my uncle also insisted that two of the female execs sit in our van. He said, “I’m not trying to set you up,” then proceeded tell them that I was a lawyer from America who billed out at $450 an hour and was “the #1 on the bar exam.” I couldn’t even self-deprecate or correct him because I don’t speak Thai and they didn’t really speak English.

Interviewer: Sounds uncomfortable.

Mervyn: Nah. Just an awkward moment in a really long drive. All in good fun. I got to poke fun at him a little when we got to the first factory. We sat down for lunch and he introduced me to his team. They were all 35 or younger. Basically, my age. VPs, managers, and so forth. I pointed out that he was nearly double their age. I later found out that they also call him “uncle.”

Interviewer: So you had lunch at the factory. Did they serve chicken?

Mervyn: Of course they did! [laughing] They also served stuffed shrimp, curry, shrimp cakes, iced coffee, and spicy beef salad. They actually have their own restaurant on site. It’s part of what amounts to a resort that’s on the factory property. The compound is about 2,000 acres and they’ve set aside a portion of it for housing, recreation, décor (like fountains and trees) and food for visiting clients who stay to oversee production of their goods.

For example, a client might send someone over to fine tune a breading recipe for their frozen chicken breasts or to help adjust how the chickens are disassembled so that the size, shape, and color of the meat fit the client’s needs.

Interviewer: Huh. I never would have thought about having a resort at a chicken killing factory. Sounds surreal.

Mervyn: It sort of was.

Interviewer: So after lunch you toured the factory?

Mervyn: Yeah. The drill was pretty much the same for the whole day. My uncle and his team would head into a meeting with the factory people and I’d get passed around between strangers with varying degrees of enthusiasm, sort like I was a senile aunt bouncing between the homes of nieces and nephews. Most of the people who had me spoke English and gave me tours.

They were all young and all had been food science engineering majors in undergrad. Most had master’s degrees. One girl, whose English was very good, lived in California for a summer working at Magic Mountain on the Roaring Rapids ride. So random.

Interviewer: What were the tours like? What did you learn?

Mervyn: Well, it’s probably best if I combine some stuff. I toured two slaughterhouses and two processing plants, but they do similar types of things with some slight differences. You mind if I just describe the overall chicken process, then describe the differences between the sites?

Interviewer: No problem. Whatever you like. I’m on salary so if this is more efficient, all the better.

Mervyn: Cool. Okay, so the way I see it there are three general stages to processing chicken meat. First, there’s the breeding and growth stage. That’s where they take the “grandparent” chickens, manage evolution, and try to breed the best boiler chickens possible. Then, they take those grandparents, and make parent chickens. These parent chickens start laying eggs like crazy. The children of these parents are what end up in shipping containers to all parts of the world.

Interviewer: So did you visit a chicken farm?

Mervyn: No, unfortunately I didn’t. Apparently the place is locked down tighter than George W. Bush’s tell-all My Little Pony secret diary. A visit to the farm would have taken two days. Not to travel, mind you, but to be screened. I’d have to strip down naked, get sprayed down twice with special cleaning solvents, have my temperature taken (considering I’d have been naked, I didn’t ask where the put the thermometer), waited 36 hours in a secure environment while they ran tests on my blood and urine, have my temperature taken again, taken a lie detector test, been forced to drink 5 gallons of holy water, and then had watch a 3 hour loop of the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air theme song. Only then would I have been allowed to see the chickens.

Interviewer: That sounds extensive. . .

Mervyn: Well, I might have made some of that up. I do know for sure I’d have been in quarantine and had to get naked. As my uncle said, “The chicken farm is for chickens. Not for tourist or research or visit.” Since it sounded like a concentration camp, I didn’t put up much of a fight.

Interviewer: So after the chickens are full grown they come to the factory for the second stage of chicken processing.

Mervyn: Yeah. Next, the full grown birds get driven over in trucks to the slaughterhouse.

Interviewer: So did you get any juicy pictures of mass murder in action?

Mervyn: Unfortunately, I did not. The way the tour worked, my guide and I would look through a window down onto the factory floor. When we got to the killing floor of the slaughterhouse, I didn’t get a chance for a decent pic.

That’s because the killing room is dark and lit only by a pale blue light. The mood lighting is to calm the chickens. Unfortunately, that meant none of the pictures would have come out. The chickens weren’t actually killed in view of the window anyway. All I got to see was a distant view of chickens getting pulled out of plastic crates and being hung by their feet on a metal assembly line device.

Two things struck me about the process, though. First, the birds didn’t really move except when they flapped their wings just as they were hung upside down. Second, the birds were big and fat. I’m talking sumo big. When live boiler chickens have all their feathers and heads and feet, they look like white fluffy bowling balls that’d come up past your knees. I’m not exaggerating.

Interviewer: What are these, mutant chickens?

Mervyn: I asked about genetic modification, and they said that they don’t do that. Nor do they use hormones or antibiotics. They grow the chickens in gigantic open ranges that are housed in a sealed, temperature controlled building. The birds aren’t stacked in cages like I’ve seen in some pictures. The company even grows their own feed. Chickens raised for cooking are a lot larger when they’re alive than when they’re plucked and at the butcher shop.

Interviewer: So how are the chickens killed?

Mervyn: They’re killed by hand. All the factories are halal, so they have specially trained people who kill the birds according to Muslim requirements. First, the chickens are stunned with an electric shock, washed, then a trained man with a knife cuts its throat. I think the cutting is the halal part, not the electric shock.

From there the chickens are blanched in hot water and defeathered by a giant machine. I did get a picture of that machine. It winds back and forth. You can’t see the chickens only their feathers, so if you didn’t know better, you might think you were looking at a down feather comforter factory.

Interviewer: Really?

Mervyn: Until you noticed the blood.

Interviewer: Oh.

Mervyn: Overall, the process isn’t that bloody. Actually, the process is quite clean. The first area where the killing happens is designated “dirty.” The defeathering section is called “unclean” as is the part where they’re gutted and their feet and heads are removed. They have government inspectors in the gutting room. You can tell them by the yellow bands on their hats. All the dirty and unclean processes take about 15 minutes.

Everything else after the gutting room is considered a “clean” zone.

Interviewer: Why is that?

Mervyn: I think it’s because everything beyond that will be consumed by humans. They work really hard to make sure there’s no contamination.

After the birds are gutted, they’re cooled down to 4 degrees Celsius. Did you know, by the way, that the word “Celsius” is spelled with an “s” in the middle, not a “c”?

Interviewer: Actually, I did.

Mervyn: Oh. Ummm. . .I had to look it up.

Interviewer: It’s a common mistake. You Americans and your useless “Fahrenheit” and inches. It’s a wonder you get anything done.

Mervyn: Uhhh, okay.

Interviewer: Let’s move on. So, how are the birds chilled?

Mervyn: Right. They’re chilled one of two ways. At the first, older factory, they were washed three times in cold water. The chickens are dumped into a series of giant screw-like devices that have been turned on their side. The sideways screws are half submerged in cold water. The screws rotate and push the birds through three separate baths. Then they’re dumped onto a conveyor belt where they’re re-hung by what’s left of their necks.

Interviewer: You said there was a second way?

Mervyn: At the second, newer factory the birds were air cooled. The chickens travel through a room with near freezing air along a track that winds back and forth for 3.5 kilometers, the equivalent of nearly 2.25 miles.

Interviewer: [snickers] “Miles”. . .

Mervyn: The process takes two and a half hours, whereas the baths take only a few minutes.

Interviewer: That’s a lot of “miles” and time. Why use air cooling if the baths are faster?

Mervyn: At least two reasons. My guide tried to explain this to me, but his English was a little rough. First, there’s a lower chance of contamination. If one bird is contaminated in the bath, it can contaminate the other birds. In the air chilled process, one contaminated bird would only come in contact with two birds, at most.

Second, the air cooling process is a bit gentler on the meat because it takes longer. It’s a small difference, I think, but I guess it’s noticeable.

Interviewer: The chicken business is a lot more complicated than I would have thought.

Mervyn: That’s because you lack imagination.

Interviewer: Are you getting snippy with me because of the whole metric Celsius and mile thing?

Mervyn: Maybe. But you started it.

Anyway, after the birds are chilled, they’re butchered in earnest. They’re sliced at the wings. Then a worker slices each one across and up and down the body. This is the job that requires the most skill since these cross cutter workers have to handle 160 birds a minute.

Interviewer: That’s 320 cuts a minute!

Mervyn: You can do math.

Interviewer: Okay, so I apologize for the whole metric thing. Can we move on?

Mervyn: Fine.

The assembly line butchers the bird from the outside in, going from wings to legs to breasts to insides to the carcass. Each breast, leg, thigh, wing, or whatever is cut off the bird, then cut into smaller pieces by a line of knife-wielding workers.

Some meat is separated so it can be cut especially for customer specifications. All the cutting is done by hand.

I asked why they didn’t do the whole process with machines and a production manager said the cuts were better done by humans since humans pull at the meat and the machines would just slice.

From there, the meat is separated by weight. There’s a fascinating machine that uses plastic arms to snap up little pieces of meat that meet certain specifications.

Interviewer: So you’ve got stage one: breeding and growing chickens. Then you’ve got stage two: killing and butchering chickens.

After that you’ve presumably got the final stage: cooking and bagging chickens. So after the birds are sliced and diced, they’re parts are either bagged raw or moved on to the processing plant. At the processing plant they’re battered, breaded, fried, baked, or whatever the client desires. There was even a person working there, alone in a room, whose sole job seemed to be to make sure the meat was properly spaced before it entered the oven.

Clients can develop their own recipes and preparation processes and the chicken factory can execute them. In fact, the factory has an in-house lab and cooking facility where they test new flavors and see how different processes affect the consumers’ cooking time, cooking procedure, and so forth. They even have a kitchen that cooks the finished product in Asian appliances and a kitchen that cooks them in European appliances. There’s a lot. . .

Mervyn: Wait, what the hell’s going on here? Quit reading off my notes.

Interviewer: Sorry. You were taking too long. Remember, I’m paid on salary, not by the hour. The faster we get this shit done, the better. Grey’s is coming on and I want to watch it live.

Mervyn: What? Wait, did you just swear? Are you allowed to do that? Isn’t this going in a family publication? And isn’t Grey’s in reruns? Is it even on tonight? Wait, what am I talking about? I’m the interviewee. You ask questions, I give the answers. YOU interview ME, gosh darn it.

Interview: Rightrightright. You were saying.

Mervyn: Sheesh and gee whiz you’re difficult to deal with.

Where was I. . .Uhhh, so they try out the finished products in onsite test kitchen facilities that mimic European and Asian setups.

Interviewer: I said that.

Mervyn: Gravy and biscuits would you just do your job and quit with the commentary?

[points at picture]

If you look closely at one of the pics, you can see in little tiny writing that the cooked and bagged chicken is headed to Japan while others are headed to Korea. In the lower left, bags are being fed through a metal detector to make sure that…

Interviewer: . . .that there’s no metal in the chicken.

Mervyn: Right. [glares] Anyway, what I liked about the whole process is that everyone was dressed as a ninja. Red ninjas, brown ninjas, white ninjas, yellow, purple, green. All the colors signified rank and function. Supervisors, inspectors, floor managers, cutters, gutters, dismemberers. It was like being at an assassin academy, except instead of humans the ninjas murdered fowl.

Interviewer: That’s pretty cool. I like ninjas.

Mervyn: I know you do. I asked one of the guides what a typical work week was like. He said he got in at 7 a.m. and left around 7 p.m. He did that 6 days a week. That’s a 72 hour work week.

Interviewer: Makes you feel like a pampered bastard, doesn’t it? Your big firm life don’t look so arduous anymore does it?

Mervyn: Why can’t you just use the word “tough”? “Arduous”. . . Who you trying to impress.

Interviewer: Is that a statement or a question?

Mervyn: [sighs] Moving on. So the ninjas work hard. Real hard. They have to meet customer demands for color, size, shape, composition (for example, amount of skin, fat, and so forth), and production targets for a certain tonnage of chickens.

The place is a well oiled machine. There are a number of factories (I saw only two). Each can slaughter and process 200,000 to 800,000 birds a day depending on how many shifts the factory runs.

For the factories that use the automated layout with the air chill, a bird comes in live and is fully butchered in about 3 hours or so. For the more human intensive layout with cold water baths, the bird fulfills its destiny in 45 minutes. Add the breading, battering, frying, or oven time or whatever and they’re churning through birds like Lauren Conrad burns through hair extensions.

Interviewer: No kidding. That’s a lot of birds.

Mervyn: That’s what I said. Repeatedly. Throughout the day.

Interviewer: Some of your pics look like you needed to clean the lens. What’s up with your camera?

Mervyn: Nothing. There was condensation on the windows and I couldn’t take all of it off. The Thai workers were bemused with my determination to get a clear shot.

Interviewer: So I guess that brings us to the big question. Now that you’ve seen how the sausage is made (so to speak), can you still eat chicken?

Mervyn: In a heartbeat. In fact, right before this interview, I ate a whole bird, raw. My only hope is that factories and farms in the U.S. are as well run as the ones I saw.

Interviewer: You think that has anything to do with you not actually seeing the chickens being killed? I mean, if you got a little chicken blood on you, you might feel differently.

Mervyn: Perhaps, but I doubt it. In fact, I’ve always wanted to kill something and eat it. You know, sort of to see whether I could do it and how it feels.

Interviewer: You’re weird.

Mervyn: No, you are you pieface.

Interviewer: You know, when you attack me with names like that, you’re really just attacking yourself.

Mervyn: Is that some kind of Buddhist thing where me hating you is really just me loathing myself?  I’m not into that mysticism crap.

Interviewer: No, you jackass!  By attacking me, you really are just attacking YOURSELF.

Mervyn: Oh. . .yeah, that’s right.  Wait. . .but you just did the same thing right now…jackass!

Interviewer: This thing’s over.

Mervyn: Like I didn’t know that already.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Monday, April 5, 2010

I love food courts in Thailand. Here, they don’t have the stink of cheap, processed mall food. They’re a collection of small operations specializing in a particular kind of food. Other than street food stands, they are one of the most economical ways to eat.

I’m here at the MBK shopping center food court because I’ve got nothing to write about, mostly, and because I’m starving, partly. If left on my own, without this writing project, I’d probably just sit in my room and eat something from 7-11. My failure earlier in the day, however, has driven me to the outdoors. Because I have to have something at least remotely interesting to write about, I’ve trekked the 100 yards to the BTS station, boarded a train, changed trains, and am not sitting at the MBK food court. This website is why I’m sitting here, right now at 9:30 p.m. looking for mall food.

I started the day with such ambition. I went to my tailor’s to see if I could get a couple shirts made. My plan was to ship them back to the U.S. with some books and other junk (read: Chacos). That didn’t work because he’s going to be closed for the rest of the week for Songkran. I’d be out of Bangkok by the time he finishes the shirts.

With that failure in my pocket, I went to lunch with Fon. I managed to overeat Japanese. Afterwards, I went to Siam Paragon to try to buy a book, again, but the Red Shirts were still out in force, so Paragon remained closed, again.

I thought about getting a massage, but then, for some reason, it got hot. Who saw that coming? I headed back to my room, flipped on the AC, and immediately fell asleep. I dreamed I hadn’t done anything write worthy all day and woke up realizing that I hadn’t. That’s when I resolved to hit the food court.

So, in front of me sit my food court victims. First up is an egg noodle soup with duck. It cost me 40 baht ($1.33). It’s piping hot. The meat is just right and, though the broth is a little salty, it hits the spot.

Next up is something I picked up on a whim. Durian over sticky rice. Now, you know that I’m a fan of mango over sticky rice. In fact, I almost went with the old staple a few seconds ago. Today, I go dangerous and have the stinkiest fruit on the planet. On a day like today, it’s what passes as adventure.

If you don’t know, durian is a spiky-skinned fruit that has a pungent odor. Something in the neighborhood of Vlade Divac’s armpits wrapped in moldy bacon that’s been dipped in anti-freeze. It’s a delicacy. This, even though the meat of the fruit actually looks like meat. Chinese boiled chicken meat to be exact. It’s yellowish with strands of sinew. If you can get passed that, the fruit is supposed to be delicious.

My experience with durian has been mixed. Sometimes it’s been good, other times just tolerable. It’s never been disgusting to me, but that’s probably because I have a poor sense of smell. It’s not a favorite, though.

Today’s concoction has the durian shredded(?) over sticky rice and doused with sweet milk. It’s… okay. The durian has a kind of rubbery texture to it, which I chalk up to it not being totally fresh. I can catch a hint of dirty socks in the flavor, so it doesn’t go down as easy as normal. I’ll stick to my mango, thank you very much. At least until I don’t have anything to write about.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If you’d like a lazy, leisurely holiday, don’t commit to writing everyday.

Not So Stupid Tip: Food courts are where it’s at. If you can’t find a food cart because of the heat, just duck into the closest shopping center and look for the food. Chances are you’ll be able to find street-food-like sustenance except in the comforts of an air conditioned environment.

Programming Note: While waiting for the BTS train to MBK, my uncle called me. He’s taking me to the chicken factory tomorrow. Joy of joys. I’m looking forward to this a little too much. With any luck, it’ll be full of blood and guts and gore. Should more than make up for today.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand – Sunday, April 4, 2010

Today my plan was to go to Siam Paragon and browse a bookstore for my next travel book. I’ve been on a tear for the last few weeks, reading various memoirists and essayist, trying to pick up what makes for good writing. Also, I just like to read. To my chagrin, but not to my surprise, a third of the weight I’m carrying in my luggage is books.

It was not to be. Siam Paragon, and the largest English bookstore in Bangkok contained therein, had been shut down because of the protests. When I got off at the Siam BTS station, instead of being greeted by the grinding wheels of commerce, I was accosted by a man on the back of a pickup truck, ranting into a microphone.

Businesses inside the most high end mall in Bangkok had all shut down for fear of the Red Shirts, who are primarily made up of the sorts of people who can’t afford one button on a Versace dress. Even though I just wanted a book, I couldn’t help but feel like an imperialist. The people were rising up and I was peeved that I wouldn’t get to shop.

The Red Shirts had blockaded the main street in front of the mall. People were parked in their cars, sleeping on the asphalt, waving banners, and riding around on motorbikes honking their horns. This scene was being played throughout the city at various protest sites. The protesters were savvy in choosing the most trafficked intersections and the heart of the business district. They also were smart enough to protest in the shade provided by the skytrain tracks above. They’d march and they’d yell and they’d lie in the street, but they didn’t do it in the sun. Smart, considering the noonday heat.

My plans waylaid, I checked my e-mail. I’d booked a bed at Bed Supper Club, one of the more interesting restaurants in Bangkok. You eat lounging on beds instead of seated at tables. It’s the indoor version of Spring. Me (a Thai looking guy) and Christoffer (Swede) going to Bed Supper Club to have dinner on a bed puts the “Swedish Man Buys Himself a Thai Male Prostitute” factor through the roof. In an effort to mitigate this I’d asked Fon, one of Becca’s friends, to join Christoffer and I for dinner. She didn’t want to go to Bed Supper though. Apparently it has a rep for being the place for Thai women (or hookers) to pick up farang men. If she went, she’d have been in the same boat as I was.

Out of the kindness of her heart, though, she’d finally agreed. My hope was that with two Thai looking people it’d confuse any onlookers. Was the Swedish guy friends with a Thai couple? Was the Swedish man buying the girl? The guy? Was the Swedish guy just a greedy bisexual sex tourist? I didn’t care. I least I could have someone who understood my pain.

Like my plans to buy a book, it was not to be. Christoffer had e-mailed me to say he was leaving later that night, not the next day. He wouldn’t be able to make the 7:30 reservation.

He also said he was going to go shopping at MBK. Since we hadn’t met up since we parted ways in Ko Lanta, I decided to try and meet him at the MBK shopping center.

MBK is the size of a large village. Its seven floors crammed with a maze of haberdashers, shirt sellers, trinket salesmen, underwear shops, art dealers, and the like. It’s like the outdoor markets are indoors.

I wandered, checked my e-mail, wandered some more. Finally, Chrisoffer called me on my cellphone from a pay phone. Even then, it took longer than I’d have expected because I told Christoffer I was on a floor that I wasn’t.

We ended up shopping a bit. I got to try out my bargaining skills, which is like watching me try to tie my shoelaces with my fingers duct taped together. There comes a point where I don’t care about the money enough to get the “best price.” I ended up paying 50 baht more for an item that Chrisoffer had bought the day before. I think it’s because I’m brown and he’s not.

After talking with Christoffer, I cancelled the reservation at Bed Supper and booked an early seating at Indus, Becca’s favorite Indian restaurant. In the end, Fon got her wish. No being mistaken for prostitutes tonight for the both of us.

On the skytrain ride to a pre-dinner massage, we rocketed over the protesters. Their numbers had swelled to thousands and they’d emerged from the shadow of the skytrain to occupy one of the largest roads in Bangkok. Once again showing savvy, they had held their main forces until it had cooled in the afternoon.

Dinner was good and excessive. We ordered like it was our last meal, which for Christoffer, I guess it kinda was. Lamb curry, vegetable samosas, paneer wrap, tandoori chicken, and something that resembled the Indian version of taco salad. Throughout the meal I sipped at a cinnamon laksi. Becca was right, this place hit it out of the park. Eating with Christoffer is a lot of fun. He has a much more refined palate than me and can identify exactly what’s in each dish. It’s like having a human tricorder. “This has saffron and red. . .no green pepper. Hold on Spock, something’s wrong. Set phasers to sear.”

The setting was great, too. We were the first people in the restaurant and had the whole garden to ourselves. It’s as if I rented the place just for us. If Christoffer hadn’t been in such a rush, perhaps we’d have lingered a bit longer for a hookah.

After dessert and coffee at a shop nearby, Christoffer headed to the airport and Fon and I headed in opposite directions on the BTS. Perhaps I will plan on having all my plans fall through again tomorrow.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Do not go book shopping during an attempted revolution.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you decide to use the MRT, Bangkok’s subway system, know that it’s a bit different than the Skytrain. You have to buy tokens either at the machines or at a ticket window. To get into the subway, swipe the token at the entrance gate. The gate will open and you can go through. When you get to your destination, drop the black plastic token into the gate to get out.

Or, you can do what I did, which is get your black token from the ticket booth, walk to the ticket machines to try to deposit the token there, then realize that the two White people in front of you just tried this and failed, follow them to the gate and ape them after they bumble their way through the proper procedure. Covert tourist operations; just one of the many benefits of being brown in a brown land.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand, Saturday, April 3, 2010

Bangkok does a good job of giving you interesting places to eat. Take tonight for example. I’m at a restaurant called Spring. The restaurant is primarily housed in a renovated, traditional Thai style house. The building retains the shape and floor plan of an old fashioned residence, but updates it with modern materials and styling. For example, the whole front of the building is glass and the motif is white. Not really traditional Thai.

My favorite part of the building is the vaulted ceiling entrance which has most of the seating. There’s a staircase that goes up to a large loft. The whole wall next to the staircase is made of bookshelves that are stocked with a fake library of literary works and art. If I ever get round to founding the next Microsoft, I’m having that feature put in my three-story den, which will be next to the indoor waterfall and lion enclosures and across from the space shuttle launch pad.

I’m here because Becca organized a night out. She’s been hankering for a break from motherhood and has assembled a group of her friends for dinner and some wine. I’ve been informed that I must drink and that Becca’s happiness depends on it. Say no more.

As lovely as the renovated house is, though, we’re not eating in it. No, we’re seated outdoors on the lawn. As anyone who’s had Sunday morning brunch with me can tell you, I love eating outdoors. Spring has taken my love to another level.

Not only are we outdoors, we’re eating while lounging on oversized leather cushions that are sitting on the lawn. This is a little slice of heaven for me, a man who feels that socks (and mosquitoes) are proof of the fall of man. Here I get to kick off my shoes and wiggle my toes are in the grass. It’s a civilized man’s picnic.

I’ve even dressed up a bit and put on a long sleeve shirt. In Bangkok, I would normally consider this lunacy, but since it’s after sunset, I’m quite comfortable. It also helps that Becca’s friends are quite nice, which removes any secondary reason to sweat.

Because this is a restaurant, I should talk about the food. We had a number of starters. Fish cakes were solid, but I consider those like French fries so it’d be more of a surprise if they were terrible. I mean, they’re really just fished versions of Chicken McNuggets, so they’re bound to be good. There was a salmon salad, which was fine, but not particularly memorable. It was even a little overdressed and soggy for my taste. There were salmon (I think) wraps that used Ethiopian flat bread, which gave the app a more sour base. I liked it. There was more, but I can’t remember it all.

My main was mutton with Malay style rice. I was a little disappointed in this. When I see a lamb chop, I expect it to be closer to rare than burnt. I could taste the charcoal in mine.

While the meal was so-so, the dessert was quite good. All assortments of chocolate mousse, chocolate crepes with chocolate sauce, and some sort of pudding things. At this point in the meal, I was just gorging. That’s partially because Becca abandoned her dessert to rescue her husband from a screaming child. I’d like to thank Ananda for his irritability, since it provided me with a double portion of sweets.

Now, despite my track record and the preceding paragraphs describing the food, you’ll notice a distinct lack of food pictures. That’s for two reasons. First, the lighting was crap and the few pictures that I did take make everything look like I covered the camera lens in Vaseline, limousine tint, and glaucoma. You can only make out the food if you jam your thumbs in your eyes and use your imagination.

Second, the food wasn’t that important. Which brings me to my point (yes, I have one). Food can serve many purposes. It can be art; something beautiful to be admired, appreciated, and enjoyed like a Picasso or Emmanuelle Chriqui’s breasts. It can also be functional. Think of scarfing down lunch at the office during a 10 minute break between conference calls. It can also be the activity which you all share with a good group of friends.

Tonight was about hanging out with friends. The food was not the best (but how often is it ever, really). The conversation, the friends, the lawn, the cushions, and my feet in the grass were all superb. It was a fine night out and I’d be happy if I could do it again some time.

Now, before all this eating out awesomeness, I arrived in Bangkok on a train. I slept on the bottom bunk and therefore had a window. This window was clear which meant the sun shone in. Since I’m a restless sleeper during travel, that meant that even though I had the curtains drawn I was up at dawn. I had to wait around for everyone else to get up.

Getting into Bangkok took longer than expected. We got held up by red shirt protesters who were marching through a train crossing. They all looked cheery and enthusiastic when we finally passed through them. I give them this, they have got spirit.

We disembarked about 30 minutes late. I said goodbye to my fellow Filipino travelers. The two French girls who I’d hung out with most of the trip headed off to Khosan Road to find a place to shower. Apparently this is a priority when you’ve been traveling from Kuala Lumpur for three days straight. As is the way of the road, I spent nearly 20 hours with them and never bothered to learn their names.

I packed it in to Suk 11 and napped until dinner with Becca. I have a feeling this round in Bangkok is going to be a lot more lazy than the last go. It feels hotter somehow and I don’t feel any urgency to do the touristy stuff. I did most of that on my last run.

No matter. I have to be here the week so my Vietnam visa can be processed. With a little luck, I’ll catch up with Christoffer tomorrow. If not, then perhaps I’ll finally get around to writing up that four-day scuba diving trip.

Yeah, I should probably do that.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If it’s absolutely necessary that you be on time, do not travel into Bangkok on the day that thousands of Thai people decide to overthrow the government.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re doing an overnight train, pay a little extra for the bottom bunk. It’s not much more (less than $6 if I remember right). The bed is larger and you get a window, which despite my daybreak awakening, is quite nice. You also don’t have to crawl down a ladder if you decide to get up in the night and you get to stay closer to your luggage, which gets stored on the floor.

If you’re really savvy, you can find a way to request the bunks at the middle of the car. Those bunks have access to two plugs, which you can use to charge your electronics while you sleep. I have no idea how you request a specific bunk, or how to tell if your bunk is in the middle, but if you can swing it, it’s a pretty good deal.

Dateline: George Town, Penang, Malaysia – Friday, April 2, 2010

I’ve made a mistake. Looking back at previous entries, I realize that I’ve never given you a full picture of what George Town is like.  In movie terms, I haven’t given you an establishing shot. All I’ve given you are close ups of food, restaurants, and roads. To remedy this problem, I got up early and tried to take pictures of George Town itself.

After this excursion, I realize that I do not know how to take pictures of cities. I tried to hide my lack of quality pictures by shooting a quantity of pictures, but to no avail. That means, I can’t be lazy today and substitute a picture for a thousand words. That means I’m going to have to write. Imagine that.

George Town is located on Palau Penang, an island in Malaysia. George Town is an old part of town and is typically referred to as “Penang” even though Penang is technically the island. It is a designated UNESCO Heritage site. That’s because it’s old. It’s also because it has a lot of interesting architecture ranging from French, to English, to various forms of Asian. It’s an eclectic mix that’s managed to stay intact, probably because no rich people ever got their hands on it for development. The town’s diverse architecture is mirrored by its many cultures. There’s a Little India, a Chinatown, a traditional fishing village built on stilts out over the water, and large buildings constructed by British colonials. Within a three block radius I found a Buddhist temple, a Hindu temple, a Mosque, and a Christian church.

Most streets barely fit two cars. The streets feel even narrower because in between the entrances to many buildings and the street are open sewers with narrow concrete walkways over them. In most places that means there’s no sidewalk. To my eye, these sewers are unused. Now, they’re just used as drain gutters and have been left as is to keep the ambiance.

There is no vegetation. During the day the streets radiate heat. When you walk, it feels like pieces of asphalt have melted and are sticking to your shoes.

There’s a bit of hustle to the place. When I walked around looking for a place to stay, hotel owners would call out asking if I needed a room. Restaurants employed people to stand out front and push their menus on passersby. About 50% of the stray dogs hobble on only one of their two hind legs, probably because they’ve been hit by cars. Even the dogs are managing to make a dollar out fifteen cents (a dime and a nickel).

Shops line the street side. Everything from money changers, to little restaurants, to electronic repair shops, jewelry shops, metal work, dentists, religious institutions. Everything. During the day, carts and food hawkers line the more trafficked areas. The city seems to seethe and flow and move around you. Motorbikes dodge car traffic, buses crawl through, and pedestrians move slowly and try to slip past the heat.

The heat. The heat gives everything a bit more urgency. You’ve got to do things in a way that gets you out of the sun, as soon as possible. Standing outside of the shade, you can feel speckles of skin cancer beginning to form under your skin.

The first full day I was here, I was suffocating. I felt trapped. It’s concrete and narrow streets in every direction. You’re like a rat in a humid, noisy maze.

Once on the motorbike, though, I began to appreciate the area’s charm. Freed from placing my feet on the hot plate concrete, George Town shrank to a manageable size. The frenzied movement became simply energy. The oppressive narrow streets became cool passageways to interesting food. I no longer gave a damn whether I got turned around in George Town’s non-grid one-way streets. On a motorbike, I could accidentally pass the same store three times and actually resist the urge to murder someone. It was quite lovely.

Penang/George Town is an interesting mix of old and new. I can’t imagine living here, but it’s a great place to visit. And, if you haven’t figured it out from previous posts, it’s got great food. So good, in fact, that you can totally forget to talk about the place itself. Or, that could just be me, a fat guy trapped in a skinny man’s body.

At noon, I caught a bus to the ferry station, made my way to Butterworth, and boarded a train for Bangkok. It’s a 20-hour journey. On the train, I met the typically interesting array of travelers. A Dutch girl traveling after spending 20 months in Australia as a nanny. Two French waitresses on holiday from working in Australia. A young auditor from the Philippines on vacation. A young Filipino teacher from Bangkok and her much much older Australian boyfriend. A Canadian couple, who I first mistook for Americans, on their way to Hat Yai. All good, interesting people. I even got to prove to Europeans that Americans can speak more than one language when I busted out my Tagalog with the Filipinos. Good stuff.

I exited Malaysia and got a 15-day visa to Thailand. That’s the limit if you come into the country over land. No matter what, I have to be Somewhere Other Than Thailand by April 16. While that seems short, it’s probably for the better.

I have a feeling I could stay in Thailand indefinitely. I’ve grown comfortable here. I’m getting better at the language and, like dancing to an old song (Tupac’s “I Get Around”, for example), I understand its rhythm and how to move through it without looking like an ass. For now, I’ll enjoy what of Thailand I have left.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Don’t rent a motorbike in Penang, unless you want don’t want your life to suck.

Not So Stupid Travel Tip: If you take a long haul train into or out of Bangkok, be aware that they do serve food on the train. Most savvy travelers, however, bring their own meals since the train food is, surprise, overpriced. I did not bring my own food. I ended up buying two meals. One at the border crossing where some guys were selling rice at the immigration stop (not knowing the food situation on the train, I opted to play it safe). I bought the other on the train when I realized that I didn’t have to subsist if I didn’t want to. I ate both. I am a fat American.

Dateline: Penang, Malaysia – Thursday, April 1, 2010

Everywhere I go, I wander. Usually it’s searing heat and buckets of sweat. For example, when I first got to Penang I spent one hour lugging my pack from guesthouse to guesthouse searching for a good room at a low price. By the time I settled on the dorm in Old Penang Guesthouse, I was sheeting liquid from every pore.

Usually I wander either because the place I’m headed is an abstraction and requires search (destination: cheap guest house) or I only have a spotty idea of where I’m headed (destination: a waterfall located somewhere on that hill).

The romantic in me likes to think I wander because it’s the best way to experience a place. You see things tourists don’t get to see. You understand a place from the ground up in a way that you can’t from map. It’s also a cheap thrill to not know where you are, then find your way out.

The realist in me recognizes that I wander in large part because I am a cavalier planner. This trip, I have no itinerary. I have not booked anything before hand. The only reason I have a ticket out of Taipei is because it was cheaper than buying two one-ways at separate times. I ended up in Railay on a whim and here in Penang because someone said it’d be fun. For me, a plan is knowing how to get in and how to get out. The stuff in the middle tends to work itself out.

Today I did a ton of wandering. Lucky for me, I had a motorbike, which means instead of taking 45 minutes to circle a block three times trying to find a restaurant, it takes 3 minutes and the whole time I have a nice breeze.  The faster I go, the cooler I feel.  Literally.

My destinations today: Penang Adventist Hospital and Penang Hill. I’m going to the hospital because a friend of mine’s ancestors founded the clinic that became the hospital. I’m going to Penang Hill because I want o ride a funicular.

First, Penang Adventist Hospital. I used Google maps to plot a course from the guesthouse to the target. There were only 4 turns. All turns pointed me in a westerly direction. The hospital was on a main road. How hard could it be?

It’s an hour and a half hard. That despite the hospital being only 7 km or so from my start point. Penang is a maze of two-way streets that suddenly become one-ways. One minute you’re chugging along to your destination and the next minute you’re heading 45 degrees to your left because all the traffic headed the way you were, on the road that you were on, has been diverted to another street. It’s what I imagine hell is like for neglectful husbands. They’ll be forced to ride around Penang looking for a restaurant with their wives in the backseat asking, “Why didn’t you make a left there? Can’t you see that it’s right there on the other side of the divider? Didn’t we just see that gas station two minutes ago? Aren’t you supposed to be driving on the left side of the road?”

It doesn’t help that all the street names here sound the same. They’re written in English (helpful) but use names that all seem similar. Didn’t the British used to own this place? What happened to Crumpet Street and Empire Way?

“Was I supposed to look out for Jenang Penak or Jenang Palakamakawekamochachino? I think I’ll take a left. . .now!”

This goes on for a while after which I start employing search and rescue techniques. I pick a direction then, using the terrain to my advantage, take a series of one-way streets in an ever widening circular pattern. This does not work. That and I keep passing the same people at the same bus stop every 2 minutes. Since I look kind of like a local, I’m sure it seems like I’m either an incompetent stalker or just plain incompetent. I love public humiliation.

I then decide to search for signs of Adventist architecture. Does that building look like it was built in the 1950’s? Do the buildings appear to have been designed on a budget so that there is one item of architectural flair while the rest of the building is block concrete? Do the buildings smell of E.G. White tracts and canned veggie meat?

Just when I’m about to cry uncle, I stumble across the place. I park the motorbike and walk in the front door. Then, I realize I have no idea what I’m doing here. That makes me want to sit down, which I do.

This being a hospital, me sitting down and doing nothing fits right in. Everyone’s doing it. If I were walking around with a purpose dressed as casually as I am, I might actually arouse suspicion. So I sit and I think.

I came here because Earl and Laura’s ancestors founded the place. I’ve been instructed to name drop, but I have no idea who I’d name drop to.

“Excuse me Mr. Security Guard, but do you know who founded this place? I do. Actually, I know the founder’s descendants, a plus since they’re actually alive which makes them better conversationalists. Please, get up. No need to kneel before me. I am a benevolent master.”

That doesn’t even play right in my head. So I sit. And I read. And I enjoy the air conditioning. If it’s possible, I’m wandering around while sitting in one place.

I finally notice a map on a wall and over the course of the next 30 minutes, hop from chair to chair till I’m right in front of it.

I decide to look for the cafeteria. I haven’t eaten breakfast and even the worst cafeterias serve food.

Loath as I am to admit it, I get lost in the map. I reread it five times wondering how the hell the cartographer failed to label the most important place on campus. Via the map, I wander through the dental clinic, the psychotherapy wing, and the surgical ward. Finally, I’m reminded that I’m me, the loser of things that are right in front of my face, and see that it’s in the nursing school. It’s a building right behind the one that I’m in (presumably the hospital).

After a more purposeful wandering session, I find the cafeteria entrance. The place is filled with nurses who, since this is Asia, still wear the Florence Nightingale nurse caps. The Malay cafeteria workers greet me with looks that are two parts annoyed and one part dismissive. It’s nice to know every culture has some things in common. I point to the meatless meatballs (made of soy products and nuts), rice, and boiled and garlicked vegetables. It all tastes like I’m in the Loma Linda University Medical Center but with a touch less salt. I even have to bus my own tray and plate.

I head back to the bike, strap in to my helmet, and head off in search of Penang Hill. If I can’t be treated like royalty for my tenuous relationship with the hospital’s founder, at least I can have my first funicular ride ever.

Finding Penang Hill should be easy. There’s only one hill on the island that overlooks the city. If I can just stick to the roads near the base of the hill, I should find the funicular or a sign to it.

Cue the one-way streets.

Since I first started out, it’s gotten hot. That of course means I get hopelessly turned around. Here are some things that I find that are not Penang Hill:

*The Penang Botanical Gardens. I’ve heard these are nice to walk around. It’s bloody hot, so I opt to stay on the bike and keep hunting.

*A friendly security guard at a private gated community. He tells me that it’s a long way to Penang Hill, but if I just head over yon hill, I’ll find someone who can help me find a shorter route.

*The Penang Botanical Gardens. Turns out the security guard did technically point me towards Penang Hill, just not the side that I want to be on. It also turns out that Penang Hill abuts Penang Botanical Gardens.

*Monkeys. Aggressive monkeys. Crime abetting monkeys. I say that because if you do as the monkeys say and give them food, you will have committed a finable offense. I know this because the signs say so.

*A graveyard. I stumble on this because I’m trying to stay close to the base of the hill. I follow a local on a motorbike into a temple looking area, past signs that say in English “Do Not Enter,” and through what look to be checkpoints with no guards. At first I think I’m just in a graveyard. I stop and take pictures of the place, which on one side is overlooked by two large block apartment buildings. You can see laundry hanging from every balcony. It looks like the projects, even though I know they are just everyday residences.

The cemetery is fascinating. Some graves are marked with a rock. Some are marked by marble engraved in gold. All graves are littered with stale food for the ancestors buried beneath. There’s trash everywhere. Plastic bags of trash. Except for the headstones, the grounds are completely neglected. No grass. No flower bed. No garbage pick up. Just dirt, weeds, and piles of refuse. This despite the fact that there are groups of people visiting graves to offer food, plant little flags, and clean their ancestors’ gravesites. Fascinating.

*A shortcut out of the graveyard. I discover the shortcut after I motor around the cemetery for a while snapping pics. I notice local riders zipping in and out of a small gap in the surrounding wall. I follow one and end up at the base of the tenements that rise above the cemetery. There are actually two pairs of buildings facing each other. At the base are small outdoor markets, restaurants, and shops that service the residents. The pairs of buildings are quite close to each other, perhaps 50 feet or so. That means when you drive between them, it feels like you’re in a canyon of humanity. There are people sitting around talking and eating and doing chores and labor. I desperately want to take pictures, but I can’t figure out how without feeling and looking like a rich ass American who’s come to stare at the unfortunates on his “exotic” holiday in Asia. It’s one thing to admit that I’m this in my head. It’s another to live it out in front of actual people. I refrain.

I do stumble across Penang Hill, eventually. I’m crushed when I see the site is under renovation. My attempt to recreate a funicular moment from The Amazing Race goes down in flames. Instead I take a picture of the “Closed for Repairs” sign and the empty funicular station.

It’s starting to rain and I’m hungry, so I head back to town to search for Komptar and a bite to eat. Komptar is the tallest building in Georgetown which means I have a hard time finding it. When I park, I lose it when I’m forced into a mall that has no windows, no skylights, and no discernible pattern to its construction. Like Penang Hill I find the base of Komptar, but I fail to find the entrance. That means I can’t go to the top and look down on people. I feel like there are cosmic forces working against me.

For lunch I have what amounts to the Starbucks version of two dishes I’ve been searching for: candul a dessert made of shaved ice, red bean, and green starchy noodle and assam laksa, a spicy hot and sour fish soup. Both have potential, but both seem to be watered down versions of what I might get on the street. I’ve gotten tired of wandering and decided to just eat. I do not regret this decision.

I wander back to the Botanical Gardens and go for a walk. I go back to the graveyard and take a few more pics, this time in the softer light of the afternoon.

I head back into town for a nap. Then I have dinner at the same place as last night. This time I order roti lanta and roti bawang. I assume one is seafood per my experience with Fried Ko Lanta and the other will be a meat of some kind that will help fill me up. I am wandering gastrically.

Wrong on both counts. One is plain roti with onions on the inside. The other is sweet, presumably made with the essence of some kind of fruit. There’s a syrup used that has crisped on the warm grill. It’s delicious. I want more, but opt not to perpetuate a fat American stereotype, if only to myself. Besides, I have no idea which roti is bawang and which is lanta. I’d have to order both.

I do order a lychee drink, which is just as good as coconut milk, but a bit sweeter. I try to order it subtly so that the guy at the table next to me who first ordered doesn’t think I’m a copycat, even though I am. The drink comes with two large, skinned lychees at the bottom. Again, I swish my straw in the ice, trying to make the flavor last.

On way back to the guesthouse I nearly blow past a cop at a police checkpoint because I misunderstand his flashlight wave. This causes him to waive me over. I play dumb tourist and say “huh?” to all his questions. He asks for my license. I tell him it’s with the guy that rented me the bike. He says, “Tourist?” and I say, “Yeah” in as John Wayne All-American English as possible. He lets me go.

I go straight back to the guesthouse and retire for the night. If I wander anymore, let it be me to sleep.

_____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Funiculars are the most awesome mode of transportation ever. Magical even. If you get the chance ride one, you should.

Not So Stupid Tip: The Botanical Gardens are free, but they’re nothing to write home about. It is amusing to see plants totally out of place in the middle of what would otherwise be jungle. I can imagine the pine trees waking up one day, stretching out their leaves and thinking, “Where’s the snow?” or “cactuses sweating and thinking, “Is it just me or does it feel like I’m carrying all this water weight for nothing.” It’s a nice walk, but nothing that you can’t get at home.

If you come to Penang, come to eat the food. It’s different from most Asian food I’ve tried. A lot more Indian influence than I expected. One of the coolest things I’ve seen on this trip is the guys making drinks and roti at the stands. I sat there and ate and watched for an hour or so. I learned how to fold roti so that the meat permeates the bread instead of just filling it. I learned that when you pour hot tea you must pull the glass as far away from the pitcher as possible, perhaps to warm the tea or to aerate it. I discovered that hot drinks are made by adding boiling water to concentrations of tea, coffee, or whatever. Okay, I lied. I spent more than an hour watching. It was fun.

Photo Galleries:

http://cid-86ee0778f088f748.skydrive.live.com/browse.aspx/Day%2029

http://www.flickr.com/photos/48186321@N07/sets/72157623752718780/

Dateline: Penang, Malaysia, Wednesday, March 31, 2010

I’m bored. Bored out of my gourd. More bored than an anorexic at a smorgasbord.

Penang has made me bored. Penang has made me hot. Penang has made me wish this is someplace where I’m not.

Okay. Enough with the rhymes. And the exaggerated lines. The point is I’m hot and bored and I need to do something. I spent the morning replying to e-mails, writing, and chatting online. I walked to the waterfront, then up and down street bordering the water looking for the ferry terminal so I could buy a train ticket back to Bangkok so I can have dinner Saturday night with Becca. I got lost four times. I passed the terminal twice before I found it the third time. I ate more of the same stuff I had last night except at a different place, this time with chicken instead of fish. (I later learn this dish is called nasi kandar and is a Penang original. You order a curry you like, the vendor puts it on rice, then adds different sauces on top.) It’s not as good as last night, but it’s still delicious.

I was so exhausted after cooking myself on different portions of Penang’s concrete that, when I got back to the Old Penang Guesthouse, I ended up crashing in the 12 person dorm for a two hour afternoon siesta. Now I’m awake and I’m hot and I’m bored.

I walk outside and I realize that getting anywhere interesting is going to make me more hot, which will turn my boredom into exhaustion and sticky crankiness. I decide it’s time to rent a motorbike. The guy who rents me the bike gives me a stern warning about traffic and the fact that I’ll have to pay for any damage to the bike because I don’t have an international driver’s license. I practically shove the 2000 baht deposit in his face I’m so ready to get out of the cramped streets of old George Town. I don the helmet, familiarize myself with the motorbike, and pull into traffic. Note to self, be sure you drive on the left side.

I ride and ride, taking whatever turn suits me. I’m just happy to have a breeze. The traffic thins as I ride out of town. I’m not sure which direction I’m headed. I have a feeling it’s south. I end up on winding hill roads dodging trucks that hurtle into my lane to pass. I realize that this is an activity of which my mother would not approve.

I contemplate my mortality. How easily it could end if the motorbike’s thin tires were to find a rut or an oncoming truck were to linger too long in my lane. I stop pondering when I realize I that will experience my mortality if I don’t start contemplating the road.

I ride and I ride and remember just how awesome it is to be on a bike, even a crappy motorbike like this. One of my fondest travel memories is of careening around Ko Samui on a manual motorbike. I got lost. I got unlost. I ended up circling the island. I did that multiple times. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Ash, sometimes with Ash and others.

Now I’m at it again. This time on an automatic since I don’t feel like shifting gears in slippers and because I figure it’ll make it easier to focus on traffic. I mildly regret my decision. It would be more fun if I had to negotiate gears instead of just rolling the power on and off and braking.

No matter. I make it to the end of the road and find a pier with boats docked to it. A sign advertises sport fishing tours. It’s quiet. It’s cooler. I’m no longer trapped in hot and stuffy George Town. I am at peace.

I head back the direction that I came, this time on smaller roads. I eventually hit the main road again and see a sign that says I’m 20 km from where I started. I ride back and stumble across Hard Rock Cafe Penang. It’s weird. Even though I feel like I’m in a more remote spot, I guess I’m in a tourist area.

I also see a sign for “Arabic and Italian Food.” While this is noteworthy, it’s not as surprising as it might have been a month ago. Since starting this trip, I’ve seen Italian food paired with nearly every other food throughout Southeast Asia. Places proclaiming they have Chinese and Italian. Malay and Italian. Thai and Italian. What is it with Italian food? Is it that Italians travel more than any other race? Is Italian food loved by people of all cultures? Is Italian food something that all Europeans can eat so Asian restaurant owners serve it the way American owners serve burgers or macaroni to satisfy the kids? Is it that Italian food is the least offensive of the “White people” foods? Are all restaurant owners part Italian? Does the mob control the restaurant business in SE Asia? Is Italian the easiest word for Asians to spell?

Somehow, this has led to the marriage of Arabia and Italy. Here in Asia, it seems that Italian cuisine has conquered all. Caesar’s empire lives on, though its borders are not on the land but in the stomachs of its subjects. To me, this seems like a greater achievement.

On the way back I actually get lost. Not lost in the Amazon with no food lost. Just oh crap I may accidentally end up on mainland Malaysia in the rain lost. I almost get on the bridge to Butterworth (I think). I pass a Methodist boys school and end up on a pretty, tree-lined road somewhere on Earth.

I see signs for something called Kampor. I recognize it from a map that I left in the dorm room and head towards that. Later, I see a sign for the ferry terminal and decide that’s an even better option. I know where the ferry terminal is and, because of the morning’s wanderings, at least four places where it isn’t.

Storm clouds gather, lightning crashes and thunder chases the wind. Live is referenced for the first time in 10 years. The rain starts coming down. Since I have no face shield, it’s like I’m getting hit in the face by little rocks. The faster I go to outrun the storm and find shelter, the more I’m punished for leaving the good maps in the dorm room.

I end up back in the guesthouse before it starts to pour. There, I regroup and plan the rest of my evening. Using a brochure called the “Penang Food Trail” I decide to find a roti canai place called Sup Hameed. It’s supposed to be next door to a place that serves cendol, a dessert made with red bean, green starchy noodle, pandan, coconut milk, palm sugar, and shaved ice. The idea of this makes my stomach and tongue writhe in happiness.

Using the map on the brochure, I find Sup Hameed. The place doesn’t seem to have roti canai. Just tandoori, stuff on a menu that I don’t recognize, and more nasi kandar, which I like but am not in the hunt for. I sit down in the restaurant. I stand up and walk around. I sit down again. I look helpless. The Indian/Pakistani guys look confused. I take this as a cue to wander around the street outside.

That’s when I discover that Sup Hameed isn’t just a storefront. It’s a series of food carts that go down the street for about 60 feet. There are plastic chairs and tables set up behind the stands where you can take your meal. There’s a tandoori cart (which I’d already found), a drink cart, a soup cart, and near the end a roti cania cart. I can tell because everything on the menu has roti in it. Who says I’m not putting my law diploma to good use?

I opt for the roti sardin, which I correctly guess has sardines in it. When the drink guy comes by to ask me what I want, I say “cold tea” to which he replies “cool tea.” From now on, I will ask for cool tea. I get the same tea that I had last night, this time over ice. I wish I could ask for something else, but I’m not standing in front of the cart and I don’t know what else I can order.

The roti is great, especially the sauce. Roti is a flaky flatbread that you typically dip in sauce of some kind. It’s like a pastry naan, but fried, thinner, and more buttery. For the roti sardin, the sardines are fried into the roti. They’re not a filling. The meat is scattered throughout the bread, though somehow not on the surface. To my delight, from the table I can see the roti guy using the same red sardine cans my dad used when he made sardines for me and my brother when we were kids (my mom is vegetarian).

My food and drink are brought to me. I eat slowly, sipping the tea to allow the ice to melt. The tea flavor is rich enough that I know if I let the ice seep in, I can nearly double my tea intake. It’s my taste maximization theory at work.

After I track down someone to take my money for the food, I head off down the street to find the place that supposedly serves cendol. No dice. I see a place with a similar name, but it’s a market not a café which is what the brochure says I’ll find. I get back on the bike and start my hunt for cendol.

The hunt lasts an hour. I get lost again. I find the nasi kandar place from last night three times then get turned around in the one-way streets. George Town here resembles the one in Washington, D.C. in that it’s not a grid. Trying to orient yourself is like riding a three-legged pony while drunk and missing a contact lens. You never quite end up where you think you should.

I end up back where I started. In the market. This time I decide to ask if they have cendol. They do not. I no longer feel bad about my stubbornness in not asking the first time and for the subsequent hour wandering on the motorbike contributing to global warming.

I end up ordering ais kacang, which I repeatedly pronounce “ice kan-kong” to the confusion of the guy who’s trying to serve me. Ais (or Ice) kacang is shaved ice topped with red bean, sweet corn, grass jelly, and palm fruit. It’s sometimes topped with ice cream. It’s drizzled in evaporated milk and seems to have a thicker sugar syrup mixed in. It reminds me of Filipino halo halo, but with less fruit. It’s not cendol, but it works in a pinch.

America, our food culture sucks. Here in Asia, it’s 11 p.m. and I’m sitting at an outdoor market eating dessert. I’m surrounded by locals who are ordering noodle soup, hokkien mee (prawn noodles), fried koay teow (flat rice noodles fried with minced garlic and prawns) and all manner of food including Japanese and Filipino dishes. People of all ages are eating and chatting. It is a work night. The smells from all the stands are mixing in with the smell of humidity. It smells like Heaven’s sauna should.

I can’t think of an American equivalent. Oh, I know. You can find vibrant late night food in NYC or San Fran or L.A., but the scene I’m witnessing is being played out all over Asia, not just in big cities. I’m talking small towns and villages. Here in Penang, while searching for cendol I stumbled across pockets of restaurants and bakeries that were still serving hordes of people. The idea that a place would open up at 10 p.m. to serve food just isn’t that strange now that I’ve wandered around town.

Compared to this, food in the U.S. seems so sterile. So contrived and lifeless. Constrained by a culture of individualism, it’s hard to imagine a communal place like this in America. Even if it could exist, the nanny state would stamp out these food stands for health violations. For me, I’d take these food stalls any day over health inspectors in a backroom kitchen. Let me look my food’s maker in the eye as he cooks my meal. I’ll hold him accountable if it gives me the runs.

I love Asia’s food culture. You’d love it. It’s a part of Asian food that’s not in the ingredients. It creates a context for the cuisine. It gives it flavor. And not in some metaphorical way, either. In an actual, tangible, on the tongue way. It makes the spice spicier, the milk sweeter, and the ice colder and crunchier. The colors are different when you eat your food at night under the lights. The sounds of people laughing and talking pair perfectly with what your eyes and palate experience. It’s a part of Asian food that I just can’t bring home with me.

I hop back on the motorbike. The helmet’s made me feel like I’m 12 again, head two times too big for my body. This time, I know where I’m going.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Maps can be useful when you travel.

Not So Stupid Tip: Ordering food at these Indian/Pakistani places can be a bit confusing. Here’s what I’ve learned. You order at the stand from which you want the food. Then you sit down and your food is brought to you. Someone will ask if you want a drink. You can tell them. If you want more choices than just teh halia or ”cool tea” (the two drinks I know) then you’ll have to go to the drink stand and order there. This is what I will do next time. After you’re done eating, you’ll need to waive over one of the guys to settle your bill. Or, you can make a motion to leave without paying. That seems to get their attention.

Dateline: Ko Lanta, Thailand and Penang, Malaysia and roads in between, Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Yet another travel day. Christoffer, drops me off at the travel agent shop at 7:50. We part ways. Immediately, both of us appear 200% less gay. We’ll try to meet in Bangkok on Saturday whereupon we can resume our Thailand prostitutional misadventures.

The bus boards two successive ferries to the mainland. We are shuffled off the minibus onto another minibus in a town whose name I never learned. This bus takes us to Hat Yai. On the bus, I meet a friendly British couple. They’ve been on the road for a few months and are headed to Kuala Lampur. Eventually, they plan on heading to the U.S.

We decide to have lunch at a Robinson’s plaza near the train station where the minibus dropped us off. We all have to wait for various departure times. I have 1 hour to kill. I have some pork leg and rice even though I wanted to try the pork knuckle. That’s the danger of ordering when you don’t speak the language. The Brits seem a bit more picky. The girl won’t eat the yolk of an egg that’s on her rice because it has some red thing on top. I suggest that it’s just shrimp or chili paste. My suggestion does nothing.

Also, at lunch, I discover an old processed favorite. It’s Fanta (I think) flavored with orange, pineapple, and banana. The soda is exactly the same color as the can, a green not found anywhere but with the most radioactive of substances.

I also find another favorite: young coconut juice. As always, this is delicious. Of course, it comes with coconut shavings.

After our late lunch, we head back to the travel office. The Brits decide to wander around. I sit for a few minutes and wait for the bus. I hop on and find a couple—an Asian dude and a White chick. They are either American or he is her well-spoken Thai prostitute. I think they are from California.

There are also two Malay businessmen returning from holiday in Thailand, a Canadian dude, and three other Brits. It’s a long trip. We get off the bus to clear Thai immigration. I get stamped out of a country.

We reboard the bus, drive for a few miles, then get off the bus to clear Malaysian customs and immigration. I get stamped into a country. Don’t ask me what the miles in between were. Perhaps it’s a DMZ?

As we drive into Malaysia, the weather turns and it storms. Dark clouds pound us with rain. Suddenly, it stops and we’re treated to a fiery sunset.

We hit Penang at 8 p.m. or so. We disembark and I end up wandering the streets of Georgetown trying to find a place to live. Most rooms are windowless, fan rooms with shared bathrooms. After an hour of accommodation shopping, I opt for my cheapest option. It’s a dorm room with six bunk beds and a shared bathroom. It’s 15 rm ($5). I choose this option mostly because I’ve never stayed in a dorm room.

Now it’s time to head out for food. It’s almost 10 p.m. and most shops are closed. The hostel owner points me to a street and tells me to walk and search for an open shop. I find nothing.

Next to a mosque, I see a line of people in front of what appears to be a restaurant that’s in the process of closing. Customers are seated inside and out, finishing their meals. The workers seem to be packing things up. Yet, local looking people are standing in line for something. This seems like foolish behavior. I choose to follow a traveler’s rule of thumb and join the line of locals. Perhaps they know something I don’t.

Turns out they do. I surmise from the sign that something starts at 10 p.m. The shop is closing up one thing and setting up for another. Perhaps a different menu. The people in line are a mix of Malays and East Indian looking people. The purveyors might be associated with the mosque. It’s all a mystery.

It’s also a mystery how to order. I bob and weave while in line, looking at how and what people in front of me are ordering. There’s a guy standing behind a little portable metal cart. In the cart are plates of meat and vats of red and yellow broths. The guy has a ladle, which he uses to scoop rice into a shallow bowl and drip broth over the rice. He uses his hands to place whatever meat the customer asks for onto the rice. He also adds little, whole okras which have been boiled in some kind of clear broth. Each customer seems to ask for a specific combination of the four broths. “Add a bit more of that. Less of that,” I imagine they’re saying.

Really, I have no clue. I don’t know what anything tastes like. I follow another traveler rule of thumb. When I hit the front of the line I point at the lady who’s leaving the cart and say, “Same as her, please.” The guy gets the idea. He douses my rice with a red broth, then adds two scoops of a yellow, then puts two different kinds of fish on top. Then he pours a random mix of broths from other vats over the whole thing.

I follow the lead of other customers and sit down before the concoction is done. An Indian or Pakistani guy (I can’t tell the difference), brings me the bowl.

He gestures at me, asking if I want a drink. I ask for water. This confuses him, which confuses me. Another guy helps out by pointing to a board. I stare at the drink menu. It’s written in English characters (yea!) but I don’t’ recognize anything (aww). I really just want something cold.

I do what any savvy traveler does at that point and order something I can read. Something called “Teh Halia” [sic]. This turns out to be a spiced, creamy tea. It’s near boiling hot. It’s also delicious. My blunt palate suggests that it has some kind of cinnamon in it. I sip it slowly, trying to make it last.

I look for utensils and find them back on the cart where I ordered. In front of the whole line, I grab a spoon and fork. As I do so I realize, to my horror, that I’m using my left hand. If you don’t know, the left hand is considered one of the dirtiest parts of the body in Islamic culture. I’m pretty sure it’s the same in all of Southeast Asia. That’s because you use it to cleanse your privates after you’ve done your business. I’m touching eating utensils with my butthole. Everyone in line is staring at me. I try to move faster to hide my offense, but that just makes me nervous and I end up touching more than the utensils that I need for myself. Oops.

I rush back to my seat inside, glad that I got my food before I offended the restaurant owners. The meal is delicious. It’s hearty, but not heavy. The broth is just a tad spicy, but the heat doesn’t overwhelm the flavor. That lady in front of me ordered well.

As I leave the place, the line of customers still stretches out to the street. I’ve heard there’s nothing to do in Penang. If nothing else, I know I’m going to eat. Judging from tonight, I’ll be eating well.

___________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: When you stand in line for food at a place where you don’t know the menu or the language, make sure you’re behind a lady that orders well.

Not So Stupid Tip: Accommodations in Penang are pretty uniform. If you’re going to shop around, don’t expect too much variance in price. Rooms are typically windowless with a fan and a bed. Be sure you check the bathrooms and whether your room has a sink. That and free Wi-Fi are what guesthouses use to distinguish themselves. If those don’t make a difference to you, look for cleanliness and location. If possible, you want a place near a well-trafficked road so you can feel safe when you come home at night.

Dateline: Khao Lak, Ko Lanta, and roads and waters in between, Thailand, Monday, March 29, 2010

Another travel day. Ozzie and Robin, the Scandinavian couple from the liveaboard, decided to go to Phuket after diving last night. They wanted to go to Ko Lanta and thought it might be cheaper to travel from Phuket since it’s closer. There was no room on the bus to Phuket, so Christoffer (pronounced: Chris-STOFF-er) and I crashed in Khao Lak with Michel, a Dutch guy who roomed with us on the boat. Michel decided he was going to trek the local national forest. Christoffer and I planned on meeting Ozzie and Robin in Ko Lanta.

That meant securing transport. That went relatively easily. We booked a bus to Krabitown and a ferry from there to Ko Lanta. This journey involved a stop at the bus station (really just a restaurant) I’d been to before when I made my way from Railay to Khao Lak for the liveaboard (see pic above). Same drill with the barely sentient luggage. We were tagged, asked “Where you go?” about a hundred times, and retagged. I even ended up waiting until 11:30 to catch a ride to the ferry, just like before.

Instead of leaving the station on a bus, Christoffer and I ended up in the back of a pickup truck. The guy driving had a kid with him. They sat in the cab. Christoffer and I sat in the bed of the truck. We were the only two people there. We had no idea why this guy was driving us to the ferry. He just waived at us and said, “Ko Lanta.” That was enough to get us into the truck. I know 3-year-olds who know better.

We barreled down the road in the mid-day sun and eventually arrived at the pier. We waited in an air conditioned lobby for 5 minutes, then were herded onto a boat with about 40 other passengers. Flimsy life jackets hung from the back of the seats of the boat.

No one seemed to pay them any mind. For 10 minutes we sat in the boat hot box. There was no breeze and the windows were set up in a way that no air passed through the cabin.

Christoffer and I wised up and headed upstairs to the roof. Nearly 1/3 of the boat ended up joining us choosing skin cancer over sweat.

We ended up on the boat for a couple of hours. Halfway through the journey, a group of longtails docked with the ferry. The longtails dropped off their passengers and took some off the ferry. I saw an old couple clamber from the third longtail out over two other bobbing longtails into the ferry, the whole time shepherding their luggage. Classic stuff.

At one point, a bunch of White people jumped onto a long tail from the ferry. After them came a Costco sized package of toilet paper and about 100 cans of beer. Apparently they’d cut their luggage down to the essentials.

We hit Ko Lanta by 1 p.m. Ozzie and Robin were nowhere to be found. They hadn’t e-mailed either of us or Facebooked us. We had no way of contacting them.

We wandered the island on foot then decided to take a tuk tuk. It was about to storm and, in our haste, we forgot to negotiate a rate with the driver. When we were already on board and the rain was pouring, he demanded 200 baht (~$7). This was an insane price. I demanded 50 baht. He said no, 150 baht. I laughed and said 50 baht again. The driver didn’t reply and we continued on in silence as we got soaked.

None of the places the driver took us to worked. It’d stopped raining by now, but we were getting tired of running around from place to place. Christoffer and I ended up just taking a room when we realized we weren’t going to get a price we wanted. Christoffer decided to go back into town to rent a motorbike, since he was planning to stay in Ko Lanta for a few days.

The same tuk tuk driver gave us a lift back. When he dropped us off, he demanded 250 baht for the entire trip. I was incredulous and laughed in his face. (This is what you do in Thailand, by the way. In the face of conflict, you must play it cool. Laugh, even. So it’s not just that I’m an ass, though there’s that, too.) I said I’d give him 150, since he gave us a ride back into town. I thought this was damn generous. He looked frustrated and said something about 150 being only for a ride out of town. I laughed again. We would have gone on like this for a while, but Christoffer offered 200 and the driver finally backed down.

Christoffer and I spent the rest of the day trying not to look like homosexuals. I say that because I look Thai and Christoffer looks like a Swedish guy who has darker skin and brown hair. So, I guess, technically he doesn’t look Swedish, but whatever. Point is he looks White. I look Thai. Since this country has a fucked up sexual reputation, it looks to some (many?) people like Christoffer may have bought himself a pretty little Thai boy for his vacation. This problem was compounded when we started sharing a motorbike.

People would look at us funny. Look at me. Look at him. Then smile. The guy that checked us into the hotel (we specified and received separate beds, mind you) even asked if I wanted a ladyboy. I have no idea if this had anything to do with him thinking I was a man prostitute, but in my paranoid state, I assumed that it was. I laughed it off (because that’s what you do in Thailand). The next time I sat on the motorbike with Christoffer, I scooted back a bit in the seat. I also started to make it a point to speak to people in English a bit more fluently.

We ate at a Thai place near the pier. I had something called “Fried Koh Lanta” which turned out to be seafood in a sweet sauce of some kind. I think it was sesame oil and chili in some kind of reduction. I think it would have been better a little less sweet. It tasted good though.

A last minute check for Ozzie and Robin turned up nothing. Radio silence. Christoffer surmised that they wanted some alone time after being trapped for 4 days on a boat with strangers. Not a bad theory. Ko Lanta ended up being just a waypoint for me. Nothing exciting. Just another island town with little to nothing to distinguish it. Tomorrow, I head for Penang, Malaysia for my visa run.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If you’re going to travel with a White male in Thailand, do everything you can to not be a brown male. Alternatively, become a brown male prostitute first.

Not So Stupid Tip: I’ve heard this multiple times, but the northern part of Ko Lanta kind of sucks. My one day there did nothing to disprove this. Despite the tasty Fried Koh Lanta, I can’t recommend the north. I have also heard from multiple sources that the southern tip of the island is very nice. If you recall, I almost went to Ko Lanta but instead went to Railay. If I’d gone to Ko Lanta, I’d have rented a motorbike and driven as far south as possible, past the end of the paved road, and to a more remote resort. That said, I do not regret choosing Railay over Ko Lanta.

Dateline: Return to Koh Tachai, Similan Islands, Thailand – Sunday, March 28, 2010

This is Day 4 of a four day series. Click here to read the official introduction to this entry. Click here to read starting from Day 1 of this series.

Americans believe they are in control. We think that with enough effort we can tame anything. If we put enough money and energy into a problem, we can solve it. To us, the world is fully understandable. Nothing is beyond our grasp. Read more…

Dateline: Richelieu Rock and return to Koh Tachai, Similan Islands, Thailand – Saturday, March 27, 2010

This is Day 3 of a four-day series. Click here to read the official introduction to this entry. Click here to read starting from Day 1 of this series.

When I was about 9 years old I had a dream where I could fly. I’d heard about flying in dreams but never had one myself. When it happened for me, it was only because I realized I was asleep and that I was in a dream. Read more…

Dateline: Koh Bon and Koh Tachai, Similan Islands, Thailand – Friday, March 26, 2010

This is Day 2 of a four-day series. Click here to read an excuse-filled introduction to this entry. Click here to read starting from Day 1.

5:45 – I am awake. I don’t know why. My pillow is soaked the same it was last night. Perhaps this boat is magical.

7:00 – “Waaake up callllllll.” Read more…