Hanoi! Halong! Hotels!

Hanoi is one of those cities (to paraphrase the great Tom O’Neil) in which you just be. It doesn’t have an Eiffel Tower or a Coliseum or a Golden Gate Bridge, but it does have charm. Mountains of it. It’s the kind of place you walk around and purposefully get lost in. You drink tea. You buy oranges from a 4’ 3” centenarian on the street. You smell the city, drink the atmosphere, and just…be. Meghan and I would be happily in Hanoi for December 20^th. We would find me a pair of jeans and get lost in an endless fabric market the likes of which most fashion conscious women would die to visit. For a few dollars Meghan would walk away with enough fabric to clothe me in a new toga each day for a year.

While she did her thing I would entertain old women and eat strange looking fruit straight from the pages of Doctor Seuss.

We would spend the night of the 19^th and 20^th at the Grand View, the first of five hotels we would collectively call home to in Hanoi. There wasn’t much grand about it though. The morning of the 21^st we would check out and hop a minivan for Halong City. Three hours later we arrived at the gateway to Halong Bay. Now I had the time, I had the desire, but I didn’t have the accessibility to write while adrift amidst the thousands of islands that make up the World Heritage Site that is Halong Bay. If I had had the accessibility I would have written at length about the unparallel natural beauty of Halong Bay. How Halong Bay kicks the snot out of anything that southern Thailand brings to the table. How Halong Bay belongs right up there alongside the Grand Canyon, the Great Barrier Reef, and the world’s other great natural wonders. How an hour swim in the emerald, placid, and warm waters of Halong Bay will go down as one of the great swims of my life. How for three days and two nights Meghan and I called a magnificent wooden junk boat home. How I played my first Scrabble game ever against an Indian family from Shanghai. But you really don’t care about any of that stuff so I’ll just move along to the slide show…

I am also very happy to report that Jon Voight’s character from National Treasures was with us for the duration. 67 year old Swiss painter Mark Edgar and his wife got the gold star for climbing every island, exploring every cave, and kayaking every bay alongside the twenty other passengers who averaged half their age (at best). I hope I still have the fire in me when I’m Mark’s age to climb the 218 steps to enjoy the view below (which he did).

Halong Bay. It’s the real deal.

We would return back to Hanoi the afternoon of the 23^rd. Having set our sites on Christmas Eve midnight mass at St. Josephs Cathedral, we decided to crash land at the adjacent Church Hotel for the night. We would have dinner that night at a tiny Italian restaurant a stone’s throw from our hotel. The meal, Meghan’s favorite in Asia, would help settle one open issue: where to enjoy Christmas Day dinner. And that brings us to the eve of baby Jesus’ birthday…

Fearing that hotel occupancy would be scare on the 24^th and 25^th, we secured a hotel room in advance while in Laos. For enough money to keep us afloat in budget accommodations for well into the next year, we splurged and upgraded ourselves at the ‘Grande Dame de Hanoi’…the Metropole Hanoi.

Before I kick this world I will again swim in its pool and enjoy its French Onion soap. The Metropole Hanoi – my favorite hotel in the world and the scene of my 50^th birthday party. All are welcome to join.

As the hotel swelled with international guests arriving for the holiday, Christmas Eve seemed very much in the air to me despite my distance from home. After dark we put on our Sunday best, which living out of a backpack meant little more than finding the least wrinkled shirt to go with jeans. We enjoyed cocktails and appetizers at two of the hotel’s four restaurants. With forty-five minutes till midnight, the hotel staff singing Christmas carols in English, we marched through the front lobby and onto the streets. Destination: St. Josephs. The street atmosphere outside the hotel was nothing short of euphoric. The streets were so filled with bikes and pedestrians you’d have thought it was the Lunar New Years.

Santa-hat wearing Asians. The air was alive. Motion everywhere. Fueled by a couple dry martinis, the walk was simply incredible. The surrounding streets closed, we arrived at St. Josephs and joined ranks with the anticipated mob. The final countdown to Christmas was brilliant. With ten minutes to spare I called home and left a message. When the midnight bells rang and balloons were released into the air, I could only pinch myself. A Christmas Eve I’ll treasure for all my days.

We would camp inside the Metropole all day on the 25^th after picking up a few DVDs for a dollar. The evening would bring an incredible Italian dinner with a window seat of St. Josephs. We would cry upon departure on the 26^th…for several reasons. Before leaving though I would say goodbye to a pair of sunglasses that had been traveling with me since Yogyakarta in central Java. Having no protective case the Ray Ban knockoffs somehow survived the arduous journey through Sumatra, Myanmar, Thailand, and Laos. They had broken just days ago but I could not bring myself to toss them in the trash. They deserved better. I thought the poolside at one of Asia’s great hotels was a suitable burial site.

Meghan and I would downgrade our accommodations considerably for the night of the 26^th. With our 4^th hotel secured by noon Meghan and I would each do our own thing for the day, with an agreement to meet at our favorite local restaurant at 7pm. Following the meal we would stroll back home through the Old Quarter. Stumbling upon a brand new boutique hotel, Meghan was lured off the street and into the lobby by a promotional special. For next to nothing a spotless new room could be yours for the night. When our 4^th hotel rightfully declined to let us off the hook for payment at 9pm, Meghan jumped ship. Pretty sure she wasn’t ready to downgrade just yet, and considering we’d spent all but a few hours in each other’s company since her arrival three weeks ago…we took a night apart. We’re making this up as we go. So with that we each enjoyed a bed to ourselves and a tally of five hotels in Hanoi over seven nights. The upside – it did afford me the chance to drop two dozen roses on her door at 7:30am this morning. Cost – $2.75usd. Got to love this country. I do.

So from the Metropole Hanoi to a sleeping bunk on this evening’s overnight train to Hue…so long Hanoi. It’s been grand. Until we meet again…or March 29, 2029…whichever comes first…

First Impressions…

Writing this blog is an interesting marriage of desire, timing, and discipline. So I guess to be honest it’s more of a Three’s Company-style arrangement than a traditional two person marriage. At times I’m in the mood to do nothing more than fire away on the keys for hours on end describing the most insignificant of smells, sounds, tastes, sights, and emotions of life on the road and sharing a bit about all that I’m smelling, hearing, tasting, seeing, and feeling. It’s at those times that I’m usually as far from an available computer as I am from an In & Out double double right now. Or conversely I’m close to a computer but the road is too bumpy…the sea to rough…or my time too limited.

However, when the desire to write hooks up with the accessibility to write…the offspring can be an interesting read and might even put a smile on your face and give you something to contemplate for a minute or two. That said desire and accessibility are for the most part unpredictable and out of my control to harness. I guess I could pick up a laptop and solve the accessibility issue, but the ultimate desire to write is not something I can turn on and turn off like a cold shower in Sumatra. The desire to write is akin to a train on its own track, on its own schedule, heading to its own destination – but sadly there is no timetable or ticket office. Unfortunately I can’t just hop on and ride whenever I choose. But those rare times when desire meets a blank screen and there is no bus, train, or plane to catch…when I do get to hitch a momentary ride on that train…that’s when my best work finds its way to your computer screen. That’s the stuff I’m proud to put out there.

So that takes care of Janet and Chrissy – desire & timing. Jack – discipline – is something entirely different. Discipline means forcing yourself to sit and write and continue this great story even when you have zero desire to do so. Sit and write because you know that too much time has passed. Sit and write because you know too much is bound to happen tomorrow. Sit and write because you value chronology. Sit and write because the computer is accessibility and free in the hotel lobby. Sit and write because it’s a Lazy Day. Sit and write because you feel you owe it to the 47 people that checked your blog three days before Christmas. Sit and write because JRS wants something to read. But ultimately sit and write because Vietnam has blown your eff’in socks off and you want to share. Discipline brought me to this chair, but I’m pretty sure desire will keep me here once I get rolling…

I’m not sure why I felt the need to share all that but I feel better already having done so…

Back to the early afternoon of Saturday December 19^th. Most of you were either knee deep in the mall or knee deep in a cocktail. Either way none of you were flying from Laos to Vietnam. Our Transit Day began at Vientiane International Airport which was, to my complete enjoyment, overrun with SEA Game athletes. I was overcome with excitement when a sea of grey blazers made their way into terminal A. It took about two minutes of watching them before I handed Meghan my bag of Kettle potato chips and marched over to the gold medal winning Burmese national boxing team. I dropped a mingalabah (hello), received a smile in return, and asked to snap a photo. God I miss those people. And God what I would have done for an official Burmese athlete’s members-only grey jacket. This guy could have taken my head off.

The forty minute hop from Vientiane to Luang Prabang was uneventful, as was the ninety minute skip from Luang Prabang to Hanoi. It’s worth mentioning though that for every regional flight I’ve taken thus far, the playbook remains the same:

• Arrive at tiny airstrip and proceed into terminal building so small it makes Long Beach airport look like O’Hare.
• Check bag, say prayer that said bag finds plane, proceed to lounge area.
• Lounge area separated from airstrip by non-guarded double doors, walk onto runway for a moment or two. Why? Because you can.
• Plane lands and parks on runway where you stood minutes earlier.
• When people start walking out onto runway you know its time to board.
• Board plane from rear. Don’t ask me why, but I’m 5 for 5.
• Sit. Buckle belt. Recline seat. Engines roar to life before doors shut.
• Minutes later you will taxi down the runway in what I’ll call 2^nd gear. When you get to the inevitable runway end the pilot will make an abrupt u-turn and without slowing down or missing a beat he’ll round the corner, drop it straight into 5^th, gun the engines and tear off down the runway. It’s the running start thing that puts a smile on my face every time. There is no come-to-a-complete-stop-before-takeoff-to-get-your-bearings like we do in the States. Hell no. Round the curve in 2^nd, drop in 5^th, and away you go…
• 5 for 5. Like clockwork.

I’d been enjoying a summer climate since May, but that glorious streak came to a welcome end as I emerged from the tail. 15 degrees Celsius and a Vietnamese night sky filled the frame as I did my best presidents d-boards Air Force One imitation atop the steps. I took a deep breath. Darkness. Cold. Damp. Vietnam. Yes.

The shuttle bus waiting at the foot of the stairs quickly deposited us at immigration. Waiting in line for a stamp, we approach a stern looking immigration officer…

Meghan: “He looks serious…”

Steve: “That’s because he’s a Communist…”

When it’s my turn the officer bombs a giant ‘entry’ stamp in the middle of a blank page in my passport. Hey jerk, I need every single blank page I can get. I’ve got just a few more full-page visas to pick up along the way…

Locked and loaded, cleared and collected, we proceed to the greeting area. Step 1: Change just enough currency to get our feet wet without falling victim to airport exchange rate extortion (AERE). With several million Vietnamese Dong about to find their way into my wallet, I paused to savor one of travelings great little pleasures: finding not one, not two, but three currency in your wallet at once. New Dong, leftover Kip, reserve Baht. In those momentary flashes I get as close to Jason Bourne as I’ll ever get. So sad yet so true. Step 2: Secure transportation to the Old Quarter of central Hanoi without getting ripped off. Having read too much ink about dodgy airport taxi scams we splurged and locked in a private car for the forty minute ride into Hanoi. Comfortably seated in the rear of a new SUV with what we surmised to be a suit-wearing 19 year old at the wheel, we sped off into the night to make first impressions…

I’ve spent five days in Hanoi and seven in the country, yet I only needed two to three hours on the ground to make up my mind. Hanoi is far and away my most favorite Asian city thus far, and Vietnam is looking so bright and promising I’ve had to wear sunglasses on cloudy days. As we all know first impressions are influenced by many variables. The weather, the time of day, the town/city./country you’re coming from, the mood, the food, the smell, etc. It’s appropriate to say Vietnam had everything working in its favor. I hadn’t so much as flirted with a cold day since spring in D.C. and I truly missed it. The cold was like a reunion with an old friend. Arriving at night, the city and its inhabitants were lit up like the Rock Center Christmas tree. Brilliant.  Laos is so slow you’d be forgiven to think its six million citizens had partial narcolepsy, and its pace had gotten to us. Vietnam thankfully suffers from no such lethargy, and that chaos was just the remedy Meghan and I needed that evening.

During our white-knuckle taxi ride with Mario Andretti at the helm, we quickly learned a few things about our new home.Vietnam is crowded. With a population of roughly 85 million, it’s the largest SE Asian country after Indonesia. You get your first hint of this on the highway into town. The number of motorbikes and cars is just so much greater than anything you’ve seen in Laos (obviously) and even Thailand before it. More than the population increase, the highway revealed another Vietnamese trait – unrelenting traffic chaos. Not since Sumatra had I witnessed the same wreckless passing and “my truck is bigger than your car so move out of my way” ego driving that rules the roads. And then there are the motorbikes….but more on them later.

(Christmas Eve – 11:28pm)

Meghan and I were ready for all this. Ready for the crowds. Ready for the hustle. Ready for the pace. Ready for the chaos. We were ready for it and hungry for it, and that first taxi ride into Old Quarter Hanoi served it up on a great big platter. It wasn’t long after we left the highway and found ourselves on crowded city streets, motorbikes whizzing past your door so close you could reach out and zip their jacket, that both of our windows came down. Like a lazy yellow labrador I rested my chin on the window sill, eyes darting too and fro trying to process the sea of color, noise, and motion that seemed to flow everywhere. It was the same feeling as I’d had on Day 1 in Bali. The overwhelming sense you’re in the middle of something special. Something great. Something unique. Cuz why else would everyone be in such a hurry and risking life and limp on two wheels?

We had instructed our driver to dump us in the middle of the Old Quarter and hit the Saturday night streets on foot around 9pm. Our plan was to wing it. We had no shelter lined up. Just go with the flow and find a crash pad for the night. Within minutes we had landed a cute hotel and dumped bags. You know how when you’ve been traveling all day and your body and mind should be tired but when you finally arrive into McCarran airport or La Guardia or LAX or Los Cabos Int’l you feel that bolt of excitement and adrenaline pulse through you and you’re suddenly wired like John Belushi live on a Saturday night? That was the feeling we had in our steps walking out the front door to first embrace Vietnam.

The Old Quarter in Hanoi is now a must see in my recommendation book. It’s a labyrinth of alleys and streets and one-ways and two-ways. A colorful mix of well-dressed bars and restaurants next to age-old shops and markets. A melting pot of the old generation and the next generation. The dirty and the polished. It’s incredible. It’s addictive. I could spend another week wandering the Old Quarter and never not feel like I was in the center of the Asian universe. Never not feel like I was standing at Ground Zero of all that is cool, and hip, and new, and progressive in Asia.

The Old Quarter is noisy. Motorbikes fill the streets at every hour. The Old Quarter is crowded. The sidewalks act as parking lots and restaurant real estate for street food vendors. The result is that cars, bikes, and pedestrians all share a tiny sliver of street. Meghan and I don’t walk hand in hand but rather single file. Drift too far into the street and you’ll hear half of dozen horns instructing you to either find your pedestrian lane or find my front wheel/hood.

The Old Quarter is frenetic. There are but a few traffic lights so on almost every intersection drivers do battle for right of way and road supremacy. It’s like watching two ants meet on the pavement. Both drivers stop wheel to wheel. Both look at each other. Both then go to the left at the same time. Both stop. Both then go to the right at the same time. Both stop. Both look at each other. One goes left. One goes right. Repeat. Repeat again. And again. And again. The Old Quarter is beautiful. With a number of green spaces, several lakes, and an airy feel (depending on which corner you’re standing on) the Old Quarter can take your breath away. That’s the setting before even touching upon the city’s two best attributes: its food & its people.

At 10pm Meghan and I headed off in search of something to fill our stomachs. It took but a few minutes to stumble upon a quiet and adorable café serving great food and smiling service. In short time having seen and experienced very little we both verbally confessed our blind love for Hanoi and Vietnam at the café table – a love affair that’s only gotten stronger with each passing day. Following a badly needed meal we took to the streets, turned a corner, and promptly got swept up in the Saturday Night Market along Dong Xuan. What a show stopper. Not in country for more than a few hours and suddenly we found ourselves in the heart of Hanoi’s famous night bazaar shopping for men’s jeans (I threw mine away long ago). The sea of people. The endless rows of vendors selling everything imaginable. The motion. The noise. The weather. The looks. The smiles. It had it all.

Talk about making an unforgettable first impression.

Vietnam. It was love at first sight.

Laos Su Su!

Laung Prabang to Vang Vieng. Two nights in Vang Vieng. Love it or hate it, VV is a place of backpacker lore. At least it always has been for me. VV is a tiny village set along the Nam Song River and hidden in the late day shadows by the impressive nearby mountain range. The dusty streets are lined with backpacker-centric cafes where you can grab anything from green curry to pizza while resting horizontally on a mountain of pillows and digest a seemingly endless loop of….Friends? No joke. I counted at least four cafes where zombie-looking travelers sat stone still listening to Joey banter back and forth with Monica over Chandler’s womanizing. It’s almost impossible to eat at a place where Americana doesn’t dribble out of the TV screen. Thankfully like many things on the road we had a choice, and Meghan’s palate would usually dictate that. The pizza was stellar but the looping Family Guy episodes were welcome and badly needed.

I’d heard stories about Vang Vieng as far back as Gili T. The main draw – tubing down the Nam Song. When the river runs high every wet season, alcohol, drugs, and bad decision making claim numerous broken bones and (sadly) the occasional life. When the river runs low (as it does now), the river couldn’t be more sedate and therapeutic. Well, sections of the river at least…

For 50,000 kip (roughly $7usd) we were given giant inner tubes and a free one-way tuk tuk ride to the put-in spot on the Nam Song. I thought I was mentally prepared for the onslaught of riverside bars I’d heard about but when I got there all prior expectations were thrown out the window.

When we walked to the cold rivers edge, into view came what I’d estimate to be between 300 to 500 bikini and board short-clad early twenty something’s partying on either side of the river as if the MTV Spring Break bus straight from Lake Havasu had just dropped by. Techno and dance music would blast from either side of the narrow river (not more than 50 yards across). Rising from each rickety wooden bar were diving platforms, zip lines, and rope swings that made anything at Beaver Dam look like child’s play. Dodgy looking guide wires and support cables run from bars to trees to other cables and back again. It was as if Homer Simpson constructed the place after a few too many Duffs.

As you float down the river, from each bar flies a buoyant projectile attached to a rope. If you’re in need of a Beer Lao you grab the rope and they pull you in. When you tire of said bar, grab your tube, hit the river, and repeat. We stopped at one relatively quiet place and the drink menu said it all.

You want beer? We got it.

You want liquor? Got you covered.

You want some mushroom tea? Not a problem.

You want actual mushrooms? OK.

You want pot brownies? Just point and ask.

You want an actual bag of grass? We can do that.

You want to try opium? That’s OK by us…DOH!

Mix the above assortment of bad-decision-inducing options together with cold and fast water, rope swings, water slides, a rocky bottom, and the feeling of chemically enhanced youthful invincibility…and it’s no wonder why I’m yet to meet a Vang Vieng tubing vet that doesn’t have at least one scar or crooked finger to show for it.

Meghan likes her tea green. I like my tea with sugar and cream. The party scene on the Nam Song was neither of our cups of tea. When the thumping house beats finally disappeared from ear shot, we enjoyed a lazy two hour float back into town. We picked up two local freeloaders along the way. Bones was skinny and Grill had some really mangled teeth, but they were nice enough for five year olds until they tried to hit us up for “moany moany.” Wait, you two local rug rats just hitched a lift on our inner tubes and you’re asking us for money? And that sums up Vang Vieng right there. White backpackers coming and going every day are nothing more in most locals eyes than “moany moany.” Love it? Hate it? Somewhere in between but closer to the latter.

After two nights in VV we would catch our last bus in Laos to the capital city of Vientiane. The city is charming with more than a hint of Luang Prabang’s French architecture and feel. The cherry on top of Vientiane is the fact it currently plays host city to the Southeast Asian Games. www.laoseagames2009.com

Following several hard earned travel days Meghan and I decided to thai one on after our arrival in Laos’ capital. The night, a great one, would find us in a tiny western style martini bar where we would land two tickets to the bronze medal football match between Laos and Singapore the following day.

The following day…

Standing on the Laos side of the tiny stadium, taking in a full face of badly needed sun, cheering “Laos Su Su” (Go Laos Go), the scene was spectacular. What are the chances? I enjoy reflecting on all the twists and turns and serendipitous little events that had to go just right for us to find ourselves in those stands. Like it was meant to be. Sadly it wasn’t meant to be for the host country as Singapore would put them down in a 3-1 loss.

And just like that we’re all caught up to the present – to the here and the now – to Day 99. And that brings us to the future. To the tomorrow. To Day 100. I’m happy to say that Meghan and I already know what we’re doing tomorrow. Tomorrow was determined by the three pillars that guide safe and rewarding travel: flexibility, adaptability, and an open mind.

Our original plan (if there is such a thing on this fluid ride) was to traverse the length of Laos from north to south, cross into Cambodia, make our way to the beaches, then head east into Ho Chi Minh City to rendezvous with friends after the New Year. Well that got thrown out the window. Visas in hand…one-way plane tickets purchased…we leave Laos tomorrow at 1:30pm after only eleven days. Words can’t describe how stoked I am for what comes next…

Next stop – the grand old dame of the Orient.

Next stop – Hanoi.

Next stop – Vietnam.

Luang Prabang

I can’t write about Luang Prabang at length because I could never do it justice. I even decided against filming Luang Prabang because film couldn’t do it justice. So I’ll be brief…

On a tiny elevated peninsula of land surrounded on three sides by arms of the Mekong, sits the Unesco-crowned World Heritage site of Luang Prabang. Combining the cutest architecture from the French Quarter with lantern-lit cobble stone streets, five star dining, tangerine cloaked monks, and an endless sea of historically preserved guest houses dripping in polished teak wood and timeless charm, Luang Prabang is a must see. Set in a river valley surrounded by jaw dropping saw-tooth mountains, the landscape, climate, and pace produce that perma-smile that resides deep inside each of us. And it never leaves your face. It’s a magical, feel-good, environment that’s just so damn unexpected given its location in the heart of the world’s Most Bombed County (a title Laos has the USA to thank for).

Well deserving of the label Linger Inducing, Meghan and I would spend three days and four nights taking in all that LP had to offer on foot, bicycle, and iron horse. Joining forces with three others from our slow boat, we rented motorbikes and explored the nearby waterfalls some 30km to the south. Wind in your hair, the morning’s mist lifting to reveal towering mountains, the arms of a special individual wrapped around you, motorbike hugging the turns of perfect asphalt…life was pretty darn good in Luang Prabang. With a morning waterfall hike, a midday swim, and a late afternoon return to LP under our belt…Meghan and I split from the pack and headed off in search of a quiet road and sunset. As we passed the local air strip I finally caved in to the repeated requests and instructed Meghan on her first motorbike ride. Finding an empty airport strip parking lot I felt like a Dad sitting shotgun as their 16 year old takes the woody wagon out onto York Rd. for the first time. “Lets just keep it in 2^nd gear here…” Cool, calm, and collected – that’s how she drives.

If not for its location in the remote and rugged central mountains of northern Laos, Luang Prabang would be known the world over and likely spoiled. Thank God for the remote and rugged central mountains of northern Laos. No more words on this one. Just a few pictures…

Visit Luang Prabang. Put it on the Bucket List. End of story.

(Night Market)

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?source=s_q&hl=en&geocode=&ie=UTF8&split=0&hq=&hnear=Luang+Prabang,+Louangphabang,+Laos&msa=0&ll=19.89498,102.140343&spn=0.004863,0.006899&t=h&z=17&msid=113857108228539669434.00047af9a7883f15fc966

Live From the Mekong

Yah yah yah. Where have I been? Whatever. I’m back now and that’s what counts…

So here we go…

This is most definitely one of those “OK…you’re going to lie on the bed and write for the next hour and summarize the brilliant last eight days before too much more time passes…” entry. And so with that I lie here on the bed in an adorable riverside hotel, the Mekong River not 100 yards to my left, Meghan’s tiny laptop on my chest, wearing a brand new black hoodie sweatshirt blazing with the Laotian flag and the letters LAO P.D.R. (Lao People’s Democratic Republic), and the music from the street floating in through the open shudder windows. This is the most beautiful town I’ve ever seen. This is the Pearl of the Orient. This is Luang Prabang. This is Laos.

But that’s the here and the now. Let’s begin at the there and then…

On Sunday September 6^th Meghan and I said goodbye. At 1:30am on the morning of Saturday December 5^th in the international arrival terminal at Bangkok’s Savarnabhumi International Airport we said hello.

With Meghan’s 12:35am scheduled arrival waiting in the wings I walked out of my hotel room in Bangkok at 10:00pm. With an understanding that many things I’ve grown accustom to (i.e. dirt cheap accommodations, dirt cheap public transportation, dirt cheap street food, dirt cheap…) would inevitably change with Meghan’s arrival, I walked out the door to catch the city subway and bus to the airport. It may take twice as long as a cab and it may be twice as uncomfortable as a cab, but it’s twice as real an experience and 1/100^th of the price. Plus there was absolutely no doubt that I’d be heading back into Bangkok in a taxi.

With an hour to kill at escalator-heavy Savarnabhumi airport I ate some noodles and stood by helplessly as my heart rate climbed as her touchdown neared. On a side note I did make a commitment to myself to fly Turkish Airlines in the near future as any airline that employs Kevin Costner as its pitchman is an airline I’m flying. Having surveyed the arrival terminal in detail I had located the confluence where every green backpacker, every camera-welding Japanese vacationer, every creepy Australian sex tourist would take their first free steps in Asia after clearing customs. So when the On Time remark switched to Landed for United Flight #804 I made my way to the front of the greeting area. A foggy glass partition running about 15 feet in length acted as the final curtain before revealing all arriving passengers. So there I am at 1:20ish, front and center, leaning over a metal railing, heart rate climbing with anticipation. And with that the shadowy silhouettes start to trickle out. And with each tall and slender outline that fills those 15 foggy steps, I get a shot of adrenaline. Is that her? Is this it? False alarm….

False alarm…

False alarm…

1:30ish…

These people all look and dress like Americans. This must be her flight…

False alarm…

Then a familiar stride fills the foggy glass…and there she is. Three months of waiting over in a heartbeat. She quickly spots me and all we can do is smile. Twenty hours in transit and she’s never looked so good. And with that we walked outside into the Asian night and hailed a taxi…

A crystal clear blue sky Saturday, December 5^th would be Day #1 for Meghan Brown in SE Asia. How do you begin to acclimate? We put on our shoes and hit the street in search of a familiar comfort zone…nearby Siam Center mall – the crown jewel of Bangkok’s shopping district. With an emphasis on baby steps, little things like seeing a Prada store, McDonalds, or Starbucks after flying half way around the world go a long way in aiding the decompression process. See, it’s not sooo different over here after all (yeah right). We get lost in the food court and discuss our first major challenge: what can Meghan eat?

The afternoon brought a tuk tuk ride and an introduction to the buying power that comes with being a Caucasian tourist in Asia. The evening saw a celebratory cocktail on the 55^th floor roof top bar Red Sky.

Sunday and Monday would bring more comfort for Meghan in her new surroundings and more culinary dead-ends for Steve to address regarding Meghan’s new surroundings. After three days of urban decompression, we were both more than ready to head north for rural settings and a change of scenery and country.

We booked an overnight train from Bangkok to Chiang Mai for a Monday night 10:00pm departure in what pictures had us believe to be a fairly comfortably sleeper cabin. Following our arrival at Platform 11 and inspection of Car 13 I got my first taste of Meghan’s great willingness to roll with the punches. The cabin we’d been sold was no where in sight. Hell, the train we’d been sold was no where in sight for that matter. With that we both shared a great laugh and climbed up into our individual bunks across the aisle from each other. Talk about a great sport. We rode through the night and arrived into Chiang Mai around 1pm. We caught a tuk tuk to the bus terminal and easily landed seats on the three hour VIP bus to Chiang Rai. Arriving just after dark we crashed hard. Carrying herself like a well traveled vet, Meghan wore a genuine smile all the way from Bangkok to the Golden Triangle.

We had made the decision on Tuesday night to kick Thailand to the curb, bite the bullet, get up early, and catch the 6:30am bus to the sleepy border town of Chiang Khong, situated on the western bank of the legendary Mekong River and one murky waterway away from Laos.

Laos is one of those bring-us-your-baht or bring-us-your-greenback countries that doesn’t make it logistically challenging for someone like me to pay them a visit. Thirty day visas are issued upon arrival at all airports and land borders ensuring a steady flow of backpackers in search of SE Asia’s most relaxing and chilled out country. Laos is so laid back its horizontal. With a population of just over 6 million it’s the least populated country in the region. And it feels that way. But therein lies its charm and appeal.

So at about 9am Meghan and I stood on the Thai bank getting our first glimpse of our home for the next two days: the muddy and lazy Mekong River. We (happily) stamped out of Thailand, boarded a tiny long boat for the two minute shuttle across the Mekong, disembarked, walked three dozen steps, and began filling out visa paper work. Thirty minutes and thirty dollars later we were sign, sealed, and delivered. New country! New language! New currency! New customs! Laos baby Laos!

(Thailand from Laos)

Loaded with freshly converted kip, we hopped a tuk tuk for the dock…the slow boat dock. At high noon we, along with some 100 other backpackers, took our wooden seats on the slow boat. The slow boat is not dyslexic or something, it’s just…slow. An increasingly popular way for travelers to get from the border to Luang Prabang, in the interior heart of northern Laos, is by boat cruising with the Mekong River. We departed at noon and arrived just after dusk that first night in the tiny river hamlet of Pak Beng. The second day we would push off at 9am with an arrival into Luang Prabang at dusk. That’s slow.

There is both nothing and everything to do on the slow boat. There is a Laotian woman selling overpriced (and deservingly famous) Lao beer, cup o’ noodle soup, and baguettes. Baguettes? The hangover from the French occupation during the late 1800s and first half of the 20^th century is pleasantly evident in the cuisine and architecture. Not a huge fan of just about all things French, I must say it is refreshing being able to buy warm French bread, baguettes, and pastries on the street with the same ease as locating pad thai on foot in Bangkok. There is a toilet. There are wooden benches. And there are travelers. The scene was brilliant but the scene was clichéd. A mish mash of twenty something backpackers lacking any real originality. Unique individuals? Yes. But collectively we didn’t bring anything new to the table. Same clothes. Same high tech gizmos to accompany our yoga pants and hemp wristbands. Same travel stories – “I went from A to B to C to D and back to A”….”Wow! Me too!” It is at moments like this when I long for the frontier. Lets face it people…SE Asia has been done. Central Asia anyone? Despite this the cast of characters were rich and made for an excellent crew to hang with in Luang Prabang.

As late arrivals and thus without seats for two days our small crew came to own the wooden floor deck directly behind the wheel. And we would come to love it. Card games, drinking games, magic tricks, road stories, love stories, Full Moon Rave horror stories…we would share them all over Lao beer. There was twenty-four year old Mike from England who according to Meghan (and to which I won’t entirely disagree) developed a heavy man crush on yours truly during our voyage. Having just finished reading The Damage Done and currently blowing through Neil Strauss’s The Game…I immediately liked the kid. He’d been on the road for a year. There was Martin who was also twenty-four and also from England. A likeable fellow, a strong gust of wind might have knocked him over board. He played an extra at Hogwarts in the first three films, so he had that going for him. Martin would eventually hook up with the wannabe It Girl, a tall waify looking young Brit who just missed the mark on everything. There was Elisha, the twenty-one year old Australian with a heart of gold. And so on and so forth… And so it was with this cast and many hours/beers to kill that Meghan would get her first real taste of those that wander the road less traveled. And as we all know…not all those that wander are lost.

In such company I found it easy to lose sight of my surroundings, so on more than a few occasions I would escape the crowd and (with the captain’s permission) shimmy myself out onto the front of the boat, legs dangling over the bow of the boat. Nothing in front of you. No steel, no wood, no Israeli backpacker who likes his own voice too much. Nothing but an endless feed of dense jungle and Mekong. Not a road in sight. Hell, there are no roads where we were. Just pure jungle. So when you pass a man standing on the bank you know he’s living without electricity and doesn’t know of Tiger Woods. You’re that far off the grid. It’s wild.

And so there you sit floating down the Mekong on a lazy Wednesday. And just when your surroundings get to seem normal you snap yourself out of it by saying out loud….you are floating down the Mekong. And sometimes the powerful realization of your momentary place in the world hits you and floors you. Those are great moments. Moments in which you completely drink in the moment, the surroundings, and appreciate the whole shebang. Other times it doesn’t register and you take for granted without appreciation just how great you have it. In any case try not to pass through this world without dangling your feet over the Mekong River and savoring the moment.

If someday you actually taste the slow boat for two days, the desert at the end of the meal is well worth any hardship endured along the way. Just when you’ve had your fill of life on the Mekong, the setting sun and river’s bend reveal one of the world’s great secrets. Ladies and gentlemen…Luang Prabang.

…and Introducing Meghan Brown

As she will invariably be mentioned in my writings over the coming months, I should briefly explain. Meghan and I met this past summer. Currently in between professional gigs, flush with unused airline miles, and of a like mind that economic downturns are really just great life opportunities in disguise, Meghan accepted my invitation and lands in Bangkok in a little less than 10 hours. I’m ecstatic about her joining this great journey and for the personal experience she’s about have. I think that pretty much covers things.

OK, maybe one more: Meghan has never been out of the United States…

One Night In Bangkok and the World’s Your Oyster…

As if there was any doubt what musical overture would accompany this write up…http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmaJ4G6qhM8

“Man walks through door sideways….Bangkok!”    – J.C.D (Vice President – Evercore Trust Company, N.A.)

Some people abhor cities. I’m not one of those people. Taken in the right dosage there can sometimes be no better cure for everything that ails than the vitality, diversity, and ordered chaos of cosmopolitan living. The air gets dirty. The streets get even dirtier. And the nightlife, well, in the case of Bangkok…the nightlife gets just plain nasty.

Bangkok is the undisputed concrete heart of SE Asia. Geographically centered, BKK is the entry point for the overwhelming majority of SE Asian-bound backpackers and vacationers. So for most newbies Bangkok is their first taste of Asia…and what a flavor. A sprawling metropolis blending the old world and the new, BKK has everything you could hope for. Great hotels. Great food. Great markets. Great shopping. And a famous not-so-discreet sex trade catering to old shady Australian men who wear tank tops, handlebar moustaches, and crack beers at 9am on Wednesday mornings with such vigor as if there is nothing even slightly off about being in a go-go bar at 9am on a Wednesday morning.

Bangkok has a healthy and quick pulse and its pulse is contagious. If you’re in need of a cure for beach malaises…come to Bangkok. If you want to sample some of Asia’s finest food…come to Bangkok. If you want to put your morals on hold and get a soapy (just Google it)…come to Bangkok.

All that said there is something that this city lacks in my opinion. I found it in Jakarta many times over, but haven’t been able to nail it down anywhere in Thailand. Not in the far north of Mae Sai. Not on the beach in southern Phi Phi Don. I haven’t found it here. It’s pretty simple. I’m looking for a smile.

More a representation of the Thai people’s general demeanor than any personal distain against this particular farang (Thai slang for foreigner), the Thais are all about the business. Or at least it seems that way. Not surprising given the volume and history of travelers to this country, the Thais have seen many a pasty white Irishman arrive long before I showed up and they’ll see many a sunburn Mick leave after I’m gone. Like the back rooms of the red light districts of Pat Pong and Soi Cowboy, Thailand has seen it all before. And because of that there is no novelty for them. Novelty for us farangs? Absolutely. This is Thailand. It’s new! “Look honey, that woman is poor!” Yippee. But for the Thais it’s nothing new…its just…business as usual.

Where as Indonesia and Myanmar were dripping in originality, my human interaction with the Thai people has been disappointing. Thailand – come for the beauty but just don’t expect a warm hug.

The upside of this focus on capitalism is that I have no regrets or hesitations making sure I pay the absolute bare minimum for just about everything. Everything in this country is negotiable. Even if it’s in print. Hell, especially if it’s in print. Where as I felt lousy nickel and diming in a country like Myanmar where they don’t even have a word for capitalism, I feel no such sympathy here in the so-called ‘Land of Smiles.’

My haggling skills are getting better by the hour. I feel like there are two separate approaches for haggling. Approach A is for just about everything: ferry, bus, train, hotel, street food, sex (kidding), fruit, internet, etc. Approach B is for tuk tuks.

With Approach A you counter whatever offer is spoken/written with a bid that’s half.

The inevitable response is a chuckle, head tilt, and smile! You’ll immediately learn whether the seller has any discretionary leeway. If they counter with a lower price than their original it’s akin to opening the missile hatches on the Red October (you’re going down). You then work the seller down until you honestly feel they can’t go any lower from fear of not eating that night. Once you get to that point, you turn and walk away. If you hear silence from behind you…you know you’ve found the market price or at least their breaking point. If you hear another counter…you turn around and repeat.

My favorite aspect of the whole game is the sheer volume of people selling the exact same thing/service. The number of tour organizers and ticket sellers in most tourist towns / backpacker ghettos is laughable. If I know I am leaving in a day or so and need to buy something I will shop half the town. Its takes a minute to cut to the chase with a seller (if not less)…another minute to peel the orange you’re holding while negotiating…and another minute to walk to the next seller. All said it takes about thirty minutes to find the real market for just about anything. Yet I see very few tourists engaging in the game. But hell, without those suckers biting on every first offer…I wouldn’t have inflated prices to play with. So I guess, thanks guys. Keep getting ripped off.

And don’t even get me started on the leverage I felt entitled to wield when buying bulk, like when I was handling tickets for Devin, Jane, Laura, and I: Wait, I’m about to buy four tickets at once. That must be worth at least a 70% discount. We’ll start there…

Tuk tuks.

(Her face and body language clearly says I paid too much…”

It’s as if tuk tuk drivers have to complete an intensive course on how to rip off farangs in order to get a license. The same psychology of Approach A applies except I counter their initial offer with an insulting 80% discount. Take last night for example. I approach four tuk tuk drivers sitting around shooting the bull – not another customer in sight.

Farang: “How much to Khao San Rd?”

Driver 1: “500 baht.”

Farang: “Right. Let’s start at 200 baht then. 200 baht to Khao San. No detours.”

Driver 1: “No no. Good price for you. 300 baht. Good price.”

Farang: “250 baht to Khao San Rd.”

Driver 1: “Ok. Let’s go.”

Farang: “Wow. You jumped at that quickly. Looks like I need to retrade this deal my friend. Sorry. 150 baht to Khao San Rd?”

Driver 1: [Head shake and silence.]

Its at this point that I turn and walk away. This is the moment. I hear crickets from Driver 1. And then from over my shoulder comes…

Driver 2: “OK. OK. 150 baht. We go.”

Farang: “150 baht to Khao San. Direct. Lets go.”

And we go tearing off into the night. Oh it’s the little joys in life…

——–

The only other thing I feel like sharing from my three days in Bangkok so far is a moment I had yesterday on foot (I think I’ve walked somewhere between 10-20 km in this city so far – I mean I’ve covered this place – pushups and walking…). I was cruising up a largely forgettable main artery en route to the bookstore yesterday about noon when out from around a corner came a bronze plaque: Embassy of the United States of America. And in an instance I was standing in front of towering gates separating me from American soil. I was holding a coffee and a balled up brown bag that could have doubled as a hand grenade at a quick glace. I slowly raised my ball of paper shrapnel so the four well-armed security personnel could see that this farang was nothing to be concerned with. I stood there eyes affixed on the flag pole not thirty feet away through the steel gates. And waving in the wind in all its glory were the Stars & Stripes. With chills shooting up my spine I stood motionless for thirty seconds and watched that beautiful flag blow. It was a welcome, albeit unexpected and unplanned, reminder of home. With all its faults and issues, we are all blessed to call the greatest country in the world our home. When the moment passed I headed off. A smile ear to ear. What a treat.

America. I don’t miss Her, but I do love Her.

——–

And on that note I’m going to end this the way it began…in style.

Straight out of 1984…

Please welcome to the B Stage…

Ladies & gentlemen…

Murray Head…http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kmaJ4G6qhM8

Hoppin’ Still

Escaping unscathed from Ko Pha Ngan to the south, I hitched a lift forty some kilometers north to the tiny diving mecca of Ko Tao. This tiny island has It, and it has It in spades. Smaller, more manageable, and more mature than its younger bro to the south, Ko Tao is a place to linger. With more than half its visitors spending the majority of their time below water instead of above it…I continued my contrarian streak and sat on the dry sand for two days.

Off topic…

Whatever muscle a person had at the beginning of a journey like this, it sadly and quickly melts away in the absence of a gym. I didn’t have much to begin with but what I did was pretty much gone by the time I was riding the Highway to Hell in Sumatra. So with that I decided to steal a page from boot camp – push ups. I do lots of pushups. I do them before I brush my teeth in the morning. I do them before I walk out to the beach (but come on, who doesn’t?). I do them after supper. I do them in a box. I do them with a fox. I could drop and give you forty right now without breathing hard. (I double dare you to close your office door and try cranking out 15). No running shoes and no ocean means no real cardio. With no running and no swimming I’m down to two means of fitness: walking and pushups…

On topic…

My last beach for a long while would be a great one. Up early I headed out to the empty and quiet sand with the intention of running. Few lazy pushup sets and some old-man-like stretching out of the way, I trotted off down the beach. By the time I got to the other end I had a new best friend. The fattest yellow Labrador this planet has ever known eyed me as I came lumbering up his beach. As I passed his sandy hood, with tongue wagging, he joined my ranks with Blue Angel-like precision and kept me company for four lengths of Saree Beach.

Whenever we would pass another dog’s territory and summon his bark, Fat Ass would drop into the water positioning me between him and the local heavy. It was classic. When I finally couldn’t take the running gig any more Fat Ass joined me for a swim 15 yards off shore. I swear that butterball would have sunk to the sea floor like a kamikaze torpedo that missed its target had I not kept his Lusitanian-ass afloat. I think I bonded more with that fat dog during that hour together than I did with my actual dog during her entire life. I finally walked Fat Ass home to his dive shop, we hugged, and I ran out the back door before he could follow. Walking back to my beach hut I realized that Martin Riggs had it all figured out way back in the ‘80s. All you need in this life is a beach, a trailer, and a great dog. Life can be that simple. I guess a flowing mullet doesn’t hurt either.

And that was it. The dog was the highlight of my two days on Ko Tao. As the sun started doing its thing late in the day I knew the clouds and weather would cooperate for a killer sunset. I staked my spot on the beach, set up my camera’s tripod, locked in the frame I wanted and hit record. One hour and fifteen minutes later I hit stop. When you view that same footage at 4 times its normal speed (which takes about 20 seconds) the transformation of light and color from 5pm’s sweet spot to 6:15pm sundown magic is really incredible (if none of that made sense I’m sorry. It will one day in my film).

This last piece of seaside tranquility would be the final calm before the approaching storm (err, drizzle) of Bangkok…then Laos and Cambodia and Vietnam and India and Nepal and China and Mongolia and Russia and Kazakhstan and Tajikistan and Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan…

The seas, for the two hour ferry ride from Ko Tao to the Thai mainland leaving at 4:00pm the following day, were so rough that more than a few people spent those hours hanging over the side (a la Cape May 1992). I felt fine and kept quoting George Costanza to no one’s amusement: the sea was angry that day my friends…like an old man trying to return soup at a deli.

With time to kill I did what any self-respecting ex-casino owner would have done…I acted as the House and started dealing blackjack hands. Two baht minimum and five baht max (for the high rollers). The casino was doing well until the two snarky Canadian girls from Manitoba got sick and went outside. And with that my off-shore gaming operation lost 50% of its clientele and folded.

Our ferry got to the mainland pier at 6pm. It was dark, drizzling, and rough. Our escape from the boat was something straight out of Fox’ Caught on Tape. I was the last passenger to get off and thankfully caught it on tape. There was no threat of sinking, but lets just say the 10 foot long gangplank (that we had to sprint over) was not stationary at any point due to wave activity. This stunt never would have flown in the states. At 8:30pm we were safety aboard a charter bus headed for Bangkok. By 5:30am I found myself in the legendary backpacker hive of Khao San Rd searching for a bed with two Californians. By 6am I was in that bed.

By 9:30am I was wide awake. Something just hung in the air outside. Something just inviting you to come outside and take a look around. Something different. Something funky. A little something called Bangkok…

http://maps.google.com/maps/ms?ie=UTF8&hl=en&oe=UTF8&num=200&start=39&msa=0&msid=113857108228539669434.000475cd617df8978ac81&z=8

Island Hoppin’

November 24th:

Ko Phi Phi Leh

November 25th:

Forgettable night in Ko Lanta forever to be associated with a world class hangover.

November 26th:

Early ferry from Ko Lanta to Railay Beach. To clarify Railay is not an island (as many believe) but rather a peninsula. “Oh how I love this island!” I would hear. “You’re on the mainland by the way…and your fly is down,” I would inject without invitation. Railay Beach has many things going for it. 1). No cars and no motorbikes. 2). A world class sunset beach. 3). World class rock climbing. The latter to be enjoyed on one of the endless towering cliff walls that pepper the seascape and surrounding coastline. RB is iconic Thailand at its best. All that is missing is Roger Moore and his Golden Gun.

My company for two nights on Railay would include two ex-Chanel employees and a Jersey-born, NYC-practicing corporate lawyer who may just have the world’s smallest hands (sorry Triple J – you know I love you). Laura + Jane + Devin + SBO = a Thanksgiving to remember.

Beach life, as many of you are well versed and familiar, does not warrant description. Read, eat, frolic in a giant bathtub of jade-colored water, and break out the camera when the sun heads for home…

November 27th:

…and repeat. Beach life is a simple & beautiful formula. It requires no modifications, no tinkering, no upgrades…

November 28th:

With an ambition travel schedule planned…Laura would find her way to Bangkok. With a new job start-date looming…Jane would find her way to Bangkok . With a serious case of the travel flu…Devin would find her way to Bangkok . With none of the above characters or hindrances…Steve would find himself heading off alone to the home of SE Asia’s biggest and most notorious party: the Gulf Coast island of Ko Pha Ngan.

Every month when the werewolves come out and our closest satellite gets fully illuminated, backpackers, travelers, vacationers, & thieves descend on the tiny island of Ko Pha Ngan for its legendary and lethal Full Moon Party. On Sunrise Beach on the peninsular of Haad Rin, on the southeastern most corner of the island, anywhere between ten and 30,000 people will come to party as the nightly low tide and lunar rotation sucks the ocean out of the bay leaving football-fields worth of dry sand…

30,000 people…

The stories are legendary…and alarming. While on Gili Trawangan two months ago I had a drink with an ex-Birmingham footballer who used to play in England ’s Premier League. Phil Warner was thirty years old. Handsome guy who you could tell did just fine with the opposite sex. He and his mate had been in Thailand for a month so I peppered them with questions. When we got to the topic of the Full Moon Party, they both kind of laughed. The story, as Phil told, involved him wearing a fake designer watch and a flashy button down shirt. All was well until his evening went black. When he awoke he was on the side of a mountain…watch-less…shirt-less…and wallet-less. At some point he had been drugged, robbed, and driven up the side of a mountain and left. Drugged? Everyone drinks “buckets” at the FMP. Picture a bucket that a child would use to build a sandcastle at the beach. Take that, add whiskey, add coke, and serve. With that visual in mind its not hard to picture a few Thai scumbags, working in tandem, dropping a roofy in Warner’s drink, trailing him, and taking action when his steps start to wobble.

Like I said…alarming. Unless your passport and valuables are on secure lock down while you’re on the sand, they apparently go walkabout with alarming regularity. But for all those stories people still rave about it. I’d had mixed feelings about attending since Gili T…

Back to Railay Beach. The trip to Ko Pha Ngan requires you to cross the isthmus of Thailand – from the Andaman Coast on the west to the Gulf Coast on the east. It’s a well traveled route by people who look and pack like me.

At 8am I boarded a long boat and left Railay. Twenty minutes later I arrived back on land in Krabi. Twenty minutes later I took shotgun in a mini-van. Twenty minutes later we were dropped off at a bus station. Twenty minutes later I was flashed a sign that read “Don’t leave valuables in your luggage.” I had heard about dodgy bus trips and Thai scumbags going through luggage underneath the bus. I took everything of value and stuffed it into my carry-on bag. Twenty minutes later I was sitting shotgun in another minivan. Sixty minutes later we were dropped off at yet another bus station. Sixty minutes later we boarded a charter bus. Forty minutes after that (apparently everything that happened took place in increments of twenty) we arrived on the Gulf Coast. The bus stops, you grab your gear, and quickly rush to make the ferry to Ko Pha Ngan.

With a seat secure on the topside I unzipped my big back to begin consolidating both bags into one. Zip….and there it was. A black journal…that wasn’t mine. And the light bulb goes off. Thai scumbags. Thankfully I hadn’t left anything of value or importance to steal, but it could have been worse. All that went missing was a bottle of Listerine and shaving cream. Oh what a sickening feeling. As you’re cruising along in your bus seat, some scumbag is going through your stuff down below. (Time to break out the Paksafe lock that I brought.) I walked the length of the boat holding the journal over my head until finally a very confused British girl came over.

So with that unfortunate experience leaving a nasty taste in my mouth, I arrived to Ko Pha Ngan at 5pm (with precious sunlight remaining). Ko Pha Ngan is not a small island, so accommodations are spread all over the place. Not about to pick a place blind and pay a taxi, I did the logical thing: rent a motorbike.

I had come to the part of the rental agreement form that asked for time and date of pickup. I reached into my pocket for my phone and found none. I ripped through my bag in a minute and realized it must have fallen out on the boat. I sprinted back to the ferry, showed my ticket, and was told I had “two minutes” to get on and off. In a mad dash I sprinted to the top deck and found my Nokia wedged in between the seats. I ran back to the rental office pouring sweat as the sun was dipping alarmingly low. I loaded up my gear, strapped on my helmet and mapped a course to the northern most tip of the island and a beach hut I’d read about.

As I’m navigating the winding roads I remember a passage I read: Ko Pha Ngan has more motorbike accidents than injuries at the Full Moon Party. Knowing of the island’s reputation, having already been robbed, and having nearly lost my phone, I had a bad vibe all over about this place.

It was dark when I pulled into Coral Bay. For two hundred baht I found what I was looking for. The clichéd thatch hut, on stilts, 50 feet from the water line. I figured I’d already spent the night on The Beach, so I might as well spend a night in one of those corny huts as well. I was physically and emotionally drained, so I hit the pillow at 8pm…on a Saturday night (sweet life…I know).

The other side of that coin was waking up at 6:15am and getting on my motorbike. Teeth brushed, long-sleeve on, I started the engine at 6:23am while the rest of the island slept. The clouds were gone and the sunrise over the interior mountains was sick.

It’s been emailed to me once or twice that I’m apparently “living the dream” or some such. Well we’re all living some kind of dream but for a few seconds that morning, as I leaned into the mountain turns of Ko Pha Ngan’s smooth asphalt, I thought to myself: “Yes, right this second…you are living the dream.”

Then I promptly crashed.

No. That didn’t happen. I rode towards Haad Rin and Ground Zero of lunar debauchery. Along the way I picked up a bald, twenty-something Brit who had clearly made some poor decisions the night before. From the back of my bike he informs me he drank a lot, doesn’t remember much, and just came to in a Lady Boy bar. I would eventually drop him off and get my first real look at his face. No eyebrows, just painted black line. Skin disease or something else? Either way, just flat out weird.

“You’re a life saver. If I see you at Fin’s Pool Party later I’ll buy you a drink. It’s off the hook.”

“Don’t worry. You won’t,” I mumble to myself.

Haad Rin was beautiful at 7am. Cute bars, restaurants, etc. But then again it was empty. It wasn’t hard, however, to imagine the carnage that goes down here once a month. I passed by a Seven Eleven and stopped. I smiled to a local sweeping the street. She approached my bike:

“Girl die last night. Right out in water [pointing to the beach]. They take her Ko Samui.”

I would hear this news again that morning. No explanation provided. Drowned? Drugs? No idea. Just some poor girl who came to the island looking for good times and never left. Sad.

I parked and walked out to that very beach where just hours earlier a girl had lost her life and where days from now thousands would celebrate on her grave. I surveyed the endless stalls of bucket dispensers and just shook my head. Maybe when I was 25 I would have gotten excited about the Full Moon Party? But not here and not now.

(Buckets don’t appear hard to come by. And from the looks of it…it’s from the ground floor to the 2nd floor…)

I ate breakfast, refueled, and stopped at Fin’s on the way out. Fin’s has a serious reputation as the daytime party spot. At 8am I stood and watched as several Thais poured enough chlorine into the pool to blind every man, woman, and child in China. Thanks but no thanks. I didn’t even so much as look back as I climbed the notoriously steep and dangerous hill out of Haad Rin (first gear all the way). That would be as close as I’d get to SE Asia ’s most legendary party.

With a full tank of gas and a hearty breakfast of banana pancakes I headed into the island’s interior – the only route to the northern beaches. The roads were garbage and unsafe. Sand and gravel. I took my time. When I arrived unimpressed at one northern beach in particular that was billed as ‘paradise found,’ I decided I’d had enough. Why not get the hell off this island and up to Ko Tao? It was 10:30am and I’d seen everything I needed and wanted. Ko Pha Ngan – not for me.

(Coughlin’s Law – As long as stupid people have access to stupid money, stupid ideas will manifest themselves in all sorts of stupid ways.)

I took my sweet time retracing my steps through the interior, the whole time convinced that something was going to happen. Just bad news, near misses, and lousy vibes since I’d arrived. And now, I thought, it was my turn. I navigated the dirt interior back to tarmac in one piece and shot over to the ferry pier.

“When is the next boat off this island to Ko Tao?”

“12:30pm.”

It was 11:30am. I was now on a mission. Get off Ko Pha Ngan in one piece. And get off fast. I shot up and over the mountain and back to my hut. I had already packed so I quickly loaded my gear and jumped back in the saddle. As I prepared to retrace my recent tracks back up and over the mountain the voice of Pat Jackson jumped into my head: “OK, Steve. Don’t eff this up. Just up, over, and back to the rental agency…in one piece…like a gentleman.” All I had to do was drop the bike off in one piece and board a ferry. On the final stretch, with the rental shop in sight, I slowed to a crawl expecting something (anything) to dart in my path and Shanghai my escape. Nada. Smooth return. Smooth ticket buy. Smooth boarding. Smooth getaway.

As I stood on the top deck on the tiny boat about to cross the 40km north to Ko Tao, another boat pulled up at the pier. And just like that…hundreds of backpackers disembarked and headed down the pier, all with likely the same goal in mind: good times Full Moon style.

The full moon is December 2nd and I’ve decided to trade Ko Pha Ngan for Bangkok.

What would you do?

(Vodka bucket, anyone?)