maybe if you weren’t such a chump (gentillesse est sa propre récompense)
Category: Travel and Places

delivering magazines the other day, it was a hot day, and too many times I'd walk into some convinience store to find some old man or woman yelling at the attendants that there wasn't cold soda pop stocked. "There's no cans of cold Coke!" she half-screamed at the first employee she could find; the shrill tone making me kind of cringe. The employee asked someone to get some from the back as the woman reiterated, "you're ALL out of cold cans of Coke!", like it was the most unbelievable thing in the world. Or at another spot, a man with a big old gut stormed in and shouted across the mart, "do you have any cold big pops?!" The attendant gestured towards an aisle, but before he could speak the man yelped, "Cold! Big! Big ones! Cold! do you have it or not?"

Ugh. Nothin worse than jonesin old soda junkies.

I remember sitting at this cafe in Saigon (sorry, Ho Chi Minh City) on my third day in Vietnam, drinking iced coffee and reading a back issue of the Economist I brought with me. Soon enough it was hard to ignore these 20 something white dudes across the room, obviously Americans. I first noticed them when one of them shouted at one of the Vietnamese servers, "Hey! Over here, we've got to add to the order!" The man was busy at the moment, so it took maybe 20 seconds, in which time he added to his friends, "Man, these people are so lazy." I could barely believe what I was hearing, until I realized, oh, wait, this is perfectly believable, and this is probably why Americans have a bad rep. He ordered his milk shake and demanded, "make it fast, man, we gotta go soon." The dude and his cohorts then related their horror stories of encountering poor travel accomadations, getting dropped off short of their stop, etc etc and how unjust travel in Vietnam was to them in general. Hmmm, I wonder if having such a crappy attitude has something to do with getting 'shorted', or if feeling so very entitled will create your horror stories for you...

In Hoi An, Vietnam, before I knew what hit me I was almost ready to order a custom made pair of shoes--custom styled to my specifics and sized just right. My interest had been vaguely piqued by one of the hundreds of women in this town that boasted just as many custom talior shops to the tourists. They call to you from the streets, promising the finest silk, leather, etc, which they can form into any high end design imaginable. When I was pawing through a catalogue of designs I had a chance to pause for just a second, and I thought, 'what the hell am I doing?' Buying custom tailored shoes? That seems like the last thing I'd want to do in Vietnam. Just because, well, I don't need any more shoes. It was hard to break away; everyone in Hoi An promised you that you having encountered them was the luckiest thing in the world and for that reason you had to buy something from them. No suits for me, either, thanks, and i painfully made my way off in search of a place to sit away the rain. Hoi An central could be boring. Too much shopping.

So I sat at this cafe. My plan was to take a nap after some tofu, then these two dudes showed up. Not only were they Americans, but as it would turn out they were both from Chicago. Nice guys, for sure, nothing like the dudes at the Saigon cafe, but another last thing I felt like doing in Vietnam was hanging out with some Chicago dudes who wanted to reminisce about bars I'd never been to anyway in our shared hometown. The coincidence of it all was kind of annoying rather than entertaining. Luckily there was a nice French person sitting alone at a different table, so I nervously ingratiated myself there. The French are supposed to not be too fond of us, right?

Maybe not, cause soon enough I had made friends with one of the six favorite traveller people I would meet. There was nothing to do in Hoi An (did I mention?), especially in the rain, so we just hung out and made more friends with the locals. One such local was a young boy, his name was Hung. We hung out with Hung (not trying for a pun, okay?) for about an hour, he shared our food and we communicated with his basic english and my phrasebook.. said our goodbyes at his bedtime.

The next night I saw him again, going around selling postcards to tourists. He came up to me: "buy a postcard please, sir?" I was stunned. "Hung!" I said, "what's up? Don't you remember? We had dinner together last night?" He kind of gave me a blank look and wandered off to some more likely consumers. Oh well. Friends for a night would have to be good enough; in addition my new French friend had to leave at the last minute to meet a friend who decided to go to Vietnam on a whim. So much for Hoi An, maybe, but so much for friendliness? No way. la convivialité est sa propre récompense.

I feel like I've only talked about the lesser than amazing parts of towns in Vietnam and Laos. Maybe I'll fix that.

Currently listening : Sole and the Skyrider Band By Sole & the Skyrider Band Release date: 2007-10-23

9:11 PM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

local bus, ambiguity.
Category: Travel and Places

On March 4th I took a local bus from Saigon to My Tho, a small town about two hours southwest of that sprawling city. Certainly the only english speaker on board, at one point two men got on and started talking rapidly to the locals on board. The bus was only about one third full, and one man was doing all the talking while the other would kind of just put in terse responses here and there. Eventually I figured out they were trying to sell some sort of pills to the people on board, and they found a few takers. This was only after the main man said something about me that caused everyone to turn and look and kind of chuckle. That, and the sidekick at one point sat next to me and tried to sell me a watch for one dollar while his unoccupied hand slid into my front pocket in attempt to grab my wallet. My hand darted down and with a big smile I said, "no, thanks!", and he left me in peace, also with a smile. Ah, friendly local pickpockets. Nice doing business with you today! This was the one and only time I encountered any type of attempted nastiness, by the way.

The day in My Tho was the best day ever.

Back on the bus to Saigon, this ride would prove unremarkable, but very relaxing. Empty bus, cool air, quick ride. Back in Saigon, I wanted to avoid the swarms of motorbike drivers and get a local bus back to the hotel. I figured it would be easy enough to find; I even learned how to say "where is the local bus to T____" in Vietnamese. So I picked a nice looking man to ask. Rather than answering, however, he just grabbed my wrist and pulled me into this parking lot of some condo complex near the bus stop, imploring me to wait, saying in english, "my daughter will be down soon." I thought maybe his daughter would be the one with knowledge of local bus routes, so whatever. I waited.

It gets really confusing here as this man, his daughter, and I all try and figure out how to get me back to my guest house. All I need is a bus number, but they begin negotiating with cabs on a price. A cab in Saigon is the last thing I wanted. No matter how much I explain, they just don't seem to get it. Eventually his daughter goes to get her own motorbike and I think maybe he's offering that she will personally give me a ride. No such luck. At this point there's about 6 people trying to 'help' me, various motorbike drivers having overheard and want to give me a ride. I've had enough of the chaos and decide to make it simple and hire one. I had been psyched to have a full day of local buses, but this was getting out of hand. Thinking that would be it, I wave goodbye to the man and his daughter.

Weaving through the most chaotic, unbelievable traffic I've ever encountered, I'm soon baffled and amazed that the man and his daughter are following me. Baffled because I have no idea why; and amazed because to keep up with any one particular moto amidst the thousands weaving around each other is pretty impressive. It's a long ride, too, but despite all challenge, every time we stop, there they are; and each time the man has a new question or comment for me. I'm pretty sure he was intoxicated, because his daughter was driving and he was trying to snap photos of me with his digital camera while we were in motion. Each time he tried to snap a shot, he'd laugh his head off. Occaisionally he'd gesture to his daughter and give a big smile and thumbs up.

At one stop, the daughter asked me, "what is your job?" to which I replied with a lie, "I'm a musician", only because I knew how to say that in Vietnamese. I don't think that impressed them very much.

At the end of the ride, and despite my protests, they wouldn't allow my moto driver to leave me any further than exactly in front of my guest house, which probably annoyed him because he had to go down this super tiny side street packed with vendors and tons of foot traffic. Finally off to say goodbye, the man asks for my phone number. I was perplexed; at that point I didn't realize that it was quite common for foreigners to rent cell phones while out there. I gave him my email as he explained something about how he had relatives in Nebraska. Hmm.. okay, cool.

Now, one might guess what was going on here, but certain factors make it way more ambiguous than you'd think. For one, not one single time did the mention of money come up between me and my temporary travel companions. Not in any way. Plus, neither father nor daughter made any suggestions for future plans or interactions--immediate or in the following days. Further, when I shook the man's hand goodbye, he did that thing where you scratch the person's palm with your index finger. So while it might be guessed that asking where the local bus is can translate as 'I am looking for a potential Vietnamese wife', certain gestures from this man made me think it was more him that was interested in me. Certainly the most ambiguous encounter I've ever had, we finally parted ways and I never heard from them again.

Currently listening : And Their Refinement of the Decline By Stars of the Lid Release date: 2007-04-03

11:52 AM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

Sam A Everingham (a little Laos blog)
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

I was sitting at some cafe in Vientiane, fresh off a 45 mile round trip bike ride of futility. The capital of Laos was pretty dull, unless you are looking for some French MCed night life activity, so I figured I'd vacate the next day.

Suddenly a certain gentleman rolled up to this corner cafe, dismounted his bike and came and sat down at the table right next to mine. First thing that crossed my mind, 'oh my god, this is the most attractive man I have ever seen'. Shallowness and vanity overtaking me, I wondered why this guy was alone. He looked like some kind of movie star, like his adoring posse would show up any second and they'd go to the hottest club the tourist sector of town had to offer. But he just sat there, dejected looking and totally solo.

(I told this story to a friend of mine at some point, and their response was, "are you trying to tell me you're bisexual?" So if that's what it sounds like, well, no, I'm not, and the aesthetic appeal of this gentleman is not the point. There isn't much point really, but I'll continue nevertheless.)

Eventually he asked me to pass him something from my table and we started talking a bit. He was generally down about Vientiane, as was I, because, like I mentioned, there was no where interesting to bike off to. Just an overpriced tourist center and 80% of the foreigners' primary language was French. Plus his general attitude was kind of familiar to me, that is, it was kind of like having a conversation with a mirror, but in the good way. So it was lucky to find a friendly Australian to chat with for a minute before we parted ways. "You leaving town tomorrow too, eh?" He asked. "There's buses every hour, maybe we'll wind up on the same one."

Tomorrow morning sure and steady, there we were again waiting to get on the same bus. A bit more time to chat this time around, I was now meeting one of the two mes I'd be meeting in Laos. He'd played in the bands, lived in the dumps, been around a bit, worked the dozen random jobs in a dozen random places, and generally just kind of had the same overall attitude towards 'things' that I seem to have. After a not too bad bus ride, we exited together in Vang Vieng, a smaller town north of the Laos capital. Obviously in the same boat--needing to get our bags off our backs and find a cheap room to rent--Sam said semi-akwardly "you want to walk together? I mean, we might as well, we're both looking for the same thing." Perhaps not as akwardly as I would have said it, seeing as he had a couple years on me. Yeah, friends on the road is so much easier than here at home, but I suppose there's still a pinch of that traditional home-style-social-anxiety when "it's all on the line".

I soon learned an Australian slang when Sam said "shall we stop and have a swiz?" Well, semi-learned, because I don't really know if a 'swiz' is a cold drink or a simple break from task, which was in this case walking half-aimlessly.

We soon realized this was The Town to get super cheap private bungalows by the river, so we passed all the hole in the wall operations promising lowest price and rooster free mornings in search of the bungalow complexes hidden further down the hilly side streets. We pulled into one eventually that seemed well enough, about ten or so little private rooms on stilts, laid out in an arc around the central office. Looked good enough, but I should have been put off when the first thing the attendant did in response to our inquiries of pricing was slip us a "menu" with nothing but drugs on it. Opium, hash, mushrooms, etc; my favorite listed item was "one joint", which if I remember correctly costs about $1. We kind of chuckled a bit and told her we were just looking for rooms. We booked two bungalows and parted ways until dinner.

We should have looked a bit harder, a bit longer, cause soon enough the party started. We knew that curfews for all restaurants, bars, and clubs was midnight, but these days we were both in the mood for a calmer lifestyle filled with early mornings and quiet nights. Around ten or so, after Sam had gone to bed (well, presumably tried to go to bed) I walked off down the river til I found another set of bungalows, this one far far from the party central. I reserved a bungalow for the next night so I could be ensured constant peace.

Walked around town a bit, long enough so the partying would be done. You know, the lamest thing about all the parties going on is that there was hardly anybody at any of them. There was simply not enough tourists in this little town to accomadate all the "happy" bars and all the sprawling riverside clubs that posted signs all around town promising "full moon party tonight!" every night of the month. Regardless, I got back to my room and figured I should leave Sam a note that I found a better place to stay. Then that whole self-conscious thing kicked in again and I decided that would be weird. So I slept and the next morning moved my bag to my new place.

I walked around/biked around town the next day, figuring I'd find Sam easy enough--this was the smallest town I'd been in yet. No such luck. I spent two more days and nights in this town and never crossed paths. I checked with the first bungalow complex and the man told me he had checked out the next morning, citing lack of sleep as the reason. No doubt he skipped town that very same day, probably thinking there was nothing to the town besides drugs and tubing, which, well, to an extent was true, but there was always countryside to escape to, despite the fact that the Laotian countryside could only hold half a candle to that of Vietnam.. Anyway, I instantly kicked myself for not leaving that note; Sam was definitely one of the coolest people I met out there. Then I got self conscious again and thought maybe he was offended that I didn't let him know I was vacating. Or maybe not. Qui se soucie?

As it turns out, the very next bus I took out of town put me smack dab next to the second me that I would meet in Laos, as well as his 2 super rad companions. Maybe I'll tell that story sometime. Or maybe a story that actually has to do with Vietnam. But I'm busy lately. Suddenly I have three jobs. How did that happen?

Currently listening : No Flashlight By Mount Eerie Release date: 2005-09-26

8:10 PM - 0 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

A brief and inconsequential note on the inherent racism of the police and courts

In traffic court today (it happens to the best of us) I was patiently awaiting my 15 second interaction with the "judge" so that I could plead guilty and pay the little fine. One after the other, people agreed to plead guilty to get out of the Daley Center faster or were lucky enough for their ticketing officer to be absent.

Listening for my name, I finally heard, "Peter..." but then a strange, miniscule pause/hesitation.  The "judge" was struggling with my last name.

This last name, I suppose, is a tad bit (read: not really) hard to pronounce, but I never hear telemarketers, bankers, or the like interpret like this man decided was best. At worst, they put the G before the L and/or pronounce the G as it's pronounced in the word 'garden'.

Thing is, he finally got it out of his mouth, but with this strange Spanish inflection: "neeeal haes?" he slowly emitted... I couldn't help but smile a bitter smile as I advanced towards him.

Yeah, it's not a perfectly typical name; so it MUST be yet another dark skinned troublemaker, eh old white oppresser? You old devil, you; we know who you expect to see in here, eh?

That's it, really, and I don't mean this anecdote to be significant, political, revolutionary, or even vaguely socially responsible, just a re-affirmation of the obvious, I suppose. Tada.

I paid my $50 and vowed to watch better for cops when I don't stop all the way at stop signs.

8:07 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Dear Stride chewing gum: you rule

So about 9 months ago I was playing a show with Brad at some lousy, random bar in Lincoln Park. On the bar was this bowl of promotional samples for Stride chewing gum. I thought to myself, "these suckers think I'm going to buy their gum just because they threw out some freebies at this little bar" as I greedily packed away three of the little packages, which read "the ridiculously long lasting gum".

Eventually I got around to chewing a piece, most likely out of pure boredom, traffic, or any number of reasons one may have for sticking some random pseudo-food item into their mouth. I've never been a gum chewer, I mean, the stuff's okay, but there never really seems much reason to keep your pockets stocked with the junk.

After a few dozen minutes, I realized something frightening. I really like Stride chewing gum. I could go into details about how the delicious flavor really does last a relatively ridiculous time, but it wouldn't do justice to the awesomeness that is Stride chewing gum. So I'll just send the message to the Stride corporation: you rule.

You rule so much that I have actually gone out of my way to tell certain friends of your existence, and let me tell you, this is no small favor. You see, your meager attempts at promoting yourself by distributing samples at stupid bars that no one attends in ugly Lincoln Park have not allerted anyone I know of your existence. Thus my bothering to tell my friends, some of whom are very important and influential trend setters amongst your target audience, should serve as a good indication to you that I am and can be even more so a very great asset to your corporation.

So let me get to the point. This blog is not just to inform you that you, the Stride chewing gum corporation, rule, it is also to suggest a completely rational and reasonal arrangement between you and myself.

The thing is, Stride, I'm in a couple bands right now. I mention this for a couple reasons, in fact. For one, bands, as we both know, are perfect vehicles for spreading corporate messages and adverts. I can assure you, Stride chewing gum corporation, that my band is going to soon be playing to lots of important, influential people who like to spend money on things that are not essential to their existence. The other reason I mention my band, I admit, is a little self interested. Do you see where I am going with this, Stride?

You see, in the past couple months, we've had to take our amps into the shop for repairs something like 6 times. I somehow broke two amps in one hour, just last week. The repair bills are starting to hurt the old pocket, if you know what I'm getting at, Stride chewing gum corporation. So here's what I suggest. You, Stride, sponsor my hip, up and coming rock outfits, in the form of new, awesome amps that you agree to maintain any time they decide to randomly call it quits. I, in turn, continue to promote your products (as I already have been doing, very thanklessly, for example, in this blog and that one other time I was talking to some random dude at the airport) in my general life and during the shows that we perform to people who NEED to be turned on to your seriously amazingly long lasting chewing gum.

Seriously, Stride, I wouldn't ask just any chewing gum corporation, or any corporation for that matter, to sponsor me, I wouldn't sell my artistic integrity to just any chewing gum, especially a gum that was less delicious and not nearly as long lasting as you truly are.

So please give this your highest priority, Stride, and I can continue to bask in your awesomeness as I spread the word of your beauty far and wide.

Really, you rule, and my amp is seriously screwed up.

8:56 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

Looks like I’m moving to Logan Square
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

Yep. Looks like I'll be participating in the traditional annual ritual of so many city dwelling renters--moving apartments. Hauling furniture and ill-packed boxes a few miles across town with the grand expectation that this new place, so unlike the last, will bring ultimate satisfaction, repose, and comfort; qualities sought in each inhabitance, all to prove incapable of providing those very things after a mere ten to twelve months.

Why bother? What's the point, really? If you can't be happy where you are, you might as well move to Alaska, right? Especially for me right now, I can't help but wonder... See, I live in a huge place, bright and sunny throughout, on the third floor (no annoying bass happy neighbors, like me, up above!), it's cheap as very high quality dirt, I have the best roomates I've had for as far back as I can remember, it's three blocks from the lake, four blocks from Andersonville, it's clean, and except for the dump truck that picks up at the grocery store next door every other day at 7 in the morning, it's quiet. Oh yeah, and my new room will be about half the size my current one.

So I wonder what the point is. Well, hmm.. I HAVE lived here for 14 months, which kind of breaks the rules as to how long you should live in an apartment. After all, I lived in Denver for only 14 months, during which I managed to live in 3 separate places, so it just seems long overdue that I go through the vast annoyance of relocating my existence.

After such a long interval, though, I have kind of forgotten how to move. It seems like an impossible task, even after trying to get rid of a good portion of the junk I have amassed over the years. Selling the moped, a guitar, some speakers, tons of books and records I would never read or listen to again, etc., the burden of stuff still seems supreme.

Oh well, so it goes, and so forth, and I'm happy with the decision. At the very least, it's one more step towards driving oneself so entirely nuts that you either take that job at the mortgage firm and never look at the sky again, or burn all material proof of your existence and committ to being a surf bum in some exotic tropical location.

A couple months from now and that latter option is going to sound pretty sweet.

10:54 AM - 2 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! IAN COOKE is so good!
Category: Friends

I have to be at work downtown in five minutes, but I can't stop listening to Ian Cooke's CD. AAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! The show last night was AMAZING, many thanks to Sabrina, Lucy et al who allowed us to perform, it was lovely, and thanks to the great crowd who came and listened to him play.  

I knew already Ian is good, I have fond memories of shows together in Denver, but it's been almost two years since I've seen him play... There's not many words to describe, especially considering that we still have the chance to see him in such small, intimate, (occaisionally) non-bar settings.

Nothing like it. Ian Cooke is the best in the world right now.

8:36 AM - 0 Comments - 0 Kudos - Add Comment

Dear Bright Eyes: you stink.
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

my friend joe in denver once had me come along to this show at the larimer lounge. a gentleman named david dondero was playing. the illimitable love letter band opened which was very sweet.

joe had informed me months prior that a certain less-than-gentleman named conor oberst who performs under the moniker Bright Eyes stole his vocal style from david dondero; you know, the whole can't-really-sing-but-do-our-best-with-this-whole-vibrato-whining-style. i didn't think too much of it and didn't pay too close attention to mr. dondero's set that night. sorry, mr. dondero.

well over a year later i started listening more closely to mr. dondero's recordings. the songs are quite awesome for the most part, and lo and behold, conor oberst did in fact completely steal his style from mr. dondero. it's uncanny how close these vocals are.

of course, this is totally old news. it's common knowledge that mr. oberst has admitted that mr. dondero made him "feel comfortable" with his singing, but really, that's a bit of an understatement. this is downright piracy. we've heard of lawsuits concerning songs that contain melodies that are too similar to other songs (i think i heard of this in reference most recently to a beatles song). that's pretty lame in comparison to this situation. i want this in the courts asap. mr. oberst stole a hefty chunk of his lil identity from mr. dondero. i think this would be readily obvious in a court of law.

mr. dondero, that night in denver, did not have that great a show. maybe 15 people watched him play. considering the fact that, meanwhile, mr. oberst was off somewhere snorting coke through one hundred dollar bills and writing songs about how his slim waisted, big eyed flavor of the week just realized he is a total hack, this is far from good. far, far from good.

Dear mr. dondero--i'm sorry your show was not the best ever. your songs are good.

Dear Bright Eyes--you stink.

9:30 PM - 3 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment

did you give up?
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

A few weeks ago, or maybe months, I don't recall, Shopping played a show at Ronny's, that little dive bar a few steps up from the Mutiny.

Idly sitting at the table next to the door to the showroom, staring off into space, the MP Shows guy started conversation.

"Oh hey" he opened, "you're Peter? You played as Soft Wolf at the Note that one time. Didn't Shopping play that night, too?"

"Yeah, we both played." I explained. "I was supposed to be playing bass for them at the time but I had been sick and couldn't learn the songs."

"Oh, yeah? So what ever happened to Soft Wolf? Did you give that up?"

When he asked me this I couldn't help but start laughing out loud. Did I "give up"? What kind of question is that? What could it possibly mean to "give up" something that I happen to do from time to time whenever the mood strikes me? Was I unconsciously using the 'Soft Wolf' moniker to dress up a bunch of lo-fi, slightly depressing songs I wrote on the fly in my bedroom in order to make a million dollars? Or maybe he was referring to this space ship I'm building on my back porch, which I hope will be my ticket to the moon, where I plan to enrich uranium in service of intergalactic terrorists.

Further, did his mental appropriateness filter switch off for a second? I mean, you would only assume someone would give something up if it was something not worth much besides, well, giving up. Like a bad habit, maybe you might ask someone, "hey, did you give up using heroin yet?"

Sure, the show he was referring to wasn't much of a hit; five bands played and there were maybe only 30 or so people there, band members included... but wait, come to think of it, that's pretty much 75% or the shows I go to, so scratch that.

The weirdest part (the reason it came to mind tonight) is that this guy is just so nice. Super friendly, very helpful, all around good dude. I don't suspect he had any ill intentions at all, I'm pretty sure he was just curious to see whether or not I was still doing this 'Soft Wolf' thing. It's a good question, after all, I haven't had much interest in recording any little lo-fi tunes lately, let alone playing shows. Maybe that means I did give up. Maybe that just means nothing at all. Like giving up cooked carrots or sweet pickles. Hmm. Regardless, in between Honduras and Thailand, there wasn't much time to get up to speed with little raspy melodies. And now I just want to go to Russia.

Whatever I did, we just started a new rock band. It's like Soft Wolf but without any of the elements of Soft Wolf. Thus we're taking suggestions for names.

RIP Soft Wolf I guess.

Until someone asks me to play a show.

hint hint

7:42 PM - 4 Comments - 2 Kudos - Add Comment

On the way to Tha Ton
Category: Fashion, Style, Shopping

After a couple days in Chiang Mai, it was time to hit the road, we figured. The main bus station is just north of the walls of the city. The tuk tuk man dropped us off, and ordering tickets was easy, compared to trying to order food. Hold up the equivalent of a peace sign and say "Tha Ton" and we were handed our flimsy little vouchers that would afford us travel all the way to the city at the very end of the route.

Tha Ton is a rather small northern city/town about 50 miles shy of the Myanmar border. Why Tha Ton, anyway?

We got on the bus with 15 minutes to spare, hoping it wouldn't fill completely and we might have some room to spread out our legs. No such luck. Filled to capacity, we started off, an older monk sitting in between Steve and I. He seemed to take a liking to us, in a curious sort of manner, and tried best he could to engage us in conversation. His English, though very limited, was sufficient to pass along a few exchanges.

"Why do you go to Tha Ton?" He asked very genuinely, not to make small talk, but out of a true curiosity of what business we could possibly have in that little town. This was a tough. Steve said something like "Because it's there", which is about as top-notch a response as you can give, I mean, yeah, because it's there. He was incredulous, and obviously at a loss for words. He started to talk to the people sitting behind us, and they all promptly started chuckling about something.

Before I left for Thailand, I read of some people's experiences while traveling through remote regions near and across southeast Asian borders, and how they were horribly taken advantage of, and how, in their time of dependence and vulnerability, people would scam them, jack up prices, threaten to leave them, etc. After being there and witnessing nothing even remotely close to a scenario like this, I can merely conclude that the only people who would post such stories on Craigslist discussion forums are the few unfortunates, perhaps those who would make a fuss about the difference between a $3 bus ride and $6 bus ride. That's my guess, anyway. Sure, the locals chuckled, but I like to think it's because they thought we'd be looking for snake farms and markets where they sell knock-off Gucci goods. "Silly fools! There will be no mega-malls in Tha Ton!" Of course, the conversation between the monk and the locals could have concerned anything. Perhaps it was my clothing. At one point, the monk looked down at my shorts, held together with threaded dental floss. He then inquired, "You are very poor?"

The four hour bus ride was a blast. Passing small towns, open country, curvy mountainous terrain, the rectangular towering type of mountain that looks like it was just plunked down like giant sand castle creators; the bus slowing now and then to drop off packages along the way. Slowing down indeed, but not stopping, the auxiliary bus attendant would just toss the brown paper wrapped packages onto the curb where it would slide gently towards someone who always seemed to be expecting it at just that moment.

The bus was only a quarter filled when we arrived in Tha Ton. It seems not even many locals have much business up there. We lazily exited and picked a direction at random. Walking down a random unpaved street, we soon enough came across another super cheap guest house. This one's claim to fame was it's abundance of private bungalows. We watched a couple, hand in hand, register for one of the mini-houses. We scanned our options and each got a regular old room.

8:49 PM - 2 Comments - 4 Kudos - Add Comment