Monday, October 12, 2009

Sawasdee Namaste, Khap

Thailand (Krabi, Bangkok, Pattaya, Cha'am)
September 12 – October 12, 2009
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As I approached the fishbowl from a distance, I could make out dozens of dozy eyes lazily gazing without a glimmer of interest. As I passed into their threshold of attention, the fishbowl stirred into a frenzy of activity aware of their survival. Eyes suddenly broke loose from their previously placid preoccupations and darted in my direction. Teeth and lips puffed into proud displays of colour and fullness; spines snapped erect as confident display of breasts were thrust forth. This was a candy shop not for children, but for adult tourists who selected their pleasures by the numbers pinned to the girl’s shirts. This was my first entrance into a brothel, and I felt extremely conspicuous in every way possible.

Let’s back up a few days… My friend Tina, who I’d met previously in Vietnam, is a busy tour guide in notorious Pattaya. I joined her current assignment of babysitting 150 Indian medical doctors on a dubiously dubbed 5-day ‘medical conference’. Aside from the single 1-hour meeting, the closest their holiday got to being medical were the massage parlour gynaecological examinations… or the examinations required as a direct result of the massages.

I was immersed in a bobble-headed bollywood extravaganza. We moved as a horde of locusts, whisked from one tourist trap to the next, where professional grown men rivalled 5 year old children in terms of restlessness and helplessness. We turned 7/11s upside down as the Indians cleared the shelves of every gimmick, gadget, and sweetie in hour-long frenzies. Cabaret ladyboys had to fend off swaths of Indians unaccustomed to allowing personal space, and big brown bellies were bared at the beaches, highlighting the doctor’s shocking ignorance of balancing exercise and caloric intake. It all made me very unconvinced of the caste system’s ability to turn out competent individuals.

But for all the Indian’s clumsiness and general ineptitude, they made up for it with heaps of enthusiasm, friendliness, and a complete lack of shyness. At the signal of syncopated clangs of Indian instruments, the snake-charmed Indians arms immediately rose above their heads as legs and butts began to quiver in every direction possible to Punjabi pulse. The need for girls had completely dissipated, as this room full of men gyrated with each other in rhythmic bliss, each displaying their rehearsed routines and eager to teach anyone that wanted to learn… or not.

With expired babysitting patience, and an expiring Thai visa, I had to make a mad dash to the border consisting of 3 hour bus ride, 30 minute taxi, 3 hour wait, 14 hour overnight train ride (without a reclining seat), 2 hour wait, 5 hour busride… and I missed the border by 5 minutes. The next morning, after signing some papers possibly admitting my criminal guilt, I waited another 2.5 hours before taking the 2 day slow boat ride destined for Luang Prabang, Laos, where I would stay much, much longer than expected.

KSR, Bangkok, Thailand. After spending some beautiful relaxing days with Hannah down at my favorite beach (Ton Sai), we were (likely) gassed and pickpocketed on the VIP bus back to Khaosan Road. Hannah lost money, and I lost my visa card. It was very strange since we woke up very very groggy and didn't notice that anything happened.

Ton Sai Beach, Krabi, Thailand. Apple, my favorite massage person in Thailand! She's amazing at massage, and a little bit of chocolate usually guarantees me extra massage time!


Pattaya, Thailand. Most of the Indian doctors on the tour... it is impossible to actually keep all of them together at any given time, since their attention span is typical of a common fruit fly.

Pattaya, Thailand. My friend Tina who I'd previously met in Vietnam. On the Indian tours she is called Priya, meaning 'beloved' in Hindi.

Pattaya, Thailand. I got to see all sorts of things for free while working on the tour... These aggressive cabaret ladyboys apparently wanted me to comment on the quality of their surgeons.


Pattaya, Thailand. Parasailing is something that I said I would never actually pay for, as it is intended for ridiculous tourists. Admittedly, it was kinda fun, although not such a rush as paragliding or kiting. Tina didn't give me much of a choice, and before I knew it I was bound, harnessed, up in the air, then being dunked in the water for 10 minutes...


Cha'am, Thailand. Also through a friend in Vietnam, I met Tia who owned a small bar in Cha'am, and her crazy coworker Fay.

Cha'am, Thailand. These girls were really good-spirited and a whole lot of fun to hang out with!

Saturday, September 12, 2009

The Gwailo - Malaysia & Borneo

July 16th - Sept 12, 2009
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Borneo
“What the hell are we gonna do with a Gwailo??” That was the reaction from Yuri and Michie’s Chinese family. The two sisters and I had planned to take a short excursion from Kuala Lumpur to Kota Kinabalu in Borneo. Soon after our plans had been devised, their brother Nick found out and wanted to join. In a similar fashion, the entourage quickly expanded to include the two sisters, brother, mother, aunt, grandmother, aunt’s friend, and me… the whitey – the Gwailou.

Except for Yuri and Michie, their family hadn’t interacted much with Westerners before, and I had to dispel their preconceived notions that all Westerners were arrogant, loud, burger-munching pale-faced people. Most of our time was spent either preparing to go out to meals, eating meals, or recovering from the vast amounts of food that we had just eaten. Because our entourage was so large and the timing so short, it was impossible to venture too far out of Kota Kinabalu, and the wild jungles of Borneo still remain a mystery to me.

Upon returning to KL, I was extended a kind and generous offer to stay with Yuri and Michie’s mother and brother. I spent most of my time arm-wrestling with the absurdities of renewing my Canadian passport and surfing the internet for engineering employment… both were frustrating endeavours. In the evenings we would often meet for late-night ‘mamak sessions’ at the Indian street side cafes, where we would gather friends, family, and even the family dog PoiPoi. I enjoyed these cultural exchanges and also experienced a strange and unexpected twist on something that is very taboo in my own family. Yuri and Michie’s family (and especially their grandmother) sometimes use swearing, cursing, and making fun of each other as a tool for reducing a generational chasm into a mere generational gap. Everyone was placed on a level playing field and it seemed to keep everyone close, friendly, and in dire need of washing their mouths out with soap!

The Mystery of Ramadan
Due to the inefficiencies and bureaucracy of the Canadian government, I had to kill 3 more weeks in Malaysia without flying or leaving the country while my extremely expensive and limited passport was being reissued. During this time, the Muslim tradition of Ramadan began, where they are expected to purify themselves by fasting completely during daylight hours (except for the rampant cheating that apparently Allah would not be able to notice). As if from a bad Will Smith apocalyptic movie, the giant super-consumer malls, restaurants, and busy streets had become suddenly devoid of people. As the sun would set, however, the Muslims would reappear in gremlin hordes to drink fluids and binge eat while somehow maintaining the façade that this form of ‘fasting’ was actually healthy.

Having spent more time in Kuala Lumpur, my previous observations of a city where 3 distinct cultures lived harmoniously was being eroded as I began to sense the mass corruption, cultural differences, hypocrisies, and rampant media manipulation.

The Perhentian Islands
I was beginning to go crazy in the big city of KL and I desperately needed an escape. Renowned for relaxation and diving, the Perhentian Islands seemed like a much better beach option than the polluted and dilapidated tragedy of Port Dixon! I enjoyed several lazy days of early nights, late mornings, swimming in the crystal blue waters, and the lack of consistent electricity.


The Girls!


The Girls on Michie's Birthday at a rooftop bar overlooking the Petronas Towers.


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. A special type of zebra!


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. These Proboscis monkeys are the reason I had to at least go to the zoo. Their potbellies and glazed-over expressions were reminiscent of many of my coworkers back at the office.


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. And the cage/cubicle parallels were uncanny as well.


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. Except these cage-dweller monkeys generally had a more curious look in their eye than my cubicle-dwellers counterparts.


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. We walked into a massive bird sanctuary where some of the most prehistoric and beautifully-feathered birds flew around.


Kota Kinabalu Zoo, Borneo, Malaysia. But, you had to be tremendously careful in the bird cage, because this particular bird was particularly agressive.


Melaka, Malaysia. My German road-tripping friends from the Great Ocean Road in Australia in the Unesco town of Melaka for a brief reunion.


KL, Malaysia. Looking down from above, these students were taking part in an advertising / competition campaign by an art supplier conglomerate.


KL, Malaysia. This award-winning bar/restaurant was almost completely made out of glass bottles!


KL, Malaysia. Here the gremlins... er... I mean Muslims would come out of hiding as the sun was going down. They had been fasting all day (in theory) and then would load up on foods in the evening!


Malaysia. Just outside of KL, my friend Poohling had taken me for a hike up some beautiful rolling hills.


Perhentian Islands, Malaysia. These relaxed group of islands were popular with divers, however, I chose to simply relax and enjoy the beautiful waters and scenery. On this particular day, I had gone hiking and swimming with a tremendously beautiful woman from Kazakhstan.


Perhentian Islands, Malaysia. Clustered around the patio light of my bungalow, these geckos were waiting to deal a death-strike of doom to the insects also attracted to the soft light.

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

SSSSSingapore
Dates: July 21... for about 5 days or so!
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Sleek. Sanitized. Spotless. Shopping. Welcome to the efficient city of Singapore, a city that is a country, and a country that smells completely of money. Designer labelled mannequins and crack cocaine advertising schemes mutate consumerist genes into designer jeans, and the world continues to spin on its economic axis.

Standing on the balcony of my 5 star hotel room, my bathrobe fluttered in the updraft as I watched other executives lounging about and milking the corporate budget. I would soon be flung back into the slums of the backpacker hostelling world, but luckily only for a few days before I connected with a former university friend. We shared some beers and a few stories of individualistic and idealistic thinking and scurried off to social gatherings of drum performances and riverside brunches. The mosque outside her apartment in Little Arab sung sweet songs so unfamiliar to the other mosques in Indonesia.

Silent. Safe. Soft. Singapore.


Singapore, Singapore. The shopping in Singapore is truly off the hook.

Singapore. Brenda and her drum circle group!


Little Arab, Singapore. The promenade in front of quite possibly the best (or only good) sounding mosque in the world!


Little Arab, Singapore. The little arab mosque from the front.


Little India, Singapore. Ornate decorations adorn this indian temple.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

The Big Durian Bomb (Indonesia Part 4)

Jakarta, Java, Indonesia
July 17 – July 21
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The spiky durian fruit remains one of the strangest gastronomic experiences you will ever endure. Imagine licking warm mushy brown bananas covered in sweet condensed milk and served on the armpit of someone else’s sweaty gym jersey. Perhaps the infamous chef, Anthony Bourdain, describes his beloved durian best: "Its taste can only be described as... indescribable, something you will either love or despise. Your breath will smell as if you'd been French-kissing your dead grandmother." The durian excretes an overwhelmingly horrid smell, and Indonesia’s capitol city of Jakarta has been branded The Big Durian for similar reasons.

It was only 9am in Batu Karas and the rain had relaxed only a little. I had already finished a few hours of surfing and half a Bintang by the time I saw my cell phone flashing on my bed. Bombs had just exploded in Jakarta. Since the media has a bad habit of amplifying panic when sensational and also of suppressing information when deemed dangerous, I decided to take my chances on an overnight bus to Jakarta.

Sitting on the floor of the grungy bus station at 4:30am, we understood immediately why Jakarta is nicknamed The Big Durian. With a little time to waste, my new travel companion pulled out her guitar to play one of her own compositions. The unexpected beauty of Jenny Bell's voice cut through the thick and dirty Jakarta air; time, space, and smells dissipated into nothingness. Once the songs ended and the city buses were finally running, we sorted out some logistics and then took a brief stroll through Jakarta's even briefer tourist district.

We met up with a local girl named Novie, who was recommended to me by Gusti, the coolest djembe teacher in Bali. Jenny and I were immediately impressed by Novie and we were soon inseparable. Even in the shadow of the bombings, the infamous Jakarta nightlife delivered a very entertaining evening. I sat in awe of both girls as they rocked the house at an open mic night, and their charms also helped secure some complimentary and very flammable liqueurs from the manager of a discotheque later in the evening. Unknown to Jenny and I, Novie was testing for her karate black belt the next day! After watching her performance we met some people at the local streetside eatery where unbelievably delicious ayam baker (BBQ chicken) was being served by the armload. I would later watch Novie practice singing with a small orchestra in an adaptation of a Spanish love story.

In a seemingly endless display of talent, I met up with an Indonesian photographer, Rarindra Prakasar. For a few years I have been following his jaw-dropping image gallery where his philosophy is immediately apparent – to make photographs look like paintings, and paintings look like photographs. I was lucky enough to follow him around for a photoshoot and witness his talent for capturing the magic of light.

Indonesia is an incredible country full of diverse people with almost unparalleled charisma. The landscape is quite literally of volcanic proportions. The climate and fertility of the soil provides a cornucopia of exotic fruits with looks and tastes more diverse than the capability of your imagination. Apples and oranges cannot stack up to the pleasures of sucking the seeds from a fresh marquesa, chewing the sweetest pineapple, drizzling lime over a plate of succulent mango, ravishing a sweet mangosteen, peeling the red prongs off a hairy rambutan, licking the smooth inside skin of the soap-like gargantuan jackfruit, conquering a dragon fruit, savoring cinnamon strawberries, or harvesting a fresh young coconut from the tree and turning the milk and flesh into an iced shake to fend off the afternoon heat. Here, even papaya tastes good. Fruits from places like The Big Durian make fruits from places like The Big Apple seem a little worm infested.


Jakarta, Indonesia (sorta). Jenny breaking her durian-virginity.


Jakarta, Indonesia. Sometimes my life is pretty rough. Can you tell? Novie and Jenny and me in the middle.


Jakarta, Indonesia. There were a few mostly clothed dancers that put on quite an entertaining show on the bar that would make Coyote Ugly seem like Sesame Street.


Jakarta, Indonesia. Novie practicing for her musical adaptation of a Spanish love story.


Jakarta, Indonesia. This extremely popular roadside restaurant was a very cool gathering place and the BBQ chicken (ayam bakar) is to die for!


Jakarta, Indonesia. I count an amazing 10 plates that this guy is delivering at one time... and he does this ALL night long!


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.


Outside Jakarta, Indonesia. My photos when learning from Rarindra Prakasar.

Friday, July 17, 2009

Smoking Buddha Boards (Indonesia Part 3)

Mount Bromo, Yogyakarta, Borobudur Temple, Batu Karas
Java, Indonesia
July 10 – July 17, 2009
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Smoking Mount Bromo
I could call it an epiphany, or possibly a revelation of minor proportions. The decision came easy. It kinda came from god… er… mohammed. The searing noise of the mosque after a long overnight journey to Java was motivation enough to succumb to the demands of the tour operator and leave immediately for Mount Bromo. It was 3:45am and I am still not sure if the tour guide had a divine co-conspirator, or whether it was a simple but effective sales tactic to situate directly across from the insidious green mosque. It certainly lent itself to customers making fast decisions that took them fast and far from their location - at a price, of course.

Johnny and I brushed the sleep from our eyes and the bruises from our bodies after enduring a further bone-crunching bus ride. At the lookout point, we gazed across the wasteland where a few volcanic cones pierced the low lying fog, one still sputtered smoke that added to the cloudy haze. We descended down the steep cliffs of the Tengger Massif caldera and cut our way through the cold thick fog towards Mount Bromo. By the time we ascended, most of the fog had lifted and a thin dusty veil now shrouded the temple and the impossibly flat caldera that extended a diameter of 10 kilometres.

Yogyakarta & Buddhist Borobudur Temple
Immediately battered by Batik art salesmen, my impression of Yogyakarta sunk as low as the bad sales pitches. We were happy to escape the city as we rode our motorcycles through the cold early morning air towards the Buddhist Borobudur temple that was abandoned around 1000AD and only rediscovered in 1814. Intricate relief carvings adorn the side walls where followers walked around the temple gradually ascending the seven levels representing the stages of Buddhist enlightenment. Near the top, large bell-shaped stupas form a circular mandala and each houses a statue of Buddha. It was spectacular looking down where the mist and fog merged with the jungle that reached out the horizon where several volcanoes loomed. Still early in the morning, we aimed our bikes towards Merapi volcano and climbed upwards into the lush fertile hills where fruit and vegetables farms were planted on every conceivable metre of land and strawberry fields were forever.

That evening Johnny bailed back to the comforts of Bali and I was determined to push on upwards through Java. The next day I sat in my comfortable air-conditioned business-class train seat for the northwards journey, but because the car was located at the rear of the train, I did not see the sign for my expected station. As the train pulled away, I realized I missed my stop. I got off at the next station about an hour later, and crammed myself onto public transportation to backtrack my route. Four hours later, I had made friends with a few friendly Muslim women who were eager to practice their English, and wanted to share aspects of their life and family with a foreigner. Unfortunately my visa was expiring soon and I had to skip the cultural exchange, and I continued onwards to the small surfing town of Batu Karas.

Surfing Batu Karas
Batu Karas is possibly one of the best secret spots to learn how to surf. Long slow rolling waves gently fold over and when the ride is finished, you can walk up the beach to catch the next wave off the point break without having to waste all your energy paddling through the surf. Relaxed and laid back, the locals will often hold off catching a good wave themselves and will help you learn position and technique so that you can attempt to ride it into shore. Generally speaking, the surfer credo is to treat a new surfer like an asshole until they prove themselves a worthy surfer. In Indonesia, it seems you have to prove yourself to BE an asshole before they treat you like one.

I woke up early on the last of my 3 surfing days disappointed to see the rain pounding hard against the dark cloudy sky. After a few moments of wimpy deliberation, I threw away my excuses and paddled out alone into the water. The waves were mine, and my practice was paying off. I was finally becoming comfortable carving the long board slowly left and right, feeling the subtle balance point as I walked back and forth on the board in unsuccessful attempts to ‘hang ten’.


Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia. A few peaks poking through the mist of the Tengger Massif caldera.


Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia. Smoking Bromo.


Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia. Mists in the forests on the outer edge of the caldera.


Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia. Yeah, that's me.


Mount Bromo, Java, Indonesia. Looking down through the dust towards the temple in the middle of the caldera.


Borobudur Temple, Java, Indonesia. Silhouettes at sunrise and misty jungle in the background.


Borobudur Temple, Java, Indonesia. Silhouettes at sunrise and looming volcanoes on the horizon.


Borobudur Temple, Java, Indonesia. Each of these stupas houses a statue of Buddha.


Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia. Exciting intellectual nights in Yogya for Johnny and I.


Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia. Yogya's only form of excitement came when Johnny relieved the cyclo driver of his duties and pedaled through the streets with locals gawking and laughing at the absurdity of a sports-clothed booley goblock (stupid whitey) pedaling an old local around. Adding to our excitement, we were catapulted from our unstable contraption when we were rear-ended by an absent minded motorcyclist upon which we were strewn out all over the street. Injuries consisted of a little blood and scrapes, and some bruised egos!


Yogyakarta, Java, Indonesia. This strange vendor was selling dyed baby chicks. For what purpose, I am not exactly clear, but they certainly looked hilarious. Do you eat the red ones last?


Batu Karas, Java, Indonesia. The view from my room in Java Cove hotel, Batu Karas.