IT’S SEPTEMBER?!?!

Holy SHIT guys, it’s September?!?! TIMEEE!!!

I haven’t updated in a very long time because there is a post I absolutely need to write but have been struggling to articulate. I haven’t posted about anything else yet because I need to write it first, but I’m making an exception for today.

Today, September 2nd, is my 8 month anniversary of my world travels. 8 MONTHS! THAT’S NUTS! TIMEEE! I would try to write a meaningful reflection of how I’ve grown and learned from traveling and how profound of an experience this journey has been, but sweet baby Jesus, I’m too fucking hungover to do anything like that right now. I found out from my CouchSurfing host that I tumbled off a motorbike last night and wiped out while walking to my house. I have absolutely no recollection of this nor did I find any bruises or scratches this morning. I did, however, find that my fingers smelled like bolognese when I woke up this morning covered in masala peanuts.

Despite all that I’ve seen, experienced, felt, smelt, learned, grown and become in the past 8 months, some things will never change: I will still get into stupid shit and somehow survive, sometimes covered in food. Amen to that.

First week of India

I may not be in the best state to blog right now because I’m distinctly hungover, but even if I wasn’t, I’m not sure I can really piece together what’s happened in my first week in India. It feels like a lot has happened, but maybe nothing has. I’m going to write it out and see.

If a good start leads to a good time, then I will have a baller time in India. Even the very beginning was auspicious. For the hour-long flight from Colombo to Chennai, they gave FREE BEER!!! What airline does that anymore?! And a chicken sandwich! Thanks, Jet Airways! There were some snags at the airport, which is just what happens when you’re traveling with only $11 in Sri Lankan and Thai currency and no phone, but I made it to my CouchSurfing host eventually with the assistance of an exceptionally kind man – a wholly pleasant surprise after hearing some unsavory things about Indian men. My hosts in Chennai were a young couple of star-crossed lovers that were effortlessly cool and accommodating, and we got along famously, I think. At least famously enough for me to be invited to their friend’s Indian wedding in Jaipur – more on that later. Chennai is a dirty and crowded city, but I felt at home because it’s very much like Queens, except there are slightly more Indian people.

I have had absolutely shit luck with trains in India so far. It’s muddled in bureaucratic bullshit and they’re almost always full. You have to book them far in advance, and that’s just not how I roll. I ended up taking a bus from Chennai to Goa, and that took 20 hours. People kept thinking I was insane for taking the bus for that distance, but it really wasn’t bad. Air-conditioned semi-sleeper, outlets at every seat, mostly driving through the night – it was fine. I arrived to a very rainy Goa. Monsoon season ain’t no joke.

It is said that every state in India is like a different country, and the difference between Chennai and Goa is massive. I’ve also heard that Goa is unlike the rest of India, though. The Portuguese colonization and being a giant tourist destination in general makes Goa the most “European” place in India (read: it’s relatively expensive and Christian and you can wear shorts without scandalizing too many people).  I’m not sure what most people do when they come to Goa. I think it’s beaches, but again, monsoon season, so what to do?

Honestly, I have no idea what to do. I don’t really know why I’m even in Goa. Or India. Three months back, I impulsively bought an Indian visa to visit a friend I met while CouchSurfing in State College. He was doing an Asia trip as well, and I was going to meet up with him, but that plan kind of shat the bed and then shat the bed more when he got viral meningitis and went back to Boston. I asked if there were any jobs in Goa, and he put me in touch with an art curator friend of his who was looking for “creative people with skills.” I sent him my CV and he invited me to Goa. For three months, I had no idea what was waiting for me in Goa. I thought I was going to help set up a museum for Mario de Miranda, a famous cartoonist from India. I edited the grammar for one of his books of illustrations. There was mention of marketing copyrights (??). There were odd emails and lots of pictures of horses sent to me. I wasn’t sure what I was getting myself into, but I hopped on the bus anyway.

Now that I’m here, I’m even less sure of what the hell I’m doing or supposed to be doing or expected to be doing. I’ve somehow landed myself in the company of…India’s wealthy elite??? I have no idea how true this is. Art curator keeps telling me about influential people he knows and how much money his collection is worth, which is…odd. It’s only been three days, but I think he’s the kind of man who’s obsessed with power, status and wealth. Usually, when people talk a lot about themselves and their influence and share anecdotes about their greatness, I think they’re just bullshitting. But then he puts me in touch with friends around the country who hang out with prime ministers and arrange for me to dine with journalists and gallery owners. We go to bars and country clubs and oodles of people come up to him to say hi, shake his hand, etc etc. Last night, after going to this casino boat where everyone knows him, we ended up back at my apartment, eating steaks and wild boar and drinking single malt whiskeys and bottles of champagne and Portuguese wine with a guy from Calcutta with a PhD in economics from LSE and a B.S. in physics from Oxford. These dudes blow $200,000 on blackjack on a night regularly. Really, what the fuck is going on? WHAT AM I DOING HERE?! Why do I keep ending up in places where I have to wear nice shoes that I don’t own? This is such a drastic change from my hobo backpacking, and I’m not making the transition too smoothly.

And this apartment. Holy fucking shit. I had no idea what 850 square feet meant, but now I do, and this is an apartment that I do not deserve. It’s in the center of Panjim, marble flooring, 40-inch flatscreen in the bedroom, bitchin’ sound system in the bedroom, three balconies overlooking the park, two bathrooms, new computer, WiFi, Portuguese designer furniture, a fridge that was stocked with wine, beer, and ice cream (emphasis on “was;” I found four empty bottles of wine all around the apartment this morning – classy). WHAT IS GOING ON?!?! WHAT AM I DOING HERE?!? How do I get to live here indefinitely for free?!? I feel ill at ease because I don’t understand why I’m here. Life cannot be this good without a price. I just want to know what it is!

Anyway. I’m leaving Goa for a while. I’m going to that Indian wedding in Jaipur and winging it. I’ve got a bus to Mumbai in three hours, and that’s about 12 hours of travel. Then…I have no idea what happens. I’m trying to get a train from Mumbai to Jaipur, but Indian Railways is the bane of my existence. I’m hoping there are tickets left for the foreigner quota. Hopefully, I’ll get to Jaipur by sometime on Sunday. The mehndi ceremony (henna!) is Monday, and I think that’d be quite neat to attend. The ceremony and reception are Tuesday and Wednesday, so I will almost definitely be there for that. I’ve been stressing about what to wear because all I have are functional clothes for backpacking in Thailand, which means I have tattered rags that are informal and/or immodest. Tentatively, through the awesomeness of CouchSurfing, I may have access to a saree shop where I can borrow sarees, and I’ll pick up lots of ridiculous bangles in the markets of Jaipur. After that, I can go to ANOTHER Indian wedding in Pune which I got invited to through CouchSurfing, but I may just stick around Jaipur for a few extra days because it’s purportedly beautiful and amazing (and extremely hot). At some point, I’m supposed to go back to Mumbai and check out some art galleries and then make my way back to Goa where hopefully I’ll have something to do that can make me feel more at ease about my unmerited lavish living situation.

These are the past and future travels on a map. 2,635 kilometers, or 1,637 miles, in a week. Cheese Louise.

Sri Lanka Summary

I’m about to board a plane to Chennai, India with $18 to my name and just a vague outline of a plan of action for the ensuing three days. There should be CouchSurfing, a 20-hour bus ride across the country, and a 850 square foot apartment in Goa, but nothing is definite quite yet, and what happens after those three days is almost completely unknown. Bring it on, India.

I’ve been trying to decide how my three weeks in Sri Lanka have been. People ask, “How’s Sri Lanka?” and I have no conviction in my answer. There are concrete events that happened that are definitely bad and may have a lingering bitterness. My camera broke, my debit card is in some ATM on the east coast, and a few more incidents of definite sexual harassment occurred (though none quite so traumatic as the first), thus exacerbating my hatred and distrust of men. There were long, dusty bus rides and rainy walks and nerve-racking driving that weren’t the best either. Nevertheless, I can’t say I had a bad time in Sri Lanka, which must say something about this country.

In Haputale, we hiked to World’s End in Horton Plains and soaked in some great mountain sights. In Kandy, I enjoyed home-cooked Sri Lankan food cooked by my CouchSurfing host’s mother, and I had fiery conversations with a modern dancer from Montreal about terrible men, the Occupy movements, and poutine. In Trincomalee, I stayed at a Tamil couple’s guesthouse that was wrecked by the war, but they were building it back again slowly and tenaciously with big hearts, gigantic meals, and THE CUTEST MONTH-OLD PUPPY EVER THAT NIBBLED AND PLAYED AND FOLLOWED ME EVERYWHERE AND WAITED AT MY DOOR IN THE MORNING!!!! I scuba dived and explored the Irrakkandy and Pulmudai ship wrecks and got to swim with a giant sea turtle. I made pals with my rasta bro scuba divemasters who shared their coconut whiskey and mediocre weed, drove me and my luggage all around between guesthouses and failed bus departures, and then let me dive for free the next day. In Sigiriya, I climbed Lion Rock and monastery built on top of a mountain, ate some ayurvedic ganja, and then played volleyball with 20 Sri Lankan dudes next to Sigiriya Lake and in the shadow of Lion Rock – definitely the most baller set-up for a volleyball court ever. For the few hours I was in Jaffna, I saw an impressive puja at a huge kovil and ate the sweetest mango ever. And now, I’m back in Colombo and have spent the past 2 days vegging, gorging, watching movies and sharing laughs with an absolutely delightful gal, not to mention her equally lovely friends, who could single-handedly uphold Sri Lanka’s reputation against any combination of terrible men and unfortunate luck.

So, there is good and there is bad. The bad occasions are potent and notable, but I can’t focus on them. I just have to remember the hot butter cuttlefish, the smiling toothless men in lungis, the glasses of ginger beer and arrack, and the black pork curry I still have to try one day. I’ll have to make it back here and earn that conviction about Sri Lanka’s awesomeness.

Last pictures for a while:

World’s End at Horton Plains

End of the World Party

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Misty Hill Country sunset

 

Tea plantation

Kandyan fire eater

Botanical garden

Creepin’ on some botanical romance

Tilted trees at the botanical gardens

 

Sri Lan-cock: A Snag in Solo Female Travel

It’s been a week in Sri Lanka, and it is remarkably different from Thailand or anywhere else I’ve been. I’ll have a more general post about that and some brighter details of my travels later on. For now, I’ve been dwelling on some unsavory thoughts and want to get them off my chest.

I’ve been staying in Colombo with the sister of a wonderful and talented friend from Pitt, and she has been nothing short of a spectacular host and sunburst of joy. This weekend was a long weekend because of poya, a monthly holiday celebrating the full moon, so she and a friend of hers and I went to Haputale, a quaint town in the hill county. The trains were sold out, so we took a 3:30AM bus out of Colombo on Saturday morning. The night before, a few friends came over and we lounged, chatted, and ate ice cream. One of the discussions was about gross things that can happen on crowded buses in Sri Lanka. Stories about having men rub up against girls, legs being spread unreasonably wide on seats, penises being whipped out and played with, and general commentary on the sexual repression in Sri Lankan culture were swapped. I just listened, made the proper “GROSS” exclamations when necessary, and spooned ice cream into my mouth.

I’m pretty good about sleeping on buses, and there isn’t much else to do on a 3:30AM bus. The nature of the seating and our baggage meant that the two girls sat in a 3-seater bench with their baggage between them while I sat in a cramped double-seater in fetal position with my bags beneath me. I had started dozing when I heard the girls shout my name and ask if I was okay. It would have been weird that they asked, but there was a man sitting across the aisle from me, leaning in and staring very intensely at me. He didn’t stop staring when I turned back, and when he got off the bus to return to the station, he stood directly under my window and continued staring at me. The girls said that he might be waiting for the bus to fill up more and then sit next to me. They said they were going to keep an eye on me in case anything weird happens.

The bus fills up more, and a Sri Lankan guy signals if he can sit next to me. I oblige. I don’t know what happened to Crazy Eyes, but the bus starts moving, I still have my personal space, and I fall asleep. I wake up intermittently because dude has moved significantly closer and is pressing his leg against mine, his arm into me, and he doesn’t move when I nudge him with my knuckles. When I look over, the aisle is packed with people, dude is asleep, and the bus is hugging curves mercilessly, so I think maybe this is natural. He feels weirdly warm and fleshy despite wearing trousers, and I try to see just how much of my personal space he’s occupying, but I’m too tired and it’s too dark for me to make any real judgements.

When it’s too light outside to continue sleeping, I was dazing about, still squished up against the window and this dude. It dawns on me how uncomfortable my position is, and I get more uncomfortable about how close he is. I understand cramped public transport, but this is just ridiculous. I look down at our thighs for the first time in daylight to examine the space situation, and that’s when I noticed his penis. It was out in full glory, albeit mostly hidden underneath his bag on his lap, but it was definitely out of his pants and pointed in my general direction. HIS FUCKING PENIS, GUYS. Easily the most horrifying thing to wake up to on a bus. HIS PENIS. I don’t know how I do it, but I curl up into an even smaller ball, press myself against the wall, stick my arm out the window to make more space. And I think he realizes that I know his dick is out and eventually tucks it completely under his bag and continues to pretend to sleep. I look back at my friends – they’re smiling, saying good morning, savoring the Hill Country – and I’m not sure how to communicate my situation. I wrangle out my phone and text, “I JUST REALIZED THIS MAN NEXT TO ME HAS HIS PENIS OUT AND I HAVE NO IDEA FOR HOW LONG.” Jaws drop, I’m summoned to squeeze in to their three seats, and we start moving all of my shit from my tainted corner across the aisle. When it comes for the big bag under the seat, I tell dude “Hey, can you move?” He shifts his legs over, bag still firmly over his floppy dick. “No, I need you to move. Get up.” What to do now, PERVERT? I wanted him to drop the bag, tuck his dick in, and run off the bus, but he kept the bag secure over his crotch and let me out of the sexual abuse seat. The girls and I talk very loudly about him, how disgusted I am, how he must be fucking insane, how sexually repressed Sri Lanka is, how horrifying this all is, etc. He did curl his penis back up and eventually got off the bus, even though we had been sitting at the same stop for about 10 minutes.

I want this to be a funny story. I mean, it is. It’s RIDICULOUS. WHO DOES THAT?! WHO DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN TO?! And we did laugh about it for hours later because what is there to do after something like that happens except laugh about it? With more time, I’m struggling to find more humor than disconcertion about it. This was a freak incident (I hope), but it fits in with the general landscape of how I’ve been treated in Sri Lanka by men so far. I get stared at – a lot. I don’t know whether it’s because I’m Chinese, wearing shorts or pretty, and it’s not like I can discern that unless the men come up to me and growl “pretty lady” as I’m passing by or stop their tuk-tuks and do the exact same thing. This happens perhaps 1 out of 60 times I get stared at by men, and the rest of the time it’s just being devoured by eyes. The same thing happened in Central America, but I was less uncomfortable about it because they were at least vocal about it as well. They hissed, made kissy noises, and shouted their “chinita bonitas,” but here, they don’t make their intentions clear. They hide it. They just stare, like Crazy Eyes, or pretend they’re sleeping and the bus is just rocking them into me.

On the bus ride back to Colombo today, two different men sat next to me, and both pressed up against me again. I can’t tell if the spread of their legs or the space they had in their seat was normal or not, and that’s the guise they hide behind. I baited the first one by receding closer to the wall, and when there was no space left and he still incrementally moved closer, I “woke him up” twice and asked him to move. He barely moved both times and went straight back to leaning into me shortly thereafter while he pretended to sleep. I announced the situation loudly to my friends across the aisle, and then he moved a little more “in his sleep.” It was enough room for me to stick my book between our legs, and then he got the hint, maybe, because his arm was still flush against mine (was this just a matter of space or was he actively manufacturing this situation?). I kept the book up against the next guy, and I receded whenever our arms were touching, and receded more when his arm kept moving closer. He finally moved to another seat for the rest of the ride without ever saying a word to me or looking at me.

I don’t know if I’m just reading the wrong things into these situations because my first bus ride ever featured a guy surreptitiously rubbing his dick all over my thigh while I was asleep (SERIOUSLY, WHO DOES THIS?!?!? WHO EVEN CONSIDERS THIS?!?!?). I don’t want to make a big deal or accuse dudes of acting ignobly when they might not be. But that’s the whole fucking ploy! They assume ladies won’t say anything, so they can get away with this subtle and cowardly sexual violation. However, I assume there must be some men who are not fucking terrible and can help me out when I’m in a pickle or really just want to have a conversation. My favorite part of traveling (besides food) is meeting people, but how can you discern good men from nefarious ones when they all act the same? Do I just assume every man is a pig? Do I refuse help from everyone? Do I ignore everyone? What’s the distinction between precaution and paranoia?

Tomorrow, I start traveling alone again. I’m genuinely nervous and a little scared, and this is the first time I’ve felt this kind of anxiety. I was a little uneasy at the beginning of Central America because I was told I would be raped, killed and drug trafficked by many Costa Ricans, but I always managed to find other backpackers to travel with until I got over the fears born from hearsay. Now, with my own consistently terrible experiences, I’m setting off in a country not designed for backpackers, during the off-season, at that. I’m also not doing the usual tourist route because I want to go scuba diving in the east and then up north, both locations being erstwhile Tamil Tiger country. It’ll to be harder to find someone to rely on if/when I’m getting harassed. I’m going to have to grow some balls, put on long pants, and plaster on my don’t-fuck-with-me face because this misogyny is bullshit and I’m not letting it bring down my travels. And yes, misogyny is a loaded word that I’m reluctant to use because blah blah cultural relativity wa-wa, but I don’t care. Pressing your dick into my thigh while I’m asleep is not a cultural thing. It’s fucking unacceptable anywhere.

Final note: I know this makes me sound like I’m shitting on Sri Lanka. I’m not. I’ve had a great (albeit EXPENSIVE) time so far, and the country is beautiful (albeit VERY HOT). I’m looking forward to my next two weeks of delicious food, ancient sites, and diving around shipwrecks. I just can’t stop thinking about how shitty men can be, here or anywhere, and it’s bringing me down. I’ll just have to rock these next two weeks to make up for some unfortunate situations.

23 and on the move again

To the surprise of everyone, myself included, I’ve survived my 23rd* year. To all my friends, you’re welcome. To all my foes, try harder. I’m looking at right at you, mosquitos. That nasty bout of dengue fever last week was a solid attempt, but I’m not letting you bloodsuckers bring me down. That said, I must recommend to everyone to avoid getting dengue fever. It’s a brutal headache, gnawing body aches, and your eyes feel like they’re being twisted in a vice grip. It might not have even been dengue – a pediatrician staying at the resort said it could have just been some nonspecific viral infection – but I wasn’t paying any hospital fees to find out for sure. So long as I didn’t end up with a purple body rash, I was just going to remain in bed, chugging water and bemoaning consciousness. Also, a word from the now-older and slightly-wiser Barbara: get travel insurance before you go on a trip. Shit is balls to work out when you’re already abroad, if you can even do it.

On lighter notes, I had a lovely birthday despite being on the recovery from dengue. It was incidentally my last day at work, and my employers brought out an adorable Pooh Bear cake while I was designing logos for them. I got my hair hacked off by a devil-may-care Thai woman with scissors, and she washed my eyebrows (??) and got all up in my ears with her soapy fingers (DID NOT ENJOY THIS PART). I ended up in an international motorbike gang from my resort when I got back and we grilled meat Thai BBQ style. They got me surprise birthday muffins with 23 candles, a postcard of Samui and a big bottle of beer. Cutesy!

I spent two days in Koh Phagnan on a secluded beach called Haad Yuan, and the only way to get there is a 200 baht taxi boat from Haad Rin (Full Moon Party beach, which I went to, by the way. It was everything I expected – overrated, filled with drunk Australians in neon, and tastelessly hedonistic – but still an all right time). Getting off the taxi boat, I fell and dunked my daypack into the ocean. Good thing I got that protection plan for the Nook because it is notttt turning on anymore. What will I read for the next few weeks?!?! Judging by the bookshops I’ve seen, the only books people read when traveling are trashy romance novels or Dan Brown. Whyyyyyyy.

I stayed in Eden’s Garden, a secluded bar with bungalows, beach views, and blacklights, and I danced and drank and debauched myself into a day of hangover hammocking on Sunday. I went from reading Richard Feynman in that hammock to drinking on a boat in the middle of the ocean with three Thai fishermen that night. Why not. I caught six fish and an eel! They had a whole food set-up going and made an appetizer of lime-garlic-chili fish/squid (one guy reached overboard, snatched up a fish, carved it up, and threw it into this sauce he mortar-and-pestled together – pretty fucking cool) and squid soup with squid they just caught. They didn’t speak much English. I’m not sure how I ended up on that boat, but hey, free dinner and beer.

Now, I’m on Koh Tao at a fancy-pantsy resort learning to scuba dive. We’ve been watching cheesy videos from the 90s, learning diving theory, and practicing in a pool. In an hour, we go out to sea for two 12-meter dives, and by Friday, I should be certified to dive up to 18 meters. It’s whale shark season here – the biggest fish in the world, apparently – so hopefully I can see one in my silly scuba gear. I’ll be schlepping back up to Bangkok this weekend to catch a flight to Sri Lanka on Monday morning, and I’ll be prancing around there for about three weeks. Still not entirely sure what I’ll be doing there, but there will hopefully be diving, hiking, checking out some ancient villages, and eating lots of delicious food. Until then, I’m eating all the Thai food I can and drinking as many coconut shakes as I can handle before I leave Thailand indefinitely.

Pictures!

Ladies and gentleman, Ko Samui’s loveliest drag queen

I lied – THESE are Samui’s loveliest drag queens

Don’t mind me, I’m just taking my buffalo for a casual stroll on the beach.

Blah blah another amazing sunset

Help! I’ve been abducted by Thai fishermen, and they won’t stop feeding me beer and seafood!

Night fishing (for prostitutes)

Booty examination. Not lookin’ too hot but smelling fishy.

Dengue Fever?!

There are two mosquito-born diseases that everyone tells you to look out for. Malaria is the big one being that it wrecks entire continents, has a host of campaigns armed with mosquito nets working on preventing it, and was a proper concern of mine when I thought I was Guatemalarial. The other disease is dengue fever. It’s known as breakbone fever because the joint and muscle pains make you feel like your bones are cracking. There are also the headaches, the rashes and the fever to make it an altogether unpleasant experience.

There are two other folks on the same marketing gig as me. Both are from the UK, and both have discovered today that they have dengue fever. The gal has been feeling like rubbish since the weekend and suspected that it might be dengue – pain behind the eyes, body aches, headaches – but she hoped against hope that it was something else. Too much cola and cigarettes? Or maybe it was that pool that turned everyone’s skin and nails an unsettling shade of green? She finally decided to go to the Bangkok Hospital today, and it was confirmed: dengue.

My roommate, a tall and skinny fellow, sleeps early and has been rather cold at night when I feel that the heat is unbearable. He’s a straight-laced 19-year old and says that he always wears a scarf in England, even during summer, so it didn’t seem too weird. He started feeling like shit earlier this week and attributed his headache to dehydration and heat exhaustion. Today, he broke out in a full-body rash at work and left for the hospital about half an hour after the other girl went. He fainted when they took a blood test. The diagnosis was dengue as well.

This is feeling like a zombie mosquito marketing apocalypse. It’s curious – I’m that girl that gets bitten by all the mosquitos (my legs look pretty gruesome), and I have an awful immune system on top of that, but I’ve dodged it so far? Dengue has an incubation period of 3-14 days, so I very well might have dengue as well, but I might not be able to tell anyway. Rashes are a part of an atopic eczema life, I’m constantly sweating balls anyway, and I’m usually feeling off because of sleep deprivation. There’s no treatment for dengue since it’s a virus, so you just have to ride it out. As of now, I’m going to keep slathering myself with DEET and hope that I don’t have Jungle Fever – at least the bad kind, IF YA KNOW WHAT I MEAN.

(I was going to link to “Jungle Fever” by the Chakachas and make it more appropriate, but then I listened to it, and it’s actually completely inappropriate on multiple levels.)

Anyway. Here are some more visual slices of paradise.

Window to the sea (Lamai)

I finally went to the beach down the street from my resort this week. I don’t know why I hadn’t stopped by earlier – it’s pretty awesome. We’re entering into rainy season, and it has mostly led to really spectacular cloud formations and truly amazing lightning storms at night. What’s odd is that it hasn’t rained on us yet – we manage to catch lucky patches of clear sky while surrounded by lofty, electrified clouds. The moon behind it highlights the the height, as do the back-to-back bolts. The thunder is immediate and earth-shaking, so we know we’re close to the eye of the storm, but we’ve been dry and sitting underneath a patchwork of stars. It’s really, really, really beautiful.

The start of a curious cloud formation over Koh Phagnan from the beach down the road

My inaugural week in Koh Samui

It’s been a full week in Koh Samui, and the ridiculous sunburn I got on the ferry ride over from the mainland is already well into its molting stage (it’s a RIDICULOUS tan-line; my favorite is the Band-Aid tan on my knee – very charming). Days are sunny and nights are filled with markets, spectacular lightning storms, and Game of Thrones with my roommate (what an absurdly sensationalist show).

My marketing job has been going all right. So far, I’ve edited a website about Budapest tourism; rewritten all the product descriptions for a board game vendor; and have written an article about Nicaragua, a page for engineering tools sold by an auto tools website, three articles about top honeymoon destinations, and blog posts about selecting the right graphic designer, pop up stands and aluminium refrigerant tubes. If anyone has any suggestions about top honeymoon destinations, I’m writing a top 10 list and am at a loss. The work is…well, I’m glad I’m working with words and all, but I don’t think that I want to do internet marketing if this is what it’s all about.

What this job has made me realize with newfound clarity is how much of the internet is comprised of bullshit. I didn’t even know what a pop up stand was, and an hour later, I produced a blog post outlining how to design the best one to use at a trade show. It’s not that these are for really reputable and legitimate sites, but these posts are written for SEO (search engine optimization), so the goal is for someone to Google a specific term, find their way to the website, and buy whatever product I’m writing about or something. Why should anyone trust me? I know absolutely nothing and am only regurgitating all of the information from other lists I’ve found online. Then again, why shouldn’t anyone trust me? No one knows who wrote that article,  it’s on the Internet and consistent with all the other information on the topic on the Internet – must be true! This job requires the confluence of skills I’ve acquired through academia, journalism and TeleFact. In short, I’m still a bullshit artist.

But don’t get me wrong – this is a kickass gig. I work from 8AM to 1PM, starting with a breakfast and finishing with lunch, both meals prepared by the wife of this jolly English couple. My office is their veranda surrounded by tropical foliage, and after work, I take a dip in their pool, eat my lunch, and head back to the resort I’m staying at down the street. They give us a dinner stipend, and on Fridays, our boss buys cases of beer and we have a jolly time splashing in the pool and complaining about problems in the UK (as the token American of the group, this is not something on which I have much to contribute).

I rented a motorbike for a month, and it was initially SCARY AS SHIT. I did a practice run on my roommate’s bike before taking the plunge, and I drove it straight into a bush and got stuck in a pile of palm leaves. These bikes are heavy; no one ever tells you how heavy a motorbike is. It’s really easy to learn, though, and I’ve been enjoying long rides through the island with headphones (over the helmet so I can still hear everything, of course). I don’t know if people can hear me belting Lady Gaga as I zip past, but I just have to sing louder then.

Pictures!

FYI: the Garden of Eden is tucked away in Chiang Mai

The resident Adam and Eve (also known as Bill and Barb; also known as the MOST BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE EVER)

Found a secluded stretch of beach. This means helmet photo shoot, obviously.

My badass whip.

Sunset in Ban Nathon

Sunset at Ban Nathon + boat + fucking around with white balance

Miscellany:
– The entire time I was writing this, a little bird has been hurtling itself against my window. Poor lil guy.
– This website makes me miss New York: Humans of New York.
– This website is just outrageous and hilarious: Miss Travel. (Of course I made a profile.)

Back to Bangkok

Just got into Bangkok and have found myself another swankpad. So much love to CouchSurfing. Dudebro left the key with the guard and Post-It notes all over his condo with directions because I was getting in at 2AM. This apartment smells like gravy – take that as you will.

I’m not sure I got a huge feel for Chiang Mai during my week there. I got that it’s smaller than Bangkok and maintains a small-town feel. I didn’t get much of a chance to explore due to the wallet-being-stolen bit. Also, the entire town was taken over by SONGKRAN. Shit is RIDICULOUS. I’ve never experienced anything quite like it. I knew it’d be thousands of people throwing water at each other, be it through buckets of water from the moat surrounding Chiang Mai or cheap waterguns aimed at the money spots (read: eyes), but you don’t really get it until you are the singular target of eight different Thai people with three-gallon buckets + a truck filled with people with a barrel of ice water. It’s a trip. After hearing much grumbling from expats about how excessive and annoying Songkran is, it was heartening to see so many people having wholesome fun. Might have helped that many people were also soaked in alcohol, but it definitely helped that they were also giving it away liberally.

One unfortunate thing: that moat water is nasty. Even though it’s (allegedly) pumped with chlorine before Songkran, it’s still a disconcerting shade of brown-green and you know people pee in it. Yeah, people are swimming in it and get thrown in and there hasn’t been a cholera epidemic, but other people probably have immune systems whereas I don’t. One small cut from my eczema has now turned into a very, very, very swollen, oozy, disgusting finger on my right hand. Bathing it in iodine didn’t stop it from going Quasimodo on me. I’m popping antibiotics (as you do in Asia) and cleaning and wrapping the finger compulsively. Fingers crossed that I won’t need it amputated (PUN?!?).

Even with the infection and lack of funding, Chiang Mai was a baller time. Songkran’s a real treat, and I’m glad I was in Chiang Mai for it. My CouchSurfing host was one of my best yet – real charming Kiwi, exceedingly generous, and our interests and humor just clicked. Also, of course, moustache. We made lots of bread, and I had never seen a loaf of my challah disappear so quickly. I hung out with a Pitt kid I met while on questionable substances, and it was really awesome to be able to jizz all over movies, pine for Primanti’s and talk about politics with someone informed. Got some good views on a motorbike, putzed around a lovely waterfall, and chowed down on some khao soi.

Generally, Chiang Mai gave me a break from my misanthropic tendencies. The transience and repetition of traveler relationships is getting to me. The pangs of homesickness and nostalgia are growing more frequent and fierce. It’s not even really New York I miss; it’s Pittsburgh. I miss Flagstaff Hill, bike rides through Schenley and the North Side, house parties in basements on Bates, drunk assholes on Atwood and in Lawrenceville. And it’s not that I miss college so much. I just miss having a gaggle of friends to be stupid with. Hang-a-langing with my host and Pitt dude was a welcome intermission from the shallow conversations I find myself engaged in with everyone else these days.

I have a buttload of errands to run in the next two days before I start my job in Koh Samui. I’m excited about settling for even a month and being able to work on something consistently. I’m a big fan of novelty and change, but constant novelty and change gets boring after a while too.

Miss you guys.

Earthquake? What earthquake? Wait, where’s my wallet?

Soooo, there was an earthquake off of the Sumatra Coast? 8.7, you say? That’s pretty big. I think I was napping?

Even I wasn’t unconscious, there was little chance I would have felt it anyway. I’m in northern Thailand right now, and that’s a ways away from the Sumatra Coast. Also, because the earthquake was caused by tectonic plates shifting side-by-side at a strike-slip fault instead of one moving underneath/over the other, the chances of a tsunami are decreased. I think many South East Asian nations have lifted the tsunami warning already. I’m still clear of natural disasters. Not really every disaster, though.

I did not die in Vang Vieng, but I did not do anything else either. It was maybe a confluence of events that led to my idleness: a remote and practically empty guesthouse, my disinclination to deal with drunk Australian bros with TERRIBLE TRIBAL TATTOOS, generally feeling out of place and like a pariah. It resulted in idle time spent reading, taking long walks, eating French bread and drinking coconut shakes. Yes, there was hedonistic tubing and endless episodes of Friends and Family Guy playing at every bar and every restaurant (extremely silly and equally awful), but I was reluctant to get drunk with assholes, at least if I didn’t have someone else to make fun of them with. I did go explore four caves, which were gigantic and independently neat, but in comparison to the water caving in Semuc Champey, Guatemala, I was underwhelmed. I’m not sure what I expected from my time in Vang Vieng.

What I didn’t expect was to get my wallet stolen. I’d been through some murder capitals with some of the most dangerous gangs in the world, and nothing was ever stolen. But Laos? Really? It’s not really that surprising if you think about it because when you stick a bunch of tourists in a poor area and give them buckets of alcohol, it’s a pretty easy target for enterprising petty thieves. I certainly should have been more careful – I kept my bag underneath my hammock instead of in it with me – but it still sucks. I liked that wallet a lot. I thought I was so smart for getting a wallet made out of a NYC subway map because if someone was going through my bag, they’d think “Psh, this is just a map!” and leave it alone. Now I know that’s not a foolproof plan.

I didn’t lose a whole lot of cash, but I did lose a Thai SIM card, my debit card, and the emergency credit card that got me through Central America. I’m getting a debit card mailed to me, but who knows when that will arrive since there was a Royal Funeral of some sort, an earthquake of some sort, and it’s Thai New Year. The credit card was blocked, which subsequently blocked my parents’ cards, and they are currently vacationing in China. That was easily the worst part about losing the wallet – dicking my parents over on their vacation while I’m on a trip they don’t approve of instead of law school. Really sorry once again, guys.

I’m in Chiang Mai now, a city in northern Thailand. I ate some weird squid tonight, so I’m feeling a little ill, but I must recover for Songkran! Thai New Year! There will be water fights all throughout the country, but it gets particularly ridiculous in Chiang Mai, allegedly. I wanted to get a Super Soaker and fashion a water-balloon bandolier, but I’m coasting on $45 until I get my debit card. Gonna have to settle with a bucket of moat water.

I’m CouchSurfing with a photographer from New Zealand with the GREATEST MOUSTACHE EVER.

LOOK AT IT. DO YOU SEE THIS?!

He just got a new toy – a Nikon D800 – and he’s been giddy about it all day long. His first shoot is likely to be Songkran, and a fellow CouchSurfer and I are going to be models for his shoot. Basically, we’ll just be throwing water on each other and having fun while Moustachioed Man Ray documents this in 32 megapixels per shot. If anyone else is in Chiang Mai and wants some professional snapshots done during Songkran, let me know. You just need to sign model release forms so that they can be sold on stock photo websites (FINALLY, MY CLAIM TO FAME!). Check out his work.

Depending on when I get my debit card, I’m going to find my way back down to Bangkok after Songkran. They stamped my passport incorrectly at the Thai border, so I’m going to have to make a pitstop at immigration at some point, and I anticipate that taking forever since all the expats will be trying to extend their visas or what not at the same time due to offices being closed during Songkran. Afterwards, I’m no longer heading to Koh Tao, scuba diving paradise, for a month. My job moved to Koh Samui, and I’ll be living here for a month for free while doing marketing work – cha ching!

Random pictures:

"Beer and Egg Shampoo" - I didn't buy it, and it's a regret I live with every day.

Exotic (read: furry) fried rice

The bike of a French troubadour. Notice the soy sauce in the water bottle holder.

Outside of Cave Hoi in Vang Vieng

Also outside of Cave Hoi

Vang Vieng - wait, there's more than just drunk tubing??

Vientiane – this is the biggest city in Laos??

If Vientiane is the largest city in Laos, I am interested to see how the rest of Laos will look. The capital has been described as “sleepy,” but I would just call it “almost negligible.” Long-term expats have told me that Vientiane has boomed in at least the past seven years. There used to be 4 high-profile banks; now there are 15! Cars are driving recklessly fast and dangerously close to motorbikes! There can be traffic delays of up to ten minutes!

Vientiane has been quite different from Bangkok, but I’m still mostly chilling. I didn’t make it to the Thai embassy in time on Friday to apply for my visa, so I applied for one today. In the interim, I’ve been hanging around my CouchSurfing host’s house, where I have my own bedroom, a king-sized bed, and a bathroom with a (fickle) hot shower. There has been a LOT of drinking with teachers at the international school, various employees of various NGOs, and random Laotian women. People drink a LOT in Lao. My host has been joking about how I’m only awake for 3 hours at a time during the day for a grand total of 6 hours, and the entire time is spent drinking. This is not too far from the truth, I’ll admit. But everyone is drinking all the time! It’s absurd (and great).

Two nights ago, we went out for ghetto poutine at a bar (the Patrick Special, Patrick being my host), and we met a group of dreadlocked French folks playing guitar and wearing diaper pants. We invited them over to sit and have a beer. That turned into inviting them to Patrick’s house to sleep for the week. Turns out they’ve been traveling by bike for two and a half years, starting with a boat trip from Spain to Argentina. They biked all the way up to San Francisco, and I’m not sure how they made it to Laos, but here they are! And they’re circus performers! We held a BBQ in their honor, and they put on a show for us last night. Kebabs and fish were skewered by Laotian women, juggling clubs and acrobats were thrown in the air by French men, and beer and weed were consumed by all. It was a lovely time, minus getting some Lao chili sauce in my eye. Shit is SPICYYYYYY. The burning in my mouth was already making me cry – it was a pain I don’t think I’ve ever experienced – but then getting chili in my eye? Fuckkkk me.

Tomorrow, if I get my passport back, I’m going to start heading up to Vang Vieng, a disgustingly hedonistic tourist hotspot. About 8 tourists die a year or something like that, but that’s what happens when you combine party bros, cheap Beer Lao, drugs, tubing, and shallow rocks. I was thinking about hitchhiking up, but everyone’s told me that Lao people wouldn’t understand the concept of a woman traveling by herself or why I’m standing at the side of the road with my thumb out. The temptation is still there. Point is, I’ll try not to die in Vang Vieng, guys. In fact, I won’t die, so don’t worry!