We arrived today in Bangkok. After changing our minds about a dozen times for a taxi to get us into town, the five of us eventually squeezed all our bags and ourselves into a single taxi when the driver insisted it could be done. He was right, though Waitefield ended up sitting half on my knee, half on my kidneys, and half on fEmily's lap. There were many halves.
We eventually made it into Khao San, backpacker mecca and all-round pleasant sleaze hole. We got out of the taxi next to a police car. A policeman immediately got out and started to berate our driver, apparently for packing his car to full of falang. We hoped the necessary bribe wouldn't cost him everything we'd just paid him, then set about looking for a hostel.
Khao San is packed tight with grossly overweight foreign sex tourists, young and good looking sex tourists, backpacker riffraff, and hundreds of local vendors. We got dinner for under two dollars each, and set about exploring. Tomorrow: the biggest market in SE Asia, with over 15,000 stalls and 200,000 visitors daily. HOORAY.
10 January, 2010
07 January, 2010
Fan of 7/11
Today we are in Krabi. Yesterday we were in Krabi. Tomorrow we will be in Krabi, but also Phuket.
fEm, Meartin and Leoni are off exploring the islands today, while Waitefield and I elected to remain behind. In her case, she is dying from some incurable sickness (the HIV?), and in mine, I need to conserve money, and also have many things to catch up on at home. Besides, it's raining fairly consistently.
At the moment, it seems like we're all hanging out until Bangkok, when we can buy lots of cheap shit. In the meantime, we have 'Cities of Gold', dubbed in Thai, to sustain us. As well as Major Lazer's 'Pon De Floor'. Will it be enough?
fEm, Meartin and Leoni are off exploring the islands today, while Waitefield and I elected to remain behind. In her case, she is dying from some incurable sickness (the HIV?), and in mine, I need to conserve money, and also have many things to catch up on at home. Besides, it's raining fairly consistently.
At the moment, it seems like we're all hanging out until Bangkok, when we can buy lots of cheap shit. In the meantime, we have 'Cities of Gold', dubbed in Thai, to sustain us. As well as Major Lazer's 'Pon De Floor'. Will it be enough?
01 January, 2010
Then as I got oldered I stopped?
There's a sort of mythos behind the full moon party. It was started sometime in the late eighties or early nineties, maybe to celebrate someone's birthday, maybe as a leaving party. Everyone had such a great time, they agreed to do it on the next full moon as well, and then it sort of became a regular thing.
In 2009, the full moon coincided with New Years eve, which is a pretty rare occurance. It was like combining two individually massive parties into one night-long glut of booze and sand and god knows what else.
The seven of us rode in the back of a ute down to the wharf in Ko Samui, in order to catch the ferry over to Ko Panang, where the party's held. Unfortunately, about a thousand other young tourists shared our idea, making the wharf a packed, heated scrum. Think mosh pit, without the music, or any kind of moving. Now and again, the crowd would surge forward and desperately try to board the next boat. We endured it for an hour. It was shit.
We finally got a boat over to the island, and the party was joined. We strolled through town on the way to the beach, picking up a bucket of booze each. They cost $8. Halfway through his first one, Martin demonstrated their potency by calling me a "cold, dirty rat bastard." By the end of the night, we'd had about three each.
When we finally made it to the beach, we were momentarily astounded. 60,000 people were milling around, dancing to some trance music, drinking. They spilled across the beach in a sea of skin and drank. Alcohol salespeople lined the beach, each with a name more vulgar than the last. "Rambo Says: Drink it, suck it, fuck it, Buy my fucking bucket" was a poetic favourite.
We were startled out of our shock as an iguana was put on Stefan's shoulder, and a polaroid taken. I managed to sneak into the background. A few miutes later, a small child was carried through the crowd on his father's shoulders, wearing an MTV t-shirt that lit up depending on the ambient sound level. Leon and I ran after the child, screaming loudly in order to activate the shirt. It was that kind of party.
New Years saw us covered in glowing paint, with Martin wearing oversized yellow neon glasses, and Waitefield trying to vomit in the sand (to no avail). The fireworks were impressive, and often detonated only a few metres over the sand. A few hours later, and we decided to head home. Or try to.
The piers where we had disembarked were packed full of thousands of tourists trying to get back to Ko Samui. Unlike the wharf in Ko Samui, these docks were flimsily hand-made of nailed wood. With nobody organising entry onto the boats that occasionally docked, it was chaos. Girls screamed and cried and vomited in the crush, people passed out, and drunk, macho guys used their elbows to try and get to the front of the pack. We took two hours to move about ten metres forward.
We finally made it back home at about 5:30am. A few of us stayed up for another hour or so, then we all headed to bed. It was one of the most eventful new years' I've had in years, even if it was spoiled a little at the start and end by the boat ride.
In 2009, the full moon coincided with New Years eve, which is a pretty rare occurance. It was like combining two individually massive parties into one night-long glut of booze and sand and god knows what else.
The seven of us rode in the back of a ute down to the wharf in Ko Samui, in order to catch the ferry over to Ko Panang, where the party's held. Unfortunately, about a thousand other young tourists shared our idea, making the wharf a packed, heated scrum. Think mosh pit, without the music, or any kind of moving. Now and again, the crowd would surge forward and desperately try to board the next boat. We endured it for an hour. It was shit.
We finally got a boat over to the island, and the party was joined. We strolled through town on the way to the beach, picking up a bucket of booze each. They cost $8. Halfway through his first one, Martin demonstrated their potency by calling me a "cold, dirty rat bastard." By the end of the night, we'd had about three each.
When we finally made it to the beach, we were momentarily astounded. 60,000 people were milling around, dancing to some trance music, drinking. They spilled across the beach in a sea of skin and drank. Alcohol salespeople lined the beach, each with a name more vulgar than the last. "Rambo Says: Drink it, suck it, fuck it, Buy my fucking bucket" was a poetic favourite.
We were startled out of our shock as an iguana was put on Stefan's shoulder, and a polaroid taken. I managed to sneak into the background. A few miutes later, a small child was carried through the crowd on his father's shoulders, wearing an MTV t-shirt that lit up depending on the ambient sound level. Leon and I ran after the child, screaming loudly in order to activate the shirt. It was that kind of party.
New Years saw us covered in glowing paint, with Martin wearing oversized yellow neon glasses, and Waitefield trying to vomit in the sand (to no avail). The fireworks were impressive, and often detonated only a few metres over the sand. A few hours later, and we decided to head home. Or try to.
The piers where we had disembarked were packed full of thousands of tourists trying to get back to Ko Samui. Unlike the wharf in Ko Samui, these docks were flimsily hand-made of nailed wood. With nobody organising entry onto the boats that occasionally docked, it was chaos. Girls screamed and cried and vomited in the crush, people passed out, and drunk, macho guys used their elbows to try and get to the front of the pack. We took two hours to move about ten metres forward.
We finally made it back home at about 5:30am. A few of us stayed up for another hour or so, then we all headed to bed. It was one of the most eventful new years' I've had in years, even if it was spoiled a little at the start and end by the boat ride.
30 December, 2009
Urgh
I've never been to a tropical island before, so I was pretty impressed with Ko Samui. Have you ever played the computer game Crysis? It looks amazingly similar, sans trans-dimensional aliens and North Koreans. The worst thing is that I hurt both of my feet quite badly by jumping off Angkor Wat, and have to sort of shuffle from place to place. I'm told it's quite amusing to watch.
Our bungalow is about twenty metres from the beach. The water's warm, it's invariably sunny, and the drinks are reasonably priced. A cocktail is about $4.50. Last night I drank a whole lot, then went for an evening swim with Leoni, then chatted drunkenly with some British tourists for an hour or two.
This morning I need to vomit, but so far haven't. Later, perhaps.
Our bungalow is about twenty metres from the beach. The water's warm, it's invariably sunny, and the drinks are reasonably priced. A cocktail is about $4.50. Last night I drank a whole lot, then went for an evening swim with Leoni, then chatted drunkenly with some British tourists for an hour or two.
This morning I need to vomit, but so far haven't. Later, perhaps.
25 December, 2009
A holiday in Cambodge
Christmas sees us above the restaurant of the hostel we're staying at, firing off quick emails to family and friends back home. We're in Siem Reap, the city just a few kilometres from Angkor Wat, and today being Christmas we plan to get hideously drank. Fuelling our alcoholism is the convenient dairy just up the street. Last night I went there and bought a bottle of "White Spirit" for ninety cents. AMAZING.
We got into Phnom Penh a couple of days ago, and were mildly surprised at how pleasant it was. We'd heard the stories of run-down streets and violence after dark, but in reality it was certainly no worse than many places in South East Asia we've been, and better than quite a few of them.
Out of the city, the landscape isn't how I imagined; rather than dense, wet jungle, it more resembles and African savannah, with huge low plains that go on for kilometres, broken only by the occasional tall tropical tree. The ground is dry and red, and dust coats the trees closest to the road, turning them a mottled green-white.
The Cambodians themselves are a fairly pleasant people - more outgoing certainly than the Vietnamese - and many more of them know English than in other SE Asian countries, which is convenient. Anyways, I'm gonna go get drunk now. HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS (if that's what you're into).
We got into Phnom Penh a couple of days ago, and were mildly surprised at how pleasant it was. We'd heard the stories of run-down streets and violence after dark, but in reality it was certainly no worse than many places in South East Asia we've been, and better than quite a few of them.
Out of the city, the landscape isn't how I imagined; rather than dense, wet jungle, it more resembles and African savannah, with huge low plains that go on for kilometres, broken only by the occasional tall tropical tree. The ground is dry and red, and dust coats the trees closest to the road, turning them a mottled green-white.
The Cambodians themselves are a fairly pleasant people - more outgoing certainly than the Vietnamese - and many more of them know English than in other SE Asian countries, which is convenient. Anyways, I'm gonna go get drunk now. HAVE A MERRY CHRISTMAS (if that's what you're into).
22 December, 2009
So lucky, lucky
Since Meartin and Waitefield have joined us, our journey has become - perhaps predictably - a little more ludicrous. The other day, for example, we were going through a pirated DVD store in Hoi An. As he searched enthusiastically through the Miley Cyrus back catalogue, Martin came across a DVD entitled 'Sunday School Musical'. We haven't yet been able to watch it, but every night we ask our hostel manager if the DVD machine is available to rent. It never is.
PHOTOS!:!:
It was almost a week ago we met Watefield and Meartin off the plane.
Our nights in Hoi An. At first we were happy to be there...
However, as our time in Hoi An progressed, so too did our sense of ennui.
Waitefield became addicted to beads, much to Martin's horror and eventual rage.
We even found a BeadBoy, who Waitefield eventually lured into her bed with promises of Hot Cat Lovin'. He was seven.
It rained somewhat heavily one afternoon, and the river almost flooded the bottom of town. The water here is about one centimetre lower than street level. Gasp!
And then we left to go to Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon. A beautiful place, full of statues of Uncle Ho in various stages of repose.
Mostly we get drank at night
Or try to.
During the day, I attempt to sell Waitefield into slavery for a ridiculously small amount of 'Dong', thus far to be met only with failure.
My alternative plans, to grind her into mince using old Viet Cong traps, then eat her, proceed apace.
The other night we were trying to find an anime-themed bar highly recommended by the Lonely Planet. It had unfortunately changed into a place that played house music and had $10 cocktails (outrageous!), so we went next door. Amazingly, it was a Christmas-themed Spanish restaurant, complete with a dozen young Vietnamese dressed in Santa costumes. So we took a photo. I wasn't happy about it.
The next evening we found a 'wild west' themed bar. Inside, it was playing a techno remix of Barack Obama's inaugeration speech. So we got a photo there, too.
Martin found a feline friend in a nearby cafe today. I postulate it is actually Waitefield in disguise. Though her likeness was indeed seated next to me, I believe this was nothing but a convincing simulacrum.
Tomorrow: Cambodia.
PHOTOS!:!:
It was almost a week ago we met Watefield and Meartin off the plane.
Our nights in Hoi An. At first we were happy to be there...
However, as our time in Hoi An progressed, so too did our sense of ennui.
Waitefield became addicted to beads, much to Martin's horror and eventual rage.
We even found a BeadBoy, who Waitefield eventually lured into her bed with promises of Hot Cat Lovin'. He was seven.
It rained somewhat heavily one afternoon, and the river almost flooded the bottom of town. The water here is about one centimetre lower than street level. Gasp!
And then we left to go to Ho Chi Minh City, formerly Saigon. A beautiful place, full of statues of Uncle Ho in various stages of repose.
Mostly we get drank at night
Or try to.
During the day, I attempt to sell Waitefield into slavery for a ridiculously small amount of 'Dong', thus far to be met only with failure.
My alternative plans, to grind her into mince using old Viet Cong traps, then eat her, proceed apace.
The other night we were trying to find an anime-themed bar highly recommended by the Lonely Planet. It had unfortunately changed into a place that played house music and had $10 cocktails (outrageous!), so we went next door. Amazingly, it was a Christmas-themed Spanish restaurant, complete with a dozen young Vietnamese dressed in Santa costumes. So we took a photo. I wasn't happy about it.
The next evening we found a 'wild west' themed bar. Inside, it was playing a techno remix of Barack Obama's inaugeration speech. So we got a photo there, too.
Martin found a feline friend in a nearby cafe today. I postulate it is actually Waitefield in disguise. Though her likeness was indeed seated next to me, I believe this was nothing but a convincing simulacrum.
Tomorrow: Cambodia.
20 December, 2009
Saigon
We spent almost a week in total in Hoi An, getting clothes made during the day, dranking in the evening. The dranks, to be fair, are very cheap. A Long Island Iced Tea costs on average NZ$5, so... yeah, we've been dranking a lot. Eventually we said goodbye to Hoi An, and caught a plane into Ho Chi Minh City - aka, Saigon - the biggest city in the country.
The people here seem nicer than up north, and the city - though bigger than Hanoi - is somewhat cleaner, and less congested by motorcycle traffic. This afternoon we went to the War Museum, a place displaying various relics from the American War, including graphic pictures of mutilated bodies, starving and tortured prisoners, and a lot of vaguely amusing communist propaganda.
Meartin brought some Peter F Hamilton novels to satiate my cravings, while Waitefield has Twilight to console her. That's right: Stephenie Meyer has hooks in Waitefield's brain, and I suspect a vampire foetus is developing in her womb as I type. Soon it will rupture forth, perhaps in the middle of a fine dinner, disturbing the entire restaurant. So I hope and pray daily.
Quote from Martin:
"What do you think they measure sharts in? Qwarts?" He looks over at Waitefield, who is drinking a Long Island Iced Tea. "Lizzie, you've still got at least half a qwart of drank left."
Cambodia is two days away!
The people here seem nicer than up north, and the city - though bigger than Hanoi - is somewhat cleaner, and less congested by motorcycle traffic. This afternoon we went to the War Museum, a place displaying various relics from the American War, including graphic pictures of mutilated bodies, starving and tortured prisoners, and a lot of vaguely amusing communist propaganda.
Meartin brought some Peter F Hamilton novels to satiate my cravings, while Waitefield has Twilight to console her. That's right: Stephenie Meyer has hooks in Waitefield's brain, and I suspect a vampire foetus is developing in her womb as I type. Soon it will rupture forth, perhaps in the middle of a fine dinner, disturbing the entire restaurant. So I hope and pray daily.
Quote from Martin:
"What do you think they measure sharts in? Qwarts?" He looks over at Waitefield, who is drinking a Long Island Iced Tea. "Lizzie, you've still got at least half a qwart of drank left."
Cambodia is two days away!
17 December, 2009
And I'm Feeling Good.
This afternoon I waited at Da Nang airport with a piece of paper reading "Mr. & Mrs. Waitefield," and a small picture of a cat saying "miaow." Soon after I began holding it aloft, Meartin and Waitefield walked through the arrival gate and met us.
A few long island iced teas later, we were caught up on news from home. Apparently Tyra Banks is big at the moment? Shrug. Tomorrow, Waitefield long to get dresses made for herself. Martin and I will find something else to do. Perhaps sleep. Or drink.
Two pairs of shoes and a coat is enough for any man, in Hoi An. Besides, 10,000 BC is playing on HBO.
A few long island iced teas later, we were caught up on news from home. Apparently Tyra Banks is big at the moment? Shrug. Tomorrow, Waitefield long to get dresses made for herself. Martin and I will find something else to do. Perhaps sleep. Or drink.
Two pairs of shoes and a coat is enough for any man, in Hoi An. Besides, 10,000 BC is playing on HBO.
12 December, 2009
Hanoi I love you, but you're bringing me down
Our introduction to Hanoi was not the most ingratiating; having booked a hostel and confirmed a pickup from the airport, our ride failed to show. We eventually caught a cab into town with a couple of Swedish girls, but had no sooner slowed down at a major intersection when a young, drunk Vietnamese youth came up to my window and started screaming in broken English.
"YOU BOOKED IN MY HOTEL? THERE NO ROOM NOW, YOU COME TO MY OTHER HOTEL."
Recoiling in horror, I realised this was the oldest scam in the book: saying the hostel that you booked was full without going inside it to check, then leading you to another one with no relation to the first. As it turned out, the Swedish girls DID have a booking at the first hostel, but were suckered into following him anyhow. So great was his vehemence when speaking, he actually ended up spitting in fEmily's face by mistake. Thank god for hepatitis immunizations, I guess.
fEmily and I followed the girls and their unreliable guide on foot, for the sole reason that we didn't have a place to stay, and needed to find one. It was now 6pm, and pitch dark. The streets of Hanoi were claustrophobic, filled with the honking and fumes of four million motorbikes and six million people.
We eventually found the fellow's hotel, named Omega. We got a cheap, well-furnished room, and were well pleased with ourselves. The scam continued, regrettably, downstairs, when the hotel manager - another young Vietnamese man - tried, subtly at first, to get us to go on any one of dozens of tours his hostel offered. After ten minutes of haranguing, we left to get dinner.
Hanoi is the busiest and dirtiest SE Asian city we've encountered, and though ostensibly under communist rule, you wouldn't know it form the people who line the streets. Anything's for sale, in either Vietnamese Dong or US Dollars, and everyone wants you to buy their shit. The only places we got rest were inside streetside clothing shops, where we were frequently told we were too big to fit in any of their clothes. A charming people.
Anyway. The next morning, after we were once again nagged by the manager dude to go on his stinking tour, we'd had enough, and booked out, having already found an alternative hostel to stay at. This one was run by Australians, and perhaps just to spit the first people in the face (as they had done to fEmily), we decided at once to use them to book a tour.
The tour was an overnight one, to Ha Long bay, 170km northeast of Hanoi. It was sort of like Milford Sound, only maybe a bit more polluted and foggy. We slept on a Junk-esque ship, and because I turned 23 that night, fEmily bought a bottle of Vietnamese vodka and we stayed up until it was drank. The others had gone to bed long before, tired of riddling one another difficult and obscure logic puzzles (a new party favourite!?). The vodka proved a mistake the next morning, when we remembered with alarm and (and fEmily with vomit) that hangovers are worse when coupled with seasickness.
And then back to Hanoi! Conclusions: meh. It's a big, stinking city, but it does house the desiccated corpse of Ho Chi Minh, the Temple of Literature, and the Hanoi Hilton (where McCain was imprisoned and tortured! I got a photo with his torn up flight suit), so it least it tries.
After Hanoi, we caught an overnight train to Hue, about halfway down Vietnam. Hue was more our style: smaller, less trafficy (by which we mean it has roughly Auckland traffic), slower, and more vegetarian. Apparently the whole city goes vego twice a month. Some buddhist thing. I care not for their reasons, because the food here is pretty excellent.
Today we woke up (slowly, for we had enjoyed a few dranks the night before; happy hour goes until 10pm here...) and went on a tour around several sites, including an enourmous Citadel and several expansive tombs. The communist propaganda is hilarious, though I regret that many of the citizens of Vietnam may not be aware how entirely misleading it is. Like the National Museum in Laos, everything shit happens because of the Colonialist French or the Imperialist Americans (and to a lesser extent, the Fascist Japanese and the Fascist Germans), and the country is continually redeemed by the communist government. Knowing a little something about Vietnamese history makes it more amusing than misleading, but my amusement becomes hollow when I consider that many locals may not even realise these exhibits aren't the absolute truth, let alone be able to discern the frequent small dishonesties.
It could be argued that it's a problem for all governments, not simply vaguely reppressive communist ones, but at least most Western nations allow individuals to express the full range of political and historical opinion, and thus start a dialogue to ascertain the most objective historical 'truth'. No such opportunity exists here, and it's a pity. Still, if the system works... ?
Tomorrow: Hoi An! On the 15th, we meet Meartin and Waitefield there, and they'd goddamn better have brought my Peter F. Hamilton novels with them or I'll have them denounced as foreign saboteurs and dragged screaming through the streets.
"YOU BOOKED IN MY HOTEL? THERE NO ROOM NOW, YOU COME TO MY OTHER HOTEL."
Recoiling in horror, I realised this was the oldest scam in the book: saying the hostel that you booked was full without going inside it to check, then leading you to another one with no relation to the first. As it turned out, the Swedish girls DID have a booking at the first hostel, but were suckered into following him anyhow. So great was his vehemence when speaking, he actually ended up spitting in fEmily's face by mistake. Thank god for hepatitis immunizations, I guess.
fEmily and I followed the girls and their unreliable guide on foot, for the sole reason that we didn't have a place to stay, and needed to find one. It was now 6pm, and pitch dark. The streets of Hanoi were claustrophobic, filled with the honking and fumes of four million motorbikes and six million people.
We eventually found the fellow's hotel, named Omega. We got a cheap, well-furnished room, and were well pleased with ourselves. The scam continued, regrettably, downstairs, when the hotel manager - another young Vietnamese man - tried, subtly at first, to get us to go on any one of dozens of tours his hostel offered. After ten minutes of haranguing, we left to get dinner.
Hanoi is the busiest and dirtiest SE Asian city we've encountered, and though ostensibly under communist rule, you wouldn't know it form the people who line the streets. Anything's for sale, in either Vietnamese Dong or US Dollars, and everyone wants you to buy their shit. The only places we got rest were inside streetside clothing shops, where we were frequently told we were too big to fit in any of their clothes. A charming people.
Anyway. The next morning, after we were once again nagged by the manager dude to go on his stinking tour, we'd had enough, and booked out, having already found an alternative hostel to stay at. This one was run by Australians, and perhaps just to spit the first people in the face (as they had done to fEmily), we decided at once to use them to book a tour.
The tour was an overnight one, to Ha Long bay, 170km northeast of Hanoi. It was sort of like Milford Sound, only maybe a bit more polluted and foggy. We slept on a Junk-esque ship, and because I turned 23 that night, fEmily bought a bottle of Vietnamese vodka and we stayed up until it was drank. The others had gone to bed long before, tired of riddling one another difficult and obscure logic puzzles (a new party favourite!?). The vodka proved a mistake the next morning, when we remembered with alarm and (and fEmily with vomit) that hangovers are worse when coupled with seasickness.
And then back to Hanoi! Conclusions: meh. It's a big, stinking city, but it does house the desiccated corpse of Ho Chi Minh, the Temple of Literature, and the Hanoi Hilton (where McCain was imprisoned and tortured! I got a photo with his torn up flight suit), so it least it tries.
After Hanoi, we caught an overnight train to Hue, about halfway down Vietnam. Hue was more our style: smaller, less trafficy (by which we mean it has roughly Auckland traffic), slower, and more vegetarian. Apparently the whole city goes vego twice a month. Some buddhist thing. I care not for their reasons, because the food here is pretty excellent.
Today we woke up (slowly, for we had enjoyed a few dranks the night before; happy hour goes until 10pm here...) and went on a tour around several sites, including an enourmous Citadel and several expansive tombs. The communist propaganda is hilarious, though I regret that many of the citizens of Vietnam may not be aware how entirely misleading it is. Like the National Museum in Laos, everything shit happens because of the Colonialist French or the Imperialist Americans (and to a lesser extent, the Fascist Japanese and the Fascist Germans), and the country is continually redeemed by the communist government. Knowing a little something about Vietnamese history makes it more amusing than misleading, but my amusement becomes hollow when I consider that many locals may not even realise these exhibits aren't the absolute truth, let alone be able to discern the frequent small dishonesties.
It could be argued that it's a problem for all governments, not simply vaguely reppressive communist ones, but at least most Western nations allow individuals to express the full range of political and historical opinion, and thus start a dialogue to ascertain the most objective historical 'truth'. No such opportunity exists here, and it's a pity. Still, if the system works... ?
Tomorrow: Hoi An! On the 15th, we meet Meartin and Waitefield there, and they'd goddamn better have brought my Peter F. Hamilton novels with them or I'll have them denounced as foreign saboteurs and dragged screaming through the streets.
moar fauxteaus
Here are some monks that fEmily managed to steal the souls of (via the Sony Corporation, all rights reserved)
fEmily FEEDS TEH ELEFANTS tEH PHOODS
I'm posing in front of a distant urbanscape. You will notice my ambiguous smirk is exactly that which I might wear while posing in front of an asian city of pure ethnic origins, yet late period French influence; it is a smirk I rarely get the chance to practice.
DID YOU KNOW: Sideways ph0tos are the best sort of photos? A rare truth.
DOG-WUT?: Part dog, part Wat. All awesome.
07 December, 2009
LAOS LAOS LAOS LAOS (A retrospective)
On our final night in Luang Prabang, the manager of the guesthouse we were staying at invited us to watch some soccer and drank some whisky with him and a couple of friends, in the foyer of the guesthouse. Being gracious (and drank-thirsty), we of course obliged.
They were watching some champions league game that fEm and I had no interest in, but I brought out the whisky we'd purchased on the Laos/Thailand border and started up a tasting. The Laotians professed to find our whisky, a normal-tasting western sort of blend, "too sweet". Their whisky looked more like kava and had bark and twigs in it, so I could see where they were coming from. Twice the small plastic bottle they were pouring from ran empty, spurring one of them to run off with it down the street, only to return moments later with it topped up again.
"How much does it cost to get a new one?" I asked.
They laughed. "You don't pay for Lao-lao!" Laotian moonshine: the neighbors make it, apparently.
Our host and one of his friends attending university in Luang Prabang, being our own ages, and studying English and Maths. Another, older, friend worked as a policeman. He was the one who kept running off down the road for more Lao-lao.
Eventually the game ended, and they switched to another channel (32 channels for only 1,000,000 kip per year!), this one playing terrible asian music videos. I didn't realise what was wrong with them until fEmily pointed out after the third one that they were all about women cheating on men, being caught, then begging to be forgiven, only to be denied by the strong male protagonist. The music quality was uniformly terrible.
Later, we switched to a news programme, featuring information about the upcoming South East Asian Games (Vientiane, from the 9th December). fEmily asked what they thought of Thai people. "They talk too much," our host declared.
A minute later, a Thai sportswoman appeared on TV. In response to a question, she began speaking at a rapid pace, Laotian subtitles struggling to keep up and sometimes six rows thick. I guess our friend was right.
Speaking generally, Laotians are more laid back than their Thai or Vietnamese cousins. Also speaking generally, although they're a small and relatively poor nation, their standard of living isn't particularly third-world. That's not to say it's Western: most of them have cold showers, and the scattered villages we passed had their share of naked kids and chickens running around. Possibly the most striking feature of the people, though, was that they seemed predominantly cheerful - happy, even. This is different from the culturally automatic smiles that they share with the Thais; it's more genuine, to a Western way of thinking.
Perhaps this is why fEmily and I both took mild exception to the vanloads of falang we had occasion to ride with during our 11-day stay in Laos. They talked of doing volunteering and charity work: all very laudable, if taken out of the context of the language they couched their philanthropism in. They saw Laos as a country that needed helping; Laotians as a people that need teaching (I'm not referring here to school teaching, which probably no country has entirely enough of, but rather to teaching about the 'proper' way to live your life: the western way); it seemed the white man's burden was not quite discarded with the turn of the twentieth century. So what if the very young kids were naked? They were happy, and had enough food in their stomachs. And so what if people in rural villages live in wooden huts on stilts? Every year the quality of life improves, new clinics open, and cable TV is only a satellite dish and a million kip away (every second hut had one). Travellers through New Zealand's own rural areas - specifically, the far North - will realise that there are people in western countries who lead objectively worse lives.
Laos! A vibrant people who aren't all out to rip you off, and where fewer starve in the street than in Auckland city. They know how to have a good time, and even if Stephen Bier wouldn't rate the ubiquitous Beer Lao highly (I sure as hell wouldn't), well, there's always the Lao whisky.
If you ever plan a trip through south east asia - and you probably should, before it becomes too Western in another decade or two - stop by Laos.
Laos: because it's probably worth it.
They were watching some champions league game that fEm and I had no interest in, but I brought out the whisky we'd purchased on the Laos/Thailand border and started up a tasting. The Laotians professed to find our whisky, a normal-tasting western sort of blend, "too sweet". Their whisky looked more like kava and had bark and twigs in it, so I could see where they were coming from. Twice the small plastic bottle they were pouring from ran empty, spurring one of them to run off with it down the street, only to return moments later with it topped up again.
"How much does it cost to get a new one?" I asked.
They laughed. "You don't pay for Lao-lao!" Laotian moonshine: the neighbors make it, apparently.
Our host and one of his friends attending university in Luang Prabang, being our own ages, and studying English and Maths. Another, older, friend worked as a policeman. He was the one who kept running off down the road for more Lao-lao.
Eventually the game ended, and they switched to another channel (32 channels for only 1,000,000 kip per year!), this one playing terrible asian music videos. I didn't realise what was wrong with them until fEmily pointed out after the third one that they were all about women cheating on men, being caught, then begging to be forgiven, only to be denied by the strong male protagonist. The music quality was uniformly terrible.
Later, we switched to a news programme, featuring information about the upcoming South East Asian Games (Vientiane, from the 9th December). fEmily asked what they thought of Thai people. "They talk too much," our host declared.
A minute later, a Thai sportswoman appeared on TV. In response to a question, she began speaking at a rapid pace, Laotian subtitles struggling to keep up and sometimes six rows thick. I guess our friend was right.
Speaking generally, Laotians are more laid back than their Thai or Vietnamese cousins. Also speaking generally, although they're a small and relatively poor nation, their standard of living isn't particularly third-world. That's not to say it's Western: most of them have cold showers, and the scattered villages we passed had their share of naked kids and chickens running around. Possibly the most striking feature of the people, though, was that they seemed predominantly cheerful - happy, even. This is different from the culturally automatic smiles that they share with the Thais; it's more genuine, to a Western way of thinking.
Perhaps this is why fEmily and I both took mild exception to the vanloads of falang we had occasion to ride with during our 11-day stay in Laos. They talked of doing volunteering and charity work: all very laudable, if taken out of the context of the language they couched their philanthropism in. They saw Laos as a country that needed helping; Laotians as a people that need teaching (I'm not referring here to school teaching, which probably no country has entirely enough of, but rather to teaching about the 'proper' way to live your life: the western way); it seemed the white man's burden was not quite discarded with the turn of the twentieth century. So what if the very young kids were naked? They were happy, and had enough food in their stomachs. And so what if people in rural villages live in wooden huts on stilts? Every year the quality of life improves, new clinics open, and cable TV is only a satellite dish and a million kip away (every second hut had one). Travellers through New Zealand's own rural areas - specifically, the far North - will realise that there are people in western countries who lead objectively worse lives.
Laos! A vibrant people who aren't all out to rip you off, and where fewer starve in the street than in Auckland city. They know how to have a good time, and even if Stephen Bier wouldn't rate the ubiquitous Beer Lao highly (I sure as hell wouldn't), well, there's always the Lao whisky.
If you ever plan a trip through south east asia - and you probably should, before it becomes too Western in another decade or two - stop by Laos.
Laos: because it's probably worth it.
04 December, 2009
It's a jungle out there
Here are some photos from our journey. They are arranged chronologically, with the earliest ones at the start. Notice how we begin to look increasingly tired and only ambiguously happy as you scroll down. A hilarious coincidence!
This is Emily looking tired outside Bangkok Airport (the third in my series of 'Emily looking tired at airports').
And then! And then we caught an overnight train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. You can tell it's Chiang Mai because I am standing near a sign that reads 'Chiang Mai'. HO HO HO! How we laughed at that.
The night markets in Chiang Mai were amazing, lit by a directionless ethereal glow. The ABBA was... unfortunate.
MUAY THAI 4 LYF. My favourite part was when they made the 10 year old children clobber each other. And then the women.
THEN! We caught a minivan further north to Chiang Kong, before crossing the Mekong river into Laos, then catching a slow boat for two days along its length.
The worst part of the slow boat ride was the halfway point: Pak Bang. Arriving in the dark, it took us only about ten minutes to find a terrible guest house. Truly, it was living in squalor, Laos-style. I'm expressing my distaste in this photo the only way I know how: mild displeasure.
ARG WE HAVE TO GO CATCH A PLANE TO HANOI NOW
KIA ORA
This is Emily looking tired outside Bangkok Airport (the third in my series of 'Emily looking tired at airports').
And then! And then we caught an overnight train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. You can tell it's Chiang Mai because I am standing near a sign that reads 'Chiang Mai'. HO HO HO! How we laughed at that.
The night markets in Chiang Mai were amazing, lit by a directionless ethereal glow. The ABBA was... unfortunate.
MUAY THAI 4 LYF. My favourite part was when they made the 10 year old children clobber each other. And then the women.
THEN! We caught a minivan further north to Chiang Kong, before crossing the Mekong river into Laos, then catching a slow boat for two days along its length.
The worst part of the slow boat ride was the halfway point: Pak Bang. Arriving in the dark, it took us only about ten minutes to find a terrible guest house. Truly, it was living in squalor, Laos-style. I'm expressing my distaste in this photo the only way I know how: mild displeasure.
ARG WE HAVE TO GO CATCH A PLANE TO HANOI NOW
KIA ORA
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