Walking (and Writing)...Aimlessly

Cathay delivered me home hobbled thanks to the very apparent vendetta Hong Kong has against the club-footed.  I had almost forgotten how unforgiving it can be, my feet were no match for the vertical city-scape.   At the moment they’re shaded with an oddly familiar purplish hue that seems to dissipate a little each day and so I’m confident I’ll be back to my normal wobbly self in no time. 

That said, it’s forcing me to take my daily walks at lunch a bit more gingerly.  I typically try to get out of the office each day when I can to clear my thoughts.  Unfortunately, I’ve been saddled with more work than any small office staff could handle and so I’ve been forced to sit the past few months out.  With strong resolve, I took the occasion of my return from Asia to regain my stroll.  Now, when I am in good routine, most of the time I am joined by an old friend that I just so happen to work with at the same company.  One look at him and you’ll agree that he’s much less athletic than I, but I’ve learned to tolerate that in trade for the company.  I typically have to measure back a clip to ensure he’s able to keep pace, save for this week...I just haven’t been in top form. 

It seems the trip exacerbated the measurable degree of deterioration my feet and ankles have experienced over the past few years, and it has only reinforced the notion that managing them from here on out will require more than just toleration.  I’m finally resigned to the point that relief will undoubtedly require a healthy combination of stretching and medical oversight.   And I’ll be honest…it’s that latter measure that concerns me most.  It’s never easy for me to visit the podiatrist.  The amazement that the medical community has shown my feet over the years can, at times, be quite discouraging.   For instance, during the most recent appointment, my doc grimaced assertively at first sight and by the end of the examination had all but stopped short of suggesting that I’d probably be better off with hooves.  I kid of course; however, provided they were cloven, I wouldn’t necessarily disagree.  It wouldn’t exactly floor me to learn that my feet are actually more closely aligned anatomically with that of livestock.  Now, naturally I’m referring to function more so that form, yet I don't want to give the impression that it's foot off-coloring that will keep me from a foot modeling career.  I’ll spare everyone a picture…just on the off chance that any of you are eating.   

More substance to come shortly, bare with me on the writing...I'm still trying to get my feet back underneath me...

How About a Re-do?

Have you ever been in a crowd of approximately 150 Asian people and think to yourself, ‘I can say with 100% certainty that I’m the only person here listening to the Marshall Tucker Band on his iPod?’   Yeah… me neither.  Until earlier today, that is, as the thought dawned on me while waiting to board Cathay Pacific flight 890 offering service from Newark to Hong Kong.  In hindsight, the Asian modifier is probably unnecessary in the context, but they do represent the largest demographic at the terminal waiting to board the flight.  I’m returning to Asia nearly 4 years to the day of my departure and I hope the 5-day visit will provide me ample time to reacquaint myself with a city of which I grew quite fond.  As I’m sure the city has changed, so have I.  Since last reporting to you all, I have moved my home from city to suburb and accepted a new position within the firm.  However, underscoring all has been Lara, the beautiful woman I now call my wife.  For years she has urged me to return to the keyboard.  It is about time that I oblige – someone or something has smiled upon me since the day I met her and I recognize that for that…I owe.   

 

I type away from the business class cabin where a balding gentleman in khaki shorts is successfully wearing out a path in the carpet pacing from the nose of the plane to the back server galley.  I’ll give him late 40’s and 140 pounds, soaking wet.  He has now bumped into my arm rest causing my seat to jar for the second time.  If it happens a third, he may not see 50.  In all honesty though, I don’t fault him for the movement.  His activity is making him much less susceptible to deep vein thrombosis than me, for instance, who has spent the entire flight sedentary and making a full-hearted attempt to consume enough to last through hibernation.  My performance has not been for the weak-hearted.  It has taken only 10 hours to notice a pound per square inch change in the partially inflated inner-tube that finds a home atop my midriff.  And that development comes as no accident.  I wouldn’t exactly call the go/no go decision on that Black Angus cheddar burger an inner struggle, and I’ve thrown down no roadblocks on route to depleting the flight’s ration of Johnny Walker Gold.  Restraint just hasn’t been on the menu tonight.

 

The flight path is an interesting one.  A course due north is preferred over straight west as the earth’s curvature and rotation make the journey shorter in both time and distance.  It was originally counterintuitive to me, but I’ve learned to grasp it as the 777 is cresting over the northern pole, rounding route south set to breach what must be the most uninhabitable terrain on earth.  Through a squint I can faintly make out land below which is black and blue, and beautiful.   We’ll traverse the rest of Siberia before we reach the Mongolian border which, coupled with massive mainland China, seems to represent the final leg of the journey.  I’m anxious to touch down in the ‘Pearl of the Orient’ – I anticipate memories ‘so thick I’ll have to brush them away from my face.’  It’ll be Sunday morning by that time and my plan calls for a quick respite before setting out to retrace my steps from years gone by.

 

Check back for more commentary on the trip but for now let’s address the elephant in the room. 

 

I get it.  Either I’m going to write, or I’m not going to write.  It’s not fair of me to leave the throngs of people who continue to check this site daily disappointed. 

 

The furnace is lit…I’m taking up the hobby once more. 

 

I’ve come to realize that I do not need travel to use as an impetus for posting.  I’ve also resolved that I do not need significant life events to leverage in order to address this fever.  Rather, I really only need idiots like the one that has now smacked my chair a third time on route to logging his first mile at 37,000 feet to provide equal parts material and motivation.  There is never a shortage of incident, accident, or situation.  I promise to write about it regularly so long as you promise to enjoy… 

'He Who Limps Is Still Hiking'

I met two co-workers at Circular Quay Ferry Station early Saturday morning intent upon carrying through on the plans to hike along the coast line of neighboring Manly beach that we had devised the night prior. With an eye towards full disclosure here, the idea was hatched over a Vietnamese meal and a few too many Kirin's which in hindsight played a key role in having everyone foolishly agree to meet at 8 am. I arrived a bit early toting a headache and a burning desire to return to the pillow surprised to find the other two troopers already on line to purchase ferry tickets. We were all a bit glassy and we lumbered towards the far side of the vessel when the ferry arrived. We ended up parking ourselves on a long bench affixed on the starboard side of the vessel next to a noisy group of Chinese tourists. As we took off, the blue sky, beautiful landscape and salty air worked wonders to buoy our hung-over spirits and I started to rekindle the prior night's excitement about the 10 kilometer hike. Doing her best to rob me of this anticipation was a Chinese mother of what looked to be a two-year old girl that sat directly to my right. Despite doing my best to ignore it, I couldn't help but be horrified that the little girl tottered upon the edge rail that the woman had perched her on. What's worse is that this woman seemed more concerned with getting the child to smile for a photo on the edge than she did about ensuring that her baby remained dry. I turned to find the other two fixated on the situation as well and we all watched intently hoping that the boat would be able to smoothly navigate any wake we encountered. Now if you had asked me at the time, I'd have bet dollars to donuts that the rug-rat was destined for the chop. Couple that thought with knowing full well that this woman was much better qualified to give a violin lesson than to make a deep sea rescue, and I hope you'll understand why I felt the need to remove my wallet and camera from my pockets, shift my weight distribution such that it'd be a smooth dive over the rail in pursuit and wait for impending disaster. Thankfully, after about 20 minutes we chugged into Manly wharf without incident. I don't know whether that baby was secretly pear shaped or whether she possessed some sort of freak core stability or something, but I kid you not that 99 journey's out of 100 we're overboard. As we prepared to disembark, I tucked away my possessions, breathed a sigh of relief and passed a stern look to the Chinese woman that couldn't possibly have been lost in translation.

The ride took every bit of thirty minutes and we all agreed that we'd fuel up at a sandwich shop just around the corner from the docks. Afterwards we set out towards the start of the hike marked by the first of many arrows we'd locate along the trail that periodically offered the distance to the final destination, a landmark called 'The Spit Bridge.' This first arrow read 10.3 kilometers and so with stomach full of sub par Australian sandwich-stuffs, we lowered our shoulders and set out. The first leg of the trip was predominately flat and, if I might say, we moved along at a pretty good clip. I was hiking with two people from the office, one of whom is a runner knee-deep in training for an upcoming half marathon, the other an Irish woman one year removed from having backpacked all across South America, and so needless to say dawdling was not going to be tolerated.

As we neared the halfway point, the path climbed steeply as we slipped through the cut-out of bush-like surroundings. At the top of the plateau we were rewarded with some of the most amazing views of large bluffs bookending sections of Sydney harbor and a whole mess of boats enjoying the pristine winter weather. I took many pictures and when I return home I'll back fill this entry with a few...(I've inexcusably left the camera's usb cord at home which should explain why you've only been able to work with mental images of Sydney thus far). The trip down was less scenic, but no less enjoyable. We moved down along large rock faces and through forest type terrain only to emerge onto white sandy beaches equipped with a rising tide which ended up soaking my jeans from the knee down. We worked our way across the beach towards a park in which we sat for a small respite and enjoyed the incredibly overpriced bottles of water we purchased from a small cart vendor. After about 5 minutes we pressed onward along the trail towards small waterfalls that bifurcated large sections of the rock face. The trickling water fell onto the uneven shale path which made footing a bit challenging, but it certainly added a great deal to the experience. It was all so remarkable...and I thought to myself that I'd surely walk this trail every weekend if this place was within arm's reach.

After about 2 and a half hours, we reached The Spit Bridge which turned out to be an old drawbridge that doubles as one of the main veins feeding the freeway to downtown Sydney. The three of us walked carefully along the narrow sidewalk the bridge offered and at the end stumbled upon what looked to be a perfect pub in which to hydrate named "The Bar." It was my kind of place. The joint had high wooden stools, mirrors covering the wall behind the bar and, from what I imagine, a reputation for having been the preferred post-gig drink spot for "The Band" when they were in town. The place had a nautical theme, it was reasonably priced and we were joined by several other small tables occupied by people that had just completed the same trek. We ordered a round of beers and the customary shared appetizer when in the company of this crowd. Each time we have gone drinking, inevitably the same two snacks get ordered: a plate of chips (American translation: french fries) and a plate of potato wedges (American translation: potato wedges). In Australia, the chips are not customarily accompanied by any sauce product, and the wedges come equipped with a sour cream/sweet chili mixture that is actually quite good. It was all well needed after the workout and we sat stuffing our faces and swapping stories of home. After about an hour we were fully convinced that the carbo-load session had completely negated any health benefits we had reaped from the hike and so we called it quits, flagged down a taxi and headed back into center city.

If you're reading this, I thank you kindly for your patience and understanding. I'll do my best to get further updates posted before we're wheels up here in a few days.

Tales From The Other Side of the Date Line

Upon touchdown, I dusted off the flight, grabbed a cab in the cold morning air, and took the thirty minute ride into downtown Sydney. What with it being 8 am Tuesday morning, I found myself butt up against rush hour traffic and the car matriculated slowly down the Sydney Airport Motorway. As luck would have it, I had happened upon a silver cab driven by a Ukrainian immigrant so despondent with his new found home that he saw no reason to censor complaints or curses on a range of different topics. While I'll normally patronize someone in this type of situation to kill any awkwardness, my resolve was weakened from the long journey and I was in no mood. I sat silently listening offering nothing more than "uh huh" and "hmmm" until we pulled up to the venue at which I will be staying for the next month in center city. As I stepped out of the cab the skies let loose pouring heaps of rain on Sydney and I dashed into the apartment building carrying my two practically packed suitcases. I soon found that Sydney gets extended periods of rain during this season and as it turns out, the precipitation did not relent for the following four days.

And I kid you not when I say four days. It was the most intense, consistent rain I have ever witnessed…the kind of rain in which your socks never fully dry out. Although the one pair of shoes I brought will most likely have to be replaced on account, I take solace that I reaped my full A$14 worth from the flimsy umbrella I purchased from the convenience store around the corner.

I discovered that I'll be staying in an apartment but a stone’s throw from the office. The facility could double as a a hotel, complete with a pool, restaurant and gym. The unit itself is perfect for what I’ll need and is furnished with what seem to be modern amenities. Two nice television sets sit on modest entertainment centers, an instant kettle/hot pot sits on a marble kitchen counter, and what looks to be a new washer/dryer combo nestles in the corner of the bathroom. Somewhat out of place, however, is a Sharp brand 1998 model three-disc boom-box equipped with transportable speakers encrusted in a healthy layer of dust resting underneath the television set in the living room. It’s the kind of unit that hasn’t seen action since that Rusted Root album was mercifully removed from it years ago. As much as I'd love this to add to the entertainment repertoire in the apartment, I unfortunately didn’t pack any CD’s and I've failed to locate a Sam Goody as of yet. Mark my words though...if I happen upon one I'll break it in in proper style as I plan on purchasing the greatest hits album of New Zealand rock legends, “Dragon.” iTunes doesn't offer their catalogue (trust me, I've searched) and a chance to add that one to my collection might just be worth the trip alone.

The wet week was brightened on account of reacquainting with familiar co-workers and being introduced to new ones in the office. I have settled in nicely and I am comfortably fixed back in the operations here.

As for the weekend...I had no plan as I ventured out early Saturday morning armed only with curiosity and a complimentary hotel map firmly planted in my back pocket. The weather was finally cooperating and I was determined to make the most of what turned out to be a refreshingly brisk, sunny afternoon. I headed north in lock-step with the crowd and slowly made my way through open-air malls and narrow side streets before finally stumbling into the largest of Sydney’s three city parks. Hyde Park was alive, busy and full of commotion. I entered and immediately to my left on a milk crate stood a megaphone wielding, Steve Gutenberg lookalike, droning on about his strong dislike for the practice of deporting refugees by the Australian government. While I’m not versed on the subject, to his credit he refused to show any signs of discouragement despite neither I nor any of the hundreds in the area thinking it worth paying him any mind. Immediately to my right stood a large crowd admiring an artist on all fours as he chalked a talented drawing featuring connected snippets of several famous religious paintings into a sectioned-off portion of sidewalk. I was so impressed with the ornate detail that it held my interest just long enough to think about how devastated this guy would be if it started to rain. While it’s bound to happen eventually, he seemed to be providing good entertainment for onlookers and so I thought I’d root for him to finish before mother nature made it a complete waste of time. Twenty minutes proved more than enough time for Hyde Park to show all she had to offer and so I paced my way to the exit on the far south side and decided to head down towards the water.

A half mile down the street Circular Quay (pronounced: KEY) home to the most famous icon Sydney has to offer, the Opera House, began to appear in the distance. It is an impressive structure. While I’ve never saddled up behind a T-square, I’ll bet that it’s odd oblong shape must have presented significant architectural challenges and I couldn’t begin to think of how it was actually constructed. In light of all that and as it is one of the most recognizable structures in the world, I gave it the full 30 seconds my attention span thought an opera house deserved before I decided to move on in search of something much more interesting…like lunch.

I ordered a hamburger from a nice establishment on the water, offered the beet that was placed on top to the seagulls in the area and washed it down with the best beer I've ever tasted, 'White Rabbit..' I had plans to go out with an Irish co-worker just off the boat that had started in Sydney a few weeks back that night and so I headed back to shower up and touch base with him. On the walk back the rains started again. I was caught without my umbrella and what with me being reluctant to fork over another A$14 for another, I sopped home at a brisk pace to get ready for the night out . As a forward of things to come, the Irish chap proceeded to show me new areas of the city and holistically drink me under the table (I used to think I was Irish…I was wrong). I'm still doing my best to recount the events of that evening and if it ever comes back to me, I'll share it next time with all of you.

Who's Still With Me?

We have a lot on our plate here and so let's just quickly sum it up by saying that the rest of my time in Hong Kong was fantastic. And while I have so many fond memories, I do have to offer my apologies to the surprising number of loyal readers after having left you all hanging shortly after returning from my trip to Indonesia. Much like the first part of the journey, the remainder of the time was chock-full of experiences worthy of sharing…life-altering even. Doing so, however, was virtually impossible given I was without a working computer for the last month or so. Now, I won't go into gross detail as to how that came to be. What I will say is that in Hong Kong I discovered that I have many skills I never really knew I possessed. Unfortunately, holding a beer upright while sleeping apparently isn't one of them. One fateful night I generously dowsed the laptop, and contrary to the explanation I have given people up until now, it wasn't water (there, I've come clean). Regardless, there's no use crying over spilled beer…let's let bygones be bygones. The equipment has since been replaced and I'm proud to report that this time around I've packed a tarp to protect all valuables.

Anyway, I'm making the baby step before the giant leap. Newark to San Fran, 45 minutes in a terminal, San Fran to Sydney. All in it's 25 hours (23 hours of airtime) and a rather daunting timeline if you ask me. I've been preparing for having this much time on my hands since booking the trip a few weeks back and I had come to the conclusion that my sanity is going to be heavily reliant upon a little fancy time management. The plan calls for me to find things to keep me busy early on in the trip so that I can save the meaty activities such as blog-writing for the San Fran to Sydney leg later tonight. I've got a book I'm working through, the ipod is juiced up, but I planned on relying upon the low-hanging fruit so to speak (aka, the in-flight movie) to burn a few hours. United is screening a new movie entitled "HappyThankyouMorePlease" (sp), which I quickly found to be missing two very important things… 1) spaces between words in its title and 2) a plot. It was so abhorrent that I was all but forced to call an audible much earlier than I had anticipated. Now, I'll be honest, I had never heard of this particular movie before reading a promising synopsis of it in the magazine material United Airlines provided in my seat pocket prior to takeoff. It would have been much more accurately described as a movie that makes you scratch your head that it somehow slipped through the screening process at the movie producer’s. You all know the type I’m referring to…dialogue so artsy and contrived that it'd make Leonard Cohen sick to his stomach and a soundtrack no doubt borrowed directly from the set list at The Lilath Fair. Starving artist armed with a pen, camera and a dream kind of stuff. I lasted longer than I probably should've before mercifully surrendering about half an hour in. And so with a little over 4 hours to go, I'm mounting the horse again and returning to the keyboard.

I'm in a comfortable first class seat and I've already stuffed down a lasagna dish that could have passed as decent in any upscale dining establishment. Unfortunately, I'm in danger of losing it all in the lavatory as my stomach is beginning to turn on account of the loudest, loosest and most appalling snoring I've ever heard. The culprit is sawing wood one row to my back on the opposite side and I've joined everyone else in the vicinity passing astonished, grossed out glances at the gentleman. This guy is getting everything he can muster out of that diaphragm of his and to be honest, If it weren’t so repulsive, I’d be impressed. It’s a troubling thought, but at this point anyone within earshot is definitely at risk of getting showered with two week’s worth of head cold reserves if this plane makes any sudden movements. Steady now…

I’ve been told that I too am guilty of snoring; however, albeit on a much more modest scale. Nonetheless, growing up I shared a room with my brother and it was not uncommon to awake buried under a generous pile of balled up socks of which he apparently used to pelt me with in an attempt to get me to pipe down. A tactic no doubt utilized more frequently in comfortable situations, but if I had access to a pair right now I'm sure the entire cabin would break out in cheers if I took a crow-hop and heaved one at his mouth.

Thankfully, Rip Van Winkle had just enough time to towel himself down before we slid into San Fran 20 minutes ahead of schedule. I picked up a newspaper and a bag of trail mix in the terminal, waited to board the 747 and proceeded to my seat when my section was called. I write you now from my seat on the top floor of the plane and I must admit I’m quite pleased with the set-up. I’ll reserve final judgment for afterwards, but Untied does equip you with a seat capable of fully reclining , ample entertainment options and a menu that looks like it just might be able to keep me satisfied for the next 16 hours. The Dewars on the rocks has only added to the promising start. I’m not normally a scotch drinker (although I really wish I could say that I was)…I decided upon it for sedation purposes…not necessarily taste. It’s drink three and that decision seems to already be paying off in spades as my eyelids are starting to put up a fight. If at any point I nod off on you, I’ll do my best not to snore…

Indonesia Nights

Another solid performance by Cathay Pacific delivered me to Jakarta’s Soekamo Hatta Airport well fed and rested at around 12 am local time. An early touch down cut short my viewing of the early 90’s classic “The Paper” which was quite regrettable. I was fully engrossed in the plot and the movie once again proved the timeless adage that the only sure way to guarantee box office success is to cast Michael Keaton in a lead roll.

First impressions were a tad crispy if you will and I knew instantly I was up against a city that was substantially rough around the edges. I waited for close to half an hour on the immigration line only to find out when I got to the window that I needed to stand on an alternate line on which I could fork over the $25 that it costs to collect an Indonesian landing visa. I went without protest and proceeded to wait another 10 minutes on the visa line only to have the opportunity to return to the immigration line which by that time was at least as long as it was when I had originally started. It was all part of the experience and in the end it resulted in an hour wait and the gathering of the most coveted stamp of the trip thus far.

Bags were gathered and wits were sharp as I pierced through the sliding doors into the stifling heat. It took 15 minutes to flag down a ‘Silver Bird’ taxi and once in I pre-paid the 100,000 rupiah it would cost me to get to the Grand Hyatt in the heart of the Indonesian capital. Most of the communication occurred through hand-signals as the driver did not speak a word of English, which was fine by me as in all fairness to him, my Indonesian has always left a little to be desired. We rode in silence the 20 minutes or so that it took us to reach an imposing roundabout that marked the center of town. The Grand Hyatt bordered on the north side and as we inched into the parking lot we were stopped by 4, armed Indonesian soldiers. The men aggressively flanked the sides of the taxi and began to open each door. I proceeded to step out thinking this was all part of the hospitality that the Indonesians are so famous for, but was abruptly nudged back into my seat. I was confused and I seized the chance to figure out what was going on by passing an inquisitive look and a shrug of the shoulders towards the driver. In return I got a curt smirk and a gesture that indicated that the men were looking for explosives.

And why not? The city did go through a nasty string of these types of incidents with Muslim radicals back in 2009. Now it was apparent that they were prepared to take extra precautions going so far as to perform an inspection each and every time a car enters an establishment. In addition, prior to entering any building in the city, one gets a thorough pat down and an obligatory pass through a metal detector. It slowed things a bit, but any and all delays were copasetic with me. I don’t like nasty surprises and I was pleased that the powers that be in Jakarta don’t either.

Early the next morning, I showered, grabbed a quick breakfast in the lobby and then met my colleague from Singapore in front of the hotel. We had a busy schedule over the next two days which included 8 client meetings and an industry conference all inconveniently spaced within about a 30-mile radius. We lucked out that the driver we hired really knew what he was doing behind the wheel. You see, if you can drive a car in Jakarta, you can drive a car anywhere. By comparison, NYC plays more like a lazy Sunday cruise through the countryside than it does resemble the challenge navigating this city presents.

It isn’t so much the lane-less highways and non-existent speed limits that makes the driving difficult. In fact, it’s quite paradoxical, I find, that the lack of structure has forced drivers to adapt to an underlying and shared ebb and flow of the road. The real problem lies in the fact that motorcycles outnumber cars by at least 3 to 1. Now, granted I have no deep seeded desire to get on one myself, but in general I have nothing against motorcycles so long as there is a mutual respect and understanding about how the road is to be shared. The fearlessness and nonchalance with which the motorcyclists on these roadways execute each aggressive move violates that respect, even though albeit quite remarkably. Criminal in the States you see… but remarkable nonetheless, and common here as nothing more than getting ‘A to B'.

The meetings ended, my colleague left for the airport and I was left to make the best of my last night in Jakarta. I had been warned by the doorman earlier in the day that unless I felt as though a stroll outside the hotel was worth the risk of getting skewered, one of the restaurants in the Hyatt was my best bet for dinner. This was ok by me as there didn’t seem to be anything particularly interesting within walking distance of the hotel and I had been bird-dogging a nice looking steakhouse in the lobby since walking in two nights earlier. They seated me right away, and it didn’t disappoint…the price was modest, the steak was delicious and the service was excellent

With check settled, my original plan of heading to bed changed on account of catching faint sounds of music in the foreground of the hotel. When I strolled over to investigate I discovered two Indonesian gentlemen playing some of the most competent acoustic guitar I have ever heard and a vacant seat not but 20 feet from the stage they occupied. There was definitely a degree of enjoyment in the applause that the men received after each number. They played all tunes you’d recognize (…check that, all tunes I and the geriatric crowd would recognize) and even took requests from people in the lounge. They kept me entertained for an hour or so before I finally wised up and retired for the evening.

The following morning I met the car I had reserved in front of the hotel at around 6am and we sped off towards the airport. Even at that time of the morning the roads were a free-for-all, but I made it to the gate unscathed and not devastated to be leaving Jakarta in my rearview mirror. I boarded the plane…we took off…I fell asleep. Little did I know that the world would forever be changed by the time I landed…

Part Two: Two Nights in Bangkok

Well, it’s a Tuesday night and it’s Cathay Pacific’s First Class Lounge revisited, only this time I’m preparing for a 5-hour flight to Jakarta, Indonesia. I can’t help but notice that in a short 7 weeks or so, I’ve become acclimated to flying to the point that I’m almost feeling cheated that this flight is only going to last 5 hours. Now, I temper all the excitement that surrounds this new found hobby as it’s primarily because it cuts short the exquisite business class service on this spectacular airline… it’s truly been one of the highlights of the trip thus far. You could ask me to board one of these chariots bound for just about anywhere and I’d jump at the chance. Alright, I do realize that I’m going to lose you if I don’t quit spewing compliments here and so let’s mosey on back to the point. This particular trip has been planned for about 5 days now and ever since I confirmed booking, people have gone out of their way warning me to keep my head on a well-greased swivel upon touch down in this city. Those that are more theatrical actually even tend to grimace at the mention of the destination. In fact, one co-worker that seems particularly partial to the understated value of the euphemism, branded it a real ‘salt of the earth’ type of place. Now, the last time I used that modifier in conversation it was meant to be endearing and I tossed it at my beloved “Dakota Roadhouse,” in downtown Manhattan, and so to be honest I’m not really sure what to make of it. As I type, I’m passing over Ho Chi Min City and so I will soon find out. Regardless, I take little stock in this to be honest …these types of warnings have come more often than I’d care to admit since I’ve been out here…

I have learned that there is nothing wrong about any of these places, it’s just that there is something different about these places.* In fact, I’m really embracing the discomfort that oozes for me in this area of the world. Now I’d love it if you were pinning me as a real ‘lunch-pail’ type in this regard, but let’s be honest…right now I’m sucking down a green mango salad in business class luxury…who the hell am I kidding? That being said please appreciate my honesty, preserve my dignity and kindly forget that I ever mentioned anything about a green mango salad. Bring it up, and I swear I’ll deny it…ok?

Be sure to check back in a couple of days for an opportunity at color commentary on this little excursion. But now, in the meantime, let’s seize this opportunity and return to the gritty back-end of my holiday in the Kingdom of Thailand.

And I do mean ‘Kingdom,’ you understand. Kingdom as in, King and Queen and Royal Family. It’s a first for me and the Thais really do rub it right in your grill. There are glowing pictures of an able King just about everywhere you turn…billboards, buildings, stores…everywhere I tell you. Before I had agreed to let Den go and do whatever it is that he does when not driving around Thailand on Saturday afternoons, I inquired of him about the Monarchy. For sake of fairness now, I normally make it a habit to avoid politics in casual conversations at all costs; however, seeing as how during the 6 hour trek Den and I had pretty much whittled the common ground down to discussing the recent weather and the flourishing produce industry in the province, I was willing to grab for just about anything. Read this with an open mind because there’s a pretty good chance that there’s a lot that was lost in translation, but apparently the King is very elderly, ill and there is great concern in the country regarding the viability of the succession plan. When discussing it, Den’s mood grew somber and I’m sorry I brought it up…he seemed truly concerned about it. This is a good man that has more than enough to worry about without this issue hanging over his head.

We parted ways shortly thereafter agreeing that we’d reconvene outside the hotel at 8 am to travel to a very famous weekend market called Chatu Chatck and then onto the airport so that I could catch my early afternoon flight back to HK. Keeping up with Den was tiring and so I sat down for a small respite at the hotel. After about an hour of rest, I descended to the lobby intent upon running my straw-man afternoon plan by the concierge. The plan included a trip to the Chao Phraya river that runs on the complete opposite side of the city. The river borders Bangkok to the south and is the tributary that leads directly into the Gulf of Siam, which in turn spills into the South China Sea. The concierge confirmed my suspicion that the quickest way for me to get there would be to board the Sky Train which is one of two criss-crossing train lines that blanket Bangkok. From there I was warned it would be about a 4-kilometer walk to the nearest desirable spot along the banks. That was fine by me as the only other option I had would have been to find a taxi and there was no way I was going to do that. The traffic was so horrific that there would have been a good chance I would never even have gotten there. I marvel at it…it’s truly amazing to see the affect increased automobile sales have had on this area of the world. The road infrastructure and traffic patterns are just plain not sufficient to be able to accommodate the number of cars and I have bared witness to some of the worst traffic jams one could ever hope to find in my short time here.

The train arrived about 10 minutes after I had reached the platform and when I boarded it was packed, but surprisingly clean and well air conditioned. I took it three stops south to an area called Sphan Taksin. Once off the train, I didn’t want to give off the impression that I was unsure of where I was going and so I decided not to consult a map. I thought I knew the proper direction in which to head…I was wrong. As soon as I hit the street…chaos…and I was officially lost...

I kept moving in my original direction only half convinced that I had chosen wisely. The area was packed with locals trying to sell all of their worldly possession on the side of the street. Now, I’ve seen poverty…but this was the first time I can recall ever having seen desperation. I soon learned that desperate Thais will not miss an opportunity to hound someone that doesn’t look like them because it is perceived that that person has money. And comparatively, they’re correct. I was nothing more than a walking wallet. You name it, I was propositioned to buy it. The solicitations ranged anywhere from a zip-lock bag filled with yellowish-brown fish stew to a trip on the back of a motorcycle to meet a 15-year girl that some scumbag had apparently sold into prostitution. I had my wallet placed into my front pocket, but still made sure to pat it down every 10 yards or so. Politeness went out the window and I resorted to stern rudeness with these people…it was my only hope to re-establish comfortable personal space.

It was a slow crawl through the crowd, but I was finally able to break free and as the area became more desolate so too did the journey become unobstructed. I found the river and much to my disappointment it was unimpressive and there were slim pickings in terms of restaurant establishments. This was a laborious trip and I was not going to let it end without finding somewhere to patronize. After about 10 minutes or so I stumbled upon a safe looking restaurant that had tables that butt right up to the river. I sat there collecting my thoughts and drinking ice cold Singha Beers (the local staple). It was there that I decided that I would stay closer to home base that night and that no matter how bad the traffic…a taxi would be choice for the return trip.

I arose early and met Den in the lobby of the hotel. I bid farewell to the staff which had really gone out of their way to make me feel at home, and then hopped into the van to head 40 minutes north to Chatu Chatck market. Once there, Den and I agreed that two hours would be a sufficient stroll and then we proceeded to set a designated pick up area outside one of the convenience stores on the side of the highway. As I entered the market I was greeted with sights, filth and smells that I have never witnessed before. It looked an awful lot like the markets in which you’d find a lost Marcus Brody. You could purchase anything at this place…clothes, shoes, furniture, trinkets, books, live animals (for pets or cuisine)…you name it. In addition, there were countless food stands that couldn’t possibly have passed even the loosest of health codes. They were butchering all kinds of dead animals and shaving off small pieces of meat and placing them on a metal cone shaped object for display. People would approach the cone, pick out a desirable looking piece of meat, ask for the attendant to cook it up, and then presumably rush to the local hospital in search of a remedy for the rickets they just contracted. Not for me…

I wandered for about an hour until I was instantly overcome with a sense of panic. It suddenly dawned on me that I had left my bag in Den’s car and in that bag was my passport. At that moment I considered myself the stupidest person in Thailand, but the trust that I had established with Den left me not questioning leaving it behind at the time. Now, I was overcome with questions like… What if he decided to make off with all of my stuff and leave me stranded in Thailand? Or, What if we couldn’t find each other in this over populated mess and I missed my flight? I tried to put it out of my mind but eventually I decided that I couldn’t fully enjoy the experience anymore so long as I was worried. I called Den and requested an early pick up. Sure enough, the man proved his reliability once again and he scooped me up and carried me onto the airport.

With my mind at ease, we reached the terminal got out of the car and shook hands. I vowed that if I ever make it back that I would request his services again. We parted ways and he rode off. I made it to the hour-long line at customs with just enough time to feel comfortable about my ability to catch my flight. With an hour on my hands I came to the conclusion that I will make it back to Thailand some day, but that I would have to do so with friends. I can see vividly why my sister fell in love with the place. It has many endearing qualities and a sense of adventure that you cannot ignore. Tackling it alone?... I came close, but if we’re being honest, I think it got the better of me.

*credit D. Bashaw