Wandermusings

Ok Simpson’s fans dig deep into the depths of your pop culture soaked brains and try to recall that episode where Apu gets fired from the quick e mart.  He and homer then take a voyage to the the quick e mart head quarters in india to get Apu his job back.  Well in that episode theres a bit where they ride an indian train and there are people packed in to the gills.  Wasn’t sure why that was funny at the time but well, its because its accurate.

The other night Steve and I boarded a “sleeper class” car for a train journey from Mumbai to Aurangabad.  Basically, the car is about eight feet high, and each “cabin” has six bunks, three on eighter side facing each other.  However unlike european trains, those six bunks are not enclosed with a locking door but rather a curtain and two more bunks are on the other side of the isle.  Now for reserved seating, one would assume that that means 8 people ticketed for this space.  Well let me tell you through experience that eight is really more of a guideline.  I awoke at one point in the night from a cool gust of wind blowing from the barred open window.. poked my head out from behind my curtain, luckily not swingin myself from my bunk because there were 3 children sleeping on the floor between the 6 facing bunks.  Then in the aisle running the length of the car there was a whole cast of characters line up lead to toe, sleeping as if lined up waiting to buy tickets for the rolling stones show next morning.  Later, I made the tretcherous trip to the toilet, steping carefully in what little floor space presented itself, and squeezing through the hoard standing in front of the open train door as we wizzed along at however fast trains go in India.  On my way back I asked when we might arrive in Aurangabad; The hoard conferred and told me.. “later”.  I smiled and did my best spider man impersonation to get back to my bunk.

We arrived the next morning two hours late and a little weary from our experience, but smiling ear to ear.  Ok maybe the smiling didn’t come till much later, and after the consumption of a few beers.

Now my concern, perhaps I’m living in a cartoon.  Should I be on the look out for male pattern baldness, a few too many doughnuts, and a severe case of jaundice?

Don’t worry no sound clip attached to play in the background and burrow its way down into your skull and set up camp.

My first night in India.  I have decided to call it safe and plop myself down at one of the eight or so tables at Churchill’s Cafe in Mumbai.  It’s definitely one of those ex-pat hang outs, listed in the LP, and well, with a name like “Churchill’s” you can’t expect much less.  The two fellas at the next table order the Tandori Chicken Sandwich witha coke dancing on the line of Indian and western food.  Without much thought I order the same barely looking up from my menu.  A minute later after  stopping my giggling at the picture of Winston Churchill leaning back in an easy chair on the cover of my menu I take a second look at the travelers next to me sporting British accents.  Thinking to myself I kind of give that half look that you give someone you think you know but you don’t want to let notice you until you can recall their name.  They are playing the same game and eventually we break down and run the list cities and hostels for the last few months until we finally come up with 33.28 degrees south and 70.45 degrees west.  For those at home, that the coordinates for Santiago Chile, a long way from here.

We recount the tail of our meeting in Santiago a long six weeks ago and our oogling one of the other travelers  photos from his year and a half at an Antarctic base.  We scarf down our tandori chicken, telling tales of the months passed since our last meeting, and marvel in the fact that the Lonely Planet has ceased to be an accurate name.

I’m far from being a linguist.  Not exactly my cup of tea but I find it endlessly interesting.  I learned a lot about them bounding through Thailand trying to figure out how to swallow certain sounds and palatize others.  Ok so I’m throwing around a lot of words I know nothing about.  But as I understand it this whole bit about tonal languages is that its not just how you enunciate the word but also whether or not your voice goes up or down.

So I’m not an expert, but in Mumbai they speak Hindi as well as this other language I don’t know what its called but you hear it all over town uttered by the most unlikey culprets, cars.  Just with a few honks with varied tones you can say all of the following:

Move!
Look out!
The light is only turns one shade of green.
I’m gonna pass you slowpoke.
This is a no honking section jerk.
Can you believe this tourist paid 5 USD to go two blocks.
Hey did you see that cricket match last night?

The lonely planet didn’t have its usual primer for this language in the back of the book but I really think I’m getting a hang of it.  Try this on for size.  “Honk, honk… honkety honk.. ho ho.. higgity honky honk.”   Which means… (I think) That’s a lovely sari you are wearing… can I buy you a banana lassi?

Every now and again I make a good decision.  Leaving my island paradise where I could have spent many a week toiling away 18 meters under water was probably one of the best decisions I made on this trip.  Mind you it was largely made by the fact that I didn’t think that the mask would make a great seal over my freshly aquired wounds, but that’s neither here nor their.

So after a full day of travel making it back to Bangkok, the following morning I boarded a flight to Siem Reap on Bangkok Airlines, “Asia’s boutique Airline”.  That slogan of theirs is something that is always said in the same breath as their name.  It is true though.  Even on a 50 minute flight they served drinks and a proper sandwich and salad, and then made a second pass to deliver individually wrapped ice creams to me and all my single serving friends.

But that flight was not what made the excursion to Siem Reap worthwhile.  Rather it was the insane collection of temples I viewed over the next couple days.  Like most of south east asia that I have visited to date, the main mode of transportation is the moto or scooter of sorts.  After de boarding the plane I chucked my day pack into the front basket of a well dressed moto driver.  After getting me to the accommodation Steve had booked when he arrived the night previous, the driver and I came to agreement on a cost and route for his driving service over the next two days.  Unfortunately, unlike the Thai islands, tourists are not allowed to rent motos. 

The next morning my driver friend showed up early as promised to get a jump on the day.  We tore off to some of the more distant temples passing locals on almost every form of transportation. 

We then spent the rest of our day working our way back to the sunset over the Angkor Wat, the main attraction here around Siem Reap.  Unfortunately though, after climbing the hillside to watch the sunset with the rest of the tourists we noticed the dark clouds blowing in, and rather quickly at that.  With hopeful eyes we sat on our perch trying to decide if the clouds might depart just as quickly as they had arrived. 

Our hope was drowned about 20 minutes later when it began to pour down buckets (not the vodka red bull kind, thankfully) leaving us to descend the temple steps as well as the hillside mostly barefoot as my relatively new sandals purchased after my drunken night in Koh Tao didn’t look to provide the best of traction on the stone steps.

Eventually Steve and I made it down the hill and located our moto drivers taking shelter at one of the food stands.  My driver looks at me dripping wet, and suggests that there is no reason to wait for the rain to stop since I was already wet.  So I sling my bag over my shoulder, put on my sunglasses to protect my eyes from the rain, hop on the back of the bike.  We drive at a considerably slower pace in the rain, but well, I would freaking hope so considering at some points the drainage on the roads isn’t exactly tip top. 

Flash backs to driver’s education and the videos showing cars hydroplaning out of control.  I put my hand out in front of my driver’s face to shield his eyes from the rain for a particularly bad few minutes of rain and wonder if the same rules for counter steering apply to a hydroplaning bike. 

Twenty minutes later I’m safely back at the guest house and before put too much thought in to building an ark Steve shows up in the same condition as I had, a little bit in shock sporting pruney fingers and toes.  We quickly plop down at the bar and order a couple beer laos’ and regale the tale of our ride home to the other travelers already a few beers in which of course helps make the story sound much more exciting than it actually is. 

Its moments like that that leave one pondering, “Does my travel insurance cover this?”

So yea… here’s the scenario.  Scuba Mike and company are now ceritified.  Dive master trainee, Andy, has to work so the plan is for the newly certified divers, and Paul the dive instructer to hit go to a pub for a few drinks and dinner before heading to Liquid, the bar Andy works at.  Everything is going to according to plan, we have dinner, Paul buying the first round to congratulate his little tadpols that now look slightly more froglike.  We laugh tell stories, finish our dinner and head to bar liquid catch up with andy. 

Enter stage left, the villian of our story.  The drink of drinks, the bucket.  Red Bull and vodka bucket to be exact.  For those of you who have never done the thai island bar scene, its exactly how it sounds.  A small bucket filled with some booze and some mixer decorated with a few straws so  you can share with your drinking buddies.  However, when your DMT friend, who moolights as a bartender is serving you, the bucket tends to be mostly vodka and a splash of Red Bull for that lovely green color. 

Yada, yada, yada.   Paul was plays a secret agents of sorts, smuggling a bamboo plant in his pocket for God only knows what reason.  Yada, yada, yada.  A long forgotten night later, I wake up on the beach with my sandals no where to be found.   Yada, yada, yada… I walk home bare foot and spend the next day  sitting in a hammock trying to decide if the cut above my mouth is deep enough to go get stitches.

Such days remind me of simpler times where sleeping on the beach involved a poi overdose, lounge chairs and the starry Hawaiian sky. 

I went from the boat to the classroom on my first day in Ko Tao and then spent the next 4 days learning how to avoid killing myself when scuba diving and learning how scuba divers have more fun than regular people, well at least according to the training video.  This fun displayed by two divers doing their best three stuges impersonation demoing the ever so fun two finger eye poke and block. 

Classroom antics aside we did do some diving as well.  Two dives in the afternoon of our third day and two more the following morning had me hooked on scuba like the fish I had become.  There really is nothing like it.  Swiming with the fish, finding nemo, and some of his friends.  Quietyly gliding throught the water allowing just a simple change of your breathing to move you through the underwater sanctuary. 

Sigh, Egypt, the next place that I will likely dive, seems aufuly far away.  And I can’t help but ponder whether or not I should skip out on meeting Steve at Angkor Wat and do my advanced dive cerification.  Night dive and deep dive… (rubbing hairy chin in a conemplative pose) …erg.. decisions.

It was a long time coming.  Outside of a so-called chimichanga I hadn’t had anything resembling Mexican food in two and a half months.  This was remedied by an evening trip to Ando loco for a happy hour taco and quesadilla accompanied by yet another beer Chang.    Good times and happy stomach. Burrito craving put on hold for the time being…

Bob Marley and the Wailers we were not, but I reckon everyone sounds a bit better after few Chang beers.   

After having checked into my guest house, I after much effort finally negotiated myself a moto.  Which with a passport wouldn’t have been a problem, but without one proved to be slightly more difficult.  I inquired at six or seven places and getting turned down by everyone including a fairly mean 9 year old who choked back laughter at my request…  But I did finally find someone who had a bit of faith in my smiling face, and took my California DL as collateral.   

And I’m off, riding a manual moto for the first time.  I tore down the island roads trying my best to make my way back to town and the Sea Scene Resort, as recommended by a guy who I met on the ferry that morning who was toting his guitar around and said if I wanted to jam I should stop by. 

After getting my bearings I made my way to the Sea Scene resort for sunset.   And after watching the sun go down from atop a rock I waded through the incoming tide back to shore and met up with Tim, the fellow I had met on the ferry ride.  After talking for a bit we settled in at the "Chocolate Bar", Sea Scene Bungalo’s water side bar. 

A few beers in, two of the teen and twenty something boys of the Thai family that runs the bugalow resort pick up two guitars tucked away behind the bar, and procure floor cushions with the growing group of slightly intoxicated musicians.  All that build up would seem that I might be leading up to some exciting flourish of activity.  Rather, this was just like many nights on the islands on the south east coast of thai land well at least my experience, filled with beer chang and relaxing on some beach as the latenight tide comes in. 

Tim played as much Bob Dillon as the group would allow, all the while attempting to suck the life out of his metal munch box aka harmonica (which probably gave him problems with airport security), which every so often happened to be in the same key as the song he was playing.   The thai boys strummed Thai songs, singing along in thai tongues.  And me, well I mostly tried not to get in the way… playing a few hendrix tunes on the guitar and playing some form of percussion on whatever object seemed to make an appropriate sound, alowing the rest of the group to belt out the vocals. 

Eventually the sun put an end to our session reminding the group that time had passed and sleep was necessary.  So the group dispersed and instead of driving back to my bungalow in my weary state I threw myself at a nerby hammock and caugh a few winks before heading home. 

For those of you who have not had the opportunity, nay privilege to travel with me, you may not be aware of my complete and utter disdain for bus travel.  However, many times in our wanderings it is next to impossible to avoid and one must suck it up and climb on board "the dog".  Ok I guess they only call it "the dog" in the USA when referring to the greyhound busses but you get the drift. 

Anyway, after a few days in Bangkok I had decided it was time to make my pilgrimage to Ko Phangan and Ryan’s Mexican restaurant, Ando loco.  After having set the wheels in motion for my Indian visa application I apprehensively relinquished my passport and booked a bus/ferry to the southern islands.  The next day I waited in my hotel lobby waiting to be picked up by my bus, which was a little disconcerting because the street was blocked off for the evening.  But low and behold a gentleman from the bus company did arrive to walk us to our bus.  Once at the bus the boarding shenanigans began, with all the tourists pressing toward the door, and some being told to hold back for I’m not sure what reason, others boarding with no problem.  When finally allowed to board I was seated in the back which at the time didn’t seem terrible although it was obvious that that some of the air conditioning vents were broken.   Not too much later we under way and me and the 3 other people in the back row of the bus realized that we should have asked to move like the one couple who was told to sit there and then asked to be reseated.   15 minutes into our ride it began to get untollerably warm, exceeding the temperature outside the bus, causing me to ponder why I paid extra for an AC coach.  Turns out that most of this additional heat seemed to be generated by the engine reving below our feet and was somehow be vented into the cabin from behind our chairs.  Ah but not to worry, most people we talked to about the busses said to bring long pants and extra shirts because the AC made the cabin cold enough you had to worry about chipped teeth.   Rather these particular seats seemed to have no AC flow, no cooling breeze to fight off the heat venting from behind our seat.  And its not like that cooling air had to go far, the air conditioner was installed right above us, adding to the to the white noise level already at an obnoxious level from the engine.   Moreover, that same air conditioner spent the next 8 hours dripping cold water on the 4 of us.   

That was easily the longest night of the trip so far, my constant sweating and concern about dehydration only interrupted by intermittent moments of sleep. But like all good things, bad things too must come to an end, and we did make it to our connecting ferry the following morning.  But I think I’m going to give credit to my headphones for saving my life just like many times in the computer lab back in school; ok maybe too dramatic, but at least they saved my sanity. 

I’m pretty sure I’m in the wrong business.  This whole software thing has worked out so far but I think I found my new career path.  (Not really,but for blogging sake, bare with me)

So the other day I went out to explore the downtown area of Bangkok away from the main tourist areas.  I had decided to make most of the trip on foot as you can see more of the city that way. I walked around, mingling with the locals as they broke from their jobs to visit the street vendors for lunch or an afternoon snack.  I made my way north through what is probably the largest city park in Bangkok.  A nice place to sit and watch the world go by.  Small ponds, plenty of shade and you can only barely hear the traffic that encircles the green island.  But after making my way through I continued on up a smaller street, until my pace slowed as I passed a beautiful park on my left.  Small lakes and seemingly man made streams bubbled under the canopy of old trees.  Puzzled that this beautiful green space is not marked on my map I continued to stare through what I now realized to be a fairly tall and fairly thick iron bars on the fence for my unmarked Eden.  And finally a dog barked and I saw it Old glory.   50 stars and 13 stripes waved in the breeze, hung from the front of the mansion residence of what was marked as "The Residence of the American Ambassador to Thailand".  Two blocks later I was finally back to the drab concrete buildings I had become accustomed to seeing on the side of the street most any city street. 

This experience leaves me wondering, "Where do I apply for such duty?" I bet Mr. Ambassador has a huge stockpile of real Heinz 57 ketchup, and can get them to airlift in some Hobee’s chicken apple sausage and eggs along with a nice slab of banana toffee coffee cake.