Leaving Bangkok's Visa Purgatory

Elaine: Mr. Peterman, you can't leave.

J. Peterman: I've already left, Elaine. I'm in Burma.

Elaine: Burma?

J. Peterman: You most likely know it as Myanmar, but it will always be Burma to me. Bonne chance, Elaine. (to a passerby) You there on the motorbike! Sell me one of your melons! (runs after him)

-Seinfield - The Foundation, Episode #135, Season Eight

It is very American of me, I suppose, to first hear of obscure SE Asian countries through television shows. Myanmar, previously known as Burma, gives many people the slip due to its name being changed in the late 80's. You can go there? Don't they have an oppressive military regime? Yes and Yes.

The government makes much of its money through tourism as they own many hotels, one of four air companies, the train system and some ferries. For the traveler to Myanmar, there is always the question of whether or not to visit. Some argue that you are supporting a communist regime that oppresses a nation, while others argue it is good to have a foreign presence to bear witness to the country and its situation. I have chosen the latter and will be doing my best to avoid all government run stores, hotels and transportation.

I am also breaking my vow of overland travel. It is possible to take a ferry into Southern Myanmar, but I would likely have to take government ferries to Yangon as the roads in the south are closed to foreigners Regardless, I must fly out of Myanmar, as there are no border crossings with Bangladesh or India, my next destinations

So, as oppressive military regimes go, the Internet is heavily censored. I am excited to see how it compares with China and I am going to try a few circumvention techniques for the hell of it. Don't be worried if you don't hear from me for a while. If it has been 28 days, then get worried

I am told that stepping off the plane in Myanmar is like stepping 50 years into the past. I like to think of it as the Cuba of SE Asia. I also read that Myanmar is one of the few countries where a foreign visitor is still a traveler, not a tourist.

So, I am off once more after ten days of enjoying Bangkok's delicious street food, roaring tuk-tuks and the general friendliness of the Thai people.

Twenty hours and Six Means of Conveyance: Part Two

The driver clasped his hands over his head as if he was about to pray. With his palms still touching, he brought them to his chest, squatted to the ground and then stood with a big smile. I fished out a dollar to give him while my bag was passed down.

I climbed into the back of a tuk-tuk and joined two older woman. The elder of the two smiled, giving me a close look at her lips, gums and upper teeth stained scarlet from betel nut. She pointed beneath my seat after I sat down. There was a pillow case filled with something squirming. When we dropped the woman off, I saw her put the bag on a scale. While it was trying to be balanced, the knot came loose sending slimy black river eels across the pavement. I was relieved to know the horrid smell in the tuk-tuk was not from me.

After another stop, I arrived at the hostel and was told that I had 20 minutes to go to the ticket office and return here in order to wait for the bus. I jogged to the office and hustled back with enough spare time to take an abbreviated shower in a sink. I caught my reflection in the mirror, it was the first time I had seen myself in a week.

We climbed aboard the bus and were on our way to the Thai border. As we shuffled through immigration, I witnessed, perhaps the most moronic traveler, present two passports to immigration. He was Israeli and wanted to switch to his French passport in order to travel into Malaysia (Malaysia is one of many Muslim countries that Israeli citizens or anyone with a Israeli stamp in their passport are prohibited from visiting). He was immediately detained by immigration, delaying our bus and our chances of reaching the train in Ubon Ratchathani.

As they unloaded his bag from the bus and gave it to a very worried girlfriend, the Israeli came running from the immigration office and bounded into the bus. He gave us an apologetic smile, though I could only think of that lovely yiddish word--schumck.

We reached Ubon Ratchathani with 45 minutes to spare. We made our way to a tuk-tuk who we found to be drunk halfway through the ride. The laugh of a drunk is unmistakable and his blubbery chuckle gave him away. He swung the steering wheel to and fro, sending us side to side. One of the girls I was traveling with told me she used to work in a penitentiary and explained how to debilitate him by pressing a certain spot below the ear. My hand lurched forward but I pulled it back after seeing a sign to the rail station.

At the ticket office, an employee had the duty(which I am sure he took pleasure in) of informing me that all the sleeper tickets were sold through. No worries, I thought to myself, until he explained that first class and second class seats were also sold through. "Third Class?" I asked. "Standing room only," he replied and I swear I saw the corners of his mouth inch upwards ever so slightly. This is, after all, the land of smiles.

Wanting to keep my promise of reaching to Bangkok in 20 hours, I convinced the other three that it wouldn't be that bad, though I would have gone by myself if they refused. If we boarded right away, we could get the few seats, by the toilets, they reserve for standees. They reluctantly said yes but I think the stingy backpacker in us couldn't pass up the 200 baht ticket ($5.81)

The first two hours were great. I was playing with, some might say traumatizing, the children. It was immediately clear that some had not been this close to a farong and they weren't sure how to behave. I would stick out my tongue or cross my eyes when their mothers were not looking. Some returned the gesture while others buried their faces into the seat. I offered them candy, like any good stranger should. My inner child was coming out. Having the advantage of being the strange farong, a perpetual goof, the parents just shrugged their shoulders, happy to have their children entertained for a bit.

Toting sweating buckets of beverages, hawkers would walk down the aisle every few minutes screaming their wares. A can of Chang, the local beer that boasts a head spinning 6.2% alcohol content, caught my eye and negotiations ensued. He had just sold a can for 45 baht to one of the Dutch girls and was insistent on charging the same price. He didn't know that I live in China.

We haggled, I shot up fingers, he shook his head no. Both of our voices raised until we were the spectacle of the cabin. I was talking nonsense as I knew he didn't understand me but he stood his ground and raised his voice to a frightening level. We were both beaming smiles as the haggling continued. Is this farang really going to get a cheaper price, the locals must have been thinking. I wasn't winning, but I would try one last trick.

I picked up the can and halved it with my hand. Pointing to the bottom of the can, I thumbed towards me. The top of the can, I indicated with my finger, goes to him. Laughter burst in the cabin, and finally, he accepted my lower price. With a straw, he took a long sip from the beer and then gave the rest to me. Afterwards, every time he passed, I would steal a can of beer. Once he got a few steps ahead I would shout at him, and he would turn around to see what the farang had stolen.

Heads dropped and necks snapped them back before hitting the floor. We were all dead tired. If you did not have a seat against the wall it was impossible to sleep. Children were sprawled on rice bags with their parents feet propped above. My sleep came in minute long fits before I too was jolted awake by my falling body. The only thing that easily fell asleep was my ass. Every thirty minutes or so, I would muster the courage to sit forward, sending liters of blood back into my haunches. I winced with pain. Had I not been so tired, I would have howled.

The glow of morning was a welcome relief, as it signaled we were only an hour away from downtown Bangkok. Parents shook their children awake and packed their belongings. Pulling into the station, I felt relief. I knew very shortly, I would be laying on a dorm bed, collecting my many hours of missed sleep.

Twenty hours and Six Means of Conveyance: Part One

Bangkok, the city of guilty pleasures...as I write, I sip a 32oz 7-Eleven Slurpee.

Leaving Don Det was not easy, nor was getting to Bangkok before Monday. Leaving Don Det at 11:00 Friday morning, my aim was to visit Champasak 20km south of Pakse, cross the Lao-Thai border the following day and take an overnight train, arriving in Bangkok with enough time to submit my Chinese visa application Monday morning.

Me and another passenger were the only to disembark from the bus at Champasak. Daniel, a Canadian with an insatiable appetite for both marijuana and bananas (in that order), had just finished teaching English to Japanese 5-year-olds and was traveling SE Asia on a shoestring. He had the look of either an eccentric writer or the classic backpacker--prescription aviators, a stretched collared white undershirt and shin length cargo shorts. His hair hung in long curling strands and his gait was as relaxed as his attitude.


We took a ferry across to Champasak and checked into a local Guesthouse and decided to wait until the early morning to see the Wat Phou ruins. We had lunch and few Lao Cocktails, honey and mint mixed with the local tipple. It's not the tastiest cocktail I have ever had, but at 50 cents a piece, there is not much room to complain.


The small town was preparing for the Dragon Boat Races set to begin on Monday and we ran into a group of oarsmen at a local temple. They were playing local instruments during a break from building their dragon boat. They were as amused with us as much as we were with them. Daniel's harmonica was a hit and several traded instruments to have a go with his harmonica.


The following morning, we rose at 06:00, ate breakfast and cycled 9km to the temple. Our bikes were single speeds, one pink and one red. Written on the frames were Turbo Princess (pink) and Turbo Charming (red). I was stuck with the princess. The rear rack was padded and I found it more comfortable to ride the bicycle like a Big-Wheel and sit on the rear seat.

We were the first to the ruins and were told to pay a 40,000 kip overtime entry fee. We had arrived at 7:53 and realized if we waited seven minutes, we would pay the standard 30,000 kip fee. The difference was enough for two bottles of Beer Lao, so we opted to wait. Arriving early put us ahead of package tourists and other backpackers, we separated and walked alone through the ruins.

Cycling back, a local child wanted to race us. As he passed, he slapped us in the back, initiating the start. Daniel and I took off in pursuit. The Turbo Princess couldn't take the increase of speed and decided to throw its chain. Without my bike tools, it took me, a local and a piece of bamboo to pry the chain from the frame.

I said goodbye to Daniel and he bid me farewell, offering a banana for the trip. I hoisted my bag and started walking to the boat landing. A tuk-tuk driver stopped me and drove me the final 2k to the ferry. After crossing the Mekong, a local offered me a ride to Pakse on his motorbike. I considered it but decided against it. Riding a motorbike with a backpack is not fun.

A barge carrying several trucks arrived as I began walking to Route 13 to hitch. I waved down a banana truck exiting the ferry and they told me to hop in. I hurled my bag into the bed, took off my sandals and sat on a raised floor of bamboo with four locals. As we drove, the scent of bananas and the roar of plastic bags in the wind overwhelmed us.

Before leaving Beijing, someone asked me, "Why? Why do you travel?" This question came to mind as I squinted into the wind. I stood up and put my hands on the top of the cab to keep my balance. I couldn't explain it then, nor could I explain now. But this is part of the answer. A moment like this is what I seek in travel. This keeps me on the road.

To be continued...

No Electricity, No Internet, No Problems

Don Det, one of the Laos's 4,000 river islands, boasts utter peace and tranquility. As my guide book mentioned:

"Just when you thought your blood pressure could drop any further, you reach Si Phan Don (4,000 Islands)...you will be so chilled that you will likely become a hammock-bound icicle."

Two hours of minivan followed by a 15 minute motorized canoe ride, brought me to this island of tranquility. As we approached, I saw several bungalows, with foreigners hanging from the hammocks, all with carefree expressions. I quickly adopted the same expression.

There is a timeless air about Don Det.  The absence of electricity, having to order food hours in advance, and the roaming farm animals give a captivating charm that would bewitch me for six days. 

After walking around half of the island, I came across Sunset Bungalows.  I was seduced by the breeze of the Mekong and the hammock hanging from the riverfront porch. 

I stayed long enough to establish a routine:

09:00-10:30 - Rise from my bungalow which is without electricity and has only a bed, crude shelves and a mosquito net.  I walk ten meters to the owner's simple restaurant for rice pudding with bananas accompanied by a cup of Lao coffee.

11:15 - 14:15 Read from my bungalow's hammock. As my bungalow is on the west side of the island, the afternoon sun hits my porch at about 14:15 every day, which burns half of my body if I delay in moving.

14:15-16:15 Enjoy a lunch of fried noodles. The portions are small, but it is for the best, as I am certain I burn only 500 calories/day. I enjoy a few more chapters in the shade of the restaurant and journal a bit.

16:15-18:30 Other people from the island trickle into the restaurant to watch the sunset.  

18:30-22:00 Generators switch on around 18:30 and will shut off around 22:00.  We sip Beer Lao beneath a florescent light and listen to some one's iPod plugged into a simple sound system. I socialize with other travelers from around the globe and pick their brain if they have been somewhere I want to go.  There are very few Americans (I ran into two others besides myself), but a surprising abundance of Swedes.

22:00- Generators are switched off and the island is dark and quiet. Candles continue our conversations a half an hour longer, but soon everyone is ready for bed and fall asleep knowing exactly what tomorrow will have in store. 

Embracing the Embarrassment in Southern Laos

Nestled at a bar along a bend in the Mekong, I sip Beer Lao while watching boats poling along the murky Mekong. This is the capital?

Soft breezes bring the sounds and smells of the riverbank to the table. The rustling river grass and the caws of river birds are just loud enough to drown the occasional putter of passing motorbikes. Robin, a Swedish tattoo artist, and I break the solitude by comparing Vientiane to Stockholm and Washington DC.

Vientiane, pronounced Wieng Chan, translates to the Sandalwood City. There are plenty of white faces around, mostly NGO and Embassy workers and travelers...like me. I had been warned by several people in Vang Viene that Vientiane was very boring and not to waste any time there. If they thought Vang Viene was a traveler's paradise, I could waste no time in getting to Vientiane.

They were not kidding. There is really not much to do other than visit temples and markets. The markets are full of cheap Chinese goods I have become accustomed to see any any market from Turkmenistan to Japan, from Siberia to Jakarta. But, I must say, it is always a treat to find a Chinese person that runs the stall, especially when your travel buddy doesn't know you speak Mandarin. I don't know who is more surprised, the shop owner or the friend.

My big plan for Vientiane was to visit the National Museum. I always enjoy going to National museums in small countries as it shows what they want foreigners to know about their history, culture and beliefs. The museum was easy enough to find but I was greeted by closed cast iron gates with a laminate sign reading:

Apologized museum closed, Improving the exhibition room 6/8/2008 - 15/9/2008*

*The 9 (day-month-year, for my American readers) was penned into a 10. Laos philosophy: Why fix it in a month when you can take two?

That evening, I boarded an overnight sleeper bus to Pakse, which is where I am writing from now. Different from Chinese sleeper buses, each bed sleeps two people and there are two rows instead of three. The size? Imagine a twin bed with two feet removed from the bottom.

I put my things on my bed and watched in nervous horror as each passenger boarded. I crossed my fingers that none would put their belongings in my bed. Old women, old men, and younger greasier looking men kept climbing in. The only way to pass the time is with humor. I joked with myself that if an old woman took the spot, I could always say I slept with a 65 year old woman in Laos.

To my utter delight, no one bunked up with me and I had a whole two spaces to myself.

After arriving early this morning, my male pride took a particularity strong blow. Jon, a different Swedish guy (I know there are tons of them here for some reason) and I planned to rent motorbikes and visit the Boloven Plateau. After a haphazard introduction to the 4-speed, no clutch motorbikes, the hostel hesitantly agreed for me to take the bike out. After dawning a purple helmet (for further humiliation, I supposed), I tried to turn the key in the ignition, but the motorbike refused to start. After plenty of turns in both directions with both the proper key and gas key, the engine finally puttered to life. Then it puttered to a stop. Ignition after ignition it would spittle, cough then jolt to a halt.

"You'll get the hang of it," Jon reassures me. This is a sign, I think to myself and decide to return the bike and purple helmet in the exact condition and position in which it was received. Now, walking the streets, I watch as 14-year-old girls and even younger boys ride without any difficulty. The shame, the shame.