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Karmic relief

May 13, 2011

It’s easy to get Buddha fatigue in Southeast Asia. The temples become routine, the gilt gets old, and eventually even The Awakened One puts you to sleep.

Sukhothai is the cure.

Once the capital of the Siam empire, the ancient kingdom is often overlooked by travelers in a rush to get from Bangkok to Chiang Mai.

I had some time to kill before a friend was scheduled to arrive in Bangkok, so I penciled in a couple days in the city known as the “Dawn of Happiness.” I didn’t do any research about the place. I had no expectations. I just rolled into town, checked into a cheap hostel and rented some wheels.

Check out my sweet ride.

With a poorly photocopied map in hand, I put my mettle to the pedal and rode directly into the thick, warm sock of Thai humidity. Though Sukhothai is home to more than 190 temples, my first stop was Big-Ass Buddha. (Not the official name.)

I still can’t say what attracted me to this particular Buddha. I just knew I had to see it. And I had to get there before busloads of tourists arrived.

I got lucky. When I parked my bike, nobody else was there.

It was silent.

I’m not ashamed to say I cried as I approached the statue.

Have you ever seen something so powerful in its beauty, it’s like you’ve never opened your eyes before? That was this Buddha.

I spent about a half hour there in silence. Then a truckload of Germans arrived, and I pulled my bike off the rack, turned around and moved on — fulfilled.

Border patrol

May 10, 2011

The overland border between Thailand and Cambodia is legendary among travelers. Not because of the landmines that still line the region. Not because of the deadly border conflict that has flared up over disputed territory. But because the scams here are as plentiful as noodles.

I had read all the blogs and horror stories. I knew what I was supposed to do:

1. Take the bus from Bangkok to Aranyaprathet, the Thai border town.

2. At the bus stop, get a taxi or tuk-tuk to the border.

3. Go through immigration.

4. Take a taxi or bus to Siem Reap.

Sounds simple enough, right? Wrong. At the “Scambodia” border crossing, everything is not what it seems.

My friend and I boarded a nice, air-conditioned bus departing from Bangkok. After about an hour, the bus stopped. We were shepherded onto another, far crappier vehicle.

The bus dropped us off several kilometers from the border, forcing us into hiring a tuk-tuk. Instead of immigration, he brought us to a diner. “This is where you fill out papers,” he said. We shook our heads no and refused to get out of the vehicle.

I said we want to go to the border. No more stops. Just the border.

The driver brought us to a Cambodian embassy building. It didn’t feel right — I’ve never been to a border crossing yet where you get the visa for the next country before exiting the first country — but the driver insisted this was the way. The building looked official, with a tall fence, guard post and the big gold seal of Cambodia.

Inside two men were playing chess.

They said a visa would cost $40. I pointed out that the visa is actually $20. One man shrugged and said, “Well, you’ll have to go to the border for THAT visa.” I wanted to scream, “So where the eff am I?”

He never looked up from the chessboard.

Back inside the tuk-tuk, the driver finally took my friend and I to the border. There was one line. Then another line. One form. Then another form. One stamp. Then another stamp.

We made it to Cambodia!

But the fun didn’t stop there. All tourists are taken by the government-run bus to a travel depot where the buses and taxis are double the price. This is really the only option for transportation, other than hitching a ride in a dusty pickup on a long, bone-jarring road.

When my friend and I arrived at 3 p.m., all the buses were conveniently gone for the day. Only expensive taxis remained, and we were forced into paying $15 each for a ride to Siem Reap.

In the big scheme of things, we didn’t part with too much money. It’s just exhausting and annoying to have so many people rip you off over and over again. Experiences like this make me grumpy, combative and distrustful — the exact opposite of the kind of traveler I try to be. It’s even more infuriating when the government(s) know this is happening and don’t do anything to stop it.

The biggest loss was our time. All of this sucked 12 hours out of our day, when it should have taken just six or seven.

Maybe this is how the border war started.

Humble Pai

May 2, 2011

There are 762 curves on the road between Chiang Mai and Pai.

I know this because seemingly everything in Pai proclaims that fact. Journals, T-shirts, postcards and other miscellaneous items boast squiggles and the number “762.”

: More curves than Marilyn Monroe.

I had taken this road, and these souvenirs were pushed upon me as a badge of honor. Like, “I survived the bus. Yay.”

In fact, many souvenirs were foisted upon me in Pai, because the Thai town is one big gift shop. Everything is a bad pun or a slogan with signs that say “Pai love you” and “Pai feel good.” There are businesses called Ins-PAI-ration and Pai in the Sky. Endless stalls of T-shirts say, “Pai is colorful.” “Pai is great.” “No war in Pai.”

: “Pai feel good.” Get it?

: The Aloha state?

: Robot mail cat loves Pai.

I’ve never seen a town so in love with itself.

I tried to love Pai too. It was everything I should have wanted in a town. Artists. Musicians. Adorable graffiti. Lush landscape. Fire pits. All-night parties. Pink banks. Big breakfasts. Chill vibe.

: Pai is love.

: Yes, I am extremely Ting Tong.

: Eric Clapton crossing.

: In my ideal world, all financial institutions are pink.

: I wanna poo!

: Cute.

: Note the “hippies smell” sticker.

But I wasn’t having any of it.

For one thing, many things in Pai have crossed the line into too easy-going. Example: I found a yoga studio online, checked their class schedule and showed up only to find a locked door and dark windows. A dude in a nearby hut offered an explanation. “Yeah, so the yoga lady went south, right? And nobody knows when she’ll be back. Maybe … wait. What year is it?”

Trekking, tours and other activity were fairly nonexistent this time of year. I met a guy who had been in Pai for a month, and I asked him what he did every day. He said, “To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I don’t even remember waking up today.”

My first guesthouse had worms in the mattress. The second one acted as if guests were an inconvenience.

The hippies wore “hippies smell” T-shirts in an attempt to be ironic hippies, which is probably the worst kind of hippie of all. The hair salon didn’t just make dreadlocks, they fixed them. Some coffeeshops only opened at night. I barely even saw any Thai people, which is bizarre when you’re still in Thailand.

: For those of you with janky dreads.

: Pluck the armpit? Ow.

The whole place was like that weird fifth pocket on your jeans. You know that somebody somewhere has a use for it, but you can’t possibly figure out why.

I hate to be one of those pretentious travelers who says, “That place was great 30 years ago, before tourists ruined it.” But I think Pai was probably pretty great 30 years ago. And then tourists ruined it.

I tried so hard to embrace the experience, but the place rang false and hollow. I felt like it was all overpriced patchwork pants and cheap mojitos. Commercialism and laziness. Surface and no substance.

Or, to put it in Pai terms: All gorgeous glass bongs and shitty weed.

Me talk pretty

May 1, 2011

As I travel, I tend to make the (usually wrong) assumption that all white people speak English.

That’s precisely how I found myself tangled in an awkward moment with a French woman on the bus. I blurted out a few questions, trying to engage her in conversation. She shrugged and smiled.

She only knew a few English words. I speak ~~high school~~ preschool French. We didn’t have much to say beyond hello. I dove deep into my brain for every possible French thing I could muster and emerged with “Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” and the les poissons song from “The Little Mermaid,” neither of which were appropriate.

There was no way to continue this conversation. Instead I attempted to bury my head in a Kindle, which is très difficile.

After we arrived in Bangkok and unloaded our luggage, the woman approached me.

GIGI (I am making up this name): Please. I do not speak English. Guesthouse?

ME: I no stay guesthouse.

GIGI: Merci. I stay with you.

And suddenly, we were crammed into a tuk-tuk together.

Normally I wouldn’t mind being accompanied by a fellow traveler, but I wasn’t heading to a hostel or guesthouse. I had a friend from home meeting me in Bangkok, and we reserved a nice hotel for a few nights. I knew this place was beyond the typical backpacker budget, but I had no clue how to express that to my new French friend.

Instead we had a patchwork of pleasantries, sewn together with scrappy bits of each language.

GIGI: Hmmm. Where do you from?

ME: America. How long do you travel?

GIGI: Vietnam. (Long pause.) My English is unhappy.

ME: My French is very sick.

And then because I couldn’t think of anything else to say, I busted out the only other phrase I know en Francais.

ME: I would like to buy some socks today.

She nodded.

GIGI: D’accord.

When we arrived at the hotel, Gigi nodded her approval. It was slick and fancy, with a modern lounge that frightens you into standing up and keeping your hands to yourself. The walls were brushed metal and spotless glass. The chairs were somehow lit from within. A bellboy handed me a blue cocktail.

The receptionist asked if I needed an additional bed in my room to accommodate Gigi, and the French lady looked at me expectantly. As much as I wanted to help her out, it wasn’t my place. I would hate for my friend to fly halfway around the world, walk into her hotel room and find a stranger there — especially since my friend booked the room.

I did my best to explain.

ME: Mi amiga — er, mon ami is coming ici.

GIGI: (French words, French words, French words).

ME: I’m sorry.

GIGI: Oui. No good. I go.

Before she left, I held out my blue cocktail. That gesture needed no translation. She downed it with a grin, then disappeared into the elevator.