Koh Tao, Part VI: Bloody Pancakes

After my encounter with the canine crew, I had a pretty embarrassing spill on the scooter. I had just finished having a beer at a bar that provided an amazing view of a small cove. The place was literally at the end of the only road on the island, so there were very few travellers hanging about, mostly huts and their residents, which I was happy about, for I have no qualms about embarrassing myself in front of Thais, that's what I'm here for. Anyhow, I had just mounted my scooter and pulled out my camera to show you, Merica, a pleasant ride through the Koh Tao countryside, and as I began to accelerate, I noticed a couple of Thai kids on a scooter of their own about to pull in front of an oncoming truck. What ensued was nothing short of hilarious for the handful of Thai's that got to witness a tall goofy farang eat dirt road after valiantly, however unnecessarily, trying to save two kids who it turned out were actually driving up to meet the truck that I thought hastened their doom. I have footage of this crash, but it's stuck on my laptop which has been out of commission since December, so hopefully I can rescue it once I return Stateside.



When I got back to Ban's, I hooked up Yair, Laura and Amy and we took a stroll down the tree-shaded avenue that skirted the beach for miles, taking in the sights and smells. We passed several seafood joints with everything on that day's menu lavishly displayed on tables outside each restaurant; squid and octopus, snapper and shark and the like. After eating some savory shrimp and snapper kabobs and catching some of the World Series, we headed back to Ban's but agreed to say hello to a friend of ours and grab some dessert. Our friend was a little Burmese dude named Get, and he served some of the most delicious pancakes, of all different flavors, from his little cart, one of dozens that dotted the avenue.

As we chatted with Get and watched him cook and flip his little fruity delights, a truck full of very serious Thai dudes looking very much like the canine killers I saw earlier, rolled past behind us. Get immediately stopped talking and started looking extremely nervous. I asked him what was wrong and he uttered one word, "Police." He kept craning his neck in the direction the police had driven, and became very distracted from his pancake making. I began to assume that Get was not operating his pancake stand within the confines of the law. A few more minutes went by, when all of a sudden Get dropped his spatula and disappeared behind the house we were standing in front of, Laura's pancake still bubbling on the grill. Then from behind us a fist of surly "cops" punched their way through the small group of Get's customers in pursuit of Get. We soon heard shouting and scuffling coming from behind the house, and the cacophony soon turned very unsettling and down-right stomach-turning. I looked at my companions and their faces shared the same look of disbelief that I was feeling. In the middle of this Burmese beat down, one of the cops casually strolled out from the grisly scene and headed for the pancake cart. Without so much as a glance at the onlookers, the cop grabbed all of the cash in Get's money jar, pocketed it, scraped the now burning pancake off the griddle, set it on a plate, and walked off with a smile on his face and pancake in his mouth. I could not believe what had just transpired, but fearing the Thai police more than any force of curiosity or gallantry, I wisely decided not to get involved. I mean, seriously, what could I or any of my friends do anyway? For all we knew, Get was drug-dealing rapist without a green card, but the guy seemed pretty friendly and carefree the several times we bought pancakes from him, often chatting about how much he missed his family back home. We stood there for another minute or so, still in shock, the only words spoken were along the lines of, "What the fuck?", and then, with reluctant American indifference, I walked away and finished my pancake.

Koh Tao, Part V: The Island's Canine Problem

Wow, been a long time. Seems like all of Surat Thani has the swine flu paranoia bug, so I got a six day weekend...time to catch up on this here sclog, if you're still reading that is...



On the Tuesday, another 6:ish wake up call from roosters, buffalo coitus, and Three Billy Goats Gruff: The Musical. I got out of bed and hit my head on the bathroom doorway a few times (I'm way too tall for this country), enhancing the already maddening array of hangover stars and colors cascading from my brain. After washing up, I headed down to the beach for breakfast and more scuba fun. It was pouring down rain, so we took a vote and dove in the rain. We had an uneventful dive (if you call a teeming coral feast for the eyes uneventful), but the dive-squadron was a little more tight-knit this time round, what after being responsible for each others lives on two occasions already, and there was of course the seven birthday fuck-buckets we all enjoyed together. So we all had a little more fun going through our bullshit little scuba maneuvers. (Fuck-buckets are Thai whiskey (which is actually rum, but everyone calls it whiskey), coke and redbull tossed into a bucket. The drink of choice for deuchebaggery)


We got back to the beach and decided to do our last two dives the next day, giving us the rest of the afternoon to relax, finally giving me a chance to rent my first scooter (ever!) and explore the island. Koh Tao's a small island, and I covered its expanse in less than an hour. It was a roly-poly little sea-mountain covered with goat farms and coconut groves, and dirt roads to nowhere in particular. It was on this little day-trip that I had the privilege of witnessing Koh Tao's finest and their methods of canine control in action. Just like every other part of Thailand, Koh Tao is crawling with dogs. But this being a resort island, mangy dogs are an unwelcome part of the scenery.


I was riding my motor-bike along a hilly stretch of road, when all of a sudden a pick-up full of Thai rough-necks and covered in mud pulled up along side of me. There were about six or seven of them piled in the bed, and a couple were brandishing pistols. These bruisers looked like they had just left a tea-party with some Malaysian guerrillas. They gave me some not-so-charming smiles, then suddenly their truck veered off the road at a clip and headed for some bungalows scattered over a field. I slowed down curiously, and noticed a pack of dogs about a hundred yards away, fighting and snarling around the small huts. The truck headed right for them. When they saw the truck careening its way towards them, the dogs immediately scattered, as if they knew what was about to ensue. I actually thought the men would whip out their pistols and start firing, but what they did was even worse/better/more bizarre? I don't know the right word for what I saw. One of the men hoisted a long length of pvc pipe up to his mouth and aimed it at a handful of dogs headed for the trees. One of the dogs let out a yelp, stumbled and continued into the trees. At this point I was stopped on the side of the road. The man with the pvc pipe leaped out of the truck and ran into the bush where the dogs had disappeared. He came back out a minute later carrying the limp body of the dog he had just shot with his plastic blowgun. I shit you not. One of the dudes in the cab of the truck yelled something at the man carrying the dog, who then turned around and threw the body back into the scrub. Something else was yelled at him, after which he fetched the body a second time and took it deeper into the woods, presumably so that the decomposition stench wouldn't reach the nearby bungalows. I had just witnessed Koh Tao's canine control unit in full force.

Hot Mushroomy Mess

As you know, I was in quite a state last night, and due to the influx of respectable types who think it's funny to start a facebook profile, I'll have to tell you about it hear in ScaughtyThoughts. This state I speak of saw me at incredible highs, where every thought was one of awesomeness, and many times I picked up the phone to call each and every one of you to share that awesomeness, if only I could have figured out which one of the 13 fingers I sprouted was real enough to use the phone. Last night also had its lows, getting caught dancing naked to Fela Kuti in a gazebo being one of them. Yes, it was magic mushroom time again in Koh Phangnan.

Now I sit in the hazy after-birth of that psychedelic jaunt, gazing out at the Gulf of Thailand. It's rainy season and the sky is patched with grey and bedraggled, like the hair of an aging musician, but my surroundings are no less a paradise. I'm sitting on the porch of Big Blue resort, blogging and checking the stats of my fantasy baseball team on a stranger's computer, and eating quite simply one of the most delicious dishes to ever grace my palate: crunchy, spicy somtum with a gang of panang curry to help sweat out all the mushroomy miscreants flowing through my life-stream. How was your weekend?

Koh Tao, Part IV: Birthday

That first night's sleep was pretty fitful. On top of the first day jitters, and still trying to get over the fact that I was about to scuba dive in fucking Thailand, it seemed also that I was not the only one inhabiting my room. The walls and ceilings came alive at night with shadowy movement; dark forms that could have been centipedes, scorpions, or whatever unseemly creepy crawly creature my mind could conjure. Having been in Thailand for quite some time now, I'm convinced they were most certainly geckos, but dammit if it wasn't unnerving. My room was also conveniently located next to the hotel generator, which made noises at night like water buffalo hate-sex. And just beyond that mechanical nightmare was a rooster/goat farm; the loudest, smelliest combination of livestock the agricultural gods could come up with. And when I was able to shut my eyes for half an anxious second, there were the skeet hordes waiting to sup on my tenderness. So sleep was fitful. In spite of my slumber-less night, I was raring to go come morning.

I'm not going to bore you with the minute details of every inch of reef or the color of stripes on every fish we saw, and certainly not with the humdrum of that first day of training in the pool, because I believe that a majority of you are certified divers and have been scuba-diving before; at the least snorkeling. For those of you who haven't, let it suffice to say that it's just as goddamn exciting as I'm sure you've imagined. Scuba-diving is an exhilarating balance between adapting, reacting and adjusting the life-supporting equipment strapped to your back, and taking in the amazing alien world around you that takes advantage of every opportunity to make your dive a permanent slumber-party with Davey Jones.

That second day on the island, a Sunday, I think we spent something like four hours in the pool, just getting used to the process of strapping, buckling, checking, wearing, swimming, and breathing all the gear. After that, it was our first lecture in the class-room; another two or three hours, I think. Lecture was boring, but broken up with several verbal jabs about my new Gestapo hair-cut. That night we all had dinner at Ban's restaurant, and got to know each other a little better. Our dive instructor, Alex, joined us, and I guess I should talk about him a little, being our instructor and all. Alex was from Germany; Bavaria, I think. He's in his mid-thirties, and has been living and diving in Koh Tao for several years. He looked like an amalgamation of David Hasselhoff and Chunk. Kinda of a douche, but he seemed to know what he was talking about scuba-wise.

We had some good conversation, the seven of us, some food and drink, then headed down the beach for one of those nightly fire-twirlings to the cadence of Kanye and Flo-rida. We played some pool, got a tad schwilly, and headed home early. Everyone seemed to get along and enjoy each other's company.

Monday was my birthday, and the first day we went to open water, so perfectly timed on my part. Pineapple smoothies for breakfast, then we picked up the gear a little before eight in the morning. A long-tail boat took us out to the two-story dive-boat which took us about five klicks around the NE coast. We were only a quarter-mile off shore when we got in the water. We descended the 12 meters (these numbers need to be checked in my dive book) to bottom, formed a circle in the sand, and took it all in. The visibility wasn't the greatest, I'd say about 15-20 meters (maybe because it was still rainy season), but that 20 meters wasn't short on things to look at. Everyone made it through the skills tests with no problems, we swam a figure-eight and surfaced. About 50 minutes underwater give or take. No incidents or accidents, hints or allegations. After a short debriefing on the boat, we headed back to Ban's for a few hours before our afternoon dive. The later dive was more of the same. A few skills tests, a short swim-about, then back to Ban's.

There had been little mention all day of it being my birthday except for a couple of well-wishes that morning from Amy and Laura and Yair, but that was fine with me. I had just met these people, and we were all scuba-diving which overshadows a lame 29th birthday. Which made it all the more awesome when I headed off to bed only to make it five steps before everyone started singing "Happy Birthday" at the bar as they brought in a candle-lit brownie from 7-11, the entirety of which you can see in my mouth in some picture floating around the cyberspace. Pretty damn pleasant ending to a damn awesome day.

Koh Tao, Part III: Dive Buddies and a Ladyboy Chop-Shop

There were four others in my dive-class, and we were all from different parts of the world. Yair was from Israel, there was Sasha from Germany, Amy from England, and Laura from Switzerland.

Yair, a tall, gangly Jew was about 28, still at university and still serving the army. He didn't know it at the time, but his country was about to go to war, not that they haven't been at war since their birth as a nation. He was soon to be a busy man once he returned in November. He was certainly the most covivial of the dive squadron, not including myself, of course. Yair's a very intelligent guy, though quite self-concious when it came to his accent, which was funny because there were more Israelis on Koh Tao than there were English speakers, or Thais for that matter. That tiny island was a haven for Hebrews, for some strange reason. I spent most of my time, when not alone, with Yair over those six days on the island. Great conversationalist, if a little boisterous of his sexual escapades in Bangkok, and he was always up for some late-night billiards.

Sasha was in Thailand with his girlfriend, who was already certified and diving with another group. I can't remember her name at the moment, but she would join us on later dives and debauchery. Sasha was my usual dive-partner; we helped each other suit up, and were usually side-by-side underwater. Sasha and his lady were both very nice people, but I didn't spend too much time with them. Sasha was the first to see the whaleshark.

Amy from England. Amy was a blonde Mary Poppins, a sorority girl and a fuck-bucket rolled into one British burrito, and no I'm not being vulgar in my analogy of Amy. The fuck bucket is the drink of choice to all hedonists in Thailand, which is an overwhelming majority of the foreign population. It's Sangsom Thai rum, Caribou which is Thai redbull, and Coke, all tossed into a bucket. Fuck buckets play an integral part in my Koh Tao adventure. And Amy liked to drink them. But anyhow, Amy was a ray of British sunshine, which has got to be pretty rare. She always put a smile on our faces whether we were in the middle of a boring-ass lecture, or at the bottom of the sea.

And then there was Laura Heutschi. The Miss of the Swiss. Laura was an lovely little lady from Switzerland who had regulators busting valves all over the ocean floor. She made checking tank-straps and the pressure gauge an enjoyable experience. And she gets adorably nervous when she takes tests.

I met these four lovely people in the classroom on the second floor of Ban's Dive Shop while we were giving our divemaster all of our vital information, and signing a bunch of papers saying it was not Thailand's fault if one of us fucked up and got the bends out there in the deep, after which we watched a worthless video on how not to scuba-dive, the whole while sizing each other up.

After our two-hour introduction course, I took a nice long walk along the rocky forested shore-line in the balmy evening. I passed a lady-boy who had a little hair-cut hut set up on the beach, and decided to get my first Thai hair-cut, which was a normal Scott haircut but with about an inch and a half of bare scalp over both ears. I walked back to Ban's, embarrassed and ashamed of my new KMFDM look (ashamed because I think I unwittingly agreed to it, and didn't put a stop to it fast enough, but that ladyboy was fucking intimidating), looking like a German industrial-techno fan, choking down the bitter pill of absolutley no chance of getting what I ought to get on my birthday in the land of thighs.

Surat Sunday

I love my scooter. And now that I've got my picnic backpack full of sammies and herb and massaman and ice cold beer and my little boombox and some good readin and a crossword, I'm gonna hop on that scooter and cross the river and just head north to the hills through the rubber tree groves til I run out of gas. Hope your Sunday is happy like mine.

Success!

I am no longer in visa limbo! After three visits to the US Embassy, two of which were today (they're open from 7 till 11 in the morning, and again from 1 to 2 p.m.; I of course showed up at 11:15), and two visits to Immigration, all within 24 hours, and over 10,000 Baht give or take, I am once again an official non-immigrant class B, or in sane speak, I can legally teach again. Another frustrating visit to the Big Tiger, though not fruitless. On top of my visa luck, I also found a delicious new Mexican restaurant, the best used book store in town, and the Suk 11 guesthouse staff is now treating me like one of their own, so much so that I mustered some steel-ones to ask one of the girls on a date (her name of course is Jeab, what is it with me and Jeabs, or the letter J for that matter?; this is the third Jeab I've fancied), which was a trip upstairs to the guesthouse TV room where I introduced her to the glory of The Goonies. Sloth speaking Thai is a real treat. All in all, not a bad trip.

I have a nice little Tuesday planned, actually...

gonna start off with a 6:45 morning call from my boss. Then a little of last night's papaya salad before 30 more minutes of Bangkok-infested slumber. Then it's off to the US embassy to kiss some ass for a possibly mythological stamp on my passport. After that, it's on back to Immigration to get the visa I had just months ago, but now need even more proof that I deserve it. Then I'm thinking maybe the Mo Shit market at Mo Chit at the end of the SkyTrain. Then two used bookstores I've been on the hunt for the past two days; I think I'm finally onto them. Then a new restaurant just opening in Siam Discovery called Outback Steakhouse (it's been since my birthday since I've had a decent steak). Then off to the train station to catch the 7:30 night train that will deliver me to Surat at the not-annoying-at-all hour of 6:30 in the a.m. Then it's off to Thida at 8 to teach some Thai buggers some English. Smiling all the way.

Bangkoked!

I've now visited the Big Tiger (that's actually the name of the Bangkok Hilton, Thailand's main prison, located in Bangkok, because it devours its inhabitants, and I think the name is fitting for Thailand's capital as well) more times than any city outside the U.S., and more than most inside. I've visited Bangkok more times than I've visited the states of Maine, North Dakota, Idaho, Massachusetts, Connecticut, Delaware, Wisconsin, Rhode Island and Hawaii combined. When I walked back into the classroom for the first time in over two months, I said, "Good morning, class!", to which they replied, "You smell like Bangkok!" in unison. My dreams are filled with Bangkok. I exude Bangkok. When I clean my ears: Bangkok. When I brush my teeth: Bangkok. When I pick my nose: Bangkok. When I wipe my rash: Bangkok.

I've been to Bangkok three out of the last four weekends. All this Bangkok is exhausting. I'm up here because I fucked up and didn't get another reentry pass when Dave and I returned to Bangkok from Cambodia way back when for his root canal and then left the country again. That's the root of the problem; my absent-mindedness. But, I've been up here twice since then to take care of the problem, and both times left with my tail between my legs and my dick in my hands. I'm not blaming anyone. I realize that's the nature of the beast that is bureaucracy in Thailand. But Christ on a rubber cross.

So far, this time has not been all for naught. I discovered a new Tex Mex "Cantina" next to my home in the 'ol 'Kok, Suk 11 (best guesthouse ever!), that had some damn good food! Now I know how Thais feel when I stare at them stuffing their faces with squid or dried pork and beetle innards, after I slurped down eight quesadillas and licked the guacamole off my fingers next to a table of natives. And I paid almost six dollars for a Corona. But I deserved it. I then aroused the ire of the owner after unwittingly flirting with his girlfriend, but soon calmed him down by praising his food, and swapping Seattle stories, that being where he was from.

I don't really mind spending time in Bangkok, but every time I come here I leave a little piece of me behind. That little piece is almost always made out of Baht, but sometimes I leave a little of my sheltered American life, some of whatever innocence I have left, some common sense, naivete, respect for life, and certainly any thoughts I may have had that I'd seen almost everything (I swear I saw the elephant man at the post office yesterday. He looked just like Joseph Merrick, but much tanner, and in need of postage). So no, I don't mind coming to Bangkok, but three times in four weeks?! I'm over it.

Koh Tao, Part II : Ban's and Big Fish Murmurings

We arrived at Koh Tao's dock and were immediately swarmed by tuk-tuk drivers asking us where we were staying and telling us that place was shit and that they knew of a much better place to stay. I waved them off, just like I was doing to the dockflies, and kept muttering, "Mei, mei, mei..." Luckily, Ban's Dive Shop came through this time and had a pick-up waiting for us for free. Another eight farang piled in and we headed for what would be home for the next week.



I got to Ban's place around two in the p.m. on Saturday the 11th. Dive lessons started at four. At checkin, I was a little apprehensive when it seemed that Amelie wanted to share a room. I quickly put the kibosh on that and headed to my room. It was a small deal with a single bed, small balcony, and a shower I couldn't stand up straight in, but it had HBO so I popped on Back to the Future 2 and collapsed on the bed. Two hours to look around, grab a bite, and take a nap, the latter of which I decided upon, but as I lay in my room and tried to stop sweating, sleep wouldn't come. So, I got up and decided to take a walk around the grounds. The resort was pretty impressive, considering the price (I paid 9,000 Baht but that included the PADI certification; six nights and scuba-diving for about $300, not including the cash that would eventually disappear by way of other means peripheral to the accomodation); covering 20 acres and settled on a lushly vegetated hillside that sloped directly into the sea, it was made up of two long dormitories on each side of a training pool/garden that ambled down to a boardwalk bar/restaurant/classroom. The bar/rest./class was the sturdiest structure I've ever seen made entirely of bamboo, and quite a comfortable little hang-out as well, situated right on the water with an intoxicating view of the bay and nearby Shark Island. I ordered a cold one and parked my ass on a pillow to watch a dozen or so Israelis just back from a dive washing their gear and boasting of the sights they saw, as I waited on my intro. class to start. There were a surprisingly large amount of Israelis on Koh Tao for a holiday. Many of the restaurants had Israeli food and Hebrew menus. I never did figure out this cultural phenomenon. Anyhow, the group of divers couldn't stop talking about what would prove to be a ubiquitous conversation all over the island. Seemed a boat they were diving in close proximity to just a few hours earlier was all aflutter with excitement after supposedly seeing a couple of whale sharks. Sitting there listening to the buzz, not once did I consider the possibility of such a privilege presenting itself to me over the next week.

After an hour or so of lounging around, it was finally time to head upstairs to the classroom above the bar, to meet my future dive buddies and to learn how to breathe oxygen at ambient pressure.

Koh Tao, Part I : Koh Tao

I've been to the Samui islands at least a half-dozen times since my first trip down from Chiang Mai on my birthday seven months ago, but the awe in that initial jaw-dropping peek outside my plane porthole as I descended to paradise still hasn't and will never diminish. A 100-ft. tall, Indian-legged albino Buddha welcomes all travelers from the apex of a tall, slender limestone mountain overlooking the piers and airport. Just past his hospitable gaze and precipitous perch lies Samui, a jungle-covered nexus to white-sand beaches, swaying coconut trees, and coral reefs covered by liquid turquoise; an eye-friendly onslaught of blues and greens. I couldn't wait to get off the plane and frolic, but I still had the landing to get through.

I don't doubt the aptitude of Thai pilots up in the air, but when that landing gear comes down, all bets are off. It's like the landing strip becomes just another Thai highway, and the plane just another tuk-tuk. In other words, balls to the pedal, and very little brake until the very abrupt end. I don't think they even bother using those little flaps that come up on the wings to slow the descent. Anyhow, my bitching aside, we landed unsafely and sound.

I think I mentioned earlier that I was meeting a Spanish woman, named Amelie, who I met in Santitham. She's a thirty-something physical therapist from outside of Madrid, who was in Chiang Mai to get a leg up in the massage industry. She was a nice enough woman, though because of her all day classes at the massage school we didn't spend a whole lot of time together past chance encounters at the breakfast table and whenever she needed someone for homework. We took separate flights down to the islands, and as I saw her waiting at the taxi stand for me, I already regretted agreeing to accompany her. A few mornings before we flew south, we were eating breakfast together in Santitham's main house, watching the Presidential debates, and discussing our foreign thoughts on the state and future of the human plight. And as we talked at length, our conversation inevitably turned into a comparison of the American people with those of the rest of the world (namely Europeans), and her particular views seemed particularly callous towards Americans, despite the fact that there was a very polite and quite humble (if I do say so myself) American sitting right in front of her, who contradicted most, if not all, the negative things she had to say about America (disrespectful, self-righteous, pretentious). And as I came upon her at the airport, here she was spewing vehement Spanish and English with short, frustrated bursts of attempted Thai at the attendant, over something that seemed completely out of the attendant's control or concern. At this point, I don't remember thinking, "Let me go be of assistance," but instead that maybe I should've just kept walking by, uninterested in throwing in with a traveler who lost her cool so readily. But she caught sight of me and beckoned me over; I asked her what was up. Turns out the dive resort we had checked out online failed to send us the transportation it had promised on its website. I'm sure she thought my rolling eyes were intended for the missing cab, or maybe the attendant she just spit out of her mouth. "Well," I told her,"I'm sure they just haven't shown up yet. We can either wait or just grab one of these songtaews like everyone else." Then I asked the attendant how much they were to the pier.
"100 Baht."
"You're kidding? Well, I don't know about you, Amelie, but I can afford a ride for $3 right this second," I said, sweat already dripping down my butt-crack, just from standing out on that curb.

I started walking in the direction of the nearest truck, and she reluctantly followed. I slung my pack up to the driver on the roof and scrambled into the back with six other people. After a bumpy ride along a dirt-road that criss-crossed goat farms and coconut groves, we made it to the pier just in time to catch the boat to Koh Tao, about forty miles away from the main Samui island. An hour and a half later, as I stood at the bow of the belching ferry that took us that last stretch, cold can of Leo grasped firmly, and the much smaller island of Koh Tao came into view, I saw dozens and dozens of teak wood bungalows scattered slip shod over every jungle-covered hillside, overlooking tiny villages at every half-mile of beach, home to fire-twirlers who were starting to practice their ludicrous dance for bbq later that night, the huge fires from which they borrowed, at that moment grilling copious amounts of shrimp, tuna, serpent-fish, snapper, shark and New Zealand steak, multi-colored lanterns coming alight overhead and women frolicking in the lackadaisical surf below. But nothing from that sense-orgy could keep from looking straight down, at the wraith-like reefs and blue-green depths I would soon be plunging.

Sorry Sarah

Out of respect to D-Mo's special lady friend down in Oz, I'm gonna go ahead and clarify which of the events in my last post did not happen. The story about our cave adventure was a complete fabrication. Just kidding. No, we did not participate in the ping pong exhibition at the world famous SuperPussy in Bangkok, even though Frodini did swear on a certain matriarch's anal virginity that he would. So, glad we got that cleared up. We were good boys, for the most part.

So Long Carlos *sniff whimper*

Today I bid a fond farewell to my travelling companion of the past couple months, D-Mo, amidst a fitting torrential downpour in Bangkok. Hard to believe he was here for two months! Seems like just yesterday we were sharing a bedsheet back at my home in Surat Thani. In that time, we grueled it out together in a parched Surat; scaled the ancient steps of Angkor Wat; shared equally painful dental experiences (well, his was probably much worse, though mine is a work in progress); made equally embarrassing mistakes at several bars, harems, brothels, and other establishments of ill-fame; lolled in psychadelic-bliss on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world (maybe only one of us was induced); played ping-pong at SuperPussy in Bangkok; faced our inner and outer most demons in a subterranean nightmarish spelunk; serenaded the streets of Chiang Mai with a little water and a whole lotta handsome beard in the belly of a Burmese Army Jeep; and generally had an internationally awesome good time. Ok, a couple of those things were a little embellished, but I'll let y'all use your imaginations as to which. Needless to say, I'm a little misty-eyed to see my Colombian and newly-Castro-bearded friend leave, but I happen to think I'll see him again a lot sooner than expected. But I'll let him break that news to you on his own time. Take care, Carlos. We did good.

The Brevity Thing

In the vein of the Twitter boom, I think I'm going to start leaving much shorter posts with more frequency. I still have a few big stories to tell, but there's a lot of little happenings that are falling through the cracks. For instance, right now I'm really worried about my bottom left wisdom tooth. It's rearing its unwelcome head in such a manner that the gum surrounding it has been mangled to the point where there's a flap of flesh dangling in a very annoying and inconvenient fashion, interfering with all kinds of chewing. And my jaw is kinda sore from all the tooth movement. I just arrived in Bangkok this morning, so I might take a visit to the dentist to check it out, but knowing me, probably not (don't tell mom, sis). I only have about 3 1/2 more months left, so I'm hoping I can just ride it out.

So yeah, a couple of days in BKK, meeting back up with D-Mo, and then back to Surat for the home stretch. A month of sight-seeing and debauchery is enough and starting to wear on the soul. I can't wait to get back to work!

Songkran! or How To Get Water Into Every Orifice

Even if you've never been apart of New Years Eve in a big city, or a huge festive citywide celebration like, say, Mardi Gras, you've probably seen pictures or heard friends' stories of debaucherized revelry that would make Dionysus himself proud. So, imagine a scene like that, people swarming the streets, traffic backed up for miles down every street, music blasting, booze flowing, laughter and smiles abound. Now, imagine that scene taking place in a country whose national countenance, for the most part, could be called reserved or diffident at best. Now, imagine experiencing this festive scene from the cockpit of a 1969 Burmese Army Jeep, right-side steering wheel, left-side gear-stick, customized stereo system, no windshield, and all kinds of personality. Now, imagine this 3 DAY!! holiday scene with buckets upon buckets upon water-guns upon bottles upon hoses upon buckets of water coming at you non-stop from every which way, with every man, woman, child, monk, police-officer a fair target (no one is safe!), and you've just imagined my new favorite holiday: Songkran, the Thai New Year. If there's one thing I bring home from this trip, it will be the water-throwing ways of this crazy-ass holiday. America was made for this shit, what with our love of giant water-parks and slip-and-slides, and July 4th seems like the perfect holiday to add aquatic silliness into the mix. So, next 4th of July, if you get a bucket of ice-cold water down your previously dry backside, it's all out of love!

Scott and Dave in a Cave!

Although the Ginny Springs-like Vang Vieng is known for it's river tubing and happy mushroom shakes, it's the panoramic view of huge, dollopy limestone mountains, like giant green, jungle-covered gumdrops, overlooking a wide open Mekong river valley that you'll remember of this place. The town is full of falang (Laos' version of farang) -catering bars showing endless episodes of Friends, Family Guy, and the Simpsons. But once you get past these annoying reminders of home, the country-side offers a breath-stealing landscape riddled with caves and cool mountain springs. It was one such cave that Modini and I almost didn't make it out of. We came upon this obscure cavern by chance, biking up a pebbly country-road on ill-equipped beach cruisers, following a jankity old sign that advertised the cave, a large Buddha statue and "a great adventure, and pointed to China. After an hour of bone-jarring bike-pedaling, we found the cave situated in a tangle of forest just off the rocky road. There was a small lean-to hut tucked into the thicket surrounding the cave’s entrance, where a woman and her two children were whiling away the day. It didn’t seem likely that they would be out here in the middle of the jungle, several kilometers away from town waiting for visitors to happen by, but sure enough there was a hand-painted sign perched on a pole that read, “Cave Crossing 10,000 Kip.” The cave must’ve had an average of two visitors a week, and we had just filled their quota. We assumed the 10,000 kip just an entrance fee and happily gave the woman our money, but we soon found out that entrance to the cave was free and we had just purchased the company of her teenage son as our minimal English-speaking tour guide. He gave me his name, which I had difficulty making out, but it sounded similar to Haha, so that's what I'll call him. His initially unwelcome accompaniment turned out quite necessary, as we had neglected to bring flashlights.

The cave entrance was deceptively modest, appearing at first glance as just a shallow pocket in the side of a hill. I expected to wander a few meters into a cool shelter of stone, take a few snapshots of a weathered Buddha statue, and then move on down the road. However, much to the chagrin of my flip-flops, we soon found ourselves descending a very steep and slippery slope through a hole to Hades. Very early on in our spelunk, we realized that both of our flashlights were absolute crap, and would provide just enough light to show us the sides of a bottomless pit on our way down, or the low-hanging stalactite only after the damage was done; shit, the stars in my eyes after hitting my head on just such a stalactite provided more light. Our best bet was to stick as close to our pint-sized tour-guide as possible, who seemed to need no light at all. After only a few minutes of pitch-black stumbling, our fearless leader told me to stop, turned my torso towards what I imagined was a wall, and told me to take a picture. I eagerly did as I was told, suddenly remembering the flash on my camera and the spatial enlightenment it would bring. As the first flickering of my camera commenced, I became immediately aware of large phantasmic toes not a few feet in front of me, and the ghostly statue of Buddha, carved right out of the cave wall, was revealed. I have to admit that it startled the shit out of me, as you’ll notice in my pictures that in the first one I took I dropped the camera. Just imagine seeing absolute pitch blackness, then all of a sudden, “Whoop, there’s God!”

Now that we had seen the Statue, and had been without light for several minutes now, I presumed that our journey was close to an end. We would soon find out that there was much more cave to not-see. On and on the cave went, twisting and turning, or for all I knew we were walking around the same stalagmite over and over; it was that dark. Not until we reached the darkest recesses of this hole-way to Hell did Haha reveal to us his sense of humor. We were led to one side of the “path”, as Dave and I lifted the weak beams of our flashlights to a rocky shelf where dwelt some cave spiders. Amazed that Haha knew exactly where to look for these arachnids, I was about to ask him if they were poisonous when his true intention in showing us the little beasts came to deafening realization. Our backs to him, distracted by the spiders, Haha came up behind us and began pounding on a nearby stalactite with a large loose rock. The reverberating clang sounded as if he'd struck a cast-iron pot with fire-place poker. I felt like we’d just stepped under the Liberty Bell and my brain had cracked open. Then Haha haha’d and continued on his way, with us biting the dust. I couldn’t blame him for taking advantage of a couple falang, but neither could I blame myself for wanting to wring his little neck.


After a few more minutes of sightless groping, we came upon a narrow passageway that required us to shuffle along side-step at a forty-five degree angle. It was at this point that Dave turned to me and said, “I don’t know about you man, but I’m starting to reach my limit.” Despite Haha's hijinx, I was doing fine, having visited caves in New Mexico, Arizona, and the Appalachian States that required much more of me. I was just a little perturbed at the sorry state of our torches, and that the only signs of human passage were an ancient statue that we'd passed eons ago and one or two hand-painted arrows on the wall that seemed to be leading us to America. However, I could soon hear the cave-gods laughing up at us from their subterranean realm as if to say, “Fuck your limits, Dave.” After our forty-five degree dance, Haha was suddenly nowhere to be found. After a few seconds of blind panic, his voice returned to us from somewhere around our ankles, beckoning to us to get on our bellies and follow him through a hole that was just wide enough to admit our beer-buoyed bellies. In fact, if we weren’t lubed up in nerve-induced sweat, we might not have been able to squeeze through. But down we went, sliding inch by inch on a combination of perspiration, cave-mud, and a healthy fear of dark, enclosed places. Judging from D-Mo’s heavy breathing, he was having a rough time, and I was proud and shocked at every second he soldiered on, with just a few encouraging words from me. I can’t possibly convey how claustrophobic this tunnel would make even the most diehard agoraphobe feel, but let’s just say we were reenacting that movie The Descent, minus the pigment-lacking, flesh-eating mutants, of course. At one point, he would tell me later after the whole ordeal had ended, Dave just wanted to stop crawling and take a nap, exhausted with fear, hoping that in his slumber Haha and I would just drag him out to freedom. After what seemed like an hour, Haha’s now angelic voice told us we had to endure only one-minute more of this hellish scrape through the bowels of the Earth. I started to count the seconds, Dave picked up his pace, and sure enough, 57 seconds later, we were able to stand on our knees. Having felt like we’d just crawled through the entrails of Beelzebub himself, we collapsed on a couple of rocks, wiped the sweat and grime from our faces and clothes, and took a well-deserved breather. After a few seconds, I looked over at D-Mo and offered him a hearty guffaw which he still wasn’t in the mood to return. So, I gave him a minute’s peace and clambered back down to the hole to take a few snapshots of our would-be tomb. Can’t wait to show them to you, though they won’t do a bit of justice to what we actually went through.

Lovely Laos

Just a quick update on my whereabouts. If you were to tell me a year ago that I’d be visiting a Communist country, and that it would hold some of the most beautiful sights I would ever lay peepers on (and I ain’t just talking the landscape), and that that country wouldn’t be China or Vietnam, but a lesser known third world called Laos, I’d say, “Get the fuck outta here. What the fuck is a la-ow?” Alright, I’d heard of Laos, but only so much that its capital had a French sounding name, and that our government carpet-bombed the shit out of it in the late 60’s, and that it was wedged somewhere between Vietnam and the rest of Asia. But I tell ya, ever since I crossed that Friendship Bridge, from Nong Khai to Vientiane, and strolled down those tree-lined streets, and breathed that somewhat sweeter-smelling Laotian air, and wasn’t manhandled by the more laid-back Laotian lady-boys, I’ve got a new favorite special place.

Come to Laos! The old capital of Luong Prabang is the only place I’ve visited since I arrived in Bangkok over six months ago where I’ve seriously considered scrapping my current contract and starting over in a new location, but that’s just stupid-talk. Part of the tri-fecta of must-see cities along with Vientiane (for the history) and Vang Vieng (for the tubing and spelunking), Luong Prabang is a charming little town nestled at the bottom of the Nam Khan and Mekong river valley. The banks of the rivers and streets are peppered with frangipanis and scarlet-flowered trees, and the fragrance of coffee and spice permeates the air as you wander the handicraft and produce markets. Its outskirts are laced with caves and waterfalls, which I plan on checking out tomorrow, so can't wait to get back to y'all on those. It lacks the touristy turnoff of Vang Vieng, and the hustle and bustle of Vientiane. So far, possibly the most relaxing place I've ever had the privilege to visit.


As some of y’all have heard, I’ve run into a little hiccup involving my visa. Any time one of us English teachers plans on leaving Thailand, we’re required to pickup a reentry permit, so that our work permit isn’t dissolved and we have to apply for another one once we return. Well, I picked up the reentry permit once D-Mo and I left Thailand the first time; however we were forced to backtrack to Bangkok from Siem Reap for a small emergency, and upon returning I completely forgot to pick up a second reentry permit once we departed for Laos. Maybe I thought my first permit would still work, or maybe I just had a brain-fart and didn’t even think about it. Either way, I have much drama to look forward to once I fly into Chiang Mai and go through immigration this Friday. I expect my charming skills to be put to the ultimate test; I might even have to shave this bird’s nest of a beard I’ve acquired since school got out, and I was even thinking of showing the immigration official pictures of me and my kids, to show them that I’m really here for an admirable cause and not just to drink their beer and steal their women. So, everyone keep your fingers and toes crossed for ol’ Scooty Boot; otherwise, I might see you sooner then planned.

Thai Nuggets !!!

Thai people use straws for everything: bottled water, coffee, booze. Any conveniance store you convene in will give you at least four straws for any one beverage you purchase; they insist.


One American snack they have plenty of in T-land is Lay's Potato Chips and Pringles, both of which are dominating the SE Asian chip market. They love them shits over here. But the flavors are just a tad different. The only three we have in common are Original, Sour Cream & Onion, and BBQ, although BBQ is actually Mexican BBQ over here. From there the flavors just get freaky: Nori Seaweed, Spicy Seafood, Squid Chili Paste, Garlic and Soft-Shell Crab, and my personal fave Double Cheese Pork Burger. Doritos are almost considered a luxury; you can only find them in big cities or at the movie theatre.


Swimming is a funny business in Thailand. Thais aren't big on exposure for two reasons. They hate being tan, and they also believe it's disrespectul to show skin. So, when most Thais go swimming, they're usually covered head to foot, even at the beach. All women, Thai and farang alike, must wear a swim cap. It's kind of adorable.


Fashion is an equally funny business. While there are certainly some fashionably savvy people in Thailand, the two most popular clothing styles are Playboy and a line of garments with a marijuana motif. I've seen 5 and 6-year olds running around with huge pot-leafs gregariously gracing their t-shirts and the Playboy Bunny prominently displayed on their baseball caps. Also, the length of clothing Thais generally wear is fever-inducing. In the middle of debilitating heat, just a cartographical inch from the equator, these people walk around in jeans, long-sleeve flannels, and head-wraps to keep out the sun, and hardly a bead of sweat to be found.

They don't really use chop-sticks in Thailand, as you might expect, or maybe you don't. The only time I ever see Thais use chop-sticks is when they're eating noodle soup. Thais use a fork and a spoon for almost every meal; no knives. However, the fork is not used to spear your food; it replaces the knife, and is then used to scoop your food onto the spoon. Weird.

Now a little Laos nugget. Laotians lack a certain spatial awareness. It's pretty common to see a Laotian catching a nap on some stranger's shoulder during a long bus-ride, slumber-slobber and all.

sorry for the history lesson

Just a final thought on that last post, and the reason why I wanted to tell you about it in the first place. I remember sitting in a restaurant in Surat Thani watching the horrible events of Mumbai unfold on a television screen, when I struck up a conversation with a Thai woman sitting at the bar who looked particularly somber about the attack. I came to find out that she had some relatives living and working in Mumbai, and they were trying to get back home to Thailand but were unable to do so because of the PAD shutdowns of both BKK airports. India didn't have any other flights to Thai cities, though the Thai and Indian governments were trying to orchestrate something to fix this.

I then asked this woman, who I'll call Pui, what she thought about what was going on in her nation's capital, aside from the obvious effects it was having on her family.
"At first, I like what the PAD is trying to do. That they have the Royal Family's best interest in mind. But now that this business in India has been happening for three day's now, and they won't open up the airports to help their fellow Thais, it makes me feel as though they have only their best interests in mind." (This isn't verbatim, of course. I polished up the broken English for you)

Those were the same sentiments I was beginning to have. It was hard at first not to pull for a group that called themselves the People's Alliance for Democracy. But the more I found out about these people, the more I realized they were just a group with a large middle- and upper- class following that didn't have the power, and wanted to do so for mostly financial reasons.
"The thing that worries me the most is that they don't have a plan for government in case their mission succeeds," Pui told me.
This was clearly evident to most people, Thai and farang alike. The PAD knew who they wanted in the Prime Minister's office, but they had not told their countrymen how Thailand would be better off if their plans came to fruition.

After witnessing so much friction between the PPP and the PAD, what interests me most is how this country is going to survive once, Buddha forbid, the King is no longer with us (I mean, he's like 83 years old and has had some very recent health problems). I hope to all that is holy that such a thing does not come to pass during my stay in this country. I remember one week at school when every single normal routine came to a halt to honor the passing of the King's sister, and my school, Thidamaeprat, convened SOP a lot sooner than most schools and businesses, and this was only in honoring the sister's cremation (she had passed away a few months before my arrival). I truly believe this nation will be lost without their patriarchal figurehead. His son is widely regarded as an adulterating nimbus, and I'm not confident that the heads of state will allow his Queen or daughters to hold much sway in his absence, respected though they may be.

Sorry, I didn't mean to give anyone an international relations lecture, nor did I presume that anyone would really be interested. But I just wanted to let y'all know, because I hear about this shit every day, and it's so hard to relate to people who not only refuse to talk to me about it, but also refuse to try and better their country's future in the face of such imminent chaos.

Like I said, happier stories to follow, including scuba in Koh Tao and schooling in Surat.

Not All Smiles In The Land Of Smiles

So it’s time to talk about the political atmosphere here before it becomes irrelevant. I became aware of a certain level of strife in Thailand not before I had decided to teach English abroad, not before I had narrowed my destinations down to Thailand and Croatia, not while researching what to expect once I got to Thailand (beyond what I already knew of the border skirmishes near Malaysia and Cambodia), not when I talked to my friend Noland in the few weeks leading up to my departure and arrival. Through my ignorance, not until reading a copy of the The Nation upon boarding my fourth plane on the way to Chiang Mai did I become aware of the alleged corruption and subsequent upheaval emanating from and directed at seats of power in Thailand, respectively.

For those of you who don’t know, as I didn’t: Thailand’s government is a constitutional monarchy, meaning that the King is head of state (the world’s longest reigning monarch), a figurehead with very little direct power, but one that commands the undying love and respect of the whole nation. The Prime Minister is the head of government.

The front page of The Nation, Friday 25 September, 2008, announced that recently elected Prime Minister Somchai Wongsawat of the People’s Power Party would be appointing his cabinet positions that day, many of which were publicly criticized, not unexpectedly, by the Democratic Party and the PAD, the People’s Alliance for Democracy. The PAD, or the Yellow-Shirts (yellow being the official color of the King), are not a political party, but more of a highly-coordinated group of protesters, originally formed in 2006 specifically to speak out against former Prime Minister Thaksin Shinawatra, who was exiled amidst allegations of corruption, treason, authoritarianism, and above all else, lese majeste, which was the PAD’s chief concern with Thaksin and his proxies; that they were trying to undermine the power of the King himself. The group has the support of some highly respected members of the Democratic Party, including co-leader and media-mogul Sondhi Limthongkul. Sondhi opposed Somchai, who happens to be Thaksin’s brother-in-law, in the recent elections, which only took place because another former Prime Minister Samak Sundaravej, Thaksin’s replacement, resigned after being found guilty by the Constitutional Court for “conflict of interest” after he hosted a cooking show without the Court’s permission. A cooking show.

So that’s what I was flying into, unbeknownst to me until it was too late. Government House had been usurped months ago by the PAD, who were now using it as their own base of operations, forcing the new PM to hole up in a vacant VIP lounge in the middle of an undisclosed airport, from which the executive decisions of the country were now being handed down. Most of the drama was limited to Bangkok, so I wasn’t too worried about my trip being affected, as I was to be living several hundred miles north of the unrest. Little did I know.

Those of you that have already read one of my earlier posts on my first couple of days in CM know that my trip was indeed affected by the political protesting and the government’s lashing out in response, though somewhat indirectly (see Afternoon Uprising…). But the incident in the park only intrigued me further, and prompted me to begin asking questions; questions that made a lot of people very uncomfortable. Questions like, “Who did you vote for?” or “Who do you support, the PPP or PAD?” While a lot of the locals were very forthcoming when it came to talking about issues of sex, sexual orientation, drugs, money, or the current affairs of just about anywhere other than Thailand, they got down-right spooked when I asked for their perspective on what was going on down south, to the point where more than one person walked away from me in the middle of a conversation. I attributed this to the proximity these discussions had to the Royal Family, and understood people’s unwillingness to take sides when it was so unclear which side had the monarchy’s best interests in mind, or that the ruling PPP was popular in the north region of Thailand, of which Chiang Mai was a part. Granted, the PAD’s primary criticism of all three of the former PMs (Thaksin, Samak, and Somchai) and the ruling political party, the PPP, was that they were becoming dangerously insubordinate to the King, their actions resembling those of a presidency, and a president in effect would replace the monarchy, heretical even to think about. However, one had to keep in mind that the main voice behind the PAD, Sondhi, could be considered the Rupert Murdoch of Thailand; all the press about both the PAD and PPP, positive and negative, went through him like a sieve. I’m not even sure if the King himself knows how loyal the PAD actually is, or if he’s just being used as the Father of all political tools. Sondhi and his media conglomerate have been under financial scrutiny long before Thaksin ever took office; nevertheless he’s been very successful in recruiting the middle- and upper-class to his cause, along with several highly respected Buddhist monks.

After several fruitless conversations (even Burm didn’t want to talk about it), I gave up on my inquiries and reluctantly relied on the media for news of any progress. Then, on the 7th of October, there was blood spilled in Bangkok. Thousands of PAD protesters filled the streets of the nation’s capital, attempting to shut-down the planned reopening of parliament. PM Somchai, who was already at parliament before the protesters formed en masse, was forced to escape via helicopter after climbing over a fence on the rear grounds of the building. The demonstration continued all day, prompting the police to use riot-gear and tear-gas, a force that resulted in two dead and 400 injured, and the whole nation would know. There was no rose-colored lens. The next day, newspaper photos and video-footage streamed unfiltered images of blood and dismemberment; carnage the likes of which you have never seen on a FOX newscast, no doubt due to the journalistic affiliations of the PAD. The coverage was effective. Later that week, the Police Commissioner in BKK, whose name I can’t recall, publicly refused to follow a direct order from PM Somchai, to use deadlier force for any future demonstrations; a decisive statement that made clear who the Commissioner’s sympathies sided with. “That is it!” I remember thinking to myself, after seeing the news finally hit CNN and the BBC, “I have got to get down to Bangkok!” The excitement was beyond palpable. The sights, sounds and smell of revolution, whether right or wrong, were unmistakable.

Two days after the riots, I decided to make my way to the train station for a quick jaunt down south. “If anything,” I thought to myself, “I could do a little job-hunting; as the pickings seemed a little slim in CM.” I talked to the house-mother of Santitham about arranging a ride over to the station, and she seemed aghast at my request.
“No, no, no!! You cannot go to train today!”
“Why not? What’s wrong?”
“Uhh, they…They mopping streets. Mopping streets!”
“They’re mopping the streets? Oh. Well, uh, when can I go?”
“Not today. Uh, I think not this week. Maybe next week.”
“Oh. Ok. Thanks, Nung.”
Something wasn’t right. Maybe it was the look of sheer terror that street-cleaning brought to Nung’s face, but something told me I didn’t quite understand what house-mom was trying to tell me. I needed to talk to someone else about this, and Berm wasn’t around, so I left Santitham for some lunch and a fresh interpretation.

As I walked around the neighborhood, there was a noticeable absence of street vendors. Several businesses were closed, including most of the restaurants I often visited for lunch. There were very few tuk-tuks and motorbikes about, shit even the dogs seemed to have disappeared. When I finally tracked Berm down later that afternoon, he told me that thousands of people all over the city were departing CM for Bangkok to either join in the protests or to visit family members they were concerned about. This is why house-mom had spurned me from the train-station. Not because they were mopping the streets, but because there were mobs in the streets. The trains, planes, and automobiles were making a mass exodus to BKK, so much so that many people were stranded in CM and had decided to hold there own demonstrations right there on the spot.

Events transpired against my leaving for BKK, and for weeks after the October violence, negotiation and compromise between the two warring factions hit a wall. Somchai did not back down, even after facing criticism within his own administration. Not until I had moved 700 miles south to Surat Thani about a month later did I give much thought to the matter; not until the PAD had effectively shut-down the entire country by cutting it off from the rest of the world, taking over both Bangkok airports and stemming the flow of the nation’s chief source of income, tourism (losses were estimated in the billions). Unfortunately, the PAD decided to launch their assault just days before the tragically infamous incident in Mumbai. I watched the news as several Thais, stranded in India after a nightmarish affair, having lost friends or family in the attacks on the Oberoi Trident, Taj Mahal and other Mumbai sites, trying to return home to Thailand, only to be thwarted by the now seemingly petty actions of the PAD, all flights home having been cut-off. I remember this day more vividly than any other that I’ve spent in SE Asia before or since. This was a day that I lived closer to a reality beyond my comprehension or control than any other day in my life. So, I suppose this story serves no better purpose than to show how little I know of the world I just recently began to live in, and how frustrating it can be to even try and figure it out.

Happier notes to come.

A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 3: Chiang Mai Daze, Chapter 2: Passing Time

Gonna grease through the rest of my days in CM here right quick, so bear with me. This is long overdue.

I spent a total of three weeks in Chiang Mai, the first of which was ardently spent being turned down from job after job. There were a couple of days where I had the opportunity to revisit Wat Doi Suthep and offer my services to a monk friend of Berm’s, teaching English to the dek wat, or the children of the temple, little monk dudes between the ages of 8 and 12. Apparently, most Thai men serve some time in an ordained temple at some point in their life, usually at a young age. The duration of this service was traditionally 4 years, at which time they would be ordained nen, or novice monks, or return to their lay life, although that time has decreased recently. Most guys I talk to who have already served only do it for a week or two.

This was a damn unique experience, getting up to the temple around 4:30 in the a.m., chatting with some of the kids, following them around the temple grounds as they went about their chores, some of them armed with iPods, and attempting to sit in with them during their meditations, which lasted around 4 or 5 hours until about noon (I had to be gently nudged awake from my own meditations, but the monks were cool and didn’t judge). The lessons were simple conversational skills and a little writing, held in the afternoon, but a little difficult to get through since the dek wat weren’t allowed to eat any solid foods after twelve o’clock, which meant I couldn’t eat any solid foods, as I had promised to follow suit with their daily routine. After the two days were up, Berm’s friend told me he’d love to have me back on a regular basis, but the children would leaving the temple for a month on vacay. “So, could you come back at the end of October?”
“Yeesh! The end of October? I’m sorry, I would love to, but there’s no way I can go a whole month without some kind of income. I’ll probably need to find some other work,” I apologized to him.
“Oh, we wouldn’t be paying you. You’d stay up here on the mountain, and live off of the alms of the dek wat. But don’t worry; the donations are usually pretty generous, especially for Wat Doi Suthep.” I don’t think I need to tell you how this conversation ended. Let’s just say that I think they were looking for somebody who was a little more willing to adhere to the Ten Precepts.

My second week was spent making up for those rejections; plumbing the depths of pleasure and finding more and more creative ways to spend my money and numb the already growing sense of desperation at not being employed (“Jesus Chricycle, did I really come over here without a job? Was I just whistling Dixie, telling my mom she didn’t have to worry about me finding work once I got here?”) Standard outlets of leisure would not suffice in these circumstances; I mean I was in Thailand, dammit. I’d already visited most of the clubs, bars, and venues around town, treated myself to fine dinners at exotic restaurants, and exhausted the anticlimactic massage parlors. I’d fed elephants on the street, gazed out from the summit of Doi Suthep, and got my ass handed to me in takro. Naw, I needed an adventure; raw experience. And opium seemed like a good place to start.

A friend of Berm's agreed to take me up into the mountains to visit a few of the tribal villages populating the country-side, source of the hippity-hops I now sought. On the way up into the hillsides, we passed Doi Suthep and the winter palace residence of the King himself. Before we reached our destination however, we were deterred by herds of people headed the opposite direction, warning us of massive flooding and subsequent landslides that made travel, and thus opium smokage, impossible. Chiang Mai had been subject to a deluge of rainfall in recent days, so this was not unexpected, however unfortunate. So, I headed back downhill, empty-handed, unemployed, and agenda-less. I vowed not to waste any time moping around, and decided to bump-up a little trip I had planned to visit a farm on the Ping River, which runs through the heart of CM. I was to stay there a couple of days, earning my keep by helping to gather many of the fruits and vegetables that were sold to several riverside restaurants back in the city. I would also learn the ancient methods of harvesting that lifeblood of all Asia, the tiny grain that makes Uncle Ben smile so much: rice. I saw it as an opportunity to see some of the rural surroundings of CM, a little stroll back through time if you will, to see what life was like way back when. If anything, the trip would provide me a short break from the smothering, debris-layered CO2 of the city.

I arrived at the farm via scorpion-tail boat shortly after noon, with the sun at its apex and on a day when the gods ironically decided to turn off their torrential faucet, bringing the whole of their heliocentric fury down on my sweaty brow. It was my hottest day yet in Thailand, and a precursor to what I was in store for over the next year. The farm was a charming little plot, medieval though it was, situated right on the river with groves of trees and gardens spilling over every acre of land. I was the only guest which gave me ample time to myself, something I was looking forward to after my first week or so in the big city.

It was sweaty-balls hot out on that farm, and even without the opium I had planned to accompany me, it was mind-numbing work. Though after getting the initial morning-gripes out, and after finding my rhythm, mind-numbing turned into mind-cleansing, and at the end of each day I had a clearer head than I could remember ever having in recent years. I picked a plethora of fruits and vegetables: mangoes, apples, morning glory, lemongrass, papaya, finger-bananas, galangal, ginger, cashews, corn, carrots, onions, garlic, jackfruit, dragon fruit, star fruit, tamarind, guava, kiwi, rambutan, jujube, pomegranate, stinky durian and several others I’d never even heard of before. I was able to sample some of everything, either raw or in various noodle and rice dishes that were prepared for every meal. Unfortunately, the menu wasn’t without meat, and the meat came from the farm just like everything else. I say unfortunately, because just like all the fruits and vegetables I dined on, I was given the opportunity to harvest the pork that I ate as well. Not wanting to look squeamish in the eyes of the farm residents, I followed a smiling fellow into the yard behind the kitchen, where a little pen housed two little squealing bodies, looking more like pot-bellied pigs than the rotund, pink hogs I had envisioned (I think you can see a picture of one on my Facebook, poor little bastard). He was a hill pig; I was informed, and very common to northern Thai dishes calling for pork. The grim process I imagined was much more gruesome than what I was actually asked to do. I basically led the little guy over to a miniature-guillotine, secured his unsuspecting little noggin in place, and then brought the swift resolution of the French Revolution down upon his little hoggy head. Don’t worry, those are the only details you’re going to get, because I situated myself so that my farmer friend couldn’t see my face, and therefore couldn’t see that I had my eyes closed until all movement from the hog had ceased. My supper that night was bitter-sweetly delicious. The next day, after a fitful sleep full of dreams of talking pigs, I headed back up-river to CM and Santitham.

After a relaxing day and night back home, I attempted a jungle-trek, something Chiang Mai is famous for amongst backpackers. This excursion was cut short for the same reason my opium hunt was cut short. The stretch of jungle my troupe and I were set to visit was saturated with mud-slides, and after half a day on a two-day trek, the company was accosted. I don’t know where the little suckers came from; we’d only been in ankle-deep water, but all of a sudden we were laden with leeches of a large variety. They must’ve fallen out of the trees, or developed a wicked vertical; either way they were suddenly all up in our shit. I’ve never been sucked on by a leech, and while they didn’t hurt so much, it was pretty fucking disconcerting pulling the little bastards off your skin. I was tangling with an unreasonably large and stubborn leech, when a blood-curdling scream jolted the twelve or so trekkers I was joined with. Turns out one of the girls had discovered a leech in a very, shall I say, Stand By Me spot, after which she demanded that our guide return us to the base camp. Her hysterical insistence soon began to wear on several others of the group, especially her boyfriend, and that was the end of my jungle trek.

Back home at Santitham, I decided to lay low at the guest house for the next few days until my departure to Koh Tao, an island paradise I had planned a trip to as a birthday present to myself. Sitting around the guesthouse, I happened upon a Spanish lady by the name of Amelie. She was in CM attending ITM, one of the massage-training schools, and staying at Santitham. After a couple bottles of wine after dinner one evening, I convinced her to do her homework on me. During the massage, we planned on visiting the Night Safari together the next night. The so-called “Night Safari” was a bonafide zoo on the outskirts of town, the “Safari” consisting of an auto-piloted tram that drove visitors past several dismal-looking, artificial habitats, shining bright lights on the sleeping animals, all of which you can see at the SFCC training zoo. I assume the “Night” part of the Night Safari was devised to try and mask the very miserable lives these animals must lead. On the tuk-tuk drive home, after chastising the Thais for glorifying such a shitty “attraction” with elaborately ubiquitous advertisements, I convinced Amelie to join me on my trip south to Koh Tao that I would be taking in a few days. I told her it was a Mecca for scuba-divers the world over, and how cheap it was going to be to get certified, after which she happily signed on. We researched plane tickets together, and after a couple more days of preparation, we were off. I remember contentedly sitting on the plane, happy to have a travel companion, excited and a little jittery about my upcoming underwater adventures. How little did I know.

A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 3: Chiang Mai Daze , Chapter 1: Berm and I and the CM SlumDogs

My time in Chiang Mai seems like ancient history, writing about it now after having been in Surat going on four months. The rest of my days were mostly spent hitting the pavement, peddling my teacher services to whoever would lend an ear, and avoiding the annoying mother-daughter duo from New York. My daily routine usually consisted of waking up at the crack of dawn (more from the constant hammering and drilling around the guesthouse than actual motivation), wolfing down some fruit and yogurt, hopping on my bicycle, knocking at the door of every school I stumbled upon, being turned down, and then drowning my disappointment in cheap beer and even cheaper whiskey whilst honing my already formidable people-watching skills. And let me tell you, there was some seriously interesting people-watching to be had in that northern Thai mecca of monks and missionaries, sex-patriats and lady-boys, thrill-seeking jungle-trekkers and fried-eyed opium denizens. I didn't make too many friends in Chiang Mai, not to my chagrin, and what few friends I did make were almost always Thai, not to my chagrin. The reason, and I'm a little embarrassed to say this, is that the overall representation of foreigners in Thailand seem to be cut from a seedier, sleazier, crustier cloth, and I'm not even referring solely to the old European/American scumbags who come over and buy a wife they can order around after shit goes wrong back home. Those guys are an apparently permanent fixture to the social landscape of Thailand, have been for generations, and unfortunately the Thais have grown accustomed to their presence, and more importantly, their money. No, I'm talking about the population of holiday-farang who seemingly flock to Thailand from all-parts Europe so that they can behave and dress as irresponsibly and disgustingly flamboyant as possible. I am by no means pigeon-holing the Europeans, its just that they outnumber all other travelers by a suffocating ratio (I've only met a handful of Americans, and almost all of them are teaching alongside me in Surat Thani, but rest assured, they usually fit the same despicable mold). I can think of only a few foreigners that I've met here in Siam that I would even consider striking up a conversation with back home, let alone a friendship.



One of the first friendships I formed was with the very first person I conversed with in Chiang Mai, and that's Berm, who I've already told you about. Berm is a very aloof, quirky yet capable little Thai dude. I don't read my old posts very much, so I'm not sure if I mentioned this, but Berm is the gay ex-boyfriend of a high school friend of my father's, whose guest house I was staying at. Berm doesn't seem gay upon first meeting him, and if that's an ignorant observation let me go on to say that he doesn't seem straight either. Like I said, he's an aloof character whose mind seems a million miles away, even in the deepest conversation, as if he's still got one foot sutck in the monastery where he spent his monk-hood. But before I elaborate on the platonic bond I formed with my host, let me expound upon some interesting things I learned about those people in Thailand who live what we might call, "alternative lifestyles."

Turns out that homosexuality is not all that alternative in this country. In fact, most families consider it a blessing to produce a homosexual male within the lineage. The sons that are born gay are usually designated caretakers of the family, as forming a marriage and new family are pretty much out of the question. Berm, being born to a small Hmong tribe in the hills outside of CM, does what is expected of him and every other week or so drives a pickup truck full of supplies and food back home for not just his family, but their whole village. Having done so, he then drives back to CM where he is free to live out his "sinful" life in the big city, away from the prying eyes of loved ones. We didn't spend a whole lot of time together; he was always preoccupied with the goings-on of the construction or he was out-of-town, but it was after one of these supply runs back home, a few weeks into my visit, that our friendship truly cemented.

I had just returned home to Santitham from a disturbing night about town, beginning with a stop at a rooftop bar called, lamely enough, THC. As tacky as it sounds, if I boycotted every cheesy sounding bar or club or hangout spot in Thailand, I'd more often than not spend a lonely night at home with only James Westfall and Dr. Kenneth Noisewater to keep me company. Anyhow, the disturbance began when believe it or not, the cops stopped by the bar to do a surprise search, seizure, manhandle, and drug-test on most of my fellow patrons. You read correctly; they performed actual drug-tests right there on the premises. For some reason or other I escaped their machinations, though I wasn't worried, having been unable to find any sign of my favorite vice (need I identify) in over two weeks on Thai soil. The guy standing next to me assured me that, had I been searched/tested, being a farang, it was just a simple matter of slipping the cop a few hundred Baht to turn the other cheek. "In fact," he went on,"they'll even escort you to the nearest ATM if you don't have the desired amount." The situation was disturbing nonetheless.

To compound my already considerable anxiety, I took a wrong turn on the way home and ended up riding my bicycle down CM's equivalent of Gainesville's Depot Ave. at around one in the a.m. I wasn't necessarily frightened of the neighborhood anything, it's just that areas like this become completely claimed by canines during late-night hours, and it takes nothing short of an escort by the Royal Guard to venture such neighborhoods unscathed. Mangy packs of these flea-bitten beasts patrolled the now-empty sidewalks and streets, and I was very much an unwelcome guest. I mean these motherfuckers chase cars and scooters that drive through on the late-night tip. And now here's some schwilly farang coming through on a damn bicycle that don't even ride right.

I made it through the first wave ok; it had only been three or four smaller dogs, outcasts probably, and they quickly dispersed when I raised my hand and voice in a menacing manner. Congratulating myself, not realizing that I had only survived the phalanx battalion of an ensuing onslaught, I pedaled onward. The only thing that saved me from a middle-of-the-night trip to the hospital was what seemed like a turf battle between two larger packs of dogs, each platooning from used-car dealerships on opposite sides of the street, and me cycling right through the crossfire, drunker than ten long-necked Thais.

The two armies were so embroiled in their battle, that they hardly noticed me before I had time to u-turn the shit out of there. But when they finally noticed, all inter-species animosity was forgotten. They joined forces en masse; one giant cohesive, frothing organism intent on one purpose: bite the shit out of that thing with two legs. This is where I thank my nonsensical ass for buying that no-brakes-having track bike I rode around town for a year before my departure, because I pedaled up all the cartilage in my knees getting away from those damn dogs.

The snarling beasts soon remembered their previous quarrel, and gave up on chasing me to continue tearing each others throats out. Having at last gained some breathing room, I slowed down enough to realize that I had no choice but to slow down. My bike was busted up; groaning in response to the torture I had just put it through, and to top it off, I had a flat tire. Flatter than a piece of hammered shit, to quote Whitney Ellsworth. I must've run over a broken bottle or something in my frenzied retreat. Or maybe one of the dogs had actually gotten a piece, and I'd find a tooth embedded in the rubber later on. Either way, I calculated that I had about a three-mile walk home. So I got to walkin. Of course, I had to pass through that first pack of upstarts, and it seemed that they had formed a new strategy. One of the dogs appeared in the middle of the street directly in front of me, forcing me to either side. When I pulled my broken bicycle up the sidewalk to drift around the dog, who appeared to be paying me no attention, his fellow soldiers flanked me from behind a dumpster. These pooches were only intent on scaring the shit out of me, they had no real bite, but after what I had just been through, I was pretty goddamn frayed. I tell you, these streets breed dogs with balls worthy of velociraptors.

I finally arrived home, and ran into Berm who had just pulled into town from his village run. I told him about my whole night's debacle, and he just laughed and said, "Mai pehn rai" which is basically Thai for, "Fuck it." (not really, it means never mind or no problem, but that's how I interpreted it at that point). Then he said three words that made it all worth it, or at least a lot better. "You want smoke?" We preceded to smoke some silly mountain skunk out of a make-shift bong that made my eyes turn yellow. Hanging out in the tranquil Santitham courtyard, mumbling and giggling to each other in equal parts broken-English/Thai, me berating him for not asking me to smoke sooner, him berating me for not having asked, having been just a few weeks before culturally and geographically, and still sexually thousands of miles apart, my first Thai friendship was formed.

A Florida Cracker in King Bhumibol's Court, Part 2: Wat Phrathat Doi Suthep, or Buddha's Shoulder Blade and the Legend of the White Elephant

Legend has it that a Buddhist monk, sometime in the 14th Century, found a relic in Pang Cha that was believed to be the shoulder blade of none other than Buddha himself. After taking the bone to Northern Thailand and presenting it to King Nu Naone of the Lannas, it was placed on the back of a white elephant that was then released into the jungle somewhere around present-day Lamphun, not far from Chiang Mai. The albino pachyderm eventually wandered up to the summit of Doi Suthep, trumpeted three times and then collapsed in death at the site of which is now Wat Phrathat, one of the holiest temples in Thailand.

On my first trip up to the magical mountain, that first week in Thailand, I didn't expect to be accompanied by two rude, loud-mouth Americans from NYC, but even their constant jibber-jabbering could not tarnish the mystical air that surrounded the temple upon our approach. A friend of Berm's had agreed to take the three of us up in his car for a small sum, and after 30-minutes of winding mountain road, we arrived at the base of the temple. It was early in the evening, around six o'clock, but most of the visitors and tourists had already dispersed for the day. The temple had not closed, in fact I don't think it ever closes, and our late arrival proved to be the perfect opportunity to witness the monks in their normal evening routines, without the distraction of crowds of onlookers.

The long and steep stair-case from the parking lot to the golden pagodas of the temple-proper gave me ample time to distance myself from my annoying companions, as they repeatedly had to stop for breath. I told them I'd see them at the summit and left them behind. As I climbed the 300-and-some stone steps with the help of what looked like ivory hand-rails, a steady and serene hum filled the air, slowly drowning out the drone of cicadas, or whatever Thailand's equivalent is to that loud-ass bug. When I finally reached the top, what little air I still had in my lungs was immediately robbed by the utterly staggering pulchritude of the temple grounds, particularly the large phallic pagoda of gold (or golden chedi, as they're referred to in Thailand) protruding from the center. It was certainly unlike anything I had ever seen in my sheltered American life.

I wandered the grounds for a little while, basking in the spiritually-charged, mountain-cool evening air. I discovered a roomful of meditating monks as the source of the serendipitous hum, and another breath-taking sight: an extensive balcony with a stunning overlook view of Chiang Mai; the city lit up in the early evening and pulsating with life. I must have been some 6000 feet elevated with an entity of over one-million people at my feet. I couldn't fucking wait to take pictures in the daytime, as my puny camera only came up blurs. With the monks slowly making their way to bed, I realized I'd have to come back some other time to get the full Doi Suthep experience, so I met up with the wenches from New York and we made our way to the exit. On our way out, one more surreal sight, this one a little contradictory to everything preceding it. A couple of younger monks, late-teens, sitting off to the side in the dark, with a small hand-held radio in their hands listening to the sultry sounds of Celine Dion. Fucking Thailand, man. Still, I couldn't wait to return.

Thai Nuggets !!

More randomness from across the world:


There's a salutatory/farewell gesture in Thailand called the wai (rhymes with sigh). I'm a big fan of it, though I've been very confused as to when and how to perform it. It's basically a simple bow, with your hands placed, palms-together, in front of you, although exactly where in front of you is where it gets tricky. If you're wai-ing a monk or, Buddha-be-blessed, the King, then you want your hands in front of your face, thumbs touching your nose, and you bow, and I mean seriously bow; let the blood rush to the noggin a little. I also give these head-rush wais to the Catholic sister-nuns at my school (yes, Scooter Boot works at a Catholic school. more on the irony of that later.). Wais are generally given as a sign of heart-felt thanks, and can be given casually to anyone on the street or in a shop, though you should lower the hands a little, so as not to make a false idol out of your waitress. One thing you must never do, and I found this out amidst a bevy of laughter, is wai someone younger than you, especially if you're a teacher wai-ing a student. I was told by a particularly peeved little girl that I had just wai-ed a year off of her life (her explanation of this was classic; some people actually believe that if you wai a younger person, they lose a year of their life; some believe it's seven years of life). She wasn't the first child I had wai-ed, and it soon dawned on me that I had done more damage to the lives of Thai children, with my well-intentioned wais, than second-hand smoke.



Seems there's no copyright enforcement over here in the Eastern Hemisphere (shit, I'm in the Eastern Hemisfuckinphere! That still boggles the mind). You can find carts at any major night-market filled to the brim with the most recent blockbusters. Or you can walk into an iPod shop and choose from thousands of albums and movies to download for less than $3 each. I'm talking about shit that's still in theatres. I bought DVD's of Quantum of Solace, Benjamin Button, The Dark Knight, Iron Man, and the like for about $7 a pop. Luckily I have a few friends who are downloading fiends, so I've been able to see films that way as well. My two recent faves are Gran Turino (could be Clint's last film, and it's a fucking gem), and Slumdog Millionaire, a movie brilliant beyond description. It takes place in Mumbai, but reminds me very much of Thai people and locales. Just see it.



Remember those big glass soda pop bottles from back in the day? We got those over here. Damn I missed those.

Thai people love the shit out of some Cranberries. I catch my students singing "Zombie" in the class-room all the live long day. That and Flo Rida's "Low" are currently the two most popular Western songs in Thai existence. Another funny story featuring "Low" coming soon.

Chickens and roosters are abundant in this country. They're everywhere, from the sparsely populated countrysides to the seedy back-alleys of Bangkok. But there's something wrong with these fowl, and I ain't talking about Avian Flu. It's obvious that they're not eating well, and the roosters boast the most pathetic doodle-doo's I've ever heard. If there is such a thing as a chain-smoking chicken, with tuberculosis, then Thailand's got loads. I've got a family of them living quite literally outside of my bedroom window, and every morning I wake up to the scratching chalkboard of their cock-a-doodles. It's very painful to listen to, but a great deterrent for over-sleeping. One night, I decided to fuck with their poultry little heads, and I set my cell-phone alarm clock ring to rooster. It sounds more like a rooster then the poor bastards outside my house, and it's pretty loud at that. So the next morning, seven o'clock rolls around and off goes my alarm clock. I held the phone up to the window to demonstrate a proper cock-call. I think it blew their tiny little minds, but soon only incensed them to try harder. Kinda felt bad after that. Can't believe I just wrote a whole paragraph on roosters. Don't even get me started on the ducks.

Tan skin is a blemish in the eyes of Thais. Men and women alike are constantly trying to make their appearance whiter. I'll even see little kids walking around with white powder smeared all over their face. At first I thought it was some religious thing that I didn't understand. Turns out it's some cosmetic thing I don't understand. My friend Jeab and her girlfriends weren't convinced when I told them that people in the Western Hem (the very people they try to emulate) all want to be tan as can be, and would envy the color of their skin. They just dismissed me and threw more baby powder on their faces.

Best way to pass the time in Thailand is to read. Best way to pass the time anywhere actually. Books are hard to come by though, outside of BKK, Chiang Mai, and the resort towns. And they're not nearly as cheap as movies. Most used copies cost more than a new edition back home. Copyright infringement doesn't really hold sway over literature in this country as well. I recently bought a copy of Breakfast of Champions that had been completely photocopied and pasted to a mock jacket. Still reads well though. Books I currently have my eye on are White Tiger by Aravind Adiga, recent winner of the Booker Prize, and Obama's book, but not the new one Audacity of Hope; the one he wrote in the nineties whose title I can't remember at the moment.

Lese-Majeste

Liz Reilly-Brown left a very interesting, and disturbing link on my Facebook page that all of you should check out. It tells the account of a man who was recently apprehended by the Thai police while trying to exit the country. It seems the man made some disparaging remarks about the Thai monarchy in a book he that he wrote. He was sentenced to six years, cut-down to three after he pled guilty. The book he wrote wasn't even widely read, in fact it sold just seven copies.

I would not like this to happen to me. I'm currently reading a book called Damage Done, about a drug traffiker's 12 years in the Bangkok Hilton, the name given lovingly by the inmates of Thailand's capital prison. So, if I've written anything derogatory about the King, of which I'm certain I have not, please let me know. Same goes for future posts. Did I mention that I absolutely love His Majesty, the King of Thailand?

Rice Boogers

There's a definite texture to the air here in Thailand. You can really feel it when riding around on an open-air tuk-tuk or scooter; tiny particles stinging the cheeks. I wondered how long I was going to last in a country where you can actually touch the pollution, as opposed to just seeing, smelling, and tasting it; where it is highly recommended to wear a breathing-mask if you plan on staying outdoors for extended periods of time; where inhalers sell like hot-cakes in every 7-11. Of course poor sewage-systems and a lack of efficient waste disposal have a lot to do with it, especially in the big cities, but they only account for the god-awful smells you encounter here, more often than not. The real culprit behind the tangibleness of the air is the burning fields of rice.



Thailand is the world's largest rice exporter. Throw a rock anywhere in Thailand, and you'll probably hit a rice-farmer. Rice paddies produce a lot of methane, one of those gases turning our planet into a glacier-melting greenhouse. In fact, there is no other crop on the planet that emits more methane than rice paddies. A lot of water is used for the irrigation of rice-crops, to the point where the entire field is flooded over. Bacteria thrive in these saturated fields, feeding off of the manure used for fertilizer, and it's these bacteria that produce the methane. Farmers have been urged by the government to drain their fields from time to time, but many just ignore these requests. Recently, farmers began burning empty rice-husks instead of letting them rot out in the fields to create more rotten gas. In the farm regions surrounding Bangkok, this practice has been both economically and environmentally beneficial. The burning of leftover husks creates a more climate-friendly power source than coal or oil, decreasing the amount of imported oil. But in other regions, particularly the mountainous north, the fields are burned directly into the air, the resulting power not used as an alternative energy source. Mountains surround the northern cities, trapping the sooty air in like a flue. And this my dear friends, is why the air clogs my nose and stings my face.

Keep in mind that this was in September, October, and November, well after the close of the burning season, which ends sometime in the spring. So I can't imagine how thick and dirty the air is going to be come April. It's quite a Catch 22 the Asians are faced with. They can't possibly consider not producing rice. But if they continue to grow it in the traditional manner of flooding the fields, global methane emissions will continue to grow, and if they continue the slash-and-burn technique without transferring the fallout to reusable energy, it will soon become very uncomfortable to breathe in this country. I'm already getting way more boogers than I care to pick.