The Overpacker

Dateline: Khao Lak, Thailand and the surrounding Similan Islands- Evening of Monday, March 22 through Tuesday March, 23, 2010

To read the excuse-filled introduction to this entry, click here.

18:04 – I’ve been sitting in the dive shop for the last 4 hours watching people roll in and out. In that time I’ve read ¼ of a book, taken pictures of snack food for the previous day’s entry, and looked very local. I’m not sure any of the divers that have walked into the shop recognize me as a fellow customer. Read more…

Dateline: Khao Lak, Thailand – Wednesday, March 24, 2010

It‘s hard to experience culture. You can’t know what it feels like to be a citizen of a communist state or feel the weight of a history of oppression under the Khmer Rouge. You can’t experience a culture’s poetry or literature unless you’ve mastered the language, but even then you can’t appreciate the connotations of every word. TV only takes you so far. God forbid the world thinks Baywatch is America.

In my opinion, the easiest avenue to experiencing culture is food. You may have noticed a lot of pictures of the edible on this site. That’s partially because I love to eat and partially because food is culture. I’m here, in part, to experience culture.

Every culture’s food is different. A cuisine reflects a country’s environment, geography, its wars, its peace. Food is functional art. Form and function are balanced into one.

Take Thailand for example. It’s at the crossroads of Asia. In Thai cuisine, my novice tongue can taste a bit of Indian curry flavors and Malaysian spices. It has a touch of Chinese to it. I’m not breaking any new ground here. In fact, I’m sure I’m bumbling along a well-worn path. I’m sure I could look up more facts about food and culture, but facts take research and frankly, since I’m traveling, I have better things to do with my time. Things like sleep and wonder what the world would be like without mosquitoes. The point is, food is a quick way to experience culture.

Thing is, everyone knows about Pad Thai or Pad See Ew or that Thai food always has to have spice or sugar added to it by the customer at the table. You can go to your local Thai restaurant and learn that. Those are the big things.

What interest me are the little things that you can only get in country. To Thai people, this stuff is perfectly ordinary. So ordinary that they don’t even know it’s unique. That’s the way of ordinary things, you don’t notice them. I, for example, don’t really know what snacks or condiments are uniquely American. Perhaps Easy Cheese and Cool Whip?

Take the picture below. It looks perfectly ordinary. It’s a Thai omelet (egg, onion, seasoning) that I had for lunch today. Look closely at the Heinz bottle, though. That’s hot sauce. Heinz, an American company, makes a ketchup-like hot sauce just for Thailand. That stuff’s everywhere here. It is as plentiful as ketchup is in America.

And that’s what I mean. It’s the little stuff. Today I’m going to focus on the littlest stuff of all: snacks. The picture at the top shows shelves at a 7-Eleven. 7-Eleven is a cultural gold mine. Here, 7-Eleven serves the same function as Wal-mart, Vons, Walgreens, and a Verizon store, all miniaturized and as ubiquitous as Starbucks. At the Bangkok southern bus station, there were three 7-Elevens—two within 20 yards of each other.

But I digress.

7-Eleven is a Western invention, but has been given a Thai twist. Same goes for snack food. Let’s examine the potato chip. It’s not a Thai food, so the cultural investigator must ask, how has it been adapted for Thai people? What appeals to the Thai gastric soul? Walking through a 7-Eleven, one must conclude that it is crab, BBQ, and spicy chili, all of which are Lay’s potato chip flavors here in Thailand.

One of my favorite Lay’s flavors is below, Nori seaweed flavor, a Lay’s “Best Seller.” It’s addictive. It’s like munching on sheets of sea weed, except the flavor is milder and the crunch is more satisfying because the chips are thicker.

Another Lay’s flavor is the one below. All the writing on the package is Thai. There appear to be pieces of meat, but is that chicken? Pork? Fish? There’s also a prominently displayed chip on the bottom right that’s being dipped into a sauce of some kind. Could it be that this is pork gravy flavored? Or are you supposed to dip this in a separate sauce?

Turns out it’s black pepper pork chop and gravy. There are actually two kinds of chips in the bag. One, the ridged chip, has black pepper and pork chop. The other, a barbeque looking non-ridged chip, acts as the gravy. The flavor is actually quite good. You can really taste the black pepper. The two textures aren’t that noticeable, but it does allow you to mix and match your pork and gravy. Pretty cool.

It’s not just chips, though. There’s sweet stuff, as well. There’s something called coconut-pandan custard filled bun. Pandan is a kind of leaf that has a bit of a sweet flavor to it. (I could do more research on this, but see above.) It’s common in Asia and, when put it in processed food, it’s usually accompanied by a dye that makes whatever it’s in a ghastly green color. Eating this, I felt like I was eating more preservatives than food. One bite and I could feel the white flour in the bread binding up my gastric system. Not bad, flavor-wise. I don’t understand the sesame seeds though. Like my mango and sticky rice, I’d prefer mine plain.

Next up is a personal favorite of mine. According to the packaging it’s called asdfpoainewewef. I call it Chocolate Thing. Its chocolate melted center is surrounded by a crunchy chocolate outside. It appears to be an approximation of those little panda cookie/cracker things with the chocolate centers. They are the same shape and they also employ chocolate. The selling point is that Chocolate Thing is cheaper. The chocolate, however, is much thinner, as is the crunchy outside. When you bite into one, instead of a gooey center, it feels like you’re munching on chocolate flavored mist. In the spectrum of snack foods, it’s probably just “okay.” In other words, I like it a lot.

The drinks are different, too. Lipton has an ice tea called “Red.” Lipton “has combined the power of red Rooibos tea from the wild Cedarbergs with delicious Guarana to naturally stimulate your body and your senses.” It “gives you power that accumulated in its leaves years after years in its rough environment.” I swear to you that’s straight off the package “years after years” and all. They may have this flavor in the U.S., but I doubt it has the same poetry. Drinking this is like drinking tea that’s been steeped for a couple of hours too long and then drowned in sugar. It’s not terrible.

There’s also canned grass jelly drink. This was a wild disappointment because I was expecting cubes of grass jelly. Instead, I got flecks of grass jelly and that only after I flipped the can over into my mouth and pounded its bottom like it was a whining three-year-old. I like grass jelly. It’s in the picture, dammit. It’s like going to a topless bar and finding all the waitresses in burqas with a little square cut out near the left ankle. You find yourself wanting more jiggle. Ahem, we’re still talking about grass jelly.

Finally, let’s look at a soda. I believe this is a Fanta flavor. If it’s not Fanta, it’s a decent knockoff. The flavor is banana orange. That may sound horrible, but it’s not. I like it a lot. It’s way too sweet, but if they’d tone down the sugar, I’d be using it to create new ways for my dentist to afford another boat. Coca-Cola Company, you need to get on this thing and start selling a tamer version in the U.S. It will be like crack cocaine for hyperactive kids.

From my little snack survey, I surmise that Thai people like their Western products grafted with Asian flavors. No surprise there. They also have no problem with mixing potatoes and meats. It also seems like they like their food a bit sweeter than my taste. It’s ordinary for them. Extraordinary for me.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Don’t try to do all your “research” for a column about snack food in one day because it will make you nauseous; apparently processed food is processed food in every culture.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re thinking about a liveaboard in Khao Lak for the Similan Islands, here are some questions you should ask before you book:

*How many people is your boat designed to hold?

*How many spaces are on your boat are for divers?

*Do you leave in the morning or in the evening? Will we be diving on the last day of our trip or is that a travel day?

*How many divers will there be per dive guide?

*How experienced are your dive guides?

*Do your guides wear gloves? (I have a feeling that if the answer is yes, they’ll be touching the reef more. You don’t want to support a company that encourages touching the reef.)

*Do you go to Richelieu Rock? Koh Bon? Koh Tachai? (You want to go to all these places.)

*Does your price include park fees? Does it include rental gear?

*Will I be with the same people the whole time? (Some liveaboards cycle people off the boat. You want one that doesn’t, since getting to know other divers is part of the fun.)

Programming Note: Today I boarded a boat with a bunch of strangers and headed out into the ocean to dive and eat and sleep and eat and dive and you get the idea. I write this in the present tense even though this occurred four days ago. Obviously, I’m alive so the dive trip was a success. I’ll continue to write in the present tense as I try to catch up with the dive trip.

My plan is to continue to post on a daily basis then post the four-day scuba thing all at once when I’ve finished it. The liveaboard entries may be a bit shorter because I have a feeling it’s not entertaining to read about what fish I saw and where. Turns out divers are a lot like bird watchers when it comes to fish ID stuff. Really. It can be kind of oppressive.

That said, I had a good time. I’ll try to post a sticky for the dive trip. Look forward to lots of pictures, too, including some of people breathing underwater, reef creatures, tattoos, and Naked Dive Guy. Them Russians is crazy, I tell ya.

Stay tuned.

Dateline: The road from Krabitown to Khao Lak, Thailand, Tuesday, March 23, 2010

I know what luggage feels like. It feels very confused.

Thailand has a system. They get so many non-Thai tourists that they’ve figured out a way to ship them efficiently from place to place. It works like this.

Yesterday, I booked a ticket through a tour company for my trip from Railay (rock climbing Mecca) north to Khao Lak (scuba divers’ paradise). As with most tour companies, this one gave me a receipt and a colored sticker with the tour company’s name on it.

This morning, I showed up in front of Bamboo Bar, a local open-air dive that sits next to the water at Railay East. I put on my little green sticker and stood with all the other travelers. A Thai boat driver found me and told me to wait. For the next 30 minutes, I amused myself by watching a Muay Thai lesson taking place in the mini boxing ring set up on Bamboo Bar’s floor. A blond girl and a local girl practiced hitting an instructor’s hand. It’s as exciting as it sounds but with more sun and humidity.

In time, another Thai boatman came around staring at the stickers on our chests and waved about 20 of us towards the boat. We loaded up and hiked through about 100 yards of sea water, mud, and waves. It was low tide. It always seems to be low tide on Railay East.

After hauling ourselves over the side and into the boat, we headed out for a short ride to Krabitown. When we got to the “pier” (more wading and mud), we made our way to a small bus terminal on the water. The trip is easy enough with a backpack. I felt sorry for two old couples and their rolly luggage. None of the backpackers felt sorry enough to help, though. Our packs were still heavy and the sun was still out. Plus, they were grown up enough to live with their decision to pack D&G luggage like they were traveling to Paris for fashion week.

Once at the pier another set of Thai people called out destinations and looked at our chest stickers. They directed us with broken English and hand gestures.

Now, I’ve been in Thailand for a while and have gotten quite used to having no idea what anyone is saying. Everyone who’s not a Brit, an Aussie, or a Yank speaks something besides English. I’ve learned to zone out and let the yammering of Russian, German, Italian, Swiss, Swedish, Danish, Dutch, and Thai wash over me. Everyone, however, speaks English with varying levels of skill.

When people do get around to speaking my language, I find it entertaining. It’s real life drama when a Japanese man tries to ask a Thai hotel worker where he can buy a SIM card for his phone. There are a lot of hand gestures and words that are intended to be English. I can only imagine what it’s like to ask a store clerk for condoms.

This tension is ramped up at these transportation interchanges because nobody wants to be left behind or misplace a bag.

That’s where the genius of the stickers comes in. The Thais treated us like barely sentient luggage. They asked, “Where?” to establish destination and “How many?” to try to figure out how to split up groups between buses. The whole time they’d match our travel company stickers to a list that each holds that presumably tells them which travel company was shipping what to where. Then they’d count and recount to make sure they hadn’t left a human package behind.

When we did finally get on our mini buses everyone settled in for a long ride. Wrong. After 10 minutes, the Thais unloaded us at an open air restaurant that acted as a bus depot. There was a lot of confusion as people again tried to make sure they and their luggage did not get misplaced. Thai people took our receipts and slapped us with another tag that stated our destination. Then we sat and waited.

It was fun watching other buses pull in and seeing the confused farang passengers. A couple girls even stumbled out with sleep pillows, which got the Thai baggage handlers laughing. “They thought it was going to be a long ride. Silly cargo.”

When it was time to leave, I kept getting shuffled between three different buses. Each time I was turned away because my backpack and I wouldn’t fit. I got asked 100 times, “Where? How many?” accompanied by a long stare at my chest. It’s awkward and I don’t even have boobs.

My luggage ended up on the roof of a white van. I ended up inside next to a guy I went deep water solo with. He’s from Spain and had acquired a tall Danish girl as a companion. Everyone on the bus is going diving.

We were crammed four to a seat. I asked the Russian girl next to me if she needed more room. She said she was fine. A couple days ago she was on a bus that was overfilled. Apparently that was much worse. I have no idea where else they’d fit on this bus. Perhaps they hung them from the roof or chopped them into smaller pieces.

The next two and a half hours were a mild version of road travel in Asia. Some honking horns, two perilous passes, and a partridge in a pear tree. Nothing I won’t get 50 more times this trip.

When we hit Khao Lak, the driver repeatedly asked us, “Where you go?” Spanish guy didn’t know the name of his dive shop, only the name of the person he’d called. He asked a lady who greeted the van whether she knew Glinda. It didn’t work.

In time, we all got dropped off somewhere, hopefully close to where we wanted to be. They’ve managed to get all of us to Khao Lak (so they tell us). That’s better than some airlines, I guess.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If you forget the name of your dive shop, be sure you bring along a Danish person who remembers the phone number so you can call for directions.

Not So Stupid Tip: Be prepared for some chaos when traveling. Just chill and go with the flow. So long as you’re not being taken down a dark alley in the middle of the night, you should be fine. When in doubt, follow my rule of thumb: Follow the White people. If nothing else, you won’t die alone.

Bring along a little water and a salty snack. Alternate between the water and the snack to keep you comfortable. Thirsty? Sip a little water. Hungry? Nibble on the snack. Need to go to the bathroom but have no way of discreetly signaling to the drive from way in the back that you’d rather not relive that ‘80 trip to Yellowstone? Wolf down the snack, cross your legs, and quit sipping so much water.

Programming Note: Today, I booked a four-day liveaboard in the Similan Islands. It leaves tomorrow night at 8:30 p.m. As the brochure for this place says, this trip is “all about sleeping, diving, eating, diving, relaxing, diving, and sunbathing.” I intend to do all but the sunbathing. I will eat more to make up for it.

That means, unfortunately, I won’t have access to the internet. Luckily there are lots of old posts and pictures for you to peruse. Take this time to formulate inflammatory comments and write critical e-mails. It’ll give me something to do when I get back.

In the meantime, just because I don’t post doesn’t mean I’m dead or have been kidnapped and sold to a brothel specializing in awkward Asian males. It just means I’m on a boat.

If I don’t post something by the 29^th, you can start to worry about me. Please, though, don’t call in the National Guard until the 31^st. Give me a day or two to figure out whether I enjoy sexual slavery.

I hope to post at least once more tomorrow. If I’m unable to, I’ll catch you on the other side with a piece about one of my favorite things about traveling: new snacks.

Dateline: Railay, Krabi, Thailand, Monday, March 22, 2010

I’ve noticed at least two things about the exercise of writing every day. First, it’s actually pushed me to be more active than I would normally be. I can be a bit of a homebody. I’m more than content to sit somewhere nice and read book, watch old episodes of Top Gear, or just wonder at, say, the physiology and physics required to properly use a bidet. For example, the last time I was in Thailand, I once spent a day in Chiang Mai in bed, reading one of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books. I had traveled thousands of miles to an exotic city in the north of Thailand to read a fantasy novel I’d picked up at a used bookstore the day before. Rick Steves would be so disappointed.

That kind of behavior comes with the territory of being a closet introvert. It also means there is quite a bit of inertia to getting me out of bed in the morning.

Daily writing provides a good bit of force, though. It’s hard to write when all you’ve done is lounge about. Do you really want to read book reports on Klosterman books or Anthony Bourdain’s A Cook’s Tour? If I could figure out how one could feel clean after using a bidet, I might write about it, but I’ve made a commitment to avoid the scatological. When travel writers talk about bodily functions, I kind of feel like it’s cheating. (Note: I am not above cheating. See below.)

That’s partially how I end up doing silly things like deep water solo and trying to climb into lagoons. Actually, I wouldn’t have thought to do deep water solo if not for Darrel. And that’s what I mean. I’m totally down for just about anything. I sometimes just need a little motivation. Thanks to my daily chore, I have a little bit more of a push.

Second, I’ve learned that writing is work. Don’t get me wrong. I enjoy this. But there are days when nothing happens, sometimes for good reason. Take today, for example. Darrel decided he was going to stay on Tonsai to be closer to climber central. I checked in with the dive shop on Railay first thing in the morning and found out there was a four-day liveaboard diving trip in the Similan Islands starting in two days. To get up to Khao Lak in time, I’d have to leave Railay the next morning. I decided to stay in Railay for my last day and not make the move to Tonsai. Darrel and I exchanged contact info. He packed up his gear and headed out. I plopped myself under the fan in the room and wrote out the previous day’s entry.

I had every intention of finishing the entry, sending it for an edit, then going out to Tham Phra Nang Nai, a cave I’d walked by every day I’d stayed at Railay Cabana. I heard it had stalagmites and bats. Bats, to me, are like flying mice. They kind of freak me out. I thought it would be fun.

Guess I was more tired than I thought. Perhaps it had something to do with clinging to an ocean cliff the day before and the two days of scuba diving. Regardless, the point is I spent the day drifting in and out of consciousness, writing, drinking water, and eating what leftover snacks I had in my bag.

That does not make for a good story. It barely makes for a lame excuse for this entry.

I’ve learned, however, there are things I can do if a day doesn’t have a good arc. Bulleted lists, for example, are a great way to get out punchy ideas that aren’t worthy of a full entry or that don’t fit nicely into a narrative. It’s not that these ideas aren’t good. It’s just that they’re hard to fit in.

They are also a lot frickin’ easier to write. That’s because they’re short and you’re not required to fit them into a narrative. Peter King has made a living off this kind of thing. It is, however, a form of writer’s cheating. Since I didn’t do anything today, other than buy a ticket out of Railay, I’m going to resort to a list of random thoughts, incomplete ideas, and gross simplifications. Enjoy.

•A couple nights ago, Darrel and I had dinner with an Israeli couple who were about our age. The wife was attractive and had a warm smile. The husband had a quiet, more serious manner. He was funny, though. When I couldn’t finish my curry rice, but contemplated ordering mango sticky rice, he leaned over and said, “This is the behavior of a woman.” I told him I wasn’t so sure, but that it was my behavior. I did not, however, end up ordering the mango sticky rice.

I think he was taken aback that I was a lawyer, especially after he learned that I was staying at one of the cheapest places on the peninsula (e.g. no sink, no a/c). He and his wife were at a much nicer resort with their daughter and some other family.

In fact, he tried to pay for my meal (Darrel had eaten earlier in the evening). He said he wanted to pay so that I would have good thoughts about Israel. I wasn’t so sure that was the reason. Out of pride, I insisted that I pay for myself, saying that if he didn’t accept the 100 baht I was shoving in his hand, I’d only think badly of Israel. He relented, though I think I might have offended him.

•Thailand has many kinds of ants. There are ones that resemble the black and the red ants that you see in California. There are larger versions with longer thoraxes. The ones that fascinate me are the little tiny ones, no bigger than the size of a comma. They move insanely fast. I imagine that they break the sound barrier, except we don’t notice because the boom is too small for human ears. It’s mesmerizing to watch them frantically zooming here and there. I try not to think too hard about where such tiny creatures might go when I’m not paying attention.

•I’m amazed at what little things can make a big difference when I travel. For example, the only reason I met Darell was because he happened to stick his head into the dive shop to ask where he could find a cheap hostel. I overheard him and offered to help. We ended up being roommates for a couple of days. Because of him, I went deep water solo.

Or take my day at the Krabitown bus station. I almost went to Ko Lanta, but opted for Railay at the last minute because I figured it’d be cheaper to start there and move to Ko Lanta later. I never left Railay. I never made it to Ko Lanta. Instead I ran into Lars twice and we ended up rooming together for a few days. Without him I’d have never learned about Dutch tradition of Sinterklaas.

•Sinterklaas is the most awesome holiday tradition ever. As Lars told me, it’s a Dutch holiday celebrated on December 5. It’s sort of like Santa Claus, except Sinterklaas arrives on a ship. He’s helped by little black helpers called piet. There are piet of all kinds: grumpy piet, sleepy piet, joker piet. There are apparently thousands of piet, each with its own characteristic. Did I mention that the piet are black? (Note: there appears to be some debate on why they’re black; might be a reference to their Moorish roots or that they were chimney sweeps. Google it.) Older children dress up as piet and help in a town’s celebration. There’s a parade that seemed a bit like Holland’s version of Carnival. The parade features Dutch youths painted black, accompanying Sinterklaas.

Here’s my favorite part. Parents tell their children that if they do not improve their character or their grades or whatever, instead of giving the children presents on December 5, Sinterklaas will kidnap them and taken them back to his homeland, Spain, for a year.

The idea that 1) Sinterklaas is a child kidnapper and that 2) he bestows his benevolence or punishment from Spain cracks me up. I can imagine all these Dutch children cowering in fear of the Spanish invader from the south who, if they’re bad, will whisk them away to the warmth and sun of the Mediterranean. If I ever have kids, I’m raising them on Sinterklaas. I will tell them Sinterklaas comes from Bakersfield.

•I’ve been here nearly three weeks and I’m still getting into the car on the wrong side. Whenever someone drives me some place and I have to sit in the front seat, I end up standing in front of a confused driver as he tries to reach around me to get at the driver side door.

•I have not been eating enough mango and sticky rice. Today, to remedy that problem, I ordered one. It came with sesame seeds on top. I learned that I prefer my mango and sticky rice plain.

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Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: If you’re going to go on holiday and write about it, practice being an extrovert.

Not So Stupid Tip: Bring sunscreen and use it often. The sun is different here. I almost burned between dives because I didn’t reapply. This happened even though I was only out of the water for one hour, the whole time in the shade. If you’re going to over pack on something, bring a little extra sunscreen. Not only will you go through it quickly, it seems to be much more expensive here in Thailand.

Dateline: Cliff faces on Ko Poda, off the coast of Krabi, Thailand, Sunday, March 21, 2010

Don’t step on your rope. Don’t wash your harness. Don’t expose your quickdraws to weather. Don’t get your rope wet. The rules are meant to keep you safe. Here in Railay, the rules are often broken.

This feels like the Wild West of rock climbing. There is no law. What is prudent is judged by those who choose to challenge this frontier. For example. In rock climbing, bolts drilled deep (hopefully) into the rock mark where a climber with a rope can ascend. When a climber reaches a bolt, she uses a quickdraw to hook her rope into the wall. She then continues climbing till the next bolt, whereupon she hooks her rope in again. If she falls, the rope will protect her from hitting the ground. At the top, there is an anchor, usually consisting of three bolts. From each bolt hangs a metal chain. The three chains are linked to a single metal ring that hangs off the wall. When a climber hits the top of the route, she threads her rope through the metal ring. From there the person below can lower her down. The idea is that if a single bolt or chain breaks, she can still hang from the metal ring because the other two will protect.

Here in Railay, the anchors aren’t made of metal chains. They’re made of looped rope. Rope. Not metal. Rope. This violates the “never get your rope wet” rule because the rope stays up there when it rains. A rope that’s been wet is a weaker rope. Here in Railay, using rope for an anchor also violates an unspoken subrule “never get your rope wet, especially near the ocean because salt water is more corrosive than fresh.” The Wild West, indeed.

Whenever I’ve gone rock climbing, I’ve always been in awe at how much faith climbers put in the work of strangers. Climbers don’t know who bolted the route. What if those people were feeling lazy? What if they were incompetent? Or murderous? Who or what holds those bolters responsible? All it takes is someone drilling a bolt a little shallow or using a shoddy chain and a climber’s life is changed, significantly. To be a climber you have to have a lot of trust in the goodness of human nature. And you have to be a little crazy.

My awe is double in Railay because you can see, right off the bat, that rules are being broken. Ropes for an anchor? Really? I suppose it adds to the thrill. Just like riding amusement park rides in Asia, climbing in a place where people are loose with the rules puts you in touch with your mortality.

I don’t have to worry about climbing rules today, though. No one will be stepping on my rope or getting it wet. No one will have washed my harness. I won’t be tying in to rope anchors.

That’s because I won’t be using any safety equipment. I’m going deep water soloing. My only protection will be my hands, my feet, and the water. Water’s soft when you fall, right?

When Darrel and I hit the climbing shop at 10 a.m., my first job is to pick out shoes. I settle on a pair that are quite comfortable. Perhaps that’s because I can see my toes sticking out of the fronts. The rubbers been eaten away. Problem is, none of the other shoes that fit have toes either. Since I’m a little dim, this fact doesn’t stop me from joining eleven climbers on a longtail boat headed for the rock.

When we get there, the ocean is calm. Our Thai guide slides a kayak out from under the seats and begins to ferry us one by one to the wall. From the kayak, we’re to climb a rope ladder and just attack the wall. Whenever we’re done, we’re supposed to just jump into the water. Funny, if this were the U.S., I’m pretty sure someone would’ve asked if we all knew how to swim.

If we slip, the water is supposed to break our fall. Or break us. Or something. I’m not sure there’s much of a plan. I guess we’re just not supposed to fall.

The first guy, a German in white shorts, traverses along the wall and gets about 35 feet or so above the water. Suddenly, everyone’s clamoring to get on the kayak and to the wall. Me, I’m not in a rush.

When I finally climb onto the boat, I’m feeling wildly overconfident. Nearly everyone’s been on the wall. No one’s dead. No one’s fallen unintentionally. They’ve all hit the water and survived. Can’t be that bad, can it?

I climb up the rope ladder (harder than it looks) and find the crevice in which our guide has dumped a bunch of chalk. I rub that stuff into my hands like I’m trying to scrub ink stains off my palms. I don’t know if it helps to put chalk on the back of your hands, but I do it just to be safe.

Then I’m off and climbing. Climbing without a rope ramps up the intensity. You’re more focused on the integrity of your handholds. You plant tentatively and test your stability. You feel the smoothness of the ledges. You notice if you need more friction. You notice if your friggin’ climbing shoes have no toes.

I feel around slowly and methodically, groping like I’ve taken out my contact lenses and am searching for my misplaced glasses. Nothing exists but me and the six feet of rock that surrounds me. Touch, feel, grope, test, pull, hang, shift, repeat.

I find myself up where the first guy in white shorts was, about 50 feet to the right of where I started and about 35 feet up.

It’s been said before that you shouldn’t fear heights or falling, just the sudden stop at the end. Whoever said that was an idiot. I’m guessing it was 35 feet, but standing on that ledge it felt like 1000. The water was calm, but I could tell it wanted to kill me. If it couldn’t do that, it’d settle for a broken bone or a seawater enema. Surprisingly, the world didn’t swirl. I didn’t have vertigo. I did, however, wonder if this was a bad idea.

In my head, I decide to count to “three.” I ended up jumping on “two.” It was all silence and empty space. I was falling.

Thirty-five feet doesn’t seem like much. It probably isn’t. It is, however, high enough that I have a chance to contemplate two things : #1 – “Wow, shouldn’t I have hit the water by now?” and #2 “I would like to reconsider my decision to jump.”

I don’t even screa. . .I mean yell. I just choke on my own esophagus and hit the water. I kick to the surface and taste sweet air. I swim to the longtail and scramble aboard. Then, I go back on the kayak and do it all again.

Lunch Break for food and bouldering.

After a couple hours of this we took a break for lunch in the shelter of a cove just around the corner from our climbing site. That’s when our guide showed us how it’s really done. He bouldered his way through a challenging course that none of the climbers on our boat could do. He did it without shoes. It made me wonder if they’d cut the toes out of mine on purpose.

Turns out our boat driver is also a climber. Where our guide was all finesse and slick movement, our driver was all power moves with his arms. He did the same course very differently. Like his buddy, he also did not use shoes.

After the Thais put us to shame, we headed out for our afternoon session. This site was a bit further away. This time the sea was choppy. If that wasn’t bad enough, the entry to the rock was much more challenging. We had to ascend a stalactite that hung over the water. A few people decided not to climb at all. I waited till just about the very end.

By the time I’d fought my way up the ladder, I was exhausted. I almost jumped into the water from there, but pride drove me upwards. Every guy had made it to at least the top of the spire. One of the girls had too. I turned off my brain and just climbed. This was definitely worse, because when I looked down, I realized that there was rock under me. If I fell, I wasn’t going to go into the water clean.

I made it to the top and looked down into the waves below. The wind was whipping the water. I told myself that this meant that the water had less surface tension. I wondered if this was a lie.

The jump this time felt longer than before. I’m told that I’d jumped from a higher spot than last time. I swam through the waves back to the boat.

As we motored off back to Tonsai Beach, we reveled in our success. We’d kept the most important rule of rock climbing: Don’t die.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Before deep water soloing, it’s best to have the more useful parts of your brain removed.

Not So Stupid Tip: I highly recommend trying out deep water solo. It sounds scarier than it actually is. Hell, I did it, so that should tell you something.

There are at least a few companies that do deep water solo. We paid 700 baht per person for our trip. That included lunch, the boat, driver, and guide. It also includes “shoes.” Value for money, it might be the best $20 I’ve spent in a while (FYI, diving costs more than $20).

The trips don’t run every day and times depend on the tide, so you kind of have to plan ahead. If you do go, bring a towel. Not to dry off, but to hide under if the sun starts to get to you. It can be tough to find shade on the boat.

Random Note: One of the guys who went deep water solo called himself Will. He claimed he and his girlfriend had saved up enough money to take a dream vacation. He said they’d graduated from the University of Colorado in May and that he’d been working for a fish purchasing company in Seattle until he quit for this trip.

Lies! I swear to you he’s actually James Ransone, an actor from The Wire and Generation Kill. Will was wiry like the actor. Will had the same mannerisms and facial expressions as the characters the actor’s played.  Gotta say, much better looking in person. I know your secret Will. You’re traveling because you’re between gigs. You told me some BS story because you’re trying to keep a low profile. I got you though, dawg. Your secret is safe with me.

Unfortunately, I don’t have a decent pic of the guy, just a video that’s way too big to post. Six hours with him and I couldn’t sneak a decent photo; I’d make a terrible paparazzo. I also couldn’t bring myself to call him on it. What if I was wrong? I’d be stuck on a boat with the guy for the next few hours. I ended up just staring at him trying to decide if it’s just that all White people look alike. If I’d seen him at the bar later and we’d had a few, I definitely would have called him out. You’ll just have to take my word for it. Guess, I really am a celebrity stalker.

Picture Galleries:

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http://cid-86ee0778f088f748.skydrive.live.com/browse.aspx/Day%2018

Dateline: Tonsai Beach, Krabi, Thailand, Saturday, March 20, 2010

Railay, in Thailand’s Krabi province, is a rock climbing Mecca. People come here to try out some of the best climbs in the world. Now, every place claims to have “the best climbing in the world.” In my estimation, though, Railay is a rock climber’s paradise for at least three reasons.

#1 – The Rock Climbing

First, there’s the rock climbing. It is indeed epic. There are rock faces in every direction so you can climb all day long in the shade so long as you keep switching venues. There’s multi-pitch, bouldering, sport, and something called deep water solo where climbers go out in boats and climb without ropes on rock faces that hang out over the ocean. You won’t get bored in Railay. New routes are being created all the time. People spend months here climbing their brains out. Which brings me to the second reason why Railay is special.

#2 – Thailand Is Cheap

Sure, Yosemite, the Swiss Alps, Vail, and New Zealand have great climbs. They are not, however, cheap. By Thai standards, Railay is a bit pricey. Most climbers, though, are not Thai. You can still find lodging for under seven bucks and have a meal for two. I’ve even seen people camped out in tents on Tonsai Beach. If you bring your own rock climbing gear, your daily expenses would run you about $15 a day. Imagine how much you could spend on booze.

#3 – Location, Location, Location

In my experience, rock climbing areas are very pretty. When you get high enough, you have expansive views of whatever countryside or desert or valley you’re climbing over. The views here are quite nice. You climb over bays of crystal clear water. You lay your ropes down on white sand. At the top of your climbs, you look down on tropical beaches, tropical trees, and tropical, topless, European sunbathers. I took one look at the climbs here and realized that regardless of how terrible you climb, you’re going to look good against this backdrop.

#4 – The Rasta Vibe

This is one chilled out place. The icon of choice isn’t Buddha, it’s Bob, as in Marley. Seems like every Thai guide has dreads. If you visit the right bars, they serve joints instead of peanuts. Reggae culture reigns supreme.

I have no idea why this is the case. Perhaps it’s the tropics. Perhaps it’s because the Thai climbers here connect with Marley’s hymns to the oppressed. Maybe they’ve just got some damn good bud. I don’t know. I do know that it gives the already slow tropical life an even more relaxed feel. People seem friendlier. People seem high.

This is all well and good. I’m in a climbing holy place. I will climb. This, despite the fact that, on balance, I probably hate climbing.

Don’t get me wrong. I like the feel of scrambling up rock. It’s a puzzle for me. Hang on this, pull on that, squeeze on this, ascend into the heavens. There’s something very rewarding about “solving” a wall. You can look down and know exactly how much you’ve accomplished.

Now, you may look at this and say to yourself, “HHhhhmm. . .call me crazy, but it sounds like you like rock climbing.”

I don’t. Scrambling up rocks is not rock climbing. To rock climb you actually have to have a little bit of strength and body control. Climbs are steeper. You cannot have the grip of an eight-year-old girl. I have the grip of a four-year-old girl with mono. I’ve been hanging on a wall, admiring my 10 foot achievement, and come to the realization that my wrist is cramping. Suddenly, I am hanging on for dear life, wondering if I’ll bang my knee on a ledge before I hit the ground. This is usually a static position, which eliminates the climbing part of the experience.

Yes yes yes. I know I’m being melodramatic. I’ve only ever top roped, which means I have a rope that keeps me from hitting the ground and from even falling more than two feet. So, if the fear of death is removed, why do I not enjoy climbing?

Easy. I end up in a static position because I don’t want to let go of the wall. Not because I don’t want to die (though that’s a little bit of it), but because letting go of the wall is failure. A good climber never lets go of the wall. They climb up with less protection than people like me. For them, failure to hold on means they’re falling far. They will get hurt. They may die. They most certainly will lose some choice pieces of skin. That’s a high price for failure.

To me, failure means humiliation. I hate humiliation. When I climb, someone is watching, if only the person holding the other end of the rope. It’s rare, though, to climb with only one person watching. It’s impossible at a place like Railay.

I have no problem with private failure. Shoot, the anonymity of academic grades certainly proved that. Failure in front of family and close friends is bad, but not life threatening. Failure in front of people is the opposite of fun.

For me, rock climbing is an exercise in public humiliation. Inevitably, I will have to admit defeat at least four times on a climb. I will have to hang on the rope for at least 20 minutes to rest. I will slip and lose my grip. People will see my hands and calves shake as I hug the wall for dear life, trying to figure out what to do next. People on the ground will wonder why I’m taking so damn long. I may not die, but I will want to. At least in that, I’d get a little respect.

People keep telling me that I should just chill out and have fun when I climb. Those people usually fall into two categories: 1) they are good at rock climbing and 2) they are female. If you’re good at rock climbing, you’ll inevitably think I’m exaggerating and that I’m not that bad. After all, you’re good at rock climbing. To you, rock climbing is not that hard. You have the grip of a championship judo wrestler and the balance of the Empire State building. You do not realize that rock climbing might be difficult for others because to you it is like breathing. You cannot talk to me because you do not understand. You do not experience my horror. You will stand on the ground as I climb and wonder why it’s taking so damn long.

If you’re a woman telling me that I should chill out, that’s because you have not experienced the humiliation of public climbing. There’s a double standard at work here. Chicks that rock climb are cool. No matter how bad you are, men (though perhaps not women) will encourage you and give you props for throwing yourself repeatedly at the wall. Men dominate the rock climbing world, so you, as a female, have not experienced the embarrassment of repeated failure because, for you, the bar is lower. You just have to climb. That is success. This means you’ll have initially enjoyed climbing and done it again and again and, over time, you will be good at rock climbing (see category #1). Then you will doubly not understand what I’m going through.

There’s also an underlying male dynamic here. Men, back me up on this, but there’s a competitive vibe to everything that we do. Men go to great lengths to not fail in front of their own species. This will sometimes lead to excessive drinking, driving too fast, and Mark McGwire. The pressure to do well in front of other men is intense.

Now, in most aspects of my life, I’ve come to grips (so to speak) with who I am. I’m good at some things and not others. I can live with that. I can put myself in situations, not do well, and be fine with it. That’s usually because I’m either doing that activity with my friends or have repeatedly explained to the other participants that I suck and that they’re going to have to live with it.

More often than not, though, I just avoid doing what I’m not good at. I don’t play baseball. I don’t try to take the lids off jars without assistance. I don’t rock climb.

Did I mention that Railay is a rock climber’s Mecca?

Today, Darrel and I checked out Tonsai Beach and found all the rock climbers. I’d rented a pair of shoes and used them for a total of 15 seconds. I tried to boulder a face, got tired, and hopped off. That experience cost me (81 cents) a second. I know hookers that charge less.

It was way too hot to do much. We spent the afternoon just hanging on the beach, eating, drinking, and napping on these mats that a restaurant had out on a deck overlooking the sea.

If you’re wondering why I’m philosophizing more than recounting, that’s because there’s nothing to recount. The pic above is one of only two I took all day. If you look closely, you can see white chalk marks where climbers have climbed. You can also see quickdraws hanging from the overhang, which climbers hook their ropes into.

I am in Railay though and I will rock climb. Visiting Railay and not climbing is like visiting the Louvre and not seeing the Mona Lisa or going to Mardi Gras and not showing your boobs. As much as I suck at it, I’ll gut out a route or two. If nothing else, because I just paid a guy to take me deep water soloing. That’s right. Boat, ocean, rock face, no rope. This is a bad idea.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Love rock climbing when you visit Railay.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re climbing, consider spending a day or two at Tonsai Beach. The vibe is really chill and the accommodations are supposed to be cheaper. The beach isn’t as nice and you’re more isolated, but you’ll probably meet a lot more climbers since most of them are there for the walls and not for the sand, surf, or the accompanying pricier accommodations.

Dateline: Ocean surrounding Koh Phi Phi Leh, Thailand, Friday, March 19, 2010

I could spend a lot of time describing how awesome it is to dive, but I’ve done enough of that. I get the feeling that gushing about this crap to non-divers is like waxing eloquent about your fantasy football team to your mother-in-law. “It was awesome! Clinton Portis rushed for 175 yards yesterday and I won by one point. And I saw a school of grouper fish and a really pretty mini-eel and a barracuda the size of Olin Kruetz!” You’re lucky if they listen politely.  Also, if you go on for too long, they will definitely think you’re insane.

So I’ll get my gushing out of the way first. I saw two things today that were totally awesome. Denis (my instructor) and I saw a turtle feeding at the bottom of the ocean. It was just picking at the bottom, swallowing sea life like the deadly predator that it is. We also saw a fully inflated porcupine fish. That thing looked totally insane. Its eyes bugged out and it bobbed in the water like a helium balloon snapping at the end of a string. Denis said even though he’d dove thousands of times, he’d never seen that before. I felt special. There. That wasn’t so bad, was it?

I will, though, subject you to more descriptions of what it feels like to dive. What was surprising to me about diving is how much you can see underwater. For example, today we dove to 16 meters (56 feet) and the visibility was still great. When you look down into the water from the boat, it looks dark in the depths. You’d think you’d need a flashlight. Not so. Light penetrates more than you’d expect.

It’s also amazing how slowly you move. I always wondered why, in the movies, underwater special forces teams looked like they were going slow motion in the water. Shouldn’t the mission to take down Goldfinger really have a bit more urgency to it? Actually, turns out it’s not just water resistance that slows these badasses down. They’re probably trying to avoid succumbing to over exhaustion. When you dive and overexert yourself, you get a bit loopy. Think of it as punch drunk. You’ll start doing stupid things like take off your mask or stop responding to other divers or pull your regulator out and drown. I’m sure there is a perfectly good physiological reason why this happens, but I don’t know it. Perhaps it’s in the PADI dive manual. Anyway, the point is you want to do things in a controlled, slow manner so you don’t accidentally get air drunk and die. No idea if this is why the movie divers always look like they’re in molasses, but I like this theory so I’m sticking to it.

We ended up doing a dive around Maya Nui South, near Maya Bay near Ko Phi Phi Leh. As I said, I’ll spare you the wildlife, but I will say that when we started we found a black skull cap on the bottom at about 12 meters (40 feet). Denis picked it up and carried it through the whole dive. When we surfaced and got back on the boat, I told him I thought it belonged to an Italian guy that I saw above deck. Turns out I was right. The Italian snorkeler flipped out with joy, called Denis his best friend, and offered him his wife as a reward. At least that’s what I think he said. It was in Italian.

We also did a dive near Bida Noi. For that one, we circled an outcropping that jutted out of the ocean. When we got back to the boat, we lounged around as we headed back to shore. I crashed out and when I woke up, I realized I was the only non-White customer onboard (there were a couple of Thai guides). This made me thirsty so I had a free Sprite, one of a number of complimentary sodas. That’s when I also realized that I was the only person who had drank a Sprite. I could tell this because the trash bin was filled with only clear bottles and Sprite bottles are green. This led me to only one possible conclusion: Non-White divers are the only divers that drink Sprite because the bottles are colored. That and the ocean is racist. Ocean, you’re on notice for some affirmative action.

I finished my PADI certification, but didn’t have any cash to pay for the class. I promised Denis I’d give the dive shop at Railay the money. He said that he’d have the paperwork ready for me to pick up by tomorrow, after I’d paid.

When I hit the mainland, I pumped an ATM for cash and paid off the dive shop. While going through paperwork and asking about a liveaboard dive trip in the Similans, an Asian dude popped his head into the shop to ask about cheap accommodations. I offered to help.

To make a long story short, I found a new roommate. Darrel is Chinese from the Bay Area. Roughly my age, he’s here to climb. We ended up splitting the costs of the room at Railay Cabana and also booked a nicer place at Ya Ya Resort for the next night at about the same price. Tomorrow, we move into the much nicer digs. Things have a way of working out on the road.

And, I really did see a barracuda and it was awesome and I don’t care if you don’t find it interesting because when that barracuda catches a touchdown pass in Monday Night’s football game I’m going to win my league! Take that.

____________________

Stupid Tip of the Day: If you’re Italian and you choose to wear a Speedo while snorkeling, don’t forget to take off your black, knit skull cap.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re staying in Railay, try to figure out what you’re primarily there for. If you’re in for the climbing, consider Tonsai, where accommodations tend to be cheaper and renting gear costs about 25% less than in Railay. There are a ton of spots to climb right off the beach. If you’re looking for a good beach to lounge, I’d opt for something in Railay East, which is as close as you can get to Phranang Beach, the best beach on Railay.* Ya Ya is pretty good, cheap, and is centrally located. You can hit the beach, climb if you want, and eat and drink without much effort. If you are a bit silly, then you can do Railay West and overpay for a swimming pool and quick access to Railay West Beach even though cheaper places are only a 2 minutes away on Railay East.

*Technically this is not true because you could stay on Phranang Beach at a resort that has rooms starting at $1,000 a night and topping out at are you insane.

Photo Galleries:

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http://www.flickr.com/photos/48186321@N07/sets/72157623661340384/

Dateline: Ko Phi-Phi Leh, Thursday, March 18, 2010

I’m a special forces secret agent man. I’m seated on the edge of the speedboat, back to the water at Viking Cave near Ko Phi-Phi Leh. The scuba mask and regulator are pressed into my face with my right hand. My left is pressed against the weight belt. The wetsuit bulges in places, some flattering and some not so much. The water laps against the side of the boat. I can barely hear it because I’m breathing like Darth Vader. I am a dark Sith Lord.

I cross my fins and prepare to enter the water. I inhale deeply and push myself backwards into the ocean. My back hits the water and the world is all upside down and bubbles.

I am Bond. James Bond. This is cool.

This is just the beginning.

Some people have a hard time getting used to the idea that they can breathe underwater. I’m not one of them. I’ve always loved swimming. I’ve always wished I didn’t have to come up for air. One of my favorite things to do in a pool is to swim along the bottom. Skimming the floor feels like flying.

Scuba takes that feeling to the next level. Scuba is like skimming the bottom of the pool, except you never have to come up for air and instead of soaring over concrete, you’re flying over a living coral reef. I am an underwater Superman, soaring higher than the highest reef.

I’m not saying I’m a great diver. Today, I had a terrible time of finding “neutral buoyancy,” the state in which you are neither floating to the surface nor sinking to the bottom. Also, since everything underwater is magnified by a third, I’d run into Denis, my scuba instructor. There’s still a lot to learn. I do, though, like the feeling of flying.

There are moments during that first dive where I feel serenity. When I hover in the water as a giant school of fish dart backwards and forwards and around me, I feel as if I’m in a shimmering, living fog.

Denis flicks at a cuttlefish and it instantly changes into a brilliant color, darts away, and returns to the color of the sand. A huge batfish eases by me and I feel like I’m visiting the best aquarium in the world.

I see Nemo and his dad sitting in the middle of an anemone. Through the first dive, I end up meeting every cast member of the movie except the pelican. I am a celebrity stalker.

Denis points out this fish and this coral and that sea horse and that squid. I’m so fascinated with what it feels like to breathe underwater, though, that he could just take me in circles and I’d be happy staring at the sand.

The second dive round the corner from Maya Bay is even better. The place is called Arai Godai, because the guides got tired of trying to tell boat drivers where to go. “Around the corner from Maya Bay. No the other way around. But not Viking Cave. Etc. etc.” In the end, they settled on Arai Godai which, in Thai, means “whatever.”

If you recall, Maya Bay was crowded with tourists. Beneath the surface, Arai Godai is crowded with awesomeness. I feel like I’ve taken acid and am watching the nature channel.

By this point, I’m so comfortable in the water that when Denis gives me the hand signal for shark, I’m not even fazed. We are floating around a leopard shark that’s resting on the bottom. Part of its tail’s been sheared off by a boat propeller.

Denis points out a turtle that’s finning its way to the surface. I am watching National Geographic on a 5,000 inch HD LED 3D TV.

A school of snapper are hovering in the current. They give us a sideways glance, mostly because their eyes are in the sides of their heads. I look up and I see a school of smaller fish whipping around the pinnacle of the reef to get away from us divers. I am Ariel in the Little Mermaid.

It’s an epic day of firsts. First time I’ve been under 12 meters (36 feet) of water. First time I’ve entered the ocean like I’m on a Navy SEAL dive team. First time I’ve stared into the haze of the deep ocean and not been totally terrified (this time I panicked, just slightly, then turned off my brain). First time I fell in love with diving.

Looks like I’ve found my next expensive hobby. I feel like Jacques Cousteau but without any money. Sure beats swimming along the bottom of the pool.

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Learn to breathe like a fish, it will cut down on the costs of diving.

Not So Stupid Tip: Buy a dry bag, which you can get at just about any outdoor store. It’s one of those rucksack things that is waterproof, whose opening folds down on itself, and either clips or velcros down to keep the contents dry. It’s one of the most handy items I’ve brought so far.

For example, when you ride speedboats, it keeps your camera and book and shirt dry. When I’ve done boat transfers and there’s no dock, you have to walk in the water to shore. The dry bag is worth its weight there, too. I keep one in my pack at all times just in case it rains. The also bag keeps out dust and dirt, which was helpful when I almost climbed up into the lagoon.

Just trust me on this. The dry bag doesn’t have to be that big. No need for an over the shoulder model unless you’re really planning on going into the water all the time. It’s something you should have, even if you’re bringing proper luggage and not just a backpack.

Programming Note: Lars left today. After six months of travel, he’ll be back in Holland. He put himself on the overnight bus to Bangkok and is catching a flight out tomorrow. I don’t envy him. We ended up chatting last night about just how weird it is to live in America (having a house and Senate, how NYC isn’t America, trial by jury, America’s national food, etc. etc.). Good stuff.

On my end, this means I’m now paying double for a room with no sink. Not so good stuff.

Such is life on the road, though. Best of luck to Lars and his transition back into the real world. Since he’s going to Amsterdam, perhaps he can find a way to blunt the culture shock.

Dateline: Centara Resort, Krabi, Thailand, Wednesday, March 17, 2010

I’ve always wondered what it would be like to walk on water. That’s all I can think as I walk along the floating plastic pier that extends out of Centara Resort. Since the pier is made up of little independent pieces, the whole 80-meter-long pier undulates with the ocean. The pier moves in waves as the water flexes from the wakes of mooring boats. As I move to shore, I feel like Jesus.

Centara is one of those places in Krabi where it looks like the patrons came to Thailand to be at home. That’s to say, there’s nothing special about it. If you changed the color and language of the staff, you could be at any private beach in the world. I guess it’s for people who like their foreign experience in smaller doses. Then again, my foreign experience includes a room with no sink, so maybe they’re doing something right.

I’m here to start my PADI certification. I put down a reservation two days ago. It’s a bit more pricey than I’d hoped, but it’s still cheaper than what I’d pay at home. It also includes four dives in the Phi Phi islands. If I did this at home, I’d be in the cold California waters staring at kelp. I consider this a bargain.

I’m also overpaying a bit because I think I’m going to have a good experience here. Phranang Divers seems to have professional teachers. I spoke to the owner Kyle on the phone and even though he was a bit monotone, he was helpful answering questions.

I figure I’ll only get certified once so it’s worth paying more to be comfortable.

I’m not disappointed. My instructor, Dennis, is a Scotsman who’s been living the better part of the last 7 years in Thailand. His wife is Thai. He’s an excellent teacher.

We start off at the dive center office. Early on, I discover that they have a nice, western-style bathroom. Throughout the day, I use it as often as I can.

I watch videos, learn how to assemble my scuba rig, take tests, and then we’re in the pool.

My biggest fear was that I’d have a hard time learning how to clear a flooded scuba mask underwater. It isn’t that bad. The hardest part is staying calm when I feel water in my nose. That wasn’t even that hard.

What is hard is learning how to get to neutral buoyancy. That’s where you’re neither floating to the surface nor sinking to the bottom. You just remain suspended in the water. It looks very Zen when Dennis does it, but, when I try, I’m over and under correcting with my BCD and lungs like a teenager driving on a learner’s permit. Dennis assures me that it’s harder in the pool because I keep running into the surface or the bottom. He thinks ocean diving is easier. I’ll have to take his word for it.

It’s troubling to me how hard it is to swim the required number of lengths of the pool. It could be that the week in Bangkok has wiped out my cardio. It could also be that the wetsuit is slowing me down. All I know is that it’s harder than I expect, though I make it through fine.

Before today, I figured the thing I should be most cautious about, besides being killed by sea creatures, is the dreaded bends. Spending three days with headaches and swollen joints in a cramped decompression chamber sounds horrific.

Turns out there’s something worse: lung overexpansion. When you breathe in air underwater, the weight of the water above you compresses the air in your lungs. As you ascend, that air expands the higher you go. If you were to hold your breath while ascending, your lungs could burst like an over-inflated balloon. Going even a few feet up while holding your breath can cause your lungs to overfill and may cause “paralysis, injury, and even death.” So, it turns out the most important rule in diving is “Never hold your breath.”

I’m especially fond of my lungs, so I expect to comply.

The hardest part of the day is early on when I have to try to disconnect my BCD from my tank. It’s supposed to be easy to release, but I’m a monkey and have fingers like a 6-year-old (not French) girl. We end up spending more time on this than anything else.

Dennis is really chill. Since we finish a bit early, he lets me spend some time practicing flooding and clearing my mask. After a few more repetitions, I think I have it down.

Overall, the weirdest part is remembering that I can breathe underwater. There are times where I’d snort a little water up my nose. I’d start to cough. Everything was fine though, so long as I clenched my teeth on my regulator and just kept breathing. I’d cough into the regulator, blow water out my nose, and we’d just keep on going. I’m proud to say I never panicked and scrambled for the surface ripping my mask and regulator off looking for air.

I’m looking forward to tomorrow. We’re going to take a boat out for two dives. Both will be 12 meters (40 feet). I’m a little apprehensive. The open ocean kinda freaks me out. I have an active imagination and the thought of something swimming out of the deep to swallow me is always in the back of my mind. Dennis says things went well in the pool. He doesn’t seem too worried.

I’ll take a cue from him and chill.

___________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Get a room with a sink.

Not So Stupid Tip: Learn a little bit about football or “soccer” if you’re a guy and plan on talking to other guys on the road. Just knowing something about your country’s own team and learning a tiny about the Euroleagues can go a long way to bridging cultural gaps. I watched Lars and a Swedish guy chat at length about their countrymen’s best players and their respective national leagues. I could participate only because I recognized some names and could talk a bit about the U.S. team’s chances in the World Cup.

Alternatively, I haven’t met many people who know much about the NBA, MLB, or NFL. Lebron James, Kobe Bryant, Magic Johnson, and Larry Bird aren’t as big worldwide as the NBA would have you believe.

Dateline: Islands surrounding Ko Phi Phi Don, Thailand, Tuesday, March 16, 2010

I’m at the beach. I’m also at The Beach, as in the one featured in the movie starring that really hot French girl and Leonardo DiCaprio.

Unfortunately, the really hot French girl doesn’t appear to be here. Instead, there are hundreds of tourists including an old, fat, hairy Russian grunting next to me, trying to get a Japanese couple to move away from the Maya Bay Krabi Thailand sign. Instead of playing cricket on the beach with bohemian youths, I’m jostling people from Italy, Germany, China, and America for sun and shade. We are all looking for a spot between the powerboats where we can get a clear view of the bay. Like all celebrities, The Beach seems much smaller in person.

I don’t hate these people, though. It’s hard to.

This is the nature of the traveling game. If some place is worth going to, eventually, it will be crawling with tourists. So long as transport keeps getting cheaper and people continue to become richer, places like Maya Bay will become more crowded.

Of course it would be better for me if there were fewer people here. That’d be true, though, for a lot of things. Freeways in Los Angeles would be more pleasant if more people were too poor to have cars. Chowing down on sweet, crispy, dry fried chicken would be easier if fewer people knew about the deliciousness served by San Tung Chinese Restaurant. Getting into Harvard would be easier if there were fewer rich Texans bribing the school so their sons get in and cheerlead.

Thin the herd for just about any activity and things get nicer.

That’s the thing, though. We’re all part of the herd. If you’re lamenting the crowds, that just means you’re either one of the crowd or you wish the crowd there was smaller and included yourself.

That attitude’s kind of lame, though. It’s like those elitists that start to hate something just because everyone else starts to like it. Was Green Day really that different after Dookie or did they become lame because your little sister started to like them? Did Roberto Benigni’s Life Is Beautiful really make a mockery of the holocaust or did the hype of the Oscar win do it in?

It’s hard to say, but more often than not, something’s popular for a reason.

Take Maya Bay for example. I know that, as an object of nature, I love it. It’s a crescent cove surrounded by high cliffs on all sides. The sand is soft, fine, and white. The water is an unreal clear emerald green and there’s some good snorkeling a short swim from shore. Take away the crowd and it’s an undeniably beautiful place. I would love it for what it is.

Everyone else loves it too, which is why they’re here. It’s also why the snorkel spots Lars and I and the rest of our speed boat see are crowded. These spots are beautiful. People want to take part in the beauty.

I am one of those people.

Together, I and the rest of the interlopers have changed the character of the beautiful object. We’ve removed the tranquility and the peace and, most importantly, we’ve removed the exclusivity.

That’s what every one of us wishes we had. Exclusivity. It’s selfish, really.

So, I can’t hate the crowds. I’m here, right? I’m one of them.

In the crowds, though, I can find a spot for myself and find some tranquility. Some beauty. A way to make the place my own in a way that doesn’t wipe the rest of the tourists off the planet.

I can’t have The Beach from the movie. It’s just too beautiful to be kept a secret for long. I have to find what beauty I can in what’s here amongst the tourists.

Now, if I could just find a hot French girl.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Only visit the insanely gorgeous Phi Phi islands during worldwide flu epidemics.

Not So Stupid Tip: Consider chartering a longtail boat out to Maya Bay for a day. If you can get a group of people together, you can keep the costs down. Go to Maya Bay either early in the morning or late in the afternoon. Word is the tourists thin out because most are on pre-planned speedboat trips that stop there for an hour or so closer to the middle of the day. Lars, 24 other people, and I went there on a pre-planned speedboat run. That was fine for what it was, considering we also got in some good snorkeling. If you charter a boat, you can tell the driver where you want to go and for how long.

You can hire longtails out of Phi Phi Don, which is right around the corner. If you decide to hire a boat out of Railay, Ao Nong, or something around there, consider springing for a speedboat. Not sure how long it would take in a slower long tail, but the speed boat took 45 minutes. That’s quite a while to be on open water.

Photo Galleries:

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Dateline: Railay, Thailand, Monday, March 15, 2010

They’re playing Richard Marx. I try to comprehend the situation. It’s the end of the day and Lars and I are chilling with a couple of English girls he met on a tour package he did of Laos, Vietnam, and Cambodia. They’re all good friends. I’m a pseudo interloper. We’re all lounging with our shoes off at Last Bar on mats and pillows. The band is playing next to a deck that’s build out over the water.

“Riiiight here waiting for you” the singer wails in barely understandable English. Railay is a notoriously Rasta place, so I expected reggae, but Richard fucking Marx?

When I think about it, though, I shouldn’t be surprised. Asian musical taste has always skewed a little pop and a little sap. There’s no Asian music equivalent to Rage Against the Machine, Metallica, Poison, or heavy metal. I once heard a Korean rap group start a song with an angry voice over on top of sounds of machine guns and explosions; it immediately transitioned into rhyming over bubblegum pop. Gangsta rap doesn’t exist. Neither does ska or punk. All that stuff goes more unseen than Eddie Murphy’s dignity after he did Nutty Professor.

What Asian music does have is an affinity for the syrupy ballad and the weepy love song. There’s a reason why when some people picture karaoke, they envision an Asian man weeping into a mic at a dive bar singing Elvis’s “Only the Lonely.” That’s why, when I think about it, it’s not surprising that it’s Richard Marx and that, later, the all-Thai band with the dreadlocked lead singer dives into Jason Mraz’s “I’m Yours.”

“Open up yours eyes and seeeeee, we’re just one big familyyyyyyy, and it’s our god forgivin’ right to be loved loved loved loved loooooooved!”

That’s how it goes when you travel. Things aren’t ever what you expect. When you think about it, though, they can kinda seem to make sense.

Take this afternoon, for example. I was up climbing around a mountain here on Railay looking for a lagoon that’s supposed to be in the middle of high cliffs. The only way down is to climb up the face of this mountain, then down its center. Supposedly, no gear is required.

I make the initial climb, which is a fun rock scramble and I find a lookout over the Railay peninsula. For the first time I can see both the east and west beaches. It’s so insanely picturesque that when I snap a photo, it looks Photoshopped. The crazy thing is that it looks even better in person.

I eventually find the “trail” down to the lagoon. I put that in quotes because there’ really just a rope that goes down a slope towards the middle of this part of the peninsula. I end up scrambling down a series of three shelves, finding hand holds where I can. On the way down, I run into three German guys and a girl. The guys tell me that they couldn’t make it to the lagoon because the last drop was too steep. That doesn’t stop me from trying.

When I get to the shelf they’re talking about, it looks like a giant practical joke. There are a couple of ropes down the side, but I can’t figure out how to use them in a way where I can both make it down safely (probably doable) and make it back up without breaking some of the favorite parts of my body (not possible). Obviously, someone made it down via these anchored ropes, but that person probably had a team of Sherpas and a helicopter or was a better climber than I am. I decide they put the rope there to kill tourists.

I climbed back out, explored the area some more. It feels like Disneyland’s Tom Sawyer’s Island except built for adults and set up so that you might actually die and have no one to sue. At one point, I remember I’m wandering through jungle in shorts and slippers (Chacos successfully abandoned) and I that could be bitten by death-carrying mosquitoes or venomous plants. I spend the next few minutes turning off my brain. It works.

When I’m through, I start to pick my way down the face of the mountain to exit the lagoon area. The going is slow. I’m grabbing rocks, lowering myself down, feeling for spots with my feet.

“Look at the danger,” I think. “Don’t get to do this everyday at home. This is quite masculine.”

I’m congratulating myself for the 50th time when I run headlong into a 6 year-old headed up. He appears to be alone, but I realize that he’s leading people. He’s jabbering to them in French. The guy following him is carrying a large backpack which, upon further inspection, contains an 8-month-old baby. I can see its head lolling to the side and its fat, white leg peeking through a seam.

Masculinity: punctured.

I smile and let them pass. That’s when I realize that below me is the rest of the French family that rode in with me on the way into Railay. The boat dropped them off at Tonsai. The mom, dad, and 4-year-old girl are there, too. They’ve apparently joined up with another badass French family and are now going up explore the lagoon area.

That’s when I stop to think, and it all makes sense. Of course this French family is letting their kid lead a climb up a “dangerous” mountain. They’re staying on Tonsai, a place that’s supposed to have the cheapest (read: most primitive) accommodations in the area. If they think they’re kids are tough enough to handle that, of course they’d be up for climbing some silly mountain.

That, or French parents are the most badass parents in the whole world. I decide to go with the latter. French people are officially awesome, now that I think about it.

The Thai band is back. After a short break for some fire jugglers, they’re warming up for another set. I lean back and contemplate the day. I’ve watched another ridiculous sunset with Lars and the girls. Some pictures are even better than those from the day before. For dinner I had crocodile for the first time. It ends up being a magical mix of chicken and pork. Tastes like chicken, feels like pork. Has a bit of a tang to it. Delicious, actually.

The band opens with Guns N’ Roses’s version of “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.” I know it’s not Bob Dylan’s because a long-haired Thai dude wails his way through the Slash solo. Of course they’d do “No Woman, No Cry” and “Buffalo Soldier.” Come to think of it, they even do “Wonderwall.”

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: In order to get the most out of your family vacation, make sure you have French parents.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re going to try to get to the lagoon, wear either a shirt you don’t might tossing or wear something dark. The dirt and dust up there is red and stains anything that’s wet. And you will get wet. At one point going down to the lagoon, I stopped to rest and started to pour sweat. Literally pour it, like it was coming off my arms and nose in sheets and get into my eyes and blurring my vision. That’s partially because it’s effortful, part because there’s no breeze in the natural bowl that houses the lagoon, and part because it’s March in Southeast Asia. I wore a white tank top and had to chuck it in the trash afterwards when I realized I was never going to wear it again.

That said, I highly recommend the trip. Even if you don’t venture into the lagoon area, there’s a path that leads to the most spectacular view of the island to date. Looking out over the place, I had one of those moments where I consciously thought, “I’m in paradise.” That, and the rock scrambling is loads of fun.

Photo Galleries:

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Dateline: Railay, Thailand, Sunday, March 14, 2010

Lars doesn’t know my name. That doesn’t stop him from signing for a room that he and I will share.

I first saw Lars at the Krabi bus station this morning, though I didn’t speak to him then. He was sitting next to me, waiting for his ride. The VIP bus had arrived an hour and a half before I’d expected. So, at 6 a.m. on a station bench, I flipped through the Lonely Planet pages I’d ripped out the guidebook the day before and contemplated my choices. Ko Phi Phi? Seemed like a risk since it was still high season and I couldn’t raise anyone on the phone to make reservations. Ko Lanta? The place sounded cool, but it seemed like a long way away. And I wasn’t sure if I wanted to get PADI certified there. Krabitown for the night? That sounded okay, but I kinda wanted to get out to the sights on my first day.

On a whim, I settled on Railay. Railay is not an island. It’s a peninsula near Krabitown that’s surrounded by high cliffs on all sides so it can only be reached by boat. It’s a rock climber’s Mecca and has a reputation for being a bit rasta. That, and the eastern beach is supposed to be cheap. Cheap it was.

I paid a ticket lady 100 baht for a 7:30 a.m. “Joy Bus” ticket to a local pier where I could take a boat to Railay’s western beach. From there, I’d walk to the eastern side and look for a place to crash.

At around 7 a.m. the ticket lady ushered me and a French family of four into what looked more like a taxi than a bus. As we drove in relative silence (the little kids kept saying stuff in French), I realized that the lady probably was making a couple extra bucks off us. I knew the taxi to the pier cost around 350 baht. With the 3 adults and 2 kids, the lady probably paid the taxi driver the 350 and pocketed the difference. The cab got a fare he wouldn’t have otherwise. The lady got an extra 50 baht. We got to leave at 7 a.m. instead of waiting until 7:30.

I sorta felt cheated, but could I really complain? Yes, a little. My foot fell asleep because I had to sit crammed into the front seat with my backpack.

I ended up waiting at the pier with the French family. That’s where I talked to Lars.

We recognized each other from the bus station. I have no idea how he got there. I learned that Lars is Dutch. He’s been traveling since September and has been to Moscow, Beijing, Tibet, Nepal, India, Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, and is finishing up in Thailand. He’s got 6 more days left on a 6 month trip. He says he should have been in Krabi earlier, except last year he mistakenly booked his ticket from Bangkok to Krabi for January 13^th instead of March. He did not realize this until the ticket lady at the airport told him yesterday. That’s why he had to take the bus and is here a day late.

He’s a friendly enough guy. I can tell he’s been traveling a lot, though. He’s got a ruddy, white-guy tan and his feet look torn to hell. He’s headed to Railay because he heard it’s cheap. I can appreciate that.

We board the speed boat with the French family, a German couple, and a quiet blond dude. The French family disembarks at Tonsai, which is supposed to be even cheaper than Railay, but is pretty isolated. The German couple and the quiet dude get off at Railay with Lars and me. They’re only doing a day trip from Ao Nong.

Lars and I wander the eastern shore looking for a place to stay. We hike up the backside of the eastern shore looking for a place called Rapana Cabana where rooms are supposed to be 200 baht a night. No luck. We do find Railay Cabana (same place, different name?), which has bungalows starting at 450 for two beds (one person), 550 for two beds (two persons), and 500 baht for renovated rooms (one bed, one person). Lars looks pained as we inspect the rooms. He wants cheap.

I don’t really care. My budget is for around 500 baht a night, so I’m all good. I tell him I’m willing to share though, if he is.

He agrees and we go with the receptionist to sign for a room. Lars may or may not give a damn about my name, but he does give a damn about paying more than 350 baht a night. I can appreciate that.

That’s also where I learn his name. I peek over his shoulder as he fills out the paperwork. It comes to 270 baht (~$8.50) a piece. That’s less than half of what I was paying in Bangkok.

We unload our stuff in the room. When I take a shower, I realize a few things. First, the toilet does not flush. You have to dump water down it with a bucket. Second, there is no sink. I’ve heard of economy, but no sink? If I were a girl, I probably would have noticed this when we looked at the rooms. Half the price of Bangkok, but about one eighth the room (there’s no A/C and only one plug, which will be occupied by the fan).

Lars heads out to explore and I sit down to do some writing.

When I finally head out, it’s as hot as car roof in Saudi Arabia. I investigate my PADI certification options. The second place I visit seems to have a good program. The owner talks to me on the phone and tells me about his staff, his boat, and his curriculum. It sounds pretty good. It’s a bit more expensive than I’d hoped, but this is a course that will make or break my diving career. I’d rather overpay a bit for someone that I’m comfortable will teach me how not to die in the ocean.

The course also goes to two good dive spots near Ko Phi Phi, so I get to dive in some pretty cool spots while I learn. That also frees me up to go to Kha Lak afterwards to do some serious diving at the Similian and Surin islands. I’m thinking I’ll spring for a 3-day live aboard, depending on how certification goes.

I decide to sleep on it and contact them in the morning. The owner wants to wait a day anyway so that another student can join because, he says, “Frankly, if we have only one student, we don’t make any money. You might also have more fun if there’s someone else.”

I agree. I like learning in groups, too, especially for lifesaving stuff. Gives me a chance to see another way how not to do things. Handy, when the wrong thing might lead to 3 days of isolation in a hyperbaric chamber.

A very leisurely lunch at a westside restaurant hits the spot, especially the mango shake. I end up reading at my table for an hour or so. I find myself dozing off, which isn’t good when you’re in the middle of a busy restaurant. I realize that it’s because I’ve been up since 6 a.m. and spent last night sleeping on a frickin’ bus.

I end up walking around and finding Hat Tham Phra Nang, a beach on the southern end of the peninsula. It’s a relatively isolated beach. The rooms at the only resort there start at $1,000. They’d better come with their own escort.

It’s hard to do this place justice. I get vertigo by looking up. That’s because the cliffs overhang the beach. Giant stalactites, probably 100 feet long, hang over the beach. It’s breathtaking and almost impossible to capture on film. You get dizzy looking at it because your eyes are constantly trying to decide which part of the wall is close and which is far.

I spend an hour taking pictures of the sunset. It’s pretty spectacular, especially with the rock formations in the water and the boats going in and out of the natural harbor.

For dinner I inadvertently order way too much, to the wonder of my waiter. I force myself to eat it all, out of pride. I get through all the fried rice, all the vegetables in the noodle soup, but not the noodles or the soup. I do definitely finish the coconut shake.

I almost run into Lars on the beach. I don’t recognize him because he is with three girls. I almost turn around to say hi, but I think better of it. I don’t want to ruin his game and, more than that, if I say hi to him I’ll have to talk to the girls and I’m feeling really lazy.

When I finally finish the hike up to the room and crash, Lars hasn’t come in, yet. If he has it his way, he won’t. Now that I think about it, the pained look on his face might not just have been about the extra money for a single room. I can appreciate that.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Don’t go to the run down internet cafe where you’re the only customer when there’s another, nicer internet café down the road filled with White people. There’s probably a reason they’re there.

Not So Stupid Travel Tip: Don’t buy Chacos sandals. They’re too clever by half. I bought some for my last trip, wasn’t that happy with them, but figured it was because I got the kind that wrap around my toe. They’ve got a stellar reputation, though, so I bought another pair that I thought fit more comfortably. I was wrong. The straps are set up in such a way that they constantly rub the area near the base of my big toe. They tore my feet up today. No matter how I pulled and tugged and loosened and tightened their “one strap” system, it blistered the same area. The “one strap” system means that when you walk, the strap will tighten where you don’t want it to. If I could adjust just the strap over my toes, these things would be great. Unfortunately, if I loosen that strap, as I walk, the stupid thing tightens over time. Again, too clever by half.

I will never by Chacos again. I know that it might be my fault and I’m not getting them fit correctly, but I don’t think so. I fit them with a lady at REI. There’s just something about them that mess with my feet. The one thing I regret not bringing are the $5 Locals that I’ve used as slippers since 2001. Those cheapies totally kick these Chacos ass.

Tomorrow, I will go to a local shop and get me some slippers. Some proper, built for island feet slippers with the thong thing that goes between my toes. If my people can play basketball in them, I can certainly trek around the island s in a pair.

Photo Galleries: Windows Live and Flickr

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Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand, Saturday, March 13, 2010

I’m not proud of yesterday’s entry. I wrote it in a rush and reading it over in the light of day, I wish I could add a little here and cut a little there. For example, I said Matt Damon was “last decade’s Arnold/Stallone/Seagal.” That’s ridiculous. Damon may be Arnold and Stallone, but Jason Statham is last decade’s Seagal (i.e. B-movie action star).

Also, why was Anne so surprised that there was no traffic? Well, as you probably know, Bangkok is notoriously gridlocked, especially on Friday and Saturday nights when people come into town to walk the malls, visit the markets, and party. The reason that no one was on the street Friday night is because of Red Shirt demonstrations that started Friday. Everyone assumed the demonstrations to remove the current government would snarl traffic and might even turn violent. To be safe, many people stayed home. Thus, no traffic.

In other words, I forgot to mention the revolution.

I’d have liked to spend more time exploring some of Anne’s ideas. She’s a very interesting person, but I don’t feel I did her justice.

I am ashamed. I even pulled a Southwick in the original draft and dropped a verb (“writing”) in the first sentence of the third paragraph. I can only hope the editor saved me from that indignity.

I could go back and rewrite it, but then I’d have to go back and rewrite it. Eh. . . How ‘bout I just promise to do better next time?

—————

I’m sad to be checking out of Suk 11. It’s been my home for the last week. My private oasis. It has hot water, ample electrical outlets, a hot shower, and an air conditioner. I know that once I hit the islands, it’s going to be a crap shoot. I might be lucky to get a flush toilet.

My bus left for Krabi at 7:30 that night, so I spent the morning packing and reading about the Andaman coast.

I ended up meeting Franck, Becca, and Franck’s mom for lunch at a Japanese restaurant. I decided to be cheap and walk from the BTS station to the place. On the way, I passed soldiers guarding someone’s house. The revolution may or may not be on, but these guys with M-16s aren’t taking any chances.

I don’t regret walking, but the restaurant owners might. While I sat and waited for the others to arrive, my elbows accidentally sweated on the nice, clean table. The waitress promptly handed me a wet, cool towel to cleanse myself.

Franck filled me in a bit on where I should dive. Apparently, even the more remote places are seeing damage to the coral because of global warming as much as tourism. Good thing I’m checking it out now while it’s still fine.

The family dropped me off at the BTS. I promised to see them when I next came through Bangkok. I grabbed my stuff from Suk 11 and headed to the bus station.

Bangkok’s southern bus station is located far from the city center. It’s commonly referred to as sai dai ma, but no matter how you say it your cab driver will be confused. Then he will have a moment of realization and pronounce it just like did the third time you said it. He will laugh, then take you there as fast and as carefree as you’ve ever driven in Bangkok.

The bus station isn’t much to speak of. The main waiting area has the footprint of a U.S. supermarket and is 3 stories tall. In those three stories there are at least three 7-11s, two within sight of each other. I visited all three.

I bought water, snacks, and a phone card to “top up” my cell. All but the phone card turned out to be unnecessary. When I boarded the VIP bus, they’d provided water and some strange but edible snacks. As we pulled out of the station, the ticket taker flipped on a DVD of the unnecessarily colon-nated “In the Name of the King: A Dragon Siege Tale.” I think it was probably better that what I saw of it was in Thai.

Ray Liotta, the lead from Goodfellas, is in it. The first thing I thought when I saw him was, “Dear gawd, someone CGI’ed is face.” The last time I saw him in a movie, he looked old and pockmarked. Now he’s got the skin of newborn. I was horrified and fascinated, especially when he inexplicably made out with Leelee Sobieski. Isn’t she 20 or something?

The rest of the trip was a lot like my flight to Bangkok, except without the time change. It’s a blur of me intermittently reading and sleeping and snacking. The bus would stop to pick up people and, at midnight, gave everyone a break where we could walk around and use the bathroom.

The driver presumably announced in Thai how long we’d be stopped. I couldn’t tell, but since all the natives were getting off, I figured I wouldn’t be left behind if I was quick. I walked to the bathroom and realized I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Squat toilet, baby. I didn’t use it, but I reflected on the physics and physiology I’d have to use to get through one of those. All in due time.

As I slipped into sleep for the last time that night, I wondered what the islands had in store. First thing tomorrow, though, I’d first have to decide which island.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: Sai dai mai is not pronounced “Sigh Die My” or “Siyee Diyee Myee,” it’s pronounced, “sai dai mai.”

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re going to be at the bus station for more than an hour or plan on getting something to eat, check your bag in at one of the check stands. It’s a tad pricey (60 baht where I went), but it will spare you the embarrassment of being the only person in the food court or waiting area wandering around with a gigantic pack on your back, bumping into people and sweating like a pig.

It will also be a lot less conspicuous when you realize that to pay for the plate of food in your hand, you should have bought food tickets at the central food court counter.

Dateline: Bangkok, Thailand, Friday, March 12, 2010

“Man, there was so little fucking traffic, I didn’t even have time to fucking finish my joint.” Anne rolled a half-smoked marijuana cigarette in her hand. She wasn’t pissed as much as she was surprised.

I feel kind of the same way. Nothing much happened today, and I know that I have to write something about this nothing.

I mean, do you really want to hear about how I spent all morning writing the previous entry and e-mailing to the editor? How I didn’t head to the bus station to buy a ticket until noon and how much my bus ticket on the overnight VIP bus cost and that the whole ordeal took longer than I thought it would because the station is in BFE? Or how I wandered an English bookstore for a couple hours afterwards, loading up on reading material for the islands?

If that sounds interesting, drop me a note in the comments and I’ll fill you in there. The day was pretty devoid of anything interesting to the point that I only took one picture worth sharing (above).

The only half interesting thing that happened was that Anne and I saw a movie (“Green Zone”). The tickets for the best seats in the house only cost 220 baht ($6.90). The theater was gigantic (seats for 500, probably). The movie started with a half-hour of commercials, which was only surprising because the phenomenon has apparently afflicted Bangkok. Right before the movie started, everyone stood while the theater pumped the national anthem accompanied by a reel of clips showing the benevolence of the king. If everyone weren’t so serious, it might have felt cheesy.

The movie was adequate, if occasionally overwritten.

Matt Damon: “The reasons we go to war always matter!!!!!” I think the scene would have worked if it had gone unsaid. It reminded me why Quentin Tarantino is a genius. It also made me think that it’s surprising that Matt Damon is today’s only legitimate “action” star. Who’d a thunk the chubby kid in “Good Will Hunting” would be the last decade’s Arnold/Stallone/Seagal?

Afterwards, Anne and I headed to the Lumpini Night Market to browse and grab a beer. It was as we were getting into the car to drive to Lumpini that she lamented her half-smoked joint.

Instead of recounting our trip through the stalls and our time at the restaurant, I thought I’d give you a brief summary of the world according to Anne. I don’t think she would mind my sharing. I didn’t have a recorder running, so I’ll just try to capture what I think are the essence of her thoughts and quotes. Any mistakes should be blamed wholly on me.

Oh, and when you read this, make sure you add a German-Swiss accent and a lot of swearing.

Without further ado, the World According to Anne:

• ”Voodoo is real, man.” Voodoo is heavily practiced in the village where she lives and runs a restaurant. A year ago, she succumbed to its power when a worker of hers put her under a spell by slipping something into her food and drink. She gained a ton of weight and couldn’t think straight. Voodoo’s not just magic, it’s based in science with a little mystical stuff on the side. She warned me not to trust the Thais in her village and that I should fear the black magic. She also wants me to visit her.

• ”The red shirts are peaceful. They have no weapons, man. The yellow shirts will blow [things] up and blame the reds.” There is a giant conspiracy by the yellows to frame the reds. The yellows are the ones who blew up the buses and bombs at last year’s red demonstrations. The yellows will do the same this year. The yellow are “lies lies, always lies, man.” The local media is in the pocket of the elites and lying to the world press. It may sound crazy, but part of me believes some of what she says. Aren’t the rich and privileged and those in power always in a better position to tell their story and write history?

• ”It’s D-day for the people. There will be revolution.” The people will follow through. A million people will converge on Bangkok and peacefully overthrow the current regime.

• ”I’m a dyke.” She’s a shaved head lesbian that won’t take shit from anyone. At the same time, from what I’ve seen, she’s a very kind and thoughtful person. She calls for revolution, but I can’t imagine her doing anything violent. That said, I’m pretty sure she could kick my ass on principle.

• ”I only ask whether the food tastes good for the money.” Anne’s a chef. A damn good one if she and Becca are to be believed. One of my great disappointments is that Becca didn’t call me before I bought my ticket to Krabi yesterday. Anne is cooking for Becca’s family and I would have been invited. Unfortunately, I’ll be on a bus headed for the south.

As a chef, I expected Anne to be very critical about food. She is, but only in the context of how much it costs. She seems to have an excellent palate (she ID’d ingredients quickly and accurately and gave me the secret to crisping duck skin without baking or roasting.). For her, though, what’s only “okay” for 200 baht can be “very good” for 30 baht. I like this philosophy and will steal it as my own.

Okay, I’m running out of time here. There’s more, but I’m in a rush to get this out. Perhaps I’ll have another segment later. I have to run out and catch a bus to Krabi. Tomorrow, expect a summary of my travels from Bangkok to the coast on the overnight bus. Oh, and as requested I’ll be posting a picture of Becca’s “family unit.”

Dateline: Bangkok, Thursday, March 11, 2010

“I’m pretty sure I’m not going to die,” I thought, as Anne and I rose into the Bangkok sky on the swinging arm of a fun fair ride. “Pretty sure.”

Southeast Asia is a vibrant, lively place, partially because it forces you to confront life’s extremes. The U.S. does all it can to shelter its citizens from danger. It does things like put safety caps on aspirin or forbid more than four people from riding on a motor scooter. That’s not true in Asia, where consumer protection means the consumer is going to have to decide how she’s going to protect herself. In Asia, you confront your mortality way more often than you do in the U.S. Here, swallowing water in the shower can be a dicey affair. There’s nothing like a little peril to make you feel more alive.

The U.S. also protects its citizens’ psyches from the perils of inequality, espousing the aphorism “we’re all equal” and holding in reverence the values of the “middle class.” In contrast, places like Bangkok remind you that some people are more privileged than others. Just take a trip down the canals and see the shanty huts sitting next to the mansions with air conditioners hanging out of every window. In Asia you’re either poor, rich, or really really really rich. Being aware of the extremes gives you a better sense of your privileged life. For example, the fact that I’m in Asia makes me much more aware of how privileged I am to be writing this on a computer to people half a world away. At home, this might feel less of a privilege than a right.

The fun fair ride that Ann and I were on is a prototypical example of Asia accentuating the highs and lows. The “G Force” was basically a giant metal arm that rotated around its center. Four people boarded one end of the arm and sat two by two, back-to-back. Those people were hoisted into the air as the other end of the arm came down. While the first four people dangled above, another four people boarded the other end of the arm. Then the ride started, swinging the riders round and round, like a two armed ferris wheel on cocaine. The carriages in which each of the four people were strapped rotated front to back so that, depending on the momentum, you switched between being upside down or upright.

To load and unload passengers, the operators rolled a raised metal platform under the arm. When the ride started, the operators pulled the metal platform out from under the riders so the riders didn’t break their legs as they swung around.

I noticed, however, that when the operators pulled the platform back, they had to physically prevent the platform from rolling back underneath the arm. Nothing locked the platform into place. If an operator got bored or sleepy or felt particularly malicious, he could have let the platform roll back underneath the arm and sheared off any parts of the machine or passengers that might be dangling too low.

If “guy with his arm wrapped around a railing on the platform” passed the safety check, I didn’t want to think too hard on how the thing might be put together.

Our cart paused at the top, and all was peaceful for the moment.

“Look down,” said Anne.

My feet dangled beneath me. I took my eyes off the steady horizon and looked down. The crowd below shook with the vertigo. Waiting the hour and a half in line on the ground, I’d been full of bravado. Hanging in the air, I can’t say I was scared. I also can’t say I was “happy.”

I took a deep breath and let me moment pass. I didn’t get on this ride in spite of the danger, I got on it because of the danger. I wanted the extra thrill only lax safety standards supplied. This ride might have been fun in America, but here the thrill was amplified because the fear of dying might be justified.

Anne and I hung there, waiting for the inevitable drop. The carriage rocked back and forth in the breeze.

Earlier that afternoon, we’d had a much different kind of high. High society, actually. Anne is a member of the Royal Bank Polo Club and the sister Sports Club, two of the most exclusive country clubs in Thailand. The waiting list is long and initial membership fees nowadays reportedly are 1 million baht (-$32,000). That’s probably not much by U.S. standards (I have no idea), but it’s a fortune for a normal Thai person. Anne and Becca are members from way back in the day, via their fathers.

When Anne and I drove onto the grounds, she noted that hers was the only pickup truck in the parking lot. We’d had lunch at the Polo Club at a restaurant sitting between the Olympic size pool and the polo field. Light skinned people (both Asian and not) dominated the clientele. Adults and children alike carried that air of confidence that often surrounds those that either have money or want people to think they have money. It’s the kind of place that has a squash court not far from the stables.

Anne took me to the even larger Royal Sports Club. “I should take you. It is something not many tourists get to see,” she said. We had dessert and coffee overlooking an 18-hole golf course that sits in the middle of downtown Bangkok. The course is surrounded by a horse racetrack. After dessert, we walked around to the stands, the grass tennis courts, and the two pools.

There’s a stark difference between this life and the lives of long tail boat drivers or the people living in the shacks along the canals. It’s Asia, man. The highs are higher and the lows are lower. Those peaks and valleys are what make for a more dramatic ride.

I gripped the shoulder harness a bit tighter. My stomach dropped as Ann and I hurtled towards the ground and back up into the sky. We flipped, we screamed, we laughed. The ride finally slowed to a stop and the operators slid the raised metal platform under us so we could disembark.

I stepped onto solid ground and felt alive.

____________________

Stupid Travel Tip of the Day: When you try to visit the Royal Bank Polo Club, be sure to bring your friend who’s a member, otherwise they won’t let you in.

Not So Stupid Tip: If you’re using a guide book while on vacation, instead of always carrying the whole book, just razor out the pages you’re going to use for the day. This has a couple of advantages. First, that’ll be one less heavy, bulky item in your backpack. Second, when you actually need to look something up (a map, for example), you won’t have to pull out something that down the spine in big letters says “THAILAND– THIS BOOK MEANS I AM A TOURIST, PLEASE OVERCHARGE ME.”

To keep the razored pages with the rest of the book while traveling, bring along binder clips to clip the loose pages back into the book.

If you’re like me, you’ll be reluctant to pull pages out of a perfectly good book. To overcome this, join me in the following mental gymnastics: a few years from now, if your travel budget is so tight that you can’t afford to buy a new, updated guide book when you take a trip back to the same place, then you probably shouldn’t be traveling.