Farewell to Phranakorn Nornlen

And so ends my third visit to this offbeat guesthouse in the heart of old Bangkok. Nothing fancy, just very quiet and relaxing. They have but two televisions, and both are used for decoration. You want entertainment? Go watch the parrots in the dining garden.

---

Uh-oh.

I just now noticed that my passport came through the Songkran water festival about as well as if I had run it through the wash. Already chewed-up to begin with, its pages have crinkled and the stamps inside have started to bleed, including the one-year Thai visa I plunked down $175 for. I can already envision the steely glare from the immigration official at the airport, come June 7. Yes ... the "Hey, Stupid!" look.

(Sigh.)

Movin' on up ...

Note to self: next time bring a cell phone and pop in a cheap SIMM card. I realize this while trying to coordinate a rendezvous with the apartment rental rep who will drive me to the complex of brand-new units several miles outside central Bangkok. We have a plan to meet at the Krung Thonburi skytrain station at 10 a.m.

To make it easy for him to identify me, I email him a picture of myself, including the shirt and daypack I will be wearing. I even leave early for the station.

He has the picture. We have a place, we have a time. This plan is foolproof -- or would be, had I seen his follow-up email specifying exactly where to meet.

And so, he waits downstairs at the exit ramp, and I wait upstairs at the gate. Bottom line, we miss connections. Later, when I find the nearest wi-fi connection back in town, I read his string of testy emails. Sample: "Where are you. I am waiting at exit 2 from last 30 minuts. I have other works to do. Y u do not call me? I have told you to buy a sim card so we all save time. The owner is also waiting at the room. Because of not having tel we all are wasting our time"

Shorter translation: "Hey, Stupid!"

Happy ending, however: The sales rep does eventually try upstairs at the BTS station and learns from the very helpful woman gate attendant that I had been there all along and even borrowed her cell phone to try and call him. An hour later we finally do connect, I secure the studio apartment, and tomorrow I move in. More about my new digs soon, but it will be my first exploration of middle-class Thai society. For example, my landlady is a lawyer who also lives in the complex. (She and her boyfriend, also a lawyer, are both in their early 30s and stunningly gorgeous.) Whereas up until now my only experience has been with the street denizens of old Bangkok and service workers in the destination locales. No, not THAT kind of "service worker."

Hot and wet in Bangkok

Suvarnabhumi Airport keeps a wonderful culinary secret tucked away in a downstairs corner, which I stumble across while searching for the city bus shuttle at 3 a.m. I had already braved the depressing gauntlet of bland, overpriced, prefab feeding stations, unwilling to be yet another bleary-eyed tourist who makes their first meal in Thailand ... that.

Away from the high-traffic eateries, away from the bustle and noise and shuffling herd, is this cafeteria that serves mainly the Thai airport workers -- and it's great stuff, at street-food prices! No directional signs lead to it. And few farang must ever venture down there. The menu boards are predominantly Thai, with tiny-type English translations. I dive head-first into an immense bowl of this wonderful Tom Yum soup, a mere 40 baht (just over a buck) and can hardly wait for the day I fly home, just so I can come back here again.

---

Here's another savvy traveler tip: see all those smiling taxi drivers out there along the curb, the pirates who know every fare-maximizing scam to run on jet-lagged white goofuses? Smile back, say "mai ao khrap" (no, thanks) and head on down to the free shuttle that takes you to the nearby transit center, where you pay under a dollar to get wherever you're going just as quickly. And it takes me only three trips to Thailand to figure this out.

The quiet, new-agey place I always stay is good enough to let me occupy the room well before the official afternoon check-in time -- like maybe 9 a.m! -- and I instantly drop into a coma for most of the day.

Late afternoon I venture out for a walk around the neighborhood and soon am completely drenched by giggling children and adults alike. This week is the annual Songkran water festival, essentially a great big water fight during the hottest season of the year. In 95-degree heat, the soaking feels great. It is also welcome cover, because without the water festival I would still be just as dripping wet. Perspiration is my mutant superpower.

My first authentic Bangkok street meal: a plate of what appears to be a chicken and pork stew over rice, all of which has been sitting on the busy sidewalk for hours in the tropical sun. And a cup of (presumably pre-boiled) ice water to wash it down. Hey, what could go wrong?


NEXT: Apartment hunting, and casing the school.

'Hey, Stupid!'

These are the first words I hear upon my arrival in the Land of Smiles. And, mind you, the plane has just landed and I am not even past the arrival gate yet.

It was an honest mistake, really. I was the last person off the plane and had the concourse pretty much to myself. Walking past a glassed-off waiting area, I notice that the security door is wide open, so I pop in to sit down and check email. As I pop back out and continue on, I hear a female voice call out the very un-Thai salutation.

I glance back at two bovine-looking gate attendants lumbering up, smiling -- incongruously, considering what was just said. "Why you come through there?" the one wants to know. I explain about the just-got-off-the-plane, the check-email, the wide-open-door-for-criminy-sakes, and then add, "But I guess my question is: 'Hey, stupid'? Really?" Still grinning, she goes back to close the security door, and I beat-feet it off to immigration.

The adventure begins!

New adventures begin April 12!

So before we end and then begin ...

I have waived extradition and am returning voluntarily to face justice. These final hours of freedom will be spent much like the first: as a non-paying poseur among the privileged and pampered at the front of the plane. Bagging up the free jammies and gear kits, sucking down the Glenlivet and good wine, living la dolce vita one last time until who knows when.

Was it worth it? I can say only this: I traveled a long, roundabout path halfway around the planet -- six weeks shambling back and forth across five tropical countries – to find at the very end a moment of clarity that can guide me through the raging shitstorm that awaits back in Oregon. And that moment surely would have eluded me had I done the “prudent thing” and stayed home.

So maybe 7,926 miles was just enough. Cheers, and see you soon.

Back to the future

First morning back in Jogja, a few of the bicycle-pedaling bechak drivers along Justin’s street wave hello, and one even trots up to greet me: “Hey! I know you! You here before!” I must have made some impression during my last visit, galumphing back and forth 10 times a day, leaving moisture trails along the roadside.

I’m here for just a couple of days to touch bases and say good-bye. Justin is busy again with school, and I’m antsy to be within running distance of my Wednesday flight home out of Singapore. But before I go, I finally get to see the art form that precipitated this trip in the first place: a performance of wayang kulit – shadow puppetry.

Justin has a prior commitment Saturday night, so I get directions to the abbreviated white-people-friendly show at the Jogja museum, arriving at the empty hall one hour early. There, I meet an affable bear of a man, Safir, a puppet maker for the museum who draws me next door to see his studio. Safir would look totally in place with a loincloth and a spear: a great shock of scraggly black hair and chin-whiskers, and maybe five teeth left, all skewed at different angles. But his handiwork is astonishing.

Good wayang kulit puppets are made from buffalo leather and can stand up to years of being slapped and twirled in battle scenes. The curly-q line cuts for tresses and tree leaves, the stippling textures, the airbrush-like painting, the details that can barely be seen by the naked eye – every puppet is a marvel that you could study and savor for hours, and each one takes Safir about two months to complete.

Now I am excited to see these intricate delights in action. The performance begins and pretty soon I am making my “huh?” face.

The audience views these microscopically detailed artworks in silhouette through a backlighted, translucent screen. Except for some gradation of light and dark and muted hues, the months and months of lining, cutting and painting are utterly imperceptible through the screen.

Wayang kulit is, in a way, theater in the round: the audience members are not confined to their seats in front of the screen but can wander “backstage” to view the puppet master (who also narrates and provides sound effects with percussion instruments at his feet) and the gamelan orchestra clanging away behind him. In fact, most people attending this show spend more time watching the performers than the performance.

Now I understand why people bring pillows to the long-form wayang kulit shows. Ninety minutes into the Cliff Notes version, I am in REM territory. But seeing the puppets up close – those are worth the price of admission, and then some!

---

On my way out of the country, Indonesia pulls a few final rupiyah out of my pocket:

• The Visa security auto-droid has canceled my card AGAIN, I learn when trying to purchase a flight out of Jakarta. This necessitates a Skype call to customer service from the despicable airport Internet café that charges roughly $6 per half-hour; the going rate near Justin’s house: not even 25 cents.
• The international departure tax is a whopping 150,000 rp, or $15. This just about cleans me out of cash, but I guess someone has to pay for the government ineptitude and corruption in that country.

That’s fine, Indonesia, you can keep your too-many-zeroes play-money, because now I am in Singapore, where a dollar is actually called a dollar. Singapore, where it is the 21st century. Singapore, where the standard greeting is “hello,” not “taxi, meester?”.

An Indonesian “travel help desk” agent at the airport will shunt you off to his brother-in-law’s dump of a hotel so that he can collect a commission. That dirty dog’s counterpart in Singapore is a cheerful professional who calls up a computer listing of hotels that meet your criteria – price, location, amenities –then arranges for an independent shuttle service to take you there. And at no time does she attempt to fix you up with a girl.

But enough ranting. My two favorite ethnic foods are Thai and Indian, and this hotel borders both Chinatown (close enough!) and Little India. My final night in Asia might involve not one Last Supper but two.