Bangkok, Thailand: Siam, I Am.

Bangkok. The thought of it alone sends an instant burst of adrenaline coursing through your veins. It seems to promise everything- a world unchained and unlimited. An exotic place where literally anything seems possible and all desires are within your grasp. As I step off the plane the hair on my neck begins to stand. I've been here before. I know what this city is capable of; I can handle that. It's myself I'm afraid of. Just how far might I push it? How far will I go despite logic, reason, pleading, turmoil, and even my own safety? Bangkok is not a city for the faint of heart. You slay the beast or you become the beast. It's that simple.

As our taxi rockets through the city I reach a silent accord with myself to fight this beast- to fight it with everything I can muster. There is little time to deliberate further. We have arrived. After much debate we elect to meander around the hostel area. We eat a most satisfying lunch that costs us less than $4 each. We scout the Lumphini Stadium for a boxing match the following night, and begin drinking in earnest at a fortuitously located Irish pub offering irrefutable happy hour pricing.

Thai beers begin to flow and we amble along the streets passing the infamous Phat Pong, only meters from our hostel street. The beast within begins to rumble, growling menacingly. We try to seek refuge in a Mexican joint boasting what appears to be a salsa buffet. Inside, the walls, tables, chairs, even hostesses seem slathered in thick salsa. More beers disappear and the night seems like it could turn at any moment, but I'm armor clad, I'm wielding a fierce axe, and I'm ready to fight. 

We dive back fearlessly into the night and navigate the chaos with singular purpose and great gusto. A last ditch effort by the resident street hustler for ping pongs, women, and god only knows what else is deftly averted. We navigate our way back to the hostel to retire. A seemingly long-overdue victory for reasonableness.

The next day we resume our role as tourists. We team up with an Englishman named Adam who accompanies us to Wat Pho, the apt "resting" place of the great reclining Buddha.

Despite the swarms of tourists the temple grounds themselves are somewhat peaceful. There are chedis to the first four Ramas of the current Dynasty rising prominently in the skyline. Surrounding them are a host of smaller yet still impressively adorned chedis we can only assume are for other important dignitaries or family members of the early Ramas. We are awed by the temple but the great Buddha is the only one doing any reclining this day.

We next attempt to infiltrate the exorbitantly priced former Royal Palace. Unfortunately it is too late in the day for such an expedition so we settle for the Museum of Siam, a new and interactive museum about the history and people of Siam (who we have come to associate more or less with Thailand). If you enter after 5pm admission is free so we burn the 45 or so minutes until the museum's "happy hour" by attempting to locate the nearby "flower market." We eventually stumble upon a market that sells mostly fruits, vegetables, and various other odds and ends, but eventually... blamo! We eventually stumble upon one woman hawking flowers.

We shrewdly navigate our way back to the museum nary purchasing a single flower. Gleefully the museum staff turns us loose in the building gratis. The museum is well above what I expected, not literally as it stands roughly at the point above sea-level indicated on the map, but figuratively, as it's new and flashy and cool and stuff. Nearly every exhibition is truly interactive, as in you can actually, well, interact with it. The only piece of the puzzle missing is a pinch more English explanation. But there's no room to complain when such a museum boasts half a photo-opp tuk tuk into which Jon very nimbly and eagerly maneuvers himself.

The day still young, we three amigos make the kind of leap that would unleash an otherwise less-tamed beast: we hire a tuk-tuk and speed with all possible haste to the Lumphini Arena for some Muay Thai boxing action. It is here I drink my first Chang beer from under a filthy roach-infested bleacher. It is here I first taste gambling on the administration of physical punishment from one human being to another. And it is here, in this very stadium, that I lose what I know will be a long series of wagers to Jon. 

It is the title fight. Jon bets red corner, I bet blue. At stake: the purchase of a pair of Muay Thai boxing shorts and the obligation to wear them for an entire day at the winner's discretion. Unlike in the The Cable Guy, red knight did not go down down down. I've lost.

By the end of the matches, unregulated alcohol percentage Chang beers are pumping through my system, and that is a reasonable concern considering each one could be anywhere from 4-12% abv. The night rests delicately on a precipice. The monster within is howling. It's raging, crying to be set free. But I am an experienced master. Many times before I've held it back, and with all the courage I can summon, I choke back the urge to storm into the hot, sticky, suffocating night air and force myself into a taxi. "Another time," I tell the beast. I coax him gently, "we've all the time in the world."

The next day we find ourselves up and at it early(ish). We negotiate passage on a riverboat back to the Palace and empty our pockets for what, at that price, is surely the coveted entry ticket plus the deed to a small island nation. I'm wearing shorts which are strictly prohibited so I must adorn myself with a pair of baht-deposit-induced temporary sweats. I feel like Carl Winslow during off-hours, and I know I can't look much better.

We press onward and despite rainbows and all of the hopes and dreams of children, the Palace is almost immediately disappointing. Through the main entryway a massive and ornate hall beckons. Ultimately this bulwark leaves much to be desired. It feels like the girl who is trying just a bit too hard to get everyone to like her.

The surrounding area is littered with chedis and smaller temple buildings, all displaying the adequate degree of pomp and gaudiness. Yet for the price we paid to enter, I feel as though if I can't steal something I should at least be afforded the liberty to apply a small smattering of graffiti to a less historically-important wall... or something.

We weave through the portions of the palace not sectioned off, which are few. Eventually we make landfall on a new-ish building that appears to be a reception hall of sorts... or perhaps a bedroom. The English translations make it impossible to discern. The outside is impressive yet, typically, we're not allowed to take photos of the even more impressive interior. I grumble audibly for the next several minutes.

As we reach the exhibit on the royal wardrobe of the current queen, I'm exhausted, dehydrated, and ready to administer a clavicle punch to the next person who claims I can't take a picture after taking out a second mortgage on my non-existent house to finance this entry.

We exit the premises. I buy a pineapple on a stick and am tempted to tell the palace guards that 'they know where they could stick it.' Instead I just eat it and we walk a few hundred meters away from the palace where we can get a tuk tuk without being unreasonably extorted. Mounted in our three-wheeled chariot we rip through the searing heat of the mid-afternoon toward the Marble Temple.

This is probably my favorite of the "major temples" in Bangkok because it is actually and truly a respite from the complete and utter chaos engulfing this not-so-fair city. As we walk in, I notice a grand total of three other tourists. Monks, clad in their understated yet simultaneously outlandish orange robes, go about their daily business while we muddle about shoe-less and fancy-free. Pictures are taken. Flange gets a particularly good one. I feel, for the first time since landing in Bangkok, a moment of peace wash over me. The beast is calm, maybe even in a deep slumber. I chant silently to the Buddha that he remain asleep. But even with Buddha on my side, I'm only fooling only myself.

Just a short distance away lies the Jim Thompson House. Jim Thompson was an American soldier who was stationed in Bangkok and after WWII decided to stay (hardly difficult to see why). He became the leading pioneer in reviving the Thai silk industry and eventually using his immense sums of Thai money he purchased six traditional Thai houses from locations such Attuthaya (the old capital) and had them reassembled into one mega-style super-Thai house.

Like any bad ass expat worth his salt, 'ol Jim disappeared in the mountains of Malaysia on holiday. The mystery around his disappearance has never been solved. I hope my demise is even partially as enigmatic. These days his old house is a tourist attraction as it's a prime example of traditional Thai architecture (which is now all but extinct).

Personally I love the house, I love the feel of the grounds, and most of all I love the legend of Jim Thompson himself. Without any real reason I feel a kinship with him and his house. Sometimes I wonder if I'm actually the reincarnation of 'ol Jim. If nothing else he's certainly the type of character I've long aspired to be.

In need of liquid refreshment and air conditioned shelter from the unbearably oppressive steam-injected blast furnace that is modern Bangkok, we head to one of the premier malls in the city- Paragon. It's cool, literally and figuratively. Eventually we get tired of the whole mall bullshit and decide to walk up a few blocks to Soi Cowboy- Soi meaning "street" and cowboy meaning "cowboy." On this street there are heaps of bars catering to westerners. By that I of course mean bars with TVs, western beer, and lots of very attractive Thai girls aching to sit with you and have you buy them "drinks."

If you can imagine a brothel at one end of the spectrum, and somewhere in the middle you have a strip club, then finally at the far other end of the spectrum you have the bar girl. For your hard earned dollar (or baht) she will provide you with the company of her attractive self and moderate ability to converse in English. She usually won't really drink with you but she will accept "drinks" at double price- the drink being water and the double price being allocated in some fashion between herself and the bar. Sound familiar? (Hint: Phuket)

I've heard stories of westerners in Bangkok being able to pay up front to escort one of these lovely ladies off the pub street but I've never seen it. In the old days of Bangkok, the GI days, all you needed was a charming smile and enough money to buy the lady a beer. Tragically those days have long passed. The commercialism of the whole scene puts me off and is even enough of a repellant to keep the beast at bay. Once again we retire. Another victory. But things seem to be on the downward slide. Despite placation, the beast feels ravenous.

The next day's agenda is simple enough: buy train tickets at the station and visit the nearby golden Buddha shrine: the largest solid gold Buddha in the world. The ticket purchasing goes easy enough and with a bit of skillful construction zone navigation we arrive at the golden Buddha complex. I'm immediately struck with a feeling of "where the hell am I?" which is particularly odd since I had seen this exact golden Buddha slightly more than 5 years before. Apparently in the interim they constructed an entirely new (and most impressive) edifice in which to house the weighty artifact.

I also don't remember it costing anything but we pay the paltry entrance fee and make our way up the stairs. The top of new construction proffers a reasonable view of the surrounding Chinatown area of Bangkok but the real treat is, of course, the golden Buddha itself. Now placed grandiosely at the top of a special pedestal, the gilded deity likeness truly seems to lord over the surrounding area- ourselves included.

We notice monks from the nether-regions of Thailand making a pilgrimage to the likeness. It seems both surreal and appropriate all at the same time. Similarly, I'm struck with a sense of nostalgia for my last visit and the circumstances surrounding it, as well as a striking impression that this old experience has been replaced distinctly with present. The past sunk underfoot; paved over to make way for the new.

In celebration of our achievements, in both logistics planning and sight-seeing, we decide to celebrate by making a trip up to the much ballyhooed Khao San Road: the backpacker's backpacker's district. It is here where things begin to go awry. For those eager to engage in mischief, Khao San is a delectable little block of windy streets packed with bars, pubs, massage parlors, impromptu clubs, old VW vans posing as bars (or clubs), as well as a host of other post-dusk activities that could tickle your imagination in a host of ways that I don't have the time or vocabulary to describe.

It is difficult to recall the full happenings of that night but suffice it to say Chang is heavily involved as are a host of his other fun buddies and in the mayhem I eventually become separated from my co-host. Assuming he will surely resurface I continue with the festivities. It is this simple unassuming decision that will ultimately prove to be my undoing. The night bursts forward at light speed. Hours disappear, simply melt off the face of the planet. One bar, a street, a hostel, back alley, bar, secret club, go-go girls on poles. Total neon obscurity.

I'm truly lost and completely unaware of it. The beast is out, and he is feasting. At some point we're back at a boxing match and I'm working as a runner for a bookie. Fistfuls of baht pour through my fingers like water from a tap and I'm none the wiser. How did this happen? Before I can contemplate, I'm back on the streets- cavorting with fellow travelers of unknown origin or identity. The tuk tuk weaves through narrow and nightmarishly filthy streets patrolled by even more nightmarishly filthy women. I find myself in a tornado of madness and I try to stabilize myself in it's calm epicenter... but to no avail. The blackness is coming, and it comes hard and fast.

I awake to find myself in a makeshift hammock of sorts in what can only be the courtyard of a hostel or apartment complex or (god forbid) someone's house. I check myself- no wallet, no cash, no phone. No idea where I am. The beast has won. 'But I'm a crafty veteran,' I think. Surely there is a reasonable solution for this. I pry myself from my suspended cocoon and make my way gingerly into the command center for this particular penitentiary. To my luck it is, in fact, a hostel. I don't bother asking the name or where I am or how I got there- my primary concern is my fellow cohorts from last night and the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they might know what happened to my stuff.

As I was attempting just such a line of inquiry with the receptionist, if not by Jupiter's merciful member, a lad appears in the "lobby" and happens to recognize me. "Mike! Dude what the hell happened to you last night?!" he exclaims with expectorated spittle launched with such velocity as to nearly blind me. "I was hoping you could tell me man," I reply cagily. "The last time we saw you was at-" and then he muttered the name of what I can only assume was a bar, club, or some other unspeakable locale the beast had led me to.

"Any idea how I got here or what happened to my phone and wallet?" I inquire near-hopelessly. He pauses to think. "Nah man, but a couple of the guys in my room got back crazy late- maybe they saw you somewhere." "Cool, I'll just wait down here- you know their names and what they look like?" I reply. "Not really dude, but I can hang here with you- nothing else to do... hey, you want to grab a beer?"

This is just what the beast wants. He's had his way for a full night and now here, in the semi-bright semi-morning aftermath, is an opportunity for him to charge back through his hastily assembled cage for another round of carnage. "I dunno man, it's like... what time is it anyway?" I toss back casually. "Man it's like 11:30 or something. But it's Bangkok dude, any time is time for a beer."

My mind races- I go through every possible permutation to counter that logic but alas, it is simply irrefutable. "Good point," I acknowledge, "let's make it a Singha then. I'd like to ease back into this." Even though I know it was an inevitable response and even as it leaves my lips I'm shocked and incredulous that I've said it. This feeling is multiplied tenfold when I take the first long swig of the semi-cool Singha double beer offered to me by my new and unnamed friend.

Another beer or so later a tall blond youth of considerable handsomeness but minimal distinction emerges from the cavernous region that, through months of experience, I know leads to the hostel dorm rooms. "Mike! Holy shit man! Can't believe you're still here! Thought we had lost you for sure... dude are you already drinking?" The mere mention of it and my unavoidable acknowledgement nearly makes me lose what I had been so carefully attempting to stomach. "Yeaa... just killing time, trying to see if anyone has seen my wallet and phone," I say shakily.

He replies emphatically, "Oh yea dude! Brian has them upstairs. You gave them to us when we got out of the tuk tuk and had to walk past the massage parlors." "Why did I do that?" I ask flabbergasted. "You said you would be too tempted to trade your phone or credit cards or something like that," he responds. "But what about the cash?" I follow up logically. "Haha man I don't know- I think you spent that way early like around the boxing cuz Brian bought your beers at the next place." I am too confused to bother inquiring as to what other place he meant and, much more importantly, I'm fighting the steady upward march of my so carefully consumed Singhas. 

"Is it cool if I go up and get my stuff from Brian?" I ask. "Sure man, let's do it." he replies and in a flash we're leaping up the stairs. "Brian" graciously returns my items and everything is there with the distinct exception of any cash. I thank him and the blond giant profusely, stagger from the hostel, and notice an internet cafe immediately across the street offering 10 minutes of free internet.

I enter and tactfully use the minutes on my mobile to email Jon and tell him I'm alive and post a picture of the boxing arena which "Brian" had said we were near. I tell him that I'm in the cafe across the street and to come find me. I feel terrible. Real terrible. But, I remind myself, "you're breathing, you've sustained no serious injuries, you've got all your belongings, and you've contacted someone to locate you." And to top it off, the nice lady running the cafe lets me charge my phone while I sit.

All I really want to do at this point is doze off until Jon can rescue me. But after what seems like forever, but is probably less than an hour, the woman running the internet cafe beckons me to follow her down the street. 'What bit of intrigue could this seemingly random errand possibly entail?' I wonder as I begrudgingly shuffle after her down the street. She leads me only a few meters to a massage parlor. "Massage for you? Very cheap." She says almost pleadingly.

I attempt to tell her I have no cash and that I'm waiting for my friend but it's a fool's errand. She simply won't be refused. A haggling process begins and before I know it we're down to a very reasonable price. In my excitement I take a picture and send it to Jon updating my location (at which no point does it occur to me to find myself on google maps and give an exact location). The beast is back. He's foaming at the mouth. Gonzo mode.

That said, I still have no cash. I stand in a bit of a confused stupor as to how to proceed before the (now obvious) realization hits me that I have an ATM card. Double eureka! "I'll be right back- need baht." I say as I storm out the door. I round the corner and trudge past a 7-Eleven where I find an ATM. I withdraw what I feel is just enough baht for my massage and a few beers. The true irony of this, in hindsight, is obviously that with a phone and ATM card I could have easily navigated my way back to the hostel... but, dear reader, please recall that your humble narrator was in Gonzo mode and the beast was now running the show.

I start to make my way back to the parlor. It's at this point that, rounding the 7-Eleven I run into none other than Jon-himself who has left the cafe and was duly searching for the massage parlor. I insist that he takes a picture of me to commemorate our reunion.

I then inform him of the deal awaiting at the massage parlor and we pound sand in that direction. I am relieved to be found, and he is nearly as relieved to have found me as to be able to get a reasonably priced massage. We laugh heartily and deeply. He tells me to never do that again and I promise upon the condition we never return to Bangkok, or if we do then I'm not to be held responsible for my actions. The pact is agreed. Inside the massage parlor the usual massage parlor antics are parlayed into the usual post-massage parlor antics and we depart and go see a movie, what we feel will be a lighthearted end to an otherwise savage journey.

Our train the next day doesn't leave until the evening. I take that opportunity to sleep and sleep and sleep some more. We (I) awake just in time to check out at noon and we putz around the Ryokan (a name which I obviously love) Hostel until nearly time to make our way to the station. Before departing Bangkok we make time for a final Pepper Lunch at a nearby mall. We relish in our time in the city. What was once lost has now been found. What was once unleashed, now safely caged. As I eat my pepper beef with rice my mind is again calm despite the dull penetrative throbbing in my brain and muscles, the most telling byproduct of a horrific bender.

Bangkok is a bit like Las Vegas. When you get off the plane you are so wound up all you can think about is how awesome of a time you're going to have and how fired up you are to be there. And, symmetrically, when you leave all you can think about is how lucky you are to have survived and how grateful you are to be leaving. And so, after two plus days of succumbing to the beast within, I leave you with the only photo taken within a more than 48 hour period, from March 8th through the 10th, the train platform as we leave Bangkok.

Oh, ok, and a nice one of the Palace at sunset. It's not all monsters, kids. Just mostly.

Khao Lak & Phuket, Thailand: "The Andaman Sea, the Andaman Sea, I want to be on the Andaman Sea"

Thanks Dennis Hopper, so do I. Permanently. If I somehow make it to the ripe age of retirement, getting a breezy shack on the Andaman Sea is precisely my plan. Maybe I'll even open a little beach-side bar and peddle reasonably priced Singapore Slings. In the meantime, I'll just have to make do with all-too-brief visits.

Most people in my situation would probably save the week of relaxation on a tropical beach for the end of the seven month journey. As you may have noticed, I am not most people. And, to be honest, the beautiful beaches I was looking forward to relaxing on just so happen to be in Thailand- stop three on our Asia grand tour. Specifically, we're heading to a resort in Khao Lak.

Khao Lak isn't that easy to get to. It is about an hour drive north of the island of Phuket, on the elbow of the dog-leg shaped appendage of Thailand that trickles down the Malaysian Peninsula. To get there by land from Penang one would need the following: taxi to a ferry, ferry to the mainland, walk to the station, overnight train to Surat Thani, bus to Phuket town, taxi to Khao Lak, and finally a tuk tuk to the resort. Alternatively, as luck would have it, there happens to be a daily direct flight between Penang and Phuket for only $25 more than all of that. Lock city.

We're up early in Penang but the air is already sultry; it's going to be another hot one. We kill time at the station awaiting our bus down to the airport. A man from Pakistan harasses me about donating for Pakistani bombing victims. I give him some money and he files me in a very officially looking ledger. Jon buys an ice cream. The bus ride is 45 minutes and costs us a dollar each.

I'm not sure what to expect when we arrive at the airport. My head is filled with images of a dusty tarmac lined with old poorly maintained King Air prop planes. I couldn't have been more incorrect. The airport is brand new, sparkling even. There is a KFC and a McDonald's prominently situated. Zero security wait, no lines anywhere. It feels almost deserted. Boarding takes less than 10 minutes. We pull back and taxi faster than any plane I've been on. 

In a flash we are touching down. We're in Thailand now. Immigration is easy and we locate the arrivals hall. Getting a taxi to Khao Lak is child's play, but getting cash from the ATM is much harder. Since my last visit apparently Thailand has worked its way on the fraud alert block list for most banks including mine. Eventually I revert to Citi and we're holding what seems like an unreasonable amount of Baht. 

It takes almost an hour and a half to make it to Khao Lak even with the wild and erratic driving of our cabbie. We're told once we arrive that the Platinum Guest free happy hour will commence at the beach-side bar in approximately 30 minutes. I don't pipe up to inform them I'm no longer Platinum. We arrive at the happy hour two minutes early and it turns into what Jon calls the "hammered hour." The staff looks on aghast at how many cocktails we can put away. Looking at the regular drink prices we feel we're making money with each one we take down.

Eventually the clock strikes 6 and the river of libations has run dry. We take a stroll on the beach up to a little restaurant a few hundred meters from the resort. They've got cheap beer and really cheap curries. We dig in. Mosquitoes swarm around us despite the best efforts of the staff. We bathe in spray that burns our skin. We relieve it with beer. We stand up to leave and it's apparent we've overdone it a bit. Hammered hour has become hammered three hours. 

We stagger down the beach laughing and acting ridiculous. We spot what we believe is the resort and storm toward the pool. Disrobing to swimsuits we jump in. I notice I'm still holding a beer. I notice we aren't at our resort. We proceed to another pool which is in our resort and make several attempts diving down the water slides. Never once do we notice the pool closure signs. Finally we make it back to the room. My beer and sandals have vanished but I don't notice the latter until the following morning.

The next four days roll by quicker than one would like. I feel under the weather the next day, then Jon is sick for two days, then I'm sunburned and sick the last day. We mix it up, sometimes eating resort food, sometimes local, and occasionally getting pizza. We lay on the beach by day and swim in the (closed) pools at night. Most days are overcast, one day it pours rain. Despite all of this we never once miss the free afternoon happy hour. Few pictures are taken.

Our last night we take full advantage of said happy hour and then retreat to our favorite little restaurant. A similar situation to the first night ensues and on the way back to the hotel I reach peak aggravation with having to walk all the way around the pools to get where I need to go. I decide to ford my way across. Not to be noticed by the patrons dining at the poolside Italian restaurant I utilize my umbrella to shield my personage. I'm certain that this will allay all suspicions. Jon films me from poolside amidst fits of laughter. He assures me that my subterfuge was entirely unsuccessful. 

Undeterred I beckon him into the pool as well and we continue. We eventually make it to the spa pool where we continue our unabashed abuse of the pool closure policies. As we trudge back to the room we pass the main dining room and the evening's entertainment. They look at us puzzlingly- especially at me as I've fashioned my towel into a toga and turned my shirt into what I'm at this point calling a "Heart of Darkness bandana." It's somehow a fitting conclusion to our vacation from our vacation.

The next morning, the day we leave, the sun is out in full force. We get off to a late start but we're only heading back to Phuket to set up shop in the legendary beach town of Patong. It takes us nearly two hours to get there. The streets are cramped and winding. People in Patong, it seems, categorically abhor even the concept of sidewalks as we are forced to weave our way through and alongside traffic everywhere we go. 

We spend the next few days following the typical Patong itinerary: getting a massage, strolling around, eating at the night market, contemplating attending a muay thai boxing match, and of course patronizing the infamous Bangla. We visit the beach but find it overwhelmingly crowded and touristy. It is certainly a sight to behold- people swarming everywhere hawking beers, fruit juices, sandwiches, and freshly shaved aloe for your poor sunburned back. There are boats of every description along the sand and able-bodied captains rest in the trees awaiting any remotely inquisitive look from a pale passerby.

The beach umbrellas, lined up three to four rows deep, seem to extend for miles. It's expansive and yet claustrophobic, wondrous yet oppressive.

The chaos barely subsides on the nearby strip where every nook and cranny is packed with scooters, t-shirt stalls, and tiny bars slinging iced down beer. It's like Myrtle Beach on steroids. A ton of steroids. It would seem exotic if it weren't for all the Subways, McDonald's, and Burger Kings.

There's even a Mexican restaurant which Jon and I just can't help ourselves from trying. We duck out of the staggering midday heat. At this point I'm too hot to even drink a beer. I opt for a huge bottle of water. The food is decent. We fortify ourselves preparing for what we anticipate will be long night at the Bangla. As it would turn out we had no idea what we were getting ourselves into.

After showering and changing clothes we march from our hotel toward neon-encrusted destiny. Along the way we stop at the night market for salty fortification. Jon gets a noodle dish, I rice. I also cough up 60 cents for a skewer of fried fish-balls and some sort of hot-dog concoction. The former is edible, the latter not so much.

Ahead of us the Bangla glows welcomingly and intimidatingly. The street is littered with pubs, clubs, go-go bars, and a host of other establishments ranging from moderately to exceptionally seedy. Men and women of all ilk approach offering deals for massages and ping-pong shows.

We have our first beer at the Original Shipwreck Bar. We are filming for the show and the bartendresses are intrigued. We make our way through some Leo beers and are garnering much attention. We mix it up.

Back on the Bangla we dart into one of the mega-bar complexes which houses dozens of little bar "stalls." Jon is physically corralled into one. They promise "happy hour" special which is a free tequila shot with a beer purchase. We pony up. I do my shot in "tequila suicide" format and demand one of the bar girls do the other. Jon is in no mood for tequila. I'm stricken with admiration for his willpower. The girl doesn't realize it's real tequila until it's too late. We laugh heartily.

In Patong, Bangkok, and other parts of Thailand certain bars have "bar girls." These girls hang out and talk with you and then ask you to buy them "drinks." The drinks are usually 2x the regular price and what they drink is actually just water. You're tipping them for their time. If you know this scam, however, you can avoid it or leverage it in your favor. At this hole-in-the-wall, we agree to buy drinks for the girls but only under the condition it is real tequila or a beer. They decline and we stay a few bucks richer. 

Deep in the recesses of the mega-bar Jon spots a place we have read about. It's a go-go type bar with a twist. We enter and are immediately handed foam rubber bats. At this bar it is your freedom and prerogative to whap the waitresses, bartendresses, dancers, and anyone else you feel with the bats at your leisure. In fact, the motto is "an ass-slappin good time." Hard to beat that... ahem. Beware, however, that these vixens are equally within their rights to wail on you as well. And as I found out in quick order they are quite adept at disarming you and beating you with your own bat. What a glorious country.

Back on the streets we amble on. We find ourselves back in the Shipwreck for a stabilizer beer. A middle aged British man and woman somehow get behind the bar and begin dancing to "Gangnam Style." The staff cheers them on; the whole bar has gone nuts. We swoop back outside, nearly reeling. Bangla swirls around us, neon lights trying in vain to batter us into submission, daring us to soldier on. We summon the courage. I've hyped the ping-pong show to Jon. "It's a once in a lifetime thing" I tell him, secretly meaning you'll only want to see it once and then you're scarred for life.

We decide to go for it. The admission is one heftily priced beer. The entertainment comes out and proceeds with their show. Some call it tricks, I call it art. Terrible terrible art. Jon is pulled on stage for a dart and balloon popping exhibition. Some woman performs an incredible feat with razor blades that we are sure aren't real until she randomly selects a few to shave a straw into minute portions. I go to the bathroom. When I emerge I'm pulled on stage for the grand finale. I'm mostly disrobed, handcuffed, thrown in a chair, and beaten with foam bats. They then drag me back stage in a puff of smoke.

It's closing time. Unshackled we make our way to the door both a little rattled, both certain that we'll never want to experience that again. After witnessing one of these shows, no matter how old or seasoned you are, it's hard not to feel a little bit of your childhood innocence evaporate- even if you've long outgrown such silly notions. We both agree it's probably a good time to end the night... but we meet a Swedish guy who has other plans. The night is just getting started he declares. Jon buys him and I obscene bracelets from a passing woman and the Swede, like a crazed pied-piper, leads us down an alley to another bar.

The bar is filled with bar-tending students. They all want to be in the show. We make conversation that makes no sense. The throng absorbs us. We move on to a Euro-club. Prices are arbitrary- I pay a crazy amount for a beer and Jon gets two reasonably priced Jager-bombs. We're on-stage with the DJ, we're dancing in a circle, we're completely gassed. The club is hot and stagnant, it pulsates with youth pumped up on vodka and Red Bull. We storm into the streets and make our escape.

I'm cornered by a Thai woman sitting on a bucket hawking beers. She challenges me to a beer drinking contest. My manhood is insulted. I prickle up, buy the beer, and crush her with ease. We stagger down the street not certain of whether we feel victorious or defeated. All we know for certain is that the Bangla will deal us one final haymaker in the morning. I, for one, am dreading it.

The next day is lost.

The final morning we dust ourselves off early and prepare to evacuate. Dawn is breaking and already the narrow streets of Patong are coming to life. Flange poses for a picture before we hop a taxi to the airport.

 
It is our 9th day in Thailand and given the events of the past week we feel we need some R&R from our R&R. But we'll find no respite for our flight is destined for Bangkok. Out of this frying pan our jet barrels toward the fire, perhaps the biggest conflagration in all of Asia. We've planned a week but before wheels up I get this foreboding suspicion that it may be longer. Things in Bangkok have a tendency to go awry and I have a tendency to be swept up in such mayhem.

I try to put my worry aside and relax. I focus on what needs to be done once we land. I think about the rest of our time in Thailand, I start to consider Laos. Finally the tension begins to subside and I drift off. It's at that exact moment the wheels touch down at Don Muang Airport.

Kuala Lumpur & Penang, Malaysia: Make The Boss Pay

The early morning humidity is a much needed reprieve from its leviathan cousin that awaits us in the late afternoon. It is during this tender hour we make our escape from Singapore, first from the hostel, next to the metro, and then finally onto the train. The respite from the heat is short lived. We pass security on both sides and board a train only to be told we will need to switch as soon as we cross the bridge into Malaysia.

The train in Malaysia is damp; it's clad all in blue. There is air conditioning blowing in vaguely from somewhere which immediately makes this mode of transport, even if ever so slightly, better than its predecessor. We start. The train is mostly empty; I eat a bag of "cheese" popcorn that, despite the conventions of taste, is a sweet, salty, and savory snack all in one... with a distinct hint of Mexican food backing that gives pause for alarm. It was described as "cheese flavor."

Endless palm oil and rubber tree plantations roll by, the children clad in rags and adults in seldom better. It is a poor country, yet somehow a beautiful one. Not in the sorrow or hardship of those we pass who exhibit such an apparently ravaging struggle, but in the strength and perseverance which seems to possess them. They press on as steadily as the train itself. We roll for hours, it seems like ages. They toil for ages, it must seem like lifetimes.

At least an hour late we finally arrive at KL Sentral. Jon is tired and irritable. We exit the train and ask for directions- we're told to go straight ahead. Attempting this yields a dead end. We try right, we try left. Every path is blocked by construction fencing. Finally we navigate our way around the construction zone and manage to find the main street. It's dark, damp, and chaotic. Cockroaches scuttle around the sidewalks and hawker restaurants attempt to peddle the the last of their scraps before closing.

We eventually locate the hotel and are able to check in. When we later attempt to acquire Malaysian currency, the bank rudely informs us that our cards are no good. No money this evening. Ultimately relenting we retire but not before noticing my favorite all-time SE Asia sign in the elevator of the hotel:

This is a fortuitous sign. The next morning it's time to spy a few of the tourist attractions. We maneuver by monorail as close as we can and then make our way on foot to the iconic Petronas Towers. (blurb).

By now it's relentlessly hot and the overcast sky provides little relief. The mall only serves a temporary respite from the heat and humidity. On a quest for linen pants we scour the mall for what seems like hours but to no avail. Finally, after a hearty sushi lunch, we trudge back into the inferno. The goal: Chinatown. The map betrays the distance to our target and the heat makes us vividly aware of it. Eventually we progress to the Merdeka Square, the plaza in which Malaysian independence was declared from Britain. I particularly love the Sultan Abdul Samad Building. After this, it is all we could muster to find some sandals for Jon and sunglasses for both of us before scurrying back to the hotel.

The next day the city heaves- pouring heavy breaths of oppressive sultry air. You can't make it more than 25 feet outside of air conditioning, even at night, without your brow furrowing in a tidal wave of perspiration. Despite this we push on. By this point Jon's computer has completely failed and we are searching for a replacement. He's already processed the return and refund while in Singapore but he still needs a machine. We target a mall that is alleged to have a computer/technology mega-store. We arrive only to discover that, along with typical Malaysian policy, the mall we seek has closed and is being torn down for (presumably) the construction of a new mall.

All of KL is a jungle. It is both concrete and lush, as if some dastardly city planner decided one day to march into the heart of the Malaysian jungle and just when he reached it's thickest and most tangled corner he struck in his spade and declared "we shall build it here." Concrete columns rocket up from the foliage, the streets wind around and over the ancient riverbeds, and even the construction cranes have taken a life of their own. Every building is seemingly in a perpetual state of erection or demolition. We struggle to determine which is which. The jungle squeezes everything- trying to take back the city inch by inch.

It's my birthday. We meet a friend. She shows us one of the livelier, former ex-pat areas of KL. The special places where tequila shots are on extreme discount only if you buy in orders of five and beers seem to operate in similar fashion. It's a good night, possibly crazy night. We jettison- KL swirls around us from the taxis. Karaoke venues tempt and tantalize but eventually the night ends at a halal street market- roti and naan are on the menu. No beers here. It's a nice sobering end to a hectic birthday.

I didn't expect to survive to this birthday; I'd had premonitions about it since I was young. Fate, it seems, has granted me a stay of execution. What better way to show appreciation the following morning than delving into one of Malaysia's national treasures: mega-malls. We storm forth and locate an indoor theme-park. Yes, an indoor theme-park, complete with a roller coaster. We pony up the paltry entry fee and dive in.

Spinning, swirling, twisting, disorienting. Perhaps not the best way to fight a birthday hangover, but we survive. The park is insanity, the mall is berserk. The only way out of this chaos seems to be deeper within. This is a labyrinth to be sure.

We see movies, we eat mall food, finally, in the ultimate heat of the moment we discover an archery range and partake in it's graces. I flex my dominant archery prowess- shooting 10 of my 12 arrows without looking and still scoring higher than my counterpart.

We retire. We are sweaty, hot, tired, and we must make our night train to Butterworth Station (for Penang Island). I feel terrible, Jon looks worse. He reminds me of Boris from Goldeneye.

We both pour sweat. Finally our overnight train boards. Little solace. Flange is the only one of us who loves the accommodations.

We arrive Butterworth before dawn and make our way to the ferry. It's early morning by the time we traverse the bay and make landfall on Penang Island. I normally do all of my hostel-finding damage on foot in such circumstances but in this case Google Maps had deleted my entry and I have no idea where we are or where we need to go. We take the hit to our egos and gobble up a cab which speeds us toward our hostel.

We check in, pay our tab, and are afforded showers. The it's time to hit the streets of Georgetown. This city was once the British colonial capital of Malaysia, chosen because of its port access and strategic location on the ocean. Even in the historic heart of Georgetown there are but few architectural examples of the British colonial rule, the most impressive of which undoubtedly being the City Hall. We snap our photos, shoot our segments, and duck into the shade- sweat pouring from us even at this early hour.

The most notable feature of the old town that isn't a temple is Fort Cornwallis. We gaze past the well preserved canons and out into the bay.

Perhaps my favorite part of the fortress is the painting of a traditional Malay house, obviously updated as an automobile is depicted in front of the residence. It is this style of housing I find so hopelessly romantic.

We visit a temple, a mosque, and the oldest Anglican church in Asia.

 

Traversing the streets is a nearly insurmountable challenge. Sidewalks have no place in old Penang and the onus is on the pedestrian to avoid traffic while navigating along the streets. We struggle to adjust. Several times it seems as if one of us will most certainly be killed, but we escape. As we wind through the old narrow roads, street art pops out at us- some good, most bizarre.

On our second full day in Penang we take the bus to Penang Hill, site of the Kek Lok Si Temple, began in 1890 by Kapitan Chung Keng Quee the late 1800's millionaire philanthropist and founder of Taiping. We are dropped off on the dusty streets of the hill near the funicular railway. We ride up, enjoy the view, and ride down. Jon hates inclined railways; his nerves are apparent. The heat is overwhelming as we make our way on foot from the funicular to Kek Lok Si. We see it in the distance; dirt from the buses, cars, and motorcycles kicks stinging dust into our eyes.

As we draw near the magnitude of the temple before us becomes increasingly evident. It is less of a temple and more of a complex. The inner courtyard yields a great view of the main hall and smaller pagodas.

Just up the stairs we encounter a circular doorway leading to the rest of the complex.

One emerges from the other side of the complex in a maze of a gift shop. Buried in the back is a small funicular that takes you up to the giant Buddha statue on the hill. At the top we buy prayer ribbons and place them on sticks. We trust that Buddha will provide us with a fruitful, safe, and above all, phenomenal journey. We pay our respects and descend.

It's our last night in Penang. We decide to make the most of it by hitting the night market and doing it hard. This particular market has approximately 20 different food stands hawking everything from Malaysian to Chinese to Indian to Italian. Beer is on offer and there is live music. we take the plunge and hours of off-color joking, deep conversations, and ultimately a pinch or two of rabble-rousing ensues. Jon garners the nickname "the Boss."

"Make the Boss pay!" she says. We can't stop laughing. Time to go. "One more for the Boss." Whatever you say maddam. We know it will be a rough morning and we have a flight to Phuket, Thailand. But nothing can be done about that now. Time for that last beer. Besides, the boss is paying.

Singapore, Singapore: Swing It & Sling It

We step off the plane and into the humid Singapore air exhausted. We had awoken in NY more then 27 hours before and taken a subway, a train, and two flights including the 14.5 hour monster from NY to Hong Kong merely to get where we stood. We still had to make our way through immigration control and customs before finding the metro that would ultimately lead us to the hostel- a daunting task at this arduous hour.

Compounding our feelings was the fact that before we left NY we were required to sign a release form through Cathay Pacific stating that we were fully liable for any return airfare should we be disallowed into Singapore. Word on the street is that Singapore officials sometimes deny entry to persons who do not have a confirmed round-trip ticket. Walking through the terminal I feel confident that we will be let through with no problems (getting the benefit of the doubt is one of the few benefits of traveling the world as an American), however, Jon's constant threats to kill me should we be denied entry did nothing to soothe my creeping uneasiness.

We eventually make our way into the country, through customs, to the metro, and speed wearily into the heart of the glittering metropolis. Disembarking the metro we stagger the 4 blocks down to the hostel, encumbered by fatigue and our backpacks we have not yet become accustomed to. We check in, rather uneventfully, save for the fact that only cash is accepted. We trudge up the three flights of stairs to our room and hastily dump our belongings and make for the showers.

The showers are outside of the air conditioned dorm-room oasis, but that is not the feature that strikes me hardest. I survey the stalls containing the shower apparatus and one element nearly sends me reeling- the shower is in the toilet. Or rather, there is a toilet in the shower. I had encountered this back when traveling SE Asia with an ex-girlfriend in the mid-2000's, however, it had completely slipped my mind until this moment. To save space and presumably piping, in many places in SE Asia, the shower paraphernalia is located in the immediate vicinity of the toilet. As such, when you take a shower you are guaranteed to hose down any and everything within a reasonable proximity (in this case the sink, toilet, and all toilet paper). As my father so eloquently put it, this set up "gives a whole new meaning to the phrase 'shit and a shower.'"

I battled through the mental remorse of spraying down a day's worth of toilet paper and mustered just enough energy to collapse on my bunk. I didn't have enough left in the tank to notice but apparently the Malay guys in our room had never heard the phrase "close the door or were you raised in a barn?" Actually, I'm not sure that's even a real phrase... I'll have to defer to my mom's knowledge on the subject. Regardless, unbeknownst to me but according to Jon, these clowns come in and out all night leaving the door (which was coincidentally right next to our beds) gaping to freely allow the 85 degree heat and 100% humidity to wash over us like a tsunami of relentless discomfort.

The next morning I find myself mobile at the ripe hour of 8am. I traverse the stairs to the roof terrace to check email and other goings on. From here I snap a shot of the Arabic quarter of Singapore in the early morning light and universal cloud cover.

A few hours later Jon makes his appearance in his "mosquito proof" outfit and I can't help myself from laughing. I hand him my Fidel Castro Jameson hat and take a photo of him looking out at Singapore. He has the air of a young Safari guide or bush prop pilot you might see wasting the day away under an umbrella at some dirt airfield near Alice Springs.

As we stroll through the neighborhood later that day I can't help but think how much Arab Street reminds me of New Orleans. It's not so much the booze, obviously, but more the look and feel. And if you're interested in the booze, look in one of the side alleys off the main drag- it's one of the many thumping night life areas in Singapore.

I tell Jon I'm taking him on the basic tour of Singapore. We walk from Arab Street down to the Colonial district. We see the bay, we see the Boat Quay. From there we spot a unique building that appears to be a cruise ship marooned on top of three skyscrapers.

Downtown Singapore looms large. It feels like New York. A sweltering barely breathable mutation of New York that's somehow more clean, more efficient, and all the glitz with none of the grime. I'm immediately struck with how impressive it looks and how oppressive it can feel. It's so safe, so sterile, at times it feels more stifling than the choking humidity.

We seek brief refuge along the Boat Quay. I tell Jon it's one of the most scenic river fronts he will see in Asia. It reminds me of some of the more picturesque river sides in Europe. Except older, and newer, and cleaner, and dirtier- if that makes any semblance of sense. I can't help thinking how much I love Singapore and how much it frightens me. And how much I'm sweating... why is it so hot here? That dirty ruffian equator.

We stroll through Chinatown. It's decked out in yellow paper and red lanterns for Chinese New Year. It's the year of the snake, that seems so appropriate. Over any of the old buildings you can see the towering skyscrapers of downtown.

Jon makes an attempt at photography at a Hindu temple. This is the result.

A Buddhist temple, anime/action figure mall, and Chinatown hawker booth and we are heading north again. I have a new bracelet- my first of the Asia venture. It's hot and the Tiger beers from the hawker shop are doing little to quench our thirst. We make hay for the Raffles Hotel, the most famous in Singapore and one of the most famous in the World. We press directly for the legendary Long Bar the origin of the Singapore Sling, one of my all time favorite drinks, albeit a bit sweet in these my more advanced years.

We settle in. The prices have surged from exorbitant on my last visit to downright unbearable. We have our obligatory slings, gobble our mini-peanuts with gusto, and make for higher more palpable ground.

Singapore is a great city. It's known for many things: commercial industries, heat & humidity,  western influence, great "street" food (now mostly in malls or food courts), blend of cultures, and mega-malls. We feel them all in full force within the first two days.

We move, we sweat. We sit, we sweat. We eat, we sweat. We drink, you guessed it, we sweat. Our first six meals are: Pepper Lunch (Japan), Mos Burger (Japan), Hawker noodles & dumpling soup (China), Chili Crab (Singapore), Char Kway Teow (Singapore/Malaysia), and the Pizza Hut Good Fortune Pizza (USA via Singapore). We are culture, we are full.

One of the main past times in Singapore is going to the mall and seeing a movie (there is a theater in every mall of note). Night one we see Journey to the West. It's everything that's great and terrible with Chinese slapstick comedies. Night three we see Die Hard V, only all of the serious curse words are dubbed over with the phrase "Chia-pet" which completely transforms the film from a rowdy action bonanza to more of a cheezy made-for-TV buddy comedy. The theaters are extremely loud and bitterly cold. Jon thinks it's to stop the spread of disease. I think it's to keep people from falling asleep... or perhaps to discourage theater vagrancy.

Singapore goes smoothly. Things rock to the beat as anticipated with minimal exceptions. Someone steals my sandals but inexplicably returns them. Jon needs a Hep B booster, I get an eye infection. The Malays continue to let the heat in and the beat goes on. Nights roll away; we see more malls. A building from Fritz Lang's Metropolis towers over our neighborhood. The heat presses us, daring us to submit. We see the Merlion, we meet up with girls, we drink Tiger beers, and we agree if it wasn't for the heat, humidity and prices we'd move to Singapore.

It feels good to be somewhere familiar, even somewhat so. It's a luxury I've rarely had in my Wanderlust adventures. We eat, we drink, we sleep, we roam, we watch, we interact, and we survive. And then, just like that, we must move on. We have a train to Malaysia, best not keep it waiting. We move with confidence. We've housed the Fortune Pizza. Let good fortune rain. Our luck is changing for the better...

Stint 3: All Aboard the Orient Express

Hello dear reader and welcome to what will be the Wanderlust coverage of Stint 3 of my Transient Retirement. If you've followed Wanderlust this far you've witnessed me leaving my long-term job in NYC, relocating to NC, and the insane European romp that was Stints 1 & 2. This time I journey to the other side of the globe in an effort to experience the far east and all it has to offer. 

The plan for Stint 3 is more or less the same as the others, overlanding via train or bus, staying in hostels or home stays, eating cheaply, imbibing at the local watering holes, and trying to dive into as many of the sights and as much culture as one possibly can. I hope to not only travel through Asia, but live it and feel it as well. As with any sequel (or trilogy), however, there are bound to be changes to the overall program. For Stint 3 there is none moreso than the addition of a new Wanderlust traveling companion, my oldest friend Jon Lusk.

I've known Jon since we were around 4 years old and lived in the Thicket neighborhood in Greensboro, NC. We went to school together, university together, and have stayed friends all this time. Jon also traveled with me to Japan for 2.5 weeks back in the Spring of 2007, however, this will mark his first serious foray into international backpacking, just as Stint 1 marked mine. He's diving headfirst into the fire and for that I admire his courage and fortitude. 

The second biggest change you'll notice is that we acquired a camcorder and will be recording the vast majority of the trip on video. The plan is to hopefully edit this into a video blog or some sort of episodic travel-show format. How much we can do and how soon we can process and upload this project will likely depend on how our laptops fare with  large-scale video editing (likely not well) and how much time we find to engage in such activities. 

In any event, we'll try to at least post clips (previews if you will) of what we're up to from the road. Additionally, you'll notice some changes to Wanderlust itself. First, since we will (hopefully) be capturing so much on video, I anticipate that the posts will be shorter and more concise. They are likely also to focus on activities or oddities that we noticed (or perhaps personal reflections) that didn't make it onto film. I'll still be uploading pictures to flickr but I imagine they will also be somewhat lighter in number as will the links to the blog. Finally, you might get the opportunity to read Jon's thoughts firsthand as a guest writer for Wanderlust. 

Many things to be excited about and many things to look forward to. I'm heading up to NY for a few days "R&R" with my NYC buddies and then the trip officially commences next Monday the 11th as Jon and I fly to Singapore. We have no set plan but I anticipate spending a few months in SE Asia, a few months in China, and a few months in Japan with some other places possibly thrown in as well. All told we'll be spending about 7 months in the far east. 

The visas are acquired, our gear is packed, we are ready to go. Stint 3: Let's do this.