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~ Ramblings, Rumblings and Travel Tales: Bangkok and Beyond

…dancing with the devil in the city of angels…

Category Archives: Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

Stories and tales from beyond Thailand’s borders.

In Thailand, That’d Be Free

20 Tuesday Aug 2013

Posted by Bangkokbois in California, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ 8 Comments

Tags

Money Matters

The cost of a beautiful tropical beach scene in Thailand: nada.

The cost of a beautiful tropical beach scene in Thailand: nada.

I’ve always assumed having spent so much time in Thailand that some of the local mind-set would have rubbed off on me by now. And after this last weekend decided it must be the Thai fascination with anything that is free. Free is a magical word to Thais. Anything free is considered a large dollop of good fortune. No matter how much it costs to qualify for that abundance. I tend to be more enamored with irony myself, so a free massage that cost 600 baht for two bottles of water hits my mark as well as it does my friend Noom’s delight in getting something for free. It’s a win-win for everyone involved. Except for my wallet.

Not that all free things in Thailand involve an outlay of cash. Or a further outlay of cash. Noom, not being much of a drinker in the first place, was a bit dubious about my suggestion that the fancy cocktail stirrers served with our tropical concoctions at a beach resort in Phuket would make for a nice souvenir. Even though he loves souvenirs almost as much as he loves free stuff. But when I carefully cleaned the one in my drink off with a napkin, handed it to him while mentioning it was free, his entire attitude changed. And he pocketed the one that had been served in his drink too. Knowing him the way that I do, I immediately let him know we were not ordering another round. And that glimmer in his eye that had been envisioning an entire set of free cocktail stirrers dimmed a bit. That’s the thing about free stuff. You have to know when to stop. Which is before free becomes and empty wallet.

But there are a lot of free things in Thailand. Many of which you are not even aware of. The locals are in line for a lot of largesse thanks to their government. In Bangkok, one of the buses is free. I can’t remember its color, but do remember it does not have air-conditioning. Noom has pointed it out to me but knows me as well as I know him and – free or not – knows there is no way I’m getting on a bus. Much less a non-air-conditioned one. Around the New Year (ours, not theirs or the lunar one) train travel for Thais is free too. I’m not sure if that covers all routes and all trains but Noom thought it worthy enough of an event to take me to Hualamphong Station once to see the huge crowd of locals camped out on the station’s floor patiently waiting for their free ride. I’m pretty sure touri don’t qualify for free train travel. Too bad. I’m anti-bus but pro-train.

The best things in life may be free, but no one promised that meant they’d be exciting.

The best things in life may be free, but no one promised that meant they’d be exciting.

This morning I read an article on-line that said the toilets at bus and train stations in Thailand will now be free to use. I made a mental note to avoid both in the future when Noom is with me. He enjoys marking his spot wherever we go almost as much as he does my wallet paying for free stuff for him. Of course, this being Thailand, the free wee offer is not yet a reality. The Governor of the State Railway of Thailand (SRT) says their toilet operation works by allowing a fee to be collected in exchange for the maintenance and cleaning of the loos by a ‘contractor.’ Which undoubtedly is some member of said Governor’s family. For me that’s a good thing. The lure of both a free train or bus ride and a free place to pee might otherwise be too much for Noom and I may yet find myself on one of those damn dilapidated non-air-conditioned free buses.

Last weekend Phil and I headed down to the Monterey Peninsula for a long weekend of sun and fun. It was a re-do of a trip we’d made two weeks earlier that we had to cut short due to an unexpected illness in his family. This time we decided to cut over to the coast early and take Highway 1 south. It is a beautiful if slow drive that winds along the coast and several northern California style beaches. When you say ‘California’ most people immediately picture a beach. With miles of white sand and palms tress blowing gently in the balmy breeze. That’s Southern California. Up north the sand is finer, not so white, and blows into and onto everything within a mile of it. And the water is gray instead of blue. It’s also near frigid in temperature. At best, beach goers might wade out into the surf for a minute or two. But no one goes swimming. Northern California beaches are best experienced by driving past them.

Phil knows this. But our plan was for a romantic weekend away and he let the romance take over from reality, suggesting we stop at a beach along the way for a picnic lunch. I’m not as much of a romantic. But have learned when your guy starts acting like a girl, your best bet is to just shut up and go with the flow. So, in prep, we stopped at a grocery store to pick up supplies for a picnic lunch. At a Safeway. Not a mom and pop joint.

The cost of using a squat toilet in Thailand: 5 baht (and your dignity).

The cost of using a squat toilet in Thailand: 5 baht (and your dignity).

It didn’t take long to fill our basket once I’d moved him past buying individual ingredients to just ordering pre-made stuff from the deli department. Even when your guy is acting like a girl there is a limit to how far you should allow that to go. So everything was fine. Until we got to the checkout. A new law had recently gone into effect that required the store charge customers ten cents for a bag. Huh. Tree huggers, like your guy who is acting like a girl, should be limited in their indulgences. But no one had told this community that. So to combat destroying Mother Earth by needlessly issuing paper bags to shoppers, a fine had been imposed. A dime is nothing. A dime is not even worth bending over to pick up when dropped. But bags at stores are supposed to be free. I don’t think even Noom would be excited to hear the bag he got was free. No matter how much the stuff I’d just paid for him to fill it with actually cost.

No problemo. I ponied up the dime, got a quarter’s worth of bitching in for that pleasure, and we headed off for Highway 1. Since it was Phil’s romantic vision that required we stop to dine seaside, I let him choose which beach we’d pull in to. Which means when I started doing so at the first we came upon he said, “No, not this one.” Ditto for the next beach. I quit slowing down as each beach came up until he finally gave me the word. San Gregario was the winner. I don’t know why. It looks just like every other beach along that stretch of the coast. Maybe Saint Gregory is the patron saint of romantics.

Pulling into the not very filled parking lot, the first thing we came to was a small hut with a park ranger in it. Who promptly demanded an $8 ‘use’ fee. For the fucking beach! He was clear, during the ensuing conversation, that the fee was for using the ‘State Park’ not for parking. ‘Cuz $8 for parking would just be silly. And he also touted the fact that that $8 fee was good for all state parks for that day. So after paying our initial $8 at San Gregario we could stop at the rest of the dozen beaches – that all look exactly like San Gregario – for free! I suspect that attempt at making lemonade would only appeal to a Thai.

The cost of a not so beautiful, not so tropical beach scene in California: $8.

The cost of a not so beautiful, not so tropical beach scene in California: $8.

He was less forthcoming in answering my question that if it was a use fee and not a parking fee, why then were those (smarter) folk who parked back up on the highway not charged $8. You could even say that by then he was getting a bit surly about the whole thing. So, begrudgingly, I paid him his $8, figuring it wasn’t really fair to take it out on him; it’s not like he was the one getting the eight bucks. Unless California’s Governor cut a deal much like the State Railway of Thailand’s governor to allow the fees collected to be pocketed in lieu of paying its employees wages. Which, if you know Jerry Brown, is not out of the question.

Being a native Californian the idea of having to pay to use a beach goes against my grain. I’m sure unsuspecting touri from foreign countries are quite shocked at the idea too. Especially at a Northern Californian beach which is good for about 15 minutes of your attention. The amenities at San Gregario – which I closely scoped out since it was now about value as much as it was about cost – included the aforementioned parking lot. And a singular uni-sex toilet. I didn’t check to see if its use was included in the $8 State Park use fee we’d just paid. When there is an ocean a few feet away, paying for a place to piss just seems to ne a needless expense. I don’t know what it costs to maintain a small parking lot and an outhouse, but at $8 a head, someone is making a tidy profit off of Mother Nature.

Since this article isn’t about beachside picnics, I won’t go into that joy other than to note eating lunch on a fine-sand beach presents the same problems as having sex on a beach does. Sand gets everywhere. And neither a picnic nor sex when combined with the grit of tiny granules of sand makes for a romantic interlude. Having your guy bitch about the $8 use fee he just had to pay to visit a fucking beach probably doesn’t either. I did, however, make a mental note that if Noom ever changes his mind about coming to the U.S., all I’ll have to do is tell him it costs $8 to go the beach and that’ll nip that idea right in the bud. Free may be magical, paying for something that is supposed to be free is just stupid.

You paid how much?!

You paid how much?!

No problemo. We had our sandy lunch and took off back down the coast. Until the next beach five minutes away. Which I pulled into, thereby cutting our $8 use fee in half. Ha! Sometimes you have to be smarter than the average bear. This one, by the way, didn’t have a toilet. But did have picnic tables set up along the parking lot. ‘Cuz collecting $8 use fees only goes so far. I should also point out that if you visit one of these beaches and think a nice piece of driftwood would make for a good – and free – souvenir, there are signs posted telling you that removing anything from the beach is verboten. Noom would not be amused.

Though Phil was with having to stop at the next four beaches (technically five because South Pescadero Beach is use-fee free, so it didn’t count) which brought our cost down to just over a buck and a quarter per beach. $1.25 is a reasonable fee for using a beach’s parking lot. Value-wise it got even better since Phil used the outhouse at one of them. And, although I have no idea what he plans on doing with them, we used our ten cent shopping bag from Safeway to collect a bunch of driftwood pieces too.

By the time we hit Monterey, the beaches were no longer considered State parks and were free as Mother Nature intended. They are nicer beaches too. It’s still not water you’d want to get in, but there are otters to watch and sea lions to ignore. There are also tons of seaside restaurants which make for a much more romantic dinner than the beach does for a romantic lunch. And none of them charge you to use the restroom either. At least not if you shell out $80 for dinner. I didn’t check to see if they’d charge for a doggie bag for your left overs since there were none.

The cost of watching otters at play: a case of the warm fuzzies.

The cost of watching otters at play: a case of the warm fuzzies.

We spent a day touring the local wineries, some of which charge, some of which don’t; checked out the local mission, which charged but then religion always costs you one way or the other; and drove along 17 Mile Drive, which not only charges you to use the non-existent beach but for driving past it too – but then it always has so that was worth the cost of watching Phil try to figure out why I had no problem paying that fee. Big Sur is free too, as is nearby Jade Beach where, thanks to past visits and the inbred knowledge all rock hounds possess we used our ten cent Safeway bag to carry the free pieces of jade we collected. Figures. The one place the State could legitimately charge you for beach use, they don’t.

In Hawaii, by law, free access to the beach must always be given. In Thailand, the locals wouldn’t put up with the government fleecing touri for use of the beach – fleecing beach goers in Thailand is a right of the people. I don’t know which penny-pinching undoubtedly Republican politician came up with the idea of charging a use fee for California beaches, but I’m sure he’s since moved to Washington where as a member of the House he can screw with people nation wide. I’d be more pissed off about the whole thing than I am, but have to admit watching the sun set with your arms wrapped around a guy you like is worth whatever the cost.

The cost of a sunset with a guy you are crazy about: priceless.

The cost of a sunset with a guy you are crazy about: priceless.

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Following The Buddha’s Footsteps At Wat Siphouthabath Thipphraram

05 Tuesday Mar 2013

Posted by Bangkokbois in Laos, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Luang Prabang, Wats

Wat Siphouthabath Luang Prabang

Thanks to the internet, prior to heading off to some as yet undiscovered spot like Luang Prabang you can load up on info about what to see, what to do, and when the best time is to see or do it. That knowledge can be useful. It can also result in a schedule that disallows for just exploring the site on your own and on your own time schedule. Stumbling across a place you weren’t aware of in advance is a lot more about what travel is supposed to be, though granted that attitude can mean missing out on what every other touri in town already knows about. But that’s why you should spend your evenings at a local pub. It’s always good to pick your fellow touri brains over a few brews.

Luang Prabang is touri friendly. There’s not a big need to plan a visit out in advance. Especially when it comes to wats. There are a few thousand in town, all brimming with monks, and since you can’t take a five minute walk without running across a few, listing out those you just have to visit is an exercise in futility. Especially since the spelling of their names changes drastically from one guidebook or internet site to the next. The only temple I was aware of prior to our visit was the Golden Wat. Which isn’t golden. But which every guidebook, internet site, and guide in town says is a must-see. I was much more taken with Wat Siphouthabath, which we found one morning while looking for somewhere to have breakfast. And thanks to the internet, after the fact, I’m told the best time to visit that temple is for the sunset. Huh.

Wat Siphouthabath buddhas

Sunsets are popular among the touri crowd. Sunrises not so much. The only problem in following the herd to a locale’s best sunset viewing spot is that you get to battle with every other touri for the prime seat once you get there. As sure as I am that Wat Siphouthabath is a great place to watch the sun go down – ‘cuz everyone says it is – doing so with the town’s entire touri population would ruin what attracted me to the wat in the first place. Serenity just doesn’t stand a chance once the tour buses pull up.

I’m guessing all of the packed tours that include the temple as their sun set viewing spot expect you to climb the hundreds of steps up the hill since all you’d see looking westward otherwise is the back of a bunch of buildings along Sisavongvang Road. Wat Siphouthabath’s stairway to heaven is a bit shorter than the set leading up to Mt. Phousi, just down the street and opposite the Royal Palace Museum. But they too lead to the top of Mt. Phousi. Where your large group of touri can join with the other large group of touri who decided the official Mt. Phousi climb was the best place to catch the sun’s act. The bonus of making the trek from Wat Siphouthabath is that at the top landing you see the footprints of the Buddha. If you climb the traditional route instead, you have a five minute walk along the spine of the hill to see those puppies.

Wat Siphouthabath stairs to top of mount phousi

For travel, the internet is a wonderful font of knowledge. For example, to quell the skeptic in your heart, you can discover that natural indentation in a rock that is shaped like a foot print and painted gold everyone is telling you is the footprint of the Buddha really isn’t. Though it – and the others that can be found all over South-East Asia – are believed to be the footprints of The Buddha when he touched the ground after attaining enlightenment. It’s representational of The Buddha’s presence and shows that the teachings of Buddha have been reached and are respected.

Thanks to Google, you can also discover that the footprints in Luang Prabang are considered part of Wat Phra Buddabhat. Which they are. But only if you are in Thailand where Wat Phra Buddabhat is located. You can also discover that both the name of Wat Phra Buddabhat and Wat Siphouthabath translate into English as ‘Temple of the Buddha Footprint’. Which may explain the confusion by some travelers in mistaking one for the other. Though there’s a good chance neither actually translates that way since that little bit of info comes from the same fount of knowledge that has you walking from Laos to Thailand within a mere five minutes. But that’s what you can expect from a source of info that can’t decide whether ‘font of knowledge or ‘fount of knowledge is correct.

Wat Siphouthabath monk

A digression longer than the flight of stairs up Mount Phousi you say? Not at all. Because knowledge is what Wat Siphouthabath is all about. The buildings within its terraced grounds are unassuming. Even its wiharn is a bit on the small size and its Buddha imagery lacks the gilded splendor that you are used to seeing in Thailand. But the wat’s compound is huge, and a good deal of it is taken up by classrooms and residences for the hundreds of young monks who study there.

From what little I could find out about the wat, the school seems to be its main reason for being. Largely funded by private French citizens, it offers a free education to the (male) school-age children of Laos. Many of its students come from the country’s outlying regions. While there is no scarcity of young novice monks in Luang Prabang, the sheer volume of saffron on display at Wat Siphouthabath is astounding.

Wat Siphouthabath luang prabang

The grounds stretch from the stairs leading up to the Buddha’s footprint at its southwest corner to a small soi unnamed and unmarked on most maps at its northeastern boundary, an expanse spread over several levels (Luang Prabang is big on stairs). Most of the religious buildings are on the lower level while residences and facilities for eating and temple maintenance – along with the odd statue and small shrine – take up the upper terraces. The classrooms too are on the first level and run along the temple’s length. Between classes, it’s easy to get into a conversation with some of the young monks; English is one of the school’s subjects and the kids are eager to practice their skills.

Even with all the kids running about, there are numerous small nooks and crannies tucked away throughout the compound where you can find a bit of peace and quiet. And occasionally a young monk off studying by himself. It’s a picturesque setting with the town and the mighty Mekong on view from the upper levels looking westward and the slightly more sluggish Nam Kahn winding its way through the hills looking toward the east. As tranquil as the setting is, you’d think it’d be a more popular spot for touring, but you can easily spend and hour or two here without ever seeing another white face. At least until the sun gets reading to go down.

Wat Siphouthabath school

If you are looking for impressive Buddhas and richly carved temples soaring into the sky, Wat Siphouthabath is not the answer. If you are looking for a glimpse at the daily life of school children in Laos and have a few hours to kill meandering among a forested and fading Buddhist wat, it’s the perfect place to begin your day. And if you want to rush up a long flight of stairs with a bunch of your fellow touri, it’s a nice place to watch the sunset too.

Wat Siphouthabath monks

Wat Siphouthabath

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The Jewel of Khmer Art: Banteay Srei

09 Thursday Aug 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Cambodia, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ Comments Off on The Jewel of Khmer Art: Banteay Srei

Tags

Cambodia, Wats

The finely detailed carvings of gods and demons adorning Banteay Srei’s walls are part of the temple’s unique allure.

The famed temples that make up the Angkor Wat complex surrounding the bucolic town of Siem Reap in Cambodia are a major draw for touri from all over the world. Once in town, in visiting the ancient wat your options are limited. You can join in on an organized tour, sharing your experience with a bus load of your fellow touri, or you can strike out on your own. But even bypassing the organized bus tours still requires the assistance of a local, as either a driver or tour guide. Or both. A few brave souls rent a bicycle and find their own way to the closer and better known temples like Angkor wat and Angkor Thom. None choose that option to get to the smaller and more far flung temples. Even those who hire their own transportation may not make it quite that far. The larger and more spectacular temples are enough to fill most visitor’s stay.

Arriving by plane, whether you make the mistake of hiring a tuk tuk to get into town or spurge for the extra buck or two to travel in an air conditioned taxi your driver will do his damnedest to become your official source of transportation during your entire stay. Regular travellers to Se Asia may be wary, and with good cause. The region abounds in rip off scams, taking anyone on their word is an iffy proposition. So it is surprising that the drivers who solicit your business for touring the area’s temples are not scam artists. Fees, while negotiable, are usually within the norm. If you like the driver, and like the form of transpo you chose at the airport, go ahead and strike a deal.

The dusty, unpaved roads to Banteay Srei are covered in fine red dirt and are frequented by locals who know how to avoid the man-sized pot holes.

I’ve been amazed at how helpful these guys really are. Most speak excellent English and all have a working knowledge of the temples. After agreeing to their services the first thing each driver does is to sit down with you and suggest a plan of attack. They know when the best time is to visit each temple, when the bus tours arrive, and when the temples are the most photogenic. They also have a good idea of how many temples to comfortably squeeze into your stay. The major wats always get first priority. If you are in town long enough, your driver will suggest a few of the smaller wats, those which are a further distance outside of town.

Of course it is easy to get watted out in Siem Reap. Even when that is why you are there. On my first trip, Juan, my driver whose name was unpronounceable and who agreed Juan worked just as well, sensed my objection to another consecutive day of temple trips having all ready agreed to three days worth that covered all of the major wats. Undaunted by my mild hint of, “No more wats!” he insisted I had to see just one additional temple, a small wat some xx miles outside of town that would be the sole temple visit for the day. Possibly sensing that I was gay, he kept assuring me I’d want to see this one because it was pink. Possibly sensing I was gay, he never mentioned that Banteay Srei is known as the women’s temple. Sensing that there was no chance of him accepting no for an answer I agreed to make the trek the following morning.

As you approach, Banteay Srei looks like a small island floating in the Cambodian forest.

The roads within Siem Reap frequented by touri are all paved. Those on the outskirts of the town are finished with red dirt. The further out you go, the more in need of repairs the roads become and by the time you get halfway to Banteay Srei the man-sized potholes that have pummeled your kidneys into submission make you thank the gods you were smart enough to hire a taxi instead of a tuk tuk as those you pass who were not as wise elicit equal parts of disdain and empathy. They say it is the journey not the destination that matters, but if your destination is Banteay Srei, your journey can either be uncomfortable or as painful as going three rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. Chose a tuk tuk to make the trip and you’ll begin to take on a remarkable resemblance to Muhammad Ali’s current visage.

I doubt any modern day visitor has ever toured Banteay Srei before visiting Angkor Wat and Angkor Thom. Comparing the massive complexes and soaring towers of the larger and older temples with the small, almost dainty look of Banteay Srei is hard to avoid. From outside as you approach the temple you can’t help but notice how small it is, the temple’s moat and outer walls can be taken in with a single glance. As you approach its entrance at the eastern gate however you immediately see what makes this temple so special. Its size works to its favor, it’s color adds to its allure, the beautifully carved bas relief devatas adorning every square inch and covering the red sandstone walls like tapestries turn the wat into an enchanting example of the ancient Khmer people’s affinity with their gods.

The eastern entrance to the interior of Banteay Srei .

Banteay Srei is constructed of both sandstone and laterite, the former lending itself to carving by hand which allowed its builders to work scenes of Hindu myth into its walls and arches. The temple is in a remarkable state of preservation, making it difficult to believe it was consecrated in 967 A.D. The only major temple at Angkor not built by a monarch, the wat is dedicated to the Hindu god Shiva, and is known for the beauty of its sandstone lintels and pediments, which for the first time in the history of Khmer architecture, included entire scenes of mythological tales depicted on them.

Banteay Srei was not rediscovered until 1914. Nine years later it was the site of a celebrated case of art theft which stimulated interest in the temple and encouraged its restoration which began in the early 1930s. In the early 2000s measures were taken to protect the temple from damage by flooding and from the surrounding forest, the beneficial results of which the temple’s current pristine condition is owed largely to. It’s location and size work to its advantage too; it does not see the large mass of tourists that many of the larger wat receive and so does not suffer from their intrusion either.

After the gargantuan heads of Angkor Thom and the ginormous towers at Angkor Wat, the structures at Banteay Srei look like miniatures.

Touring the diminutive wat does not take long even if you linger to enjoy the finely detailed carvings. I’m not a fan of tour guides for Cambodia’s wats, at least not on the first visit, preferring to discover their secrets on my own. But for Banteay Srei I would suggest a knowledgable guide – as opposed to one of the gaggle of local kids hanging at the entrance who offer to take on those duties as well as sell you some postcards – can be a bonus. The walls are literally covered with Hindu mythological stories, having someone along to explain them to you will add to your appreciation of this temple. The wat is small enough that a guide would not keep you from seeing what he may otherwise consider unimportant as is often the case at the larger wats of Angkor.

Time was short on my second visit to Cambodia and I did not make the trek out to Banteay Srei again. But next time around I will; the wat is a great alternative to Angkor Wat for the sunrise experience and there’s a good chance at the early hour of having the entire temple to yourself.

Devatas abound on Banteay Srei’s library walls.

The sandstone used in the interior sections of Banteay Srei is a much softer rock than the laterite used at most of the Angkor temples, allowing masons to carve fine details into the blocks.

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Getting Riel In Siem Reap

21 Monday May 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Cambodia, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ 6 Comments

Tags

Cambodia, Money Matters

angkor bar

Three quarters or 3,000 riel for a beer, it’s up to you.

I’d wanted to get into Cambodia for years; just never seemed to have the time even though it’s just a quick run from Thailand. But I finally decided to pre-book the trip to make sure I actually set the time aside. I mean any country willing to sell a kid to Angeline Jolie has gotta be worth seeing, right?

Now you have several choices of destinations within the country, Phnom Penh (third world capital), the killing fields (historic, tragic, but not exactly Disneyland), the countryside and the mighty Mekong (land mines, flooding, and dirty brown water), or Siem Reap and the many ancient wats surrounding what probably was a quaint little town a mere 10 years ago. My choice was Angkor Wat, which meant Siem Reap for accommodations.

I flew in on Bangkok Air . . . you can also make a long overland journey by bus, well known to be a major opportunity to participate in a scam (yeah, you get to play the part of the victim). The short haul was a 45 minute flight that they actually tried to serve a meal during – which I have to give them credit for since my last 5 hour flight to Hawaii on United came with no food unless you wanted to buy some from them. Watching the locals, I caught on quickly: take the food, wolf it down, because they come right back around to grab your tray. My seatmates from Australia tried the casual dining approach and didn’t get to finish. On landing, I was expecting third world type conditions and so was pleasantly surprised by the airport – quaint for sure, but very clean and it looked like it belonged in SE Asia.

Daytime colors of Siem Reap.

Daytime colors of Siem Reap.

Unless you previously obtained a visa, you need to get one before clearing immigration. Fortunately I had read a guide book for a change and came prepared with a photo of yours truly and $20 for the visa. No photo, you get fined. No $20 in US, well, noting I’d come in from Thailand the visa clerk first quoted me a 1,000 baht price. That’s like $35. Ha! I ain’t your typical stupid American touri!

After paying for the visa, you wait for it to be processed and your name to be called. The guy handling this part of the operation was quite funny and was having a wonderful time mispronouncing names. I always appreciate a man who enjoys his job. But then I also always appreciate weary travellers whose journey has beat them into submission leaving them basically brain dead having to then deal with officialdom in some tiny foreign country where they don’t have the good sense to speak perfect English. Immigration at Siem Reap was not the dreary experience it is in other countries; the entertainment value of Immigration Officer vs. Touri alone made the trip worthwhile. Provided you matched the immigration guy’s English with your last name you get your Visa, and you next get into yet another line to clear immigration.

Now I get to digress. You probably noticed I do that quite often. Live with it. In this case it’s a rant about damn Eastern European touri. Sneaky mf’s . . . World War II just didn’t do a complete enough job. The reason for this rant was a 30 something woman who wanted to cut into line. Her trick was to stand to the side of where she wanted to cut in, drop her bag, and then every time the line moved forward she’d kick the bag over a bit more into line and follow it. Bitch tried in front of me and when she got too close I strategically, but oh so casually, swung around allowing my heavy carry-on to bang into her. She got the message and cut in behind me. Ours was the slowest moving line (yep, I’m blessed) and I watched her pull the same move cutting into the next line over. Long line, long time to watch my fellow touri. My seatmates from the plane and I saw each other and nodded. International travel can be sooooo rewarding!

siem reap at night

. . . and its cooler colors at night.

A $5 cab ride to my hotel (the Ta Prohm, not to be confused with the wat of the same name) taught me the first rule of Cambodia travel: Don’t be cheap, fool! Very few of the streets of Siem Reap are paved. Even those that are are covered in dirt. An air conditioned cab cost the aforementioned $5. For $2 you could instead ride in the Cambodian version of a tuk tuk (more of a motorcycle pulling a buggy). So by saving $3 you get a noisy, hot, bumpy ride guaranteed to fill your nose and mouth with dust. Yeah, master those possibilities . . .

The second rule of Cambodia travel is that if you were smart enough to follow rule #1, your cab driver will offer to be your driver/guide for the entire trip. Sounds like a scam. But unless you come off as a total idiot, the fee he charges will be about the same as you’ll find anywhere else. I lucked out. My driver spoke excellent English and was 1 year away from completing his studies to be a licensed guide. Booked ‘em and he proved worth every penny (which is about what the local currency is worth – but that comes later).

My guide, Juan (Okay, that wasn’t his name but I couldn’t pronounce his name so we mutually agreed he’d be Juan for the trip) planned out my visit to the major wats for the following day to avoid the rush of touri. Seems there are certain times of the day everyone wants to be at special spots, which end up being not that special when viewed with every touri in Siem Reap. First up was Angkor Thom with the Bayon – some 54 towers of quadruple gargantuan faces on them. Way cool. And probably my favorite wat in the area.

Siem Reap Blues

Siem Reap Blues

Ta Prom (the wat, not my hotel) was next. This is the one that has been overgrown by large ficus trees, their roots encompassing the remaining walls of the wat. Cool, but did they have to name a tree after Angeline Jolie just because she bought one of the country’s kids as a souvenir? Lastly, for the day, was Angkor Wat, the mother of the local wats, and it really is awe inspiring. At Angkor Wat, as well as the others, locals are quite evident, still using the sites for religious purposes ( as opposed to the even greater number of local using the sites to fleece touri out of a few bucks for books, postcards and knickknacks available at a much cheaper price back in town).

With cultural duties taken care of my evening was free for more less than salubrious pastimes and I decided on a beer and dinner at The Red Piano. Both because it was close to the hotel and for its grand patio – dining outdoors with the hustle and bustle of bar street tableside. I’d barely quaffed down half my drink when a white pair of legs appeared with an Aussie accent asking, “Mind if we join you?”

The legs ended up belonging to the female half of the couple I’d been next to on the plane. Sylvia and John. They joined me, which seemed right since I’d constantly hooked up with Aussie touri on this trip. Nice folk. While I’d spent my first day touring ancient wats, they’d spent theirs trying to find a place to stay. Sometimes the ‘take it as we go’ mode of travel can be a pain. After several rounds of drinks and enjoyable talk about our travels, Sylvia lamented the fact that not thinking she’d exchanged her Aussie dollars at the airport for Cambodian riel. The country offers more than one source of comedic relief at the airport, there’s a money exchange booth there too. Feel free to snicker at those lined up in front of the cage when you scurry past headed to the taxis and tuk tuk waiting outside.

The Red Piano is a great place to soak up some shade during the day.

Had my new dearest friends taken the time to read a guide book, they would have discovered the Cambodian riel is worth zip, nada, zilch, or for those into actual facts, a bit over 4,000 to the U.S. dollar. And the local economy runs on the US buck. The only local stuff you see is when someone tries to give it to you as change. Anyway, Sylvia had a stack of riel piled on the table in front of her, and after watching her count out about three inches of it I offered to pay for the drinks and dinner (real generous, at the end, five rounds of drinks and dinner came to about $20). Good move on my part as we ended up dining together nightly for the next four days, it was like travelling with friends without having to actually spend the day with them.

I’m not that big on guidebooks preferring to strike off and find things to do and see on my own. But they do serve their purpose when it comes to the basics. A few minutes of pre-trip fact gathering can pay off. Or you can instead choose to be the punch line for some other traveller’s tale.

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Diamond Head Dead Head

01 Wednesday Feb 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Hawaii, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

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That's Gay

“Purple head,” snickered Chuck, nodding his sunglassed wrapped head to the side to call my attention to a white thirty-something dude whose loose boardshorts did little to hide the stiffy that seemed to be ever expanding. Used to decoding Chuck’s use of pidgin, I looked, saw nothing of interest, and went back to my book. White guys don’t get purple head. Theirs tend to be various shades of red, and ‘red head’ just doesn’t have the same appeal in sound. Or in looks.

Years into our friendship, we were spending the afternoon together at one of Chuck’s more recent favorite hangouts, the nude/gay beach tucked away below Diamond Head lighthouse. Officially there are no nude beaches on O’ahu. Unofficially, everyone knew about the hidden expanse of sand, difficult to reach, where if you wanted to express some personal freedom, it was cool. At the foot of the steep path that dropped from a small asphalt parking lot to the shore below, local windsurfers ruled. A little farther to the right, a small contingent of breeders huddled together to flash a bit of skin. Beyond them the gay area sprawled where the rule was pretty much anything goes.

Compared to world famous Waikiki Beach just a mile away, the community spread out along Diamond Head Beach was sparse, more sand and rocks than bodies. One of the island’s not too well kept secrets, I knew about the spot but in almost ten years of living on O’ahu had never been there. It was Chuck’s newest hang-out. He’d recently decided, far too late for my enjoyment, to finally get a tan. A perfectionist, he wanted a full tan, sans lines, and had begun spending several hours daily at the beach. That it was also a well known spot for gay men to find anonymous partners for a quickie was just icing on the cake.

Sprouting wood at a nudist beach is generally considered a no-no. But then the usual display of bodies at nude beaches are not exactly inducive to erections. Straight nudists come in all shapes and sizes. None of them attractive. Gay men have the good sense to keep their clothes on unless their body scores at least an 8. Chuck was a solid 9. Maybe even a 9.5 once tanned. It wasn’t surprising that the haole dude furtively casting glances our way was sprouting wood. Chuck, who liked white guys, might have returned the favor, but the ability to do so was not a talent he’d ever managed to master. Which had a lot to do with why we were friends instead of lovers. Or fuck buddies.

Chuck was hapa-haole, a true half/half mixed breed of mainlander and local, whose family went back several generations in Hawaii. Born and raised on O’ahu, he’d never been off the island and except for his white skin would fit anyone’s idea of a local boy. The tan he was developing nicely would turn him into a poster child for island hotness. A little over six feet tall, he had a trim body, a lush head of jet black hair and a killer smile. He was gay, but like most local gay boys took his closet quite seriously.

Hawaii’s gay community is a strange mix. There are lots of out gays and lesbians who moved to the islands from the mainland, and free of family and childhood friends begin to live their life in the open. There are a large group of former military, both men and women, who have also adopted the islands as their home. No longer having to worry about being asked or telling, are also out and open about their sexuality. There’s an even larger group of active duty military who are closeted, but readily available to the point that I had begun to suspect that everyone in the military was gay. And then there are the local boys.

Every Hawaiian family has at least one gay member who is accepted and loved by all. And that sets up the odd paradox of the mass of local boys who live in fright of anyone ever even thinking they might be gay. The lengths they go to to protect their closet doors is beyond belief. You’d think that coming out in Hawaii would mean being ostracized for life by everyone you know the way they act. But the aloha spirit is alive and well among locals, and the truth is those who do manage to finally rid themselves of their worries find acceptance and love, their little world doesn’t change a bit. Chuck had finally been slowly inching his door open. His closet, however, wasn’t really what he needed to work on.

I’d met Chuck a good five to six years before. We’d met on a hook-up site, and against my better judgement since he claimed he had no picture of himself available, I agreed to meet. Knowing I was a bit dubious about the meeting, he promised me he wasn’t a troll. He didn’t lie. He wasn’t. He was a hunk. And though our initial meeting was nothing more than dinner and a few hours talking story, we became fast friends. His killer looks were the initial attraction, his sick sense of humor an added bonus.

We started meeting several times a week, getting to know each other. He’d been starved for gay companionship and quickly clued me in to his history. Which was nada. He’d always sensed he was gay, always had been attracted to guys, but had denied those feelings until recently. Totally inexperienced he was torn between wanting to jump in the sack and get it over with and putting off the big moment. In the face of that much naked honesty it’s difficult to push, to close the sale. So I waited, allowing him the time he needed to get comfortable. The night he finally decided to brave a make out session was like being mauled by a lion. A ball of repressed hormones finally being set free is not a pretty sight.

Chuck was hesitant to take the next step. I was hesitant to take more time to bed the hottie, there does come a time when the vision of a payoff begins to fade, working for it is one thing, overtime is another. We talked about his concerns. He talked about his worries. I talked about how tired I was of just talking. I finally convinced him to spend the night at my place, to give it a try. I promised him we’d take it slow, stop any time he grew uncomfortable, that he could call the shots and decide what he would or would not do. That first make out session should have been a warning of what was to come.

A virgin in his late twenties finally getting to taste what life is all about is a joyous thing to see. And a scary thing to experience. Once we were naked, there was no more hesitation on his part. Anything and everything he’d ever fantasied about was fair game. For a novice he was wildly inventive. With that much enthusiasm even a 5 can be fun. Presented with a lush tropical bubble butt mounted below those two cute little dimples some guys have right above their ass, I was in love. Or at least firmly in lust. Chuck seemed to be enjoying himself too. Except he was having trouble rising to the occasion. Six hours later, I was drained, totally depleted. Chuck was still raring to go but had still not managed to achieve lift-off.

Huh.

Okay, first timer. Nerves. I get it. While we were engaged, he made light of the problem and didn’t want to stop. Afterwards, cuddling up together in bed, both of us with smiles on our faces, I made the appropriate sympathetic noises, let loose with the oft used lie that it happens to everybody, and looked forward to our next time together when we’d both get to participate. It never happened. Three years of spending countless nights together and regardless of what we tried Chuck never achieved a state of purple head.

Chuck’s wasn’t a physical problem. The boy was addicted to gay porn. He jacked off as often as most people breath. Abstinence from his favorite pastime didn’t help. Getting him started alone in a separate room doing what he did best didn’t work either. As soon as I’d walk in, he’d go limp. Eyes open, eyes shut, in the bedroom, the kitchen, the shower, naked, dressed, with hours of foreplay, or jumping right in, nothing ever hit his up button.

I suggested maybe he needed to try a different guy, but he wanted to be with me. I suggested maybe he needed to try a woman, his retching sounds said no. A threesome? I’ve seen deer caught in headlights that looked more at ease than that idea invoked in him. Part of the problem was that he was good with it. He enjoyed bottoming; you’d think he was having multiple orgasms from the noises he’d make. He told me that later when he’d get home he’d break out the lube and get busy replaying our recent tryst over in his mind while having the time of his life.

I enjoyed being with Chuck, naked or not. Our friendship bloomed even if his cock never did. But finally I realized that I wasn’t in a relationship. I was in a porn movie. One that didn’t include a money shot until it’d been rewound and played later in private. I decided he’d become too familiar with not getting up, that possibly a different partner might be able to convince little Chuck to come out and play. I suggested we move from fuck buddies to friends. He was cool with that. So we moved in together.

Chuck was a better roommate than he was a lover. As long as you were able to overlook his constant masturbation thingy. I worked regular office hours, he worked nights. I’d come home from a long day at the office and he’d be stretched out naked in front of the wide screen playing with himself. Daily. I’d roll my eyes and sneak a quick look on the off chance I might catch a glimpse of improvement. He’d laugh, shake his head, and call me a bastard if he’d been close to cuming and my entrance had ruined his moment of ecstacy. Eventually he left himself alone long enough to meet a new guy, fall in love, and move in with his newest beau.

Upon hearing that news, using a finger to emphasize my point I asked, “Um, you mean things are looking up?”

“No,’ he said sadly. “But he loves me anyway.”

Ouch. But cool. Love may mean never having to say you’re sorry, but it does usually mean at least occasionally being able to say, “Look! You’re hard!”

Chuck and I stayed friends, getting together every now and then to catch up or enjoy a day out together. Sex was a thing of the past, but I always hoped he’d finally tell me that he’d had some success below the belt. His boyfriends never lasted long (go figure) but he had started making progress with coming to terms with his sexuality. As secluded as the gay beach was, just a few years earlier he’d have been too scared to visit much less make it a daily stop. I thought it was probably healthy that he was spending time naked on the beach instead of naked in front of his television.

After haole boy moved his erection further down the beach where someone might be interested in it, Chuck rolled over on to his back, allowing his more private parts to soak up some rays. And I started the next chapter of my book.

“Brah.”

It was a quite call. Almost a whisper. I looked over at him to see who or what he wanted to bring to my attention now.

Not moving a muscle, he used his eyes to point downward. “Look!” he whispered as though using his full voice would bring the wrath of the gods down upon him.

Immediately catching on I looked. And I’ll be damned, it was: debatable.

I’d thought I was going to finally see Chuck in all his glory, swaying proudly in the breeze. No such luck. But it was a start. It almost qualified as a chub. There was growth. And a sense of firmness. Good thing that before I made the disparaging remark that popped into my head I looked back at his face. Even though his accomplishment was small, his pride was obvious. So instead I congratulated him. “Nice,” I said. And then settled back to see if the combination of sun, sand, public nudity, and an appreciative audience would further things along. It didn’t.

I have no problem writing about friends and ex-lovers on my blog, sharing their most embarrassing moments with the world. And I have a bad habit of using their real names. Still, I probably wouldn’t be telling this one now except that I lost touch with Chuck when I moved away from the islands. When Viagra first hit the market it made me think of him and I mulled over the idea of trying to track him down. Like with waiting for him to sprout wood though, it didn’t seem to be worth the effort. And I don’t know that the little blue pill would have worked its magic on him anyway. But I hope he got a script, that it worked, and that whatever guy he is with now is getting to enjoy Chuck’s purple head.

[The artwork in this post is from Douglas Simonson, one of my favorite Hawaii-based artists. You can visit his website and check out his paintings, drawings, and photography here.]

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Bugging Out

28 Saturday Jan 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Bali, Hawaii, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

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And More!, Stupid Tourist Tricks

Stupid Touri Trick #479: Thinking it’s a cool photo op to have a head-sized poisonous spider on your face.

Nothing is more pleasant than being awoken in the middle of the night by the feeling of the guy you are sleeping with wrapping his arm or leg around you. It induces a brief state of alertness, perhaps a small smile, and then you snuggle in close to drift back off to sleep. Nothing is more disconcerting than being awoken in the middle of the night by the feeling of something brushing against your leg when you are sleeping alone. It induces an immediate a state of panic.

“Holy Shit!” I yelled, jumping out of bed. “What the fuck was that!”

It was 3:00 a.m. and I’d been deep in dreamland, wrapped up in my soft bed contentedly alone, when my subconscious mind tapped my conscious mind on the shoulder. That soft brushing against my skin should not have been. I landed on my feet before my mind came fully awake, snapped on the lights, threw back the covers, and gazed in horror at the almost foot long centipede that’d decided to snuggle up with me in bed.

Throw a grizzly bear in my path, and I’ll roar back. But when a humongous cockroach divebombs my head, I scream like a big girl. Eyeballing a centipede who’d decided to mate with me in the middle of the night brought out the frightened, blubbering little girl in me instead.

When you live in the tropics, large bugs are part of your world. Cockroaches are more pervasive in Hawaii than middle age couples visiting from the fly over states adorned in matching aloha wear. The local joke is that the cockroach is Hawaii’s State bird. Though both centipedes and roaches make you shudder, the larger and more prehistoric looking of the two brings on a special brand of terror. Centipedes out ugly cockroaches ten to one. And they are aggressive as all hell and poisonous to boot.

This is Satan.

This one didn’t live long enough to accomplish whatever vile plans it had for me. With all my senses throbbing on full alert and blood pressure skyrocketing to heights it’d never experienced before, I grabbed a shoe and pounded the fucking thing into oblivion. And then spent the night curled into a quaking ball in the living room with all of the lights on, fully awake and on guard, never catching a wink of sleep. The next morning I made a quick trip to the local garden shop and bought a gallon of Diazinon to pour as a barrier around the house, and twice the required number of bug bombs to set off, filling my home with poisonous gases. The memory was not as easy to rid myself of.

When I first moved to Hawaii, discovering a humongous cockroach in my home brought on chicken skin. They’re evil looking things and more than willing to do battle with you if you don’t leave them alone. The first time I ran up against one, unprepared and not yet skilled in cockroach warfare, I trapped it under an upended empty coffee can. And then realized it’d never die on its own and I probably couldn’t live there for the next few years with a cockroach imprisoned under a tin can in the middle of my living room.

As the years past I became more skilled at dealing with the little beasts though never quite managed the nonchalant attitude locals displayed in sending the latest one to cockroach hell. I had a friend, a closeted little muscle stud who’d grown up in Hawaii, who used to kill them by squashing them with his bare feet. Whether he’d just done battle with a roach or not, I always made sure he showered before climbing into my bed.

My most humorous cockroach encounter was a night out having diner with a group of friends in Waikiki at a beachside restaurant open to the tropical breezes when a cockroach divebombed our table and landed head first into one of the girl’s small cup of sour cream. Many people like bacon bits as a topping for their baked potato, she had the opportunity of trying cockroach instead. We all grimaced, laughed, and then called the waiter over who replaced the cup of topping with a cockroachless one with compete indifference.

Hawaii’s State Bird

A daily occurrence in Hawaii, you get used to cockroaches. But your primitive senses still flare up, the fight-or-flight-or-freeze response still kicks in when one of the creepy critters makes its way into your life. The good thing about living in Hawaii is that it helps you to prepare for bug encounters when visiting other tropical paradises in the world. Or not.

On a trip to Bali, after spending a week in Kuta partying my ass off I headed up to Ubud for some rest, a chance for my brain cells to dry out, and a few days of much needed relaxation. On my first day in town I checked out the main drag, spent some time at the market, and then had a late dinner before heading back to my hotel in the nearby village of Mas where I settled down in my bungalow’s sitting room to read for a while.

The hotel was a cool little property, a dozen or so two story cabins spread along a curving path in a jungle-like setting. In each bungalow, there was a sitting room and bedroom downstairs, and then another bedroom and a spacious lanai upstairs with private views over the surrounding rice fields. There was a Bali style bathroom downstairs too, and they got it right: the shower was outdoor in a private little grotto but the toilet and sink were inside. I’d already learned the hard way that Bali-style bathrooms with the toilet outside means spending your morning trying to take a dump while mosquitoes bombard you. Not the best way to start off a day.

The property was designed to provide peace and privacy, an oasis of tranquility from the heavily populated touristy areas of the island. There were no televisions or phones in the rooms. Concrete lined trenches snaked along the property’s exterior boundaries, paths for the hotel’s staff to use that, like with servants in Victorian times, kept the hired help out of view of the noble class. The architect of the place had gone to great lengths to provide a feeling that you had the island to yourself. Even the restaurant was laid out so that regardless of how many of your fellow guests showed up at the same time as you for breakfast, you’d have a quiet little oasis to sit in while you sipped your muddy Bali coffee and contemplated the start of your day.

The only good cockroach is a dead cockroach. But tread carefully, they are known to fake it in preparation of an attack!

That night, comfortably kicked back and absorbed in what I was reading, movement on the wall separating the room I was in from the bedroom caught my eye. A little bit of aloha transplanted to Bali’s tropical paradise: one of those huge damn cockroaches that are a part of daily life in the islands. I’d lived long enough in Hawaii to no longer panic when I spotted one of the creepy crawlers, but still got chicken skin, my atavistic senses coming alive. Non of the Buddhist ‘all life is precious’ crap, your only duty upon spotting a roach is to kill it. As quickly as possible.

When you are going to put an end to a cockroach’s miserable little life, you need to commit to it fully. You need to man up and let the testosterone flow freely within your veins. A halfhearted attempt ain’t gonna cut it. You need to bring the full force of your disgust, terror, and revulsion into play. A quick snap with a rolled up newspaper like you would employ swatting a fly will only tickle the thing. A slap instead of a splat will only serve to piss it off when it recovers. And then, .38 seconds later it will pull a kamikaze act on your head.

No, you need to find something heavy enough to pulverize its very existence into oblivion. And use enough force to smash its exterior skeleton so that its white maggot-like life force squishes out and leave a Jackson Pollock painting of reddish-browns and creams on the wall. Like with a good golf swing, you need to aim carefully, then allow your stroke to follow through past the ball. Your intent should not be to kill the cockroach but rather to destroy it and whatever surface it is crawling on, to send them both permanently into a whole different dimension. Preferably in a million pieces.

I carefully slid off of the couch I’d been laying on so as to not give the thing an early warning of its impending doom. Grabbing one of my hiking boots, a suitable weapon weighing a good ten pounds, I snuck up on the roach from its blind side, keeping an eye on its twitching antenna. If you are new to cockroach hunting, you need to watch those things. Sure their movement is spooky and you’d just as soon not allow those creepy antenna that seem to have a life of their own to work their magic on your psyche, but if they stop that’s a sign the critter is preparing its air assault and then you have to go feet-wet sooner than planned.

Lying in wait

I cocked back my arm, aligned my trajectory, and let fly. Thud. The walls shook. The bungalow swayed. The sound of my boot hitting the wall echoed through the property like an M80 going off in a coffee can. And I stuck the landing. Cockroach shit flew out from the heel end of the boot and a mixture of brownish-red exoskeleton and white crud oozed out from the other. Success. But the gods of Bali were not done fucking with me yet.

My award winning shot had also disturbed another guest of the bungalow. The – now dead and destroyed – cockroach had been hanging on the wall between the bedroom and sitting room, inches away from a set of drawn back curtains used to separate the two rooms. Along with roach guts, a humongous spider as big as my head came flying out when my boot hit the wall. It’d been hiding behind the drapes and my assault on the roach disturbed it. I’d never seen such a huge spider in my life. I’d seen puppies smaller than this thing. It wasn’t one of those massive bodied spiders like a tarantula, most of its size was its twig-like spindly legs. But it’s bright yellow body was longer than any local guy’s cock I’d picked up nightly back in Kuta.

It only hesitated out in the open for a quick second, just long enough for my goosebumps to get goosebumps while it decided whether or not to go on the attack. I obviously wasn’t a worthy enough adversary and it took off scurrying into the bedroom at the speed of sound. Or at least my screams of terror lasted longer than the time it took the beast to scuttle up the wall and dash across the ceiling into the next room.

Fight, flight, or freeze are the natural response options that have served humanity well over the centuries. Being in a state of hyperarousal keeps you safe and alive. The odds of winning when taking on a critter an eighth of my size were not stacked heavily enough in my favor, so ‘fight’ was out. Besides, what I really wanted to do was to dissolve into a ball of blubbering tears like a little girl. That’s your third response option that no one ever seems to mention. With no phone to call for help, and any staff members still awake in the middle of the night hidden away in their privacy trenches (no doubt giggling about the pussy-ass tourist scared of a little spider), I was on my own.

Yes, it is a popular photo op in Bali. No, even dead I wouldn’t let one get this close to me.

I could have done battle with the beast, I could have immediately checked out of my cool little bungalow and flew the town too. Instead, whimpering in fright and leaving the downstairs illuminated in case I was forced to go one-on-one with the critter, I ran upstairs, deciding that using the smaller, upstairs bedroom would be the better choice of valor. I turned on all of the lights in that room too, hopped into bed, and immediately got busy securing the mosquito netting that draped the bed – a feature I’d early assumed was for ambiance – by tucking it deep under the mattress around its entire perimeter, building a safe cocoon to protect me while I slept. Not that I did. My eyes were as wide open when the morning dawned as they had been once I had my fortress built.

I embraced the flee response option when the sun rose, heading out for what I am sure was the earliest breakfast the hotel had ever seen. Motioning the largest male employee over after being seated, I told him about the spider. His responding nod was nonchalant, news about a spider large enough to eat Tokyo a non-event in his life.

When I got to my next hotel in Sanur a few days later and had internet access again I used Google to find out just how dangerous that spider was, how quickly its murderous venom would take to kill you while you writhed in agony pleading for the gods to finish you off. No one seemed to agree on what to call it, most went with the rather non-threatening name of Wood Spider. What they were in agreement with was that its potent, neurotoxic venom, while not lethal, caused major pain and that its relatively strong jaws often left scars on its human victims. Knowing what it was doesn’t mean that I won’t freak out just as badly the next time I encounter one of those creatures, but next time I’m gonna kill the thing. And then feed it to the first cockroach I see.

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Scammed In Luang Prabang

25 Wednesday Jan 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Laos, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ 7 Comments

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Luang Prabang, Scams, Stupid Tourist Tricks, Transportation, Wats

mekong boat

Tranquil and peaceful, and still Luang Prabang is not free from scams.

I’m not a newbie to SE Asia nor to the numerous scams just waiting for the unsuspecting touri. I’ve run across all of the well-known scams in Thailand, usually with advance knowledge and able to avoid becoming another statistic. And I frequently alert others to those scams, more so now that I write this blog. But even the most seasoned traveller can still easily fall victim to a scam. Especially when it is unexpected.

On my very first trip to Thailand with my friend Ann, we were presented with the opportunity of participating in the ‘The Grand Palace Is Closed Scam.’ But whoever came up with that one, which was around the time the first tourist to Thailand headed over to see the Grand Palace, failed to take Ann’s anal retentiveness into account. Outside the palace’s walls a local alerted us to the fact the Grand Palace was closed. That’s step one. Step two is the suggestion that for a low price he knows of an Official Tuk Tuk Driver Licensed By The Government, who will gladly take you to several other wats and local sights. Which end up being overpriced jewelry stores and rip-off tailors. We never got to step two because Ann checked off the Grand Palace on her schedule of things we were to do and immediately moved us off to the next place on her list. The promised wats and sights were not on her approved list. When Ann has a list, you stick to it.

On subsequent trips Thailand’s scam operators fared no better. Research pays off when you are visiting a foreign land. The internet is full of tales from those who went up against a scammer and lost. Not that Thailand is the only home to scammers in SE Asia. I ran across the fake gem scam at the Central Market in Phnom Penh and laughed that anyone could be so foolish as to believe those large chunks of glass were real rubies and emeralds. But it was fun listening to vendors’ claims. And I enjoyed trying to be scammed by a young over friendly woman in KL, who thought her come-on had placed me firmly in her cross-hairs not realizing that her particular scam just doesn’t work on gay men. She’s probably still trying to figure out what went wrong that night. So I’m aware that scams are out there.

luang prabang monk robes

Almost as good as a Monk Shot! saffron robes hung out to dry in Xieng Maen.

I easily avoid those I’ve heard about, and remain vigilant, on guard against those about which I’ve not been forewarned. But you can’t go around thinking every local you talk to is out to rip you off. If you do, you end up missing out on some good times, and on meeting some truly delightful people.

Scams were not, however, on my mind when my friend Noom and I headed to Luang Prabang in Laos. Everything I’d read about the World Heritage City was positive. Previous visitors sung its praises, having fell in love with the peaceful little burg and its warm and friendly people. I’d read up about the town on the internet before we left Bangkok. No one mentioned the opportunity of getting ripped off. There was no good advice about bad Laotians. But then that’s one of the problems with the internet. There were also no good warnings about bad advice. And of that, there was plenty.

Once you’ve done the Morning Market and the Night Market, seen a few dozen wats, and scaled the thousands of steps to the top of Mount Phousi, there’s not a lot to do in Luang Prabang. That’s one of its charms. But people on holiday like to fill their days accomplishing something, even though the whole point of a holiday is to take a break and rest. The people of Lao, like those living anywhere where touri flock, have come up with activities to keep visitors busy and happy. In Luang Prabang, that’s a half-day trip up-river to the Pak Ou Caves and the Kuang Si waterfalls. Every guide book and travel site tout the caves and waterfalls as a must-do when visiting Luang Prabang. Every tourist ends up going to the caves and waterfalls because that’s all there is to do in Luang Prabang. Both looked cool, and made it onto my list of things we’d do on our trip too. It was a short list.

boats along the Mekong

Private boats can be hired for touring along the Mekong.

The packaged tours that take you to the two sites leave early in the morning. I’m not a morning person to begin with and am even less so when on holiday. Throw in a Thai bar boy’s regular work/sleep schedule and anything before 10:00 A.M. is pushing it. The package tours also throw in stops at a whiskey making village and a textiles village, both billed as prime examples of local handcrafts, places you can visit to see villagers at work. And purchase a nice handcrafted souvenir. ‘Handcraft’ translates the same from Thai or Lao. It means fake, rip-of priced places built for touri and selling crap made in Vietnam at prices higher than you’d ever manage to get for the stuff back home. ‘Handcraft’ is just easier to say.

I figured there had to be a better way. There had to be an alternative to the package tours that allowed you to make your excursion at a more appropriate hour. And that would allow you to avoid wasting time at the handcraft villages. Google told me there was.

The well-intended bad advice from previous travellers said you could rent a private boat for the trip up to the caves and waterfall at half the price the package tours charged. Having not yet seen the town, reading that little gem of travel wisdom, I nodded sagely and made a note. Once in town, however, a smarter person may have considered that advice might not be all that accurate. Luang Prabang, at least its historic district along the Mekong, is small. Tiny in fact. And in a microcosm of capitalism smack dab in the middle of a communist country, no one dealing with touri is gonna accept half of what they know is the going price.

luang prabang buddhist umbrella

An umbrella shades a small altar perched atop a high wall overlooking the Mekong in Xieng Maen.

If you have read any of my previous posts about scams in SE Asia, then you know I’m a heartless bastard who laughs at those who fall prey to scammers. Scams rely on one thing more than anything else and that is greed. If you don’t want to be scammed on your vacation, you don’t have to know about potential scams, you just have to not be greedy. It’s more about your greed than their dishonesty when you fall for a scam. Great advice. Which I totally ignored in Luang Prabang.

After walking through the morning market one day we headed down to the Mekong, passing one of many package tour shops along the way. This one had their tours and prices listed on a sandwich board out front. Sweet. I now knew the current going rate for the cave/water fall trip. And since we were soon walking along the street fronting the river, it seemed a good time to find a boatman and haggle out a price for the trip. Finding one was easy. The calls of “Hello Sir!” came drifting over from the water side of the street as soon as we started walking along Manthatourath Road.

Having a local – or a semi-local because there really isn’t a lot different between Thais and Laotians – with you should work to your advantage when haggling with any type of vendor. When that local or semi-local is Noom, it’s not. Vendors all speak enough English that I can manage to cut a deal and get a good price without resorting to using the local lingo. But Noom likes to do his part, and does so in Thai. Or Lao. And then presents the deal he’s settled on in English to me. Which isn’t really about translating but rather about telling me how much it is going to cost me. That’d be cool, except his bartering skills suck.

novice monks afloat

Little monks, long boat.

Twenty baht is big bucks to Noom. In Bangkok, that will cover his dinner. If he can get a vendor to drop by that amount he’s a happy camper. And considers it a win. Half off the asking price is what I normally shoot for anywhere in SE Asia. So after he and the boatman had a go at it, we had to start all over. And I got the trip for half of what the package tour wanted. Plus we didn’t have to leave for another two hours.

“He want you pay now,” Noom told me after we’d agreed to the time and price. Right. I might not have been thinking scam, but I’m not an idiot either.

“Uh, no. We’ll pay him when we come back.”

Not that it was needed, but Noom translated what I’d said for the boatman. And then came back with his counter. “He want you pay half now,” he told me.

Sensing the answer was still going to be no, Noom followed up with more info. “For guarantee,” he said. “No guarantee, no booking.”

making paper

There was little evidence they handcrafted textiles at the Authentic Textile Village, but they did make paper by hand.

Que sera, sera. I smiled at the boat guy, shook my head and told Noom that was a chance we’d have to take. The bank is lined with boats and the wall along the upper landing lined with boatmen. I was fairly sure our guy would still be waiting when we returned. If not, potential rides were not exactly sparse. So we headed back to the hotel, had lunch, and then headed back to the river to find our boatman anxiously awaiting our return. Big surprise.

Now greed, or saving a few bucks to use a nicer term, was not my only motivation in hiring a private boat for the trip. Avoidance was equally of import. I had no desire to see a whiskey making village or a textiles making village. And I wanted as much time as we decided to take at the caves. They are filled with hundreds of Buddha statues and having braved packed tours in the past I knew the allotted time would be far too short for what we would want to spend there. A half day was not long enough for seeing both the caves and the waterfalls. I’d already decided we’d do the waterfalls separately the next day. And drive to them instead of cruising up the river.

But in Luang Prabang, it’s a package deal even when you are not on a package tour. There’s money to be made (on the off chance you might spend any at either village) and that’s typical of how SE Asian minds work. The trip includes the two village, therefore everyone must stop at both places. Regardless if you were joining a tour or making one of your own. Not going to the waterfall did not cause a problem. Our boatman was comfortable with dropping that from the tour. But I had better success bartering over the price than in trying to get him to not take us to the two villages. There seems to be a strict concatenation of stops related to touring the Pak Ou Caves that cannot be trifled with. I tried, it just didn’t work.

Mekong color

The Mekong’s mundane landscape is livened by once vividly decorated boats.

Rather than have us all pissed off, I sucked it up and agreed to visit the villages, figuring we could make short work of both. But I also made sure those stops would not encroach on the time we spent at the caves. The boat guy agreed and spelled out our itinerary. “One textile, one whiskey, Buddha Cave,” he sung out, pleased we had reached an agreement. And down a long flight of stairs to his boat we went.

The Mekong is a muddy expanse of water sluggishly moving along its route toward the ocean. Our boat barely managed to outpace its currents as we headed up river. The old wood boat, once painted a vivid blue but now faded dull by the tropic sun, had a low slung roof shading about a dozen low slung wood benches, neither built for the height or length of an American. Fortunately I don’t have the breadth of your average American, or the craft’s sea worthiness would have placed us in a precarious position. We chugged along with the boatman sitting cross-legged on the floor up front while we passed muddy banks and an occasional beached and bleached boat, all looking like they belonged to the same fleet as ours. Occasionally there were a long flight of stairs leading upward from the bank, more often there were nothing but scraggly trees and a muddy barren shoreline to watch as we slowly motored by.

Used to touri and aiming to please, every time I raised my camera for a shot, the driver would cut his engine. A nice gesture except we had a tail wind and every time we stopped the ancient outboard would belch a thick cloud of diesel fumes that would waft forward and engulf us. Taking a shot of our captain, I noticed he was self-conscious, and turned his head away from the lens. So I started using that, first pointing the camera at him and then quickly taking the shot I really wanted when he turned the other way.

on the mekong

El Capitan

Life along the Mekong was pretty mundane. Few boats were on the water, and even fewer people along the banks. The middle of the afternoon is not a good time for fishing, and with the sun at its zenith the only locals dumb enough to be out were kids who all seemed to be having a grand time exploring their little world. We passed a few young monks out on a uncovered boat, it’s length making them appear every smaller than they were. And one group of kids were busy digging for buried treasure in a short, loosely packed cliff of silt and mud. The few adults we passed were all wisely using their afternoon to catch up on their sleep. Noom decided to follow suit.

Twenty minutes into our trip we hit our first stop. The textile village. Not that you would know it. We beached in the mud and the boat guy led us up a steep, high bank of mud to the village some 75 yards above the Mekong to a smattering of authentic local huts, otherwise known as rickety wooden stores. Filled with imported trinkets. A few had textiles for sale. One even had a local woman – though she too may have been imported from Vietnam for all I know – running an old wooden loom and filling small spindles of yarn off of a larger bolt.

One Authentic Textile Village shop had a long open-weave piece in black with designs highlighted in plum and gold running through it that I kinda liked and thought, even if it hadn’t been made in Laos, would make a nice souvenir. The Authentic Textile Villager went into full salesman mode when she noticed me eyeing the tapestry. When I asked the price, the $150 she quoted wasn’t even worth trying to barter down from. At best it was worth $25. And even then I’d have been drastically overpaying. So photos, yes, purchases, no. And ten minutes later we were slip sliding our way down the muddy cliff to our boat once again.

mekong gas station

Mekong Oil: the riverside floating gas station.

The whiskey village was next and this one truly was a local village. And involved another long climb up a muddy cliff. Our boat guy had to ask around to find someone making whisky, or willing to fake it, and finally managed to rouse an old guy who fired up his kiln for no apparent reason and then poured a shot from a jug for us to try. Our boat guy shook his head no. Noom shook his head no. I should have shook my head no too, but it didn’t seem we were going to get to leave until someone tried the brew so I gave it a go. It had the kick of moonshine and the flavor of the effuse that ran down the hill into the river evidencing Laos is not big on cesspools or sewage treatment plants. If you ever get to visit a whiskey making village in Laos, embrace your rep as an Ugly American and just say no.

Back down the mud slide, back onto the boat and after a wide U-turn in the middle of the river we headed back south, the driver cutting the engine to allow the currents to propel the boat down stream. Finally, we were headed to the caves. Which were dead opposite of the bank from which we started our trip. And which, of course, required scaling up another cliff though this time concrete stairs were provided. At the top a cool poured cement expanse overlooked the water below, home to a small altar topped by a red umbrella. A group of old local people were playing music in front of a not too impressive wat and a gaggle of pre-teen girls waited for us to make it up the stairs, calling out a friendly greeting and then demanding 20,000 kip for the cave tour.

Noom’s a child at heart and made fast friends with the young girls, all of whom were suitable impressed with his muscles and thrilled to have a customer who spoke their language. We walked, forever, along a path next to the cliff, passing a few old decrepit huts and a small group of monk residences that were in much better shape than the surrounding buildings. Up another flight of stairs, though a short one this time, the oldest girl unlocked a padlock on a wrought iron gate fronting a set of wooden doors that lead down into the caves. And our cave tour began.

kids along the mekong

Local kids digging for buried treasure along the Mekong.

The tour inside the caves, which should be of no surprise, involved climbing down and later back up a lot of stone stairs. Inside it was dark, dank, and oppressively hot with little fresh air circulating within the system of caves. A string of light bulbs hanging haphazardly on a thin wire stretched down the length of stairs but they were dark. The switch, it turned out, was at the bottom of the main stairway. Further in they’d not even bothered to string lights.

Every few flights of stairs the girls would stop and shine a flashlight at a small Buddha cradled into a tiny niche in the cave’s walls. At one landing several flashlights went on to show off a small grotto where a few old stone pillars laid with yet another small Buddha nestled beside them. At another, a small chedi was the focal point. At each stop as someone’s flashlight clicked on, one of the girls would exclaim, “Buddha!” Noom ate it up, happy to be surrounded by his new posse of friends. I began to smell a rat.

Hundreds of Buddhas lining a well-lit somewhat open to the air cave was the picture I’d seen and the experience I was expecting. Half a dozen plastic Buddhas – each available at the market back in town for a pittance – spaced out along a dark passage was the reality. 1 + 1 was not equalling 2. But we did get to experience a long climb back up the stairs we’d just climbed down, a bonus the guide books had not promised.

luang prabang caves

The premier highlight of our cave tour.

Walking back to check out the wat, the eldest girl was busy trying to convince Noom to buy packages of rice to present to the monks during their early morning alms rounds back over on the Luang Prabang side of the river. That’s another activity to add to the small roster of things to do in Luang Prabang. If you are willing to get up at the break of day. I have to assume it is due to the paucity of things to do coupled with the copious amount of monks in Luang Prabang that have made this such a touri worthy ritual because monks out doing the alms thing in the morning is pretty standard fare everywhere in SE Asia. But it’s such a big thing in Luang Prabang they have posters all over town explaining ‘monk etiquette’ so that touri do their part without screwing with the monks’ karma.

Noom wanted to strike the deal, the girl said she’d bring the food to our hotel the next morning. I asked him if he was going to get up with the sun and got a crestfallen but definite shake of his head in reply. Noom, like all good Buddhists sees merit making as a necessary part of his day. But a 6 A.M wake-up call to do so was too much to ask. I slipped him 20,000 kip to tip the girls instead and the gang was happy.

We spent a few minutes checking the old wat out, it had a nicely decorated portico with Jataka murals fading on its walls, and then said a fond farewell to Noom’s new friends and motored back across the Mekong to our hotel.

Noom and his posse.

Noom and his posse.

Docking onto a partially submerged bamboo landing, our boatman put out his hand for payment with a somewhat worried and sheepish look. And I laughed. Scammed. I had to give him credit, our tour had certainly not been to the Pak Ou Caves, nor were either of our village stops at the places the package tours take you. I was almost disappointed I’d nixed the waterfall part of the trip ‘cuz I’d loved to see what he would have come up with to fill that part of the itinerary. But we’d cut a deal for “One textile, one whiskey, Buddha Cave” and that’s exactly what we’d received. I couldn’t even get mad at the guy, and he seemed to be relieved at that, managing a small chuckle himself.

By the way, I discovered the names of the wat and caves after the fact. The temple we visited is Wat Long Khun, a cool little wat with a gorgeous view back across the water to Luang Prabang. You can arrange a boat ride directly across the Mekong for a visit. And the cave system is the Tham Sakkarin Savvanakuha Cave. Even if you don’t go to the Pak Ou Caves, this one is a poor substitute and hardly worth the effort.

I don’t think Noom ever figured out we’d been scammed. And he probably now thinks I’ve got an obsession with caves because the next day we joined a package tour to get to the real one. Our fake tour cost less than twenty bucks, a trifle amount which probably had a lot to do with why I didn’t get pissed at being scammed. And $20 isn’t a lot of money to pay for a good reminder that when something seems to be too good to be true, it is.

Wat Long Khun

Wat Long Khun’s portico.

I Think I Can

10 Tuesday Jan 2012

Posted by Bangkokbois in Laos, Travel Tales from Beyond Thailand

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Luang Prabang, Stupid Tourist Tricks

luang prabang mount phousi

An unsuspecting tourist starts the climb up Mount Phousi’s stairs.

Everyone will tell you that you must head up to the temple on top of Mount Phousi for the sunset in Luang Prabang. Some of them may tell you that involves climbing a set of stairs. Few will tell you those stairs number in the thousands and are spaced along a steep incline leading to the mountain’s peak. So every tourist in town, at least once during their stay, heads up Phousi for the view at dusk. Not all of them make it.

Neither my friend Noom nor I am a weakling. And while some may consider me old, I’m still young enough to tackle pretty much anything I put my mind to. From streetside, the stairs to the top of Mount Phousi do not attempt to hide what is in store. At least at first. What you can’t see is that after that first long steep climb, you’re only a quarter of the way there. The Laotians are a kind people though, and they don’t collect the 20,0000 kip admission fee until you’ve made it to the first landing. At least those who tire out before reaching the true destination don’t get fined for wussing out.

Parents read stories to their children both to entertain them and to provide an early set of morals to live by. I think, even at a young age, our core personalities are already developed. As a child, we gravitate toward those stories that best fit our nature. One of my favorite books as a child was Curious George. But that’s a different story. Another was the fable of the little engine who could, a tale of endurance that taught the virtues of determination and perseverance. That’s a kinder reading than that it taught you to be stubborn.

That tale immediately sprang to mind as I watched an overweight, middle aged, pasty faced woman slowly climbing her way up the first flight of stairs leading to Mount Phousi’s summit. Out of shape and out of breath she could only manage about a dozen steps at a time. Then she’d have to stop, catch her breath, and rest a bit before pushing off upward once again. With each plodding step she made I could hear that little engine who could chuggling, “I think I can, I think I can.”

luang prabang phousi

At the landing streetside is a marvelous old wat with ancient handpainted murals and golden Buddhas.

Sweating profusely, panting like a bitch in heat, she was the kind of person that would be easy for me to be derisive about. She had all the markings. And seemingly deserved whatever cruel comments I’d come up with. Trust me, they would have been funny. But there was determination there too, and that’s what I responded to, calling down a few words of encouragement as she neared the last few dozen steps of her climb. Or at least the first installment. Her response was a rueful shaking of her head as she smiled back up at me. And then she made a few more steps of forward progress.

Noom and I had stopped for a break at the first landing. There’s a pretty incredible view even from that low height. Neither of us was winded and needed a rest. But Noom has a need to mark his spot wherever we go in a foreign land, and with a public restroom insight, we needed to stop so he could go piss on Laos. Having already taken in the view of the quaint town below, I traded that scenic splendor in for a view of my fellow touri climbing their way up the stairs. Meanwhile, a younger couple walked by and asked if I’d already been to the top.

“Nope, sorry.”

“We just wanted to know if it was worth the climb.”

Today’s youth is into instant gratification, The idea of having to work for reward is a foreign concept to them. Raised on television and movie previews they want to know about all the good parts before making a commitment. In my best wise old Shao Lin monk voice I said, “Sorry Grasshopper, life is not a movie trailer.”

Muttering, “Asshole,” they turned and started their climb.

Noom finished his business about the same time as the old lady made base camp. He was ready to go. She was ready to die. Thinking she was a solo traveller I waited a bit to make sure she was not only going to catch her breath, but continue breathing for the foreseeable future. It was rough going, but she got her breathing under control about the same time she was joined by a group of five other touri of slightly advanced age. Her travel mates. One of the group was her husband, the others close friends from her hometown who were travelling through SE Asia on an extended tour. None of them seemed proud of her accomplishment None seemed ready to take the obvious break she needed. Instead, the husband issued the group’s collective judgement on her capabilities. “We’re going up. If you think you can make it you can follow us and maybe we’ll see you on top.”

Ouch. Nice. With friends like that who needs pushy German tourists to ruin your day?

moount phousi chedi

The small gold stupa at Mount Phousi’s summit.

I continually confound my friends and acquaintances. Just when they start thinking I’m a nice guy, I do something to convince them I’m a bastard. Just when they have decided I’m a complete asshole, I make some unexpected grand gesture that qualifies for sainthood. You might as well get used to it too. In this case, it wasn’t so much about being nice as it was about spite. The old lady’s traveling group had pissed me off. I walked over, introduced myself, lied about being winded too, and offered to be her companion on the remaining trek to the top.

Noom is a bit more transparent in his motives. As gregarious as he usually is, the idea of an hour long hike to cover a twenty minute walk didn’t appeal to him. Like the bastards before him, he said a hasty ‘later’ and headed upward on his own.

They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Fortunately the gods were with me on this one and the old lady turned out to be an amiable companion. If you ignore having to stop and listen to her wheeze every dozen or so stairs we managed to put behind us. At the first rest stop she made excuses for her husband. At the second, for herself. At the third, proving absence does not in fact make the heart grow fonder, she changed her tune about hubby. ‘My husband’ become ‘that bastard.’ Not an American fortunately, by the next rest stop she no longer was quite as wound up about herself and was instead ready to talk about Laos.

I mentioned that I had spoken with a woman in Bangkok who’d just returned from Luang Prabang and that she’d said there were a less imposing set of stairs at the backside of the mountain. The old lady knew of them, they were near where they were staying. Concerned my new companion would be for longer than planned, I asked her what she planned on doing about her group and getting back to their hotel if she failed to summit. She smiled, nodded her head, and replied, “I have the only key to our room.”

Wat  Wat Tham Mo Thayaram

At Wat Wat Tham Mo Thayaram, Noom implores The Buddha to help us make it back down to civilization in one piece.

Regardless of a new acquaintance and gorgeous views, when your entire world is all about making it to the next step, your conversation becomes limited too. I mentioned that it would be nice to get to the top and find a cool drink of water. “Yes, my husband is probably thirsty by now,” she said. “Too bad I have all of the money.”

I was beginning to like this woman. And then laughed, realizing I too had all the money and my companion who had gone up without me would also have to wait for my arrival to quench his thirst. We only made it another three steps before having to stop again, this time not from being winded but because we were laughing too much, finding much mirth in the fact that those abandoned held all the keys. Literally.

The climb continued, we hit a rhythm. The higher we went, the more kind the architects of the stairways were. After a dozen or so steep steps there were level areas with no stairs, a perfect spot to stop and let those behind you pass. The old lady blamed her inability to scale the mountain quickly on the fact her party had spent the day on a tour of the river. They’d visited a textiles village, a village that made whiskey, and some caves. Each stop involved a long, steep set of stairs from the river up to the attraction. We’d done that trip the day before. Which is why we had waited for the next day before making the excursion to the top of Mt. Phousi. Not that you can avoid stairs any day of your visit, they pop up with a reassuring regularity everywhere in Luang Prabang.

mount phousi sunset

Your reward for making it to the top of Mount Phousi: A beautiful sunset on one side . . .

The last course of stairs before the peak were more of a ramp, that put your head level with the feet of those in front of you. But it is a long ramp, and a rather rude tease; your destination seems so close and yet still a climb away. It took us another two rest stops to make it. The old lady’s smile when we made the top was one of accomplishment. And relief. And possibly the need for medical help. I rushed off to get her a bottle of water. And to avoid being identified as a companion in case she collapsed and died.

I found my friend Noom inside the small chapel, talking with Buddha as he is wont to do when we visit a wat, undoubtedly asking his god’s help in hurrying my climb along. The views atop Mount Phousi are beautiful. But that’s about all there is to do once you reach the summit: sit and look at the surrounding town and wait for the sun to set. Noom had checked the area out and was ready to leave. I was not quite so enamored with the idea of seeing another set of stairs that soon and went to check on the old lady’s state. Her gang had evidently seen all there was to see too, and ditched her, stranding her on top of the mountain. Climbing Mount Everest, it is a matter of survival; you leave the dead and dying to their fate. I don’t know that that is the right tack to take in a small Lao village filled with Buddhist temples. And while I didn’t consider my karma at stake, being the second party to abandon the old lady seemed unnecessarily cruel. So after a long rest, she had two strapping men to help her on her decent.

luang prabang

. . . and a sweeping view of the backside of town on the other.

Noom had found another set of steps, a shorter route down, but not the stairs that led toward the old lady’s hotel. They did, however, lead to a small restaurant at riverside, and with seating available and protected by shady trees, we made our final rest stop, quickly ordering a round of drinks. With only the need to raise her glass qualifying as physical exertion things were looking up and the old lady turned out to be an amiable companion, telling us about the other places she and her friends had visited on their trip. That reminded her of her lost party and she laughed again. “They must be getting awfully hungry by now,” she said referencing the fact she held the group’s money.

We all had a laugh at their expense, envisioning their search for the lady they left behind. And their hotel key. And cash. The last place they’d expect to find her was sitting at this small cafe shooting shots of tequila. “Another round?” I suggested with no concern to her companions’ fate.

The old lady smiled, payback in mind, and replied, “I think I can.”

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Sawatdee and welcome to the new and improved Bangkokbois Gay Thailand Blog! Okay, so it’s not necessarily improved, just hosted on a new site. And it’s not just about Thailand, though that still is the main focus. And it’s not all gay either, unless you’re not and then you’ll think it’s pretty damn gay I’m sure. All of the penis might tip you off. Which means if you are not of the required legal age to be looking at penis other than your own, you should leave. And go tell your parental units they suck at their job.

But it is a blog and one out of three ain’t bad. Besides, Bangkokbois Pretty Gay Mostly About Thailand Blog For People Of Legal Age is just too wordy. But so is Dancing With The Devil In The City Of Angels, which is really the title of this blog.

As cool of a title as that is, Google just ain’t sharp enough to figure out that means this blog is mostly about Thailand. And pretty damn gay to boot. The penis part even Google figured out. Which is a good thing. ‘Cuz Bangkokbois Pretty Gay Mostly About Thailand With Lots Of Penis Blog For People Of Legal Age, I think, was taken by someone else.

Move along, there’s nothing to see here folks; pay no attention to that man behind the curtain:

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