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.

This game has gone into overtime

It is unfair to make broad generalizations or snap judgments about a population, but based on my second visit to the town of Denpasar, I can say with confidence this about its people: All of its men are pimps, and all of its women are whores.

Early-morning flight logistics back to Jogja are such that once again I must lay over near the Bali airport. I negotiate a hotel and transport with the villains who staff the terminal’s traveler “help” desk. The shuttle driver arrives and we go. On the way – and I mean on the way to the van – he dispenses with pleasantries and gets down to business: “You like girls?” (Sigh.) I decline the official form of Denpasar hospitality with thanks, just like last time. Later at the hotel, I step out to a nearby market to buy water and get two different offers of back-street massage from smiling local maidens.

Back in the room I catch a glimpse of my goofus self in the mirror: Sweaty, balding, bespectacled, 50-something guy in his short pants, Merrells and white ankle socks. Yup, that’s sure what a John looks like. Can I stick my finger in the 220 socket now?

---

I admit it: at this point I am simply marking time until I can get on the BIG plane and come home. At the risk of sounding like some first-class bitcher about the grind of the developing world, I am tired of Indo-everything: piss-poor Internet connections, night-light levels of illumination, having to haggle, swarthy con artists, feral cats and dogs, singing imams, and inane, inexplicable Indonesian television. Plus being a constant sweat-bomb for almost six weeks in the same ill-laundered clothes. And I haven’t felt motivated to snap a picture in days.

I am ready for Levis and long-sleeved shirts. And food, glorious western food! Last night I caught an Italian Iron Chef-style cooking show on TV, competing pasta preparations, and it was like I’d stumbled across the Spice Channel.

Justin, kudos for sticking with this, and let me know what we can do to make your remaining time any easier.

Adventures in Paradise

The morning I check out of my fancy-pants resort, I learn two fascinating things:

• My Visa Signature card has been canceled.
• My WaMu MasterCard does not work in the only ATM on the island.

Dropping my bag behind the reception desk, I double-time it down to the I-café make a Skype call to Visa customer service. (Amazingly, Voice over IP works even here!) Turns out there was some big security breach involving thousands of card numbers, mine included. So a new card is waiting for me at home and the old card was closed out last week. Surprise, surprise!

Happy ending: old card restored until I get home, fancy-pants resort paid off, almost-deadbeat guest on his way to cheaper but still comfy digs down the road. A-frame grass hut just 20 steps from the beach, with an open-air bathroom, air-con, breakfast, about 35 bucks. Sweet.

That afternoon I walk all the way around the island, a two-and-a-half-hour hike across sand in 90-degree equatorial sun. I am a sunburned, footsore idiot.

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Once again, a tropical Asian paradise in which the prime restaurant locations are dedicated to White People chow – your Irish pub, your sandwich joint, pizza place, etc. And once again, the sure-fire way to find real-deal local food is: turn your back on the ocean and start walking. Two blocks inland I find a scruffy little warung called Borobudur 2, cooking up the equivalent of Indonesian soul food.

First time there I didn’t have my glasses to read the menu, so I just went to the big bowls of ready-made food and pointed. Big plate, lots of rice, tried different stuff. Came back for seconds and he told me to come around the counter and help myself. I eat my main meal of the day there now for all of a buck-twenty.

---

The Visa situation is fixed, but the no-ATM access I can’t resolve, and I don’t want to cut it too close with my last 100,000 rupiyah note. Gili Trawangan is a high point of this adventure, but it might be time to pull up stakes and catch the ferry over to Lombok. But not before one last stop at Borobudur 2.

I am a Gili-man

I might have found a candidate for World’s Worst Beach.

Viewed from nearby hilltop, Pedangbai seems pleasant enough: a bayside village that serves the ferry from Bali to Lombok, with maybe two dozen small fishing boats pulled up onto the light-brown crescent of sand. Just how the Lonely Planet book described it – my Bali beach adventure at last!

I settle onto my $9 a night guesthouse and walk across to road to the water. Up close I realize that the beach is strewn with dried leaves and bark, plastic lids and other junk. But it looks cleaner out toward the water, so I venture off the grass and onto the – omigod, NOT sand! I sink up to my shins in what feels and smells like fertilizer granules, which fill my shoes as I fight my way back to solid ground. Later I see a local cat – and then an old woman – use this beach for personal toilette, and that ends my Pedangbai beach adventure for well and good.

About the $9 guesthouse: you get what you pay for. The “walls” between the individual rooms consisted of bamboo slats, so you could kind-of see your neighbors on either side. Toilet and shower at the end of the hall. In a matter of hours I am calling this place “Pedang buh-bye.”

A local travel agent and solves my problems: “You want Gili,” he says, and shows me the pictures. I look at him and nod: “I want Gili.” The next morning I catch the Fast Boat to the white-sand beaches of Gili Trawangan, one of three small, lightly touristed Gili (hard G) islands off Lombok.

Now we’re talking!

Gili Trawangan has no cars and very few motorcycles; folks get around mostly by bike and, get this, horse-drawn carriage. Beach rings the entire island and you can walk it in maybe two hours, which I plan to do. Guesthouses are a little pricier but well worth it, because THIS is what I was envisioning.

I amble down the main drag checking out the different bungalows, guest rooms, and even the foo-foo resort way up north. After last night’s flophouse I am in the mood to move upmarket for my first night on the island, so I ask about price.

A slight misunderstanding here: What I think she says: “Four eighty-five,” as in 485,000 rupiyah, i.e., roughly forty-eight bucks, pricey by Indonesian standards but okay. What she actually says, I learn later as I’m checking in: “For eighty-five,” as in 85 U.S. dollars.

Without batting an eye, I whip out my Visa Signature card and quietly vow to enjoy the heck out of this room because I am paying an Indonesian fortune for it.

---

Charming local commerce:

On the beach

One more night in Ubud and then it's the weekend, and time to explore some sand and surf destinations. Stay tuned ...

Stalked by the Uh-Oh Lizard

From the moment I arrived at Justin’s place in Jogja, this little bastard has taunted me with its knowledge of my future.

The Uh-Oh Lizard* calls out in the night with its croaking sing-song: “Uh-oh, uh-oh, uh-oh,” over and over, until a final, crestfallen “UH—ohhhh.”

I have not yet caught a glimpse of the Uh-Oh Lizard, but it follows me to every guest house, and I relocate every few days. In one place it even uh-oh’s me from within the room … and then leaves enormous lizard poops on the floor at the foot of my bed.

Early this morning the Uh-Oh Lizard is out there again, chiming in above the frogs and the chickens. So this will be the soundtrack to my final days in paradise: an unseen, reptilian Cassandra singing me home to my doom with a last, prescient, “UH—ohhhh.”

Except I still have a functioning ATM card, so not today, you evil lizard, and not tomorrow.


*Not to be confused with the Horrifying Uh-Oh Baby in the comic strip Cul de sac

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Someone might want to rethink the name for this homestay.

Beaches? We don't need no stinkin' beaches!

After a few days, central Ubud starts to wear thin – you can take only so much “Taxi, Meesta?” every five steps – so one morning I set out on a hike away from town. In no time I am past the art studios, warungs and spas, walled in by dense foliage.

Around a bend and across a creek, away from everything, I come to the stone archway for Arjana Bungalows. Up, up, up the narrow, winding steps, I arrive at … this:

A cheerful young man named Chanto shows me the different bungalows, most of them off by themselves, a few poolside, one even tucked away under the dining patio with its rice paddy view. The rooms are clean and spacious, the beds are an Asian version of the Tempur-pedic mattress.

I ask how much. “Hundred twenty thousand rupiah,” Chanto replies; about twelve bucks. “Plus 12% discount if you stay week or longer.” Closer to ten bucks, now. “Includes breakfast,” he adds. Deal!

Chanto promises to hold a bungalow for me until tomorrow. I trot right back to town and start packing, even though I am committed to one last night in my current abode, which now looks dowdy and depressing. How did I ever endure this conventionally mattressed, pool-challenged crap-hole?

---

I catch a made-for-turistas performance by the Ubud Women’s gamelan and traditional Balinese dance troupe in an open-air auditorium. The footlights attract many bats, which add a surreal touch to the spectacle.

Wait, what? I am amazed to see that one of the dancers is Katie Holmes! Does Tom know?

---

The reports so far from other travelers regarding the attractiveness of Bali beaches is not good: dirty and poor water quality, say two dudes just back from Amed; black sand is ugly, grouses a bald-headed old German guy. (But then, don’t bald-headed old German guys prefer their sand, and all else, to be white?)

I will reserve judgment until I see for myself … but what’s the hurry? Scroll back up and look at the pictures again. Maybe I’ll get to the beach, maybe not.

No phone, no pool, no pets

After the extravagance of my $30-a-night lodging at a hotel/spa, I have moved downscale to much more humble guest-house accommodations up a side street in central Ubud, $12 per night. Pity me:

---

I do go on about how much (or little) stuff costs, but can you show me a place in Portland that offers a 1-hour full-body oil massage for five bucks? I will happily forego a meal to slot this in the daily budget.

In trying different places in search of The Ideal, some are clearly better than others. Take last night’s gal: hands like a bricklayer, but gag-inducing oils. No kidding, a dog followed me for blocks barking wildly at the cloying reek, and at my homestay entrance, a local guy commented, from across the street: “Been to masseuse?”

My research continues and I’m sure you don’t want to hear a damned thing about it (except you, Patty, this would all be of great professional interest to you).

---

Random picture time.

Justin turned me on to this wonderful fruit, which resembles a hairy strawberry; you peel them to get to the succulent grape-like part. The tree they grow on is next to my new place.

No, no -- these people are "Buddhists," not "Bundists!"

Welcome to the Monkey House

Attention, family: please sell my house and possessions, and send me the money so that I can stay on Bali forever … unless the island council enacts a rule barring excessively sweaty foreigners, and who could blame them?

---

Jogja roommate Jeannie, who just got back from a week in Bali, suggests a strategy: catch the late flight to Denpasar, taxi straight to a cheap hotel in nearby Kuta, then travel to Ubud in the morning. Which is what I do.

Hotels in Kuta, you should know, are cheesy, and not even Vegas cheesy. Reno cheesy. But my plane was two hours late, it’s almost midnight, so what the hell yeah this is fine. The bellman shows me the room, which is dark and a tad musty but acceptable.

“You want massage?” he asks. “Hundred thousand rupiyah, one hour. You want massage with pretty girl?” And here he makes the hourglass shape with his fingers. “Three hundred thousand. What happens after that, up to you.”

This could be my Eliot Spitzer Moment! Or not – I doubt we’re talking a 4-diamond girl, here.

I turn out the lights and try to sleep, which is not easy because now all I can think about is how many hookers have done what-all with how many Johns on these very sheets? Whores! Fornication! Ewww!

Sleep, finally. Then, much later in the night, my dream cycle stops abruptly and my eyes fly open, and I realize that my room light is on.

I lie there, frozen, waiting for the sound of an intruder. Nothing. I get up to find the doors and windows are secure, my backpack beside me on the bed. Near as I can figure, the light switch was only half-off and had flicked back to the “on” position. No more sleep tonight, folks!

---

The next morning I finagle a good price from an airport porter to drive me to Ubud and happily throw in a little extra, once I see the town – it’s such a pleasant destination and he did bring me in by a scenic back way.

In no time I secure what is the polar opposite of my previous nights lodging: clean, spacious, tasteful, with a garden view. And if anyone has been whooping it up in the bed, I am certain that it was in the context of a virtuous and loving relationship.

Ubud is a tourist town for sure, but nicely integrated into the ruins of a much older Balinese culture. Crumbling palaces and places of worship are interspersed with small shops devoted to local arts and culture, guest houses, eateries, and personal pampering spas. But wander just a few hundred feet off the main drag and you are in rice paddies and jungle.

This morning I stroll through the nearby monkey sanctuary, a tropical jungle park of pathways, Balinese ruins, and monkeys everywhere. For two hours I hang out with hundreds of healthy, frisky monkeys, wild but acclimated to humans and unafraid to climb up on my lap or perch on my shoulder. Wrestling, frolicking, feeding on local fruits, making baby monkeys, but thankfully not flinging feces. I wish I had a good analogy for what this place is more fun than.

The Real Road Warriors

The two William J. Landerses, Feb. 7, 2009, Jogjakarta, Indonesia.

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I “stick out” in this Jogjakara neighborhood, and not just because I am a big, white galoot; more remarkable, I am a pedestrian – sometimes the only one in sight.

Most locals get around on motorcycles and the rest bike, drive, or pedal a becak (a bicycle-powered taxi). Sidewalks, if they exist, are an uneven, up-and-down step-aerobics course, and much of the time you are hugging the muddy edge of the street to avoid the whizzing blur just inches from your elbow.

But here’s the deal: for all of the crowded roads and “crazy” driving, nary a vehicle shows a dent or ding. What’s more, road rage seems non-existent. Asian motorists appear to be guided less by rules than by etiquette. They speed, pass on the wrong side, and jockey for position like nothing you’ve ever seen – but they do it so politely! A honk means no more than “I am here.” Busy, uncontrolled intersections are approached en masse, but there’s a kind of protocol about it, a mildly assertive give and take. This supposed “chaos” is what traffic looks like when you remove ego and territoriality.

And you know what? It works. Justin and I pedal up to a local warung for a late lunch of goat satay, cozying right in among the buzzing swarm.

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The house that Justin shares with Jeannie and the two Carlas is big in that mid-‘70s residential construction sort of way, before architects gave much thought to usable space. Tucked away down a side street in a cluster of upscale-looking homes, it might be the nicest student housing I’ve ever seen.

And yet, it has some uniquely Indonesian touches.

For example, against one wall of the living room is an enormous bathroom sink, which would make more sense in the bathroom behind it, which has none. This is not some goofy error, a friend of Justin’s reports the same setup in his house. The kitchen is way in the back of the house, down a breezeway closed off by a lockable door; off the kitchen is an Asian squat toilet and a stairway the leads to tiny rooms between the first and second floors. Jeannie explains: the house was built to accommodate a live-in cook … which this week is the role I am trying to assume.

Also: my camera’s resolution is insufficient to show the 10 trillion ants in any of these house pictures. They are everywhere but mostly benign so you just live with the little suckers. The cockroaches you stomp.

---

The Islamic call to prayers is creeping me out, here.

At any hour of day or night, the calls are blaring from loudspeakers connected to every mosque in town, each with its own singing imam or ayatollah or whatever. They’re all free-forming it at once in this disturbing, dissonant call-and-refrain, like coyotes.

Another Indo-noise: the wail of the neighborhood feral cat, a filthy and friendless creature. Tail grotesquely twisted and broken, loose folds of skin hanging off a cadaverous body, sickly yellowed demon mouth – an awful wretch that cries to Justin’s landlady next door, who chases it away with a broom.

A more amusing sound outside is the cry of the mysterious Uh-Oh bird, which is this: “Uh-oh. Uh-oh. Uh-- … ohhhh.” I ask Justin what it looks like and he informs me that it is in fact a lizard and they only call at night, and he’s never seen one.

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Roti bekar, a total guilty pleasure sold by street vendors around town. You take a loaf of white bread, slice it lengthwise so that it resembles the pages of a book. Slather all sides with butter, and for the inner “pages” spread chocolate sprinkles and drizzle with evaporated milk. Grill on all sides, slice into servings and smear all over your face. Yum!

---

Justin is a student and a teacher, of English. His qualifications for this position at a private language school are: he speaks English, he is a fine young fellow, and his students like him, which means they keep signing up for lessons.

He makes up his own curriculum. There are no success metrics or review processes. Basically he is winging it. But the pay is double his living stipend from ISI and a guy’s gotta eat.

I am invited to sit in on a couple of classes, the Basic and the Intermediate. In Basic today’s assignment is to “describe your basic routine,” in which everyone in turn gets to share the excruciating details of their boring-ass life. In Intermediate the topic is “Indonesian politics,” which devolves into “corrupt Indonesian politics,” and then a promise from the teacher to choose a happy topic for next session.

---


Claire used to say this about visiting relatives and fish: after three days, they both start to stink. Here with Justin, Jeannie and Carla I am on Day Five. “Uh--… ohhh.”


NEXT: Bali, hi.

Pleasures of the (sunburned) flesh

In my fancy digs on Koh Phangan I am seduced by the luxe life – billowy king-size bedding, boozy tropical cocktails, the pool, the pleasures. But my flirtation with being a Pampered Resort Pig passes in just a day or two. I pull out the pack, lace up my shoes and get back on the road.

At the ferry leaving Koh Phangan for the mainland, I see resort tout Charlie one last time, working the fresh arrivals from Surat Thani with his pictures and his pitch, both colorful.

This is Charlie: In look and personality he reminds me of an aboriginal Tim Trautman, kind of.

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On the transport to the Surat Thani train station I meet Petra, my favorite personality on this trip so far. A solo traveler and Koh Phangan returnee like me, Hungarian-born Petra is on a two-month leave from her job as (I think she said) a curator in the U.K. to trek through SE Asia.

We each experienced the island, shall we say, differently: While I was agonizing over which umbrella drink to order next, Petra hiked around and across Koh Phangan toting two packs, hacking her way through unexplored jungle to visit a hundred different beaches.

Waiting for our respective trains, Petra and I fall into easy conversation and end up palling around for a few hours, grabbing a bite at a food cart nearby. Instant buds – nice!

After Petra departs on the northbound train to Chiang Mai, I discover awesome new characters to amuse me:

• The Slapper Sisters – On holiday from Britain are these three thick and bawdy middle-age gals, whom I watch at the street café where I’d eaten earlier. The Sisters have killed most of a large jug of vodka and are (loudly and profanely) bemoaning their hard luck in the romance department. One of them suspects that her job as a pub manager might be a factor in her drinking too much. Ya think?

• The Brawling Stoner – Actual overheard conversation at the train station from a guy on the bench behind me, explaining the huge scar on his forehead: “Yeah, some Thai dude hit me in the head with a big stick. I couldn’t go to the hospital ‘cause I was way too high.”

• The Crazy Muttering Derelict – Barefoot, bearded and wild-eyed, he sits down close and stares at me, mumbling what clearly is gibberish, even in Thai. Is he talking to me? To an invisible tormentor? And how soon before I might be opening my own Crazy Muttering Derelict franchise? Because the way things are going lately, it could happen!

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This is just sick and wrong:

Selling toilet paper outside the women's restroom, in case you can't read vending machine sign.

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My 12:45 a.m. southbound train arrives at two in the morning and I board its ironically named “sleeper” car … if your idea of sleep involves fluorescent lighting and a constant rattle-crash like dinnerware in an earthquake.

I’ll make this next part quick so we can get to the good stuff, i.e., meeting up with Justin in Jogjakarta. Highlights:

• Train reaches end-of-line in Penang, Malaysia, far short of my target Singapore. Next southbound train departs tomorrow.
• Sleep-deprived Jeff attempts to problem-solve around this hiccup. Say aloud: “Uh-oh.”
• “Helpful” taxi driver transports Jeff to wonderful bus service. Speed! Comfort! Phooey on train! Jeff realizes that he has allowed himself to be spirited away in a car by a stranger – just what Mother always warned about.
• Hurtling through Penang in a taxi, Jeff sees a sign to airport. He hollers and points: “Go there! Go there!”

Penang International Airport to Singapore. To Jakarta. To Jogjakarta. Bang, done! Is there no problem my Alaska Airlines Signature Visa card cannot solve?

Except … I end up sleeping in the Singapore Airport, which is to say NOT sleeping for a second night.

---

In Jogja I secure a room at a reputable hotel / I-café that turns out to be within walking distance of Justin’s house. He's teaching English classes that evening, but we do finally meet up late in the coffee shop. He is still our boy.

NEXT: Sweet Jogja on my mind.

Radiation transforms me into a glowing mutant

Fun fact: wind and sea spray aboard a speeding catamaran will disguise the effect of tropical sun on flesh – even on an overcast day! Just a reminder, in case you ever ride the water taxi between, say, Koh Tao and Koh Phangan.

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I am taking a break from budget guest houses for a few days to “splurge” at a couple of the mid-market Thai island resorts. The first one, Sensei Paradise Resort, on Koh Tao, used to be a budget joint but then struck on a brilliant positioning: rustic chic.

So, the huts are still dark and relatively primitive – cold-water showers, barely any lighting, but comfy king-size beds – but a sensational private beach, superb kitchen and open-air dining/reception area that attract the well-heeled leisure class.

I stumble in, sweaty and disheveled, seeking directions to something-or-other, and get snooted; in retaliation, I book the last room available, just ahead of a beautiful couple, also walk-ins, who are clearly “their kind of people.” It sets me back all of eighty bucks, but it’s worth it to feel like Columbo vexing and appalling everyone at the fancy place.

The next day I water-taxi over to Koh Phangan hoping to follow train-mate Chef Lee’s advice: “Go to the Bamboo Hut, talk to Mr. T. and tell him I sent you; he’ll fix you up.” Not that easy: waiting at every arriving boat is a gauntlet of touts pushing brochures into your hand, chatting you up, sniffing out the inexperienced, the clueless, the me.

Charlie brings me down like a cheetah dropping the herd’s lamest gazelle.

But it turns out o.k. because Charlie is touting for a brand-new resort on a decent stretch of beach. For $40 bucks a night, I feel that I am getting a pretty decent value. What do you think?




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I use this respite to locate Lee’s buddy’s place on a map, way the heck over on the far side of Koh Phangan. No roads, accessible only by boat. Possibly no electricity and certainly no Internet. Hmm …

I see white people

My Berlin friends Jan and Angelika are retiring to the coastal town of Hua Hin, about 100 miles south of Bangkok, so I decide to check it out on my way to visit Justin. My taxi driver to the Bangkok train station offers to drive me there for a mere 2,000 THB, roughly seventy bucks American. I decline with thanks, opting for the 44 THB train ride. Thirty-five baht to the dollar, so do the math.

The inside of a third-class Thai train looks like every old school bus you ever rode as a kid. It was delightful: the windows down, the countryside, Thai families, vendors walking up and down the train selling fruit bundles and chicken satay. Gaping at the shanty houses built right up against the tracks, shanties with late-model pickups parked out front (back?) Five hours later – after stopping at every town and village along the way – we arrive in Hua Hin.

I am crestfallen.

Does an expat enclave HAVE to look like a foreign occupation? O.k., maybe a few English signs here and there to help newbies get their bearings. But this shoreline area of pubs, pizza joints, Italian restaurants, etc., seems designed for the same people who like big-ass RVs: not just all the comforts of home, but home itself. And you come here why, exactly?

Right off the train I am approached by John, a polite, rotund Dutchman who is recruiting guests for his small hotel. His brochure looks good, the price is right, the wi-fi is free, and Germanic proprietors have a good reputation, generally. Having not so much as a map or destination, John provides me with both.

The jury is still out on John’s place. This was my $35-per-night room (breakfast included). King-size temper-pedic bed, large TV, air-con and fan – a decent value. But John exudes the con-man vibe and soon is working the upsell for his other occupation, travel agent. He patiently extols the comfort and speed of the luxury bus tour he would arrange for me. And then I get the sad smile and head-shake of disappointment at my dumb-stupid insistence on continuing by rail. Blah-blah this bad thing, blah-blah that bad thing. More sad smile, more head-shake. So back I go to the train, the terrible, terrible train.

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South to Chumphon my seat-mate is Lee, an affable 60-year-old chef who just got laid off from the Hua Hin Hilton and is striking out to seek his fortune in Krabi. Bald, handlebar moustache – picture Indy’s German pugilist foe who goes into the propeller blades in “Raiders” and you’ve got Lee. He’s kicked around Thailand for years with his chef’s knives and other tools he carries in his refrigerator-size backpack. We chat all the way down to Chumphon, where he guides me to a reputable tourist service/guest house. I book a ride to Koh Tao and an $8 dollar room. The last I see Lee, he is nursing a Singha at the bar and chatting up the server. Lee is my fantasy role model!

BUDDY!!!

A love song for Phranakorn Nornlen

The view from my window.

One of my most favorite places ever is this laid-back boutique hotel hidden up a side alley along a canal in a nicer part of Bangkok. Step through the gates of Phranakorn Nornlen and its hippie/Buddhist/New Age vibe instantly drops your blood pressure into the bliss zone. The open-air meditation/Internet/massage area looks like a set from "Gilligan's Island," and each room is built and designed using salvaged building materials and found items, all artfully repurposed.

Most engaging of all are the young women who run Phranakorn Nornlen, who are simply the gentlest, most cheerful creatures you will ever meet ... until they learn that you are a sex tourist, and then they will kick your ass.

To know Bangkok is to smell Bangkok

There is really nothing quite like the aroma of this place: a heady haze of charcoal fires, fish sauce and laboring humanity all pressed up close. It's not a dirty smell, exactly -- funky for sure, but not the putrid reek you'd expect in a city of food carts and feral cats. And then you notice: dang, these streets are ... clean!

Venture out at break of day and you understand why: Shopkeepers and random citizens all across town are sweeping and scrubbing their sidewalks, piling litter into neat little parcels for the daily collection. Everything still has that sooty, gritty aspect -- thanks, air pollution -- but nary a cigarette butt or paper scrap in sight.

The lone exception: Kao San Road, the white backpacker ghetto, a short strip of sleazy watering holes, guest houses and amusements for, as the Brits would call the clientele, "yobs and slappers." Kao San Road is where party dudes come to take a dump on Thailand ... and where their smiling hosts feed it back to them as chicken satay for 30 baht a stick.

Speaking of which: in a decidedly NON-white part of town, I try to order a mysterious but enticing treat from a food cart vendor who speaks no English. Her sign is in Thai and I have no idea what I'm ordering or how much it costs. After enduring my clumsy, spastic hand gestures, she digs into her money bag and shows me exactly how much to pay. Everyone is giving me The Look. And then they all start to point and laugh. I laugh, too, wearing my dorkitude with ... o.k., not pride.

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What is wrong with this picture?

A big, hairy, panting St. Bernard. In Bangkok, where the daytime temperature rarely dips below 80 degrees. WTF???

My heart goes out to this poor wretch, who must sense in his dim doggie brain that he is in a really, really wrong place.

Please, lady, walk him up to Kao San Road. No, you won't need the bag.

Important lessons for the optically challenged

Lesson One: Do not step on your reading glasses just before a big trip.

Lesson Two: If you violate Lesson One, do not attempt to “make do” with a pair of inadequate back-up readers.

Lesson Three: If you disregard the first two lessons, do not attempt to make critical editing decisions on a small camera that has barely-visible controls, lest you run the danger of, say, ACCIDENTALLY ERASING ALL YOUR PICTURES.

Arrgghh!

No rules, just right

Yes rules, actually: Americans must secure a travel visa in advance before stepping foot in Australia … or boarding a plane to said destination. This comes as a jarring surprise to learn while standing at the British Airways desk in Sea-Tac, 90 minutes before departure.

I’d figured, hey, it’s Australia! White English speakers, just like us. Suppressors of indigenous peoples, just like us. I go to Europe without a visa, and Australia is kind of the bastard stepchild of Europe, so no worries, mate. Who knew?

Luckily, the Aussie visa application is online and approved instantly for only a few Australian dollars. I complete the whole process in under 20 minutes. Trip saved! Except that the near-disaster is so unnerving, I inadvertently leave my envelope full of cash for the trip, as well as a fairly decent-size check from a client, on the seat next to me at the departure gate. Fortunately an alert custodian finds the money, along with my shoes and socks, pants, shirt and daypack. My belongings are promptly sent aboard to me in first class, where I have already donned the pajamas and slippers that are provided for each of us elite travelers.

That very last part is actually true: so far I’ve scored three sets of really comfortable pajamas. Justin, you want some? Plus I’ll another pair on each leg back.

I won’t belabor the fancy-pants British First topic anymore, except to share the surreal experience of waking up early over poor, squalid India. Seven miles above the muck, our cabin is darkened so as not to disturb the other passengers all snuggy-warm in their full-length beds of 100% Egyptian cotton … and I am cranking Foo Fighters’ “Monkey Wrench” through pretty-decent head phones. My foot is tapping to what I think is the beat, and then I realize that the plane is shuddering violently. Air pockets. The Firsters slumber on. Later we have breakfast. To Vivaldi, this time:



NEXT: Back on the ground, in all ways, in Bangkok

PROLOGUE: I love to fly, and it shows.

On this amazing Tuesday, January 20, I am sitting in front of the plasma TV screens in London Heathrow Airport experiencing history being made. Slightly stunned, I can scarcely believe that this life-changing moment finally has come.

Yes ... at last I am traveling international first class!

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This is a trip that was built around a frequent-flyer award. Kind of.

Here's the sweet, sweet deal: front-of-the-plane travel to/from Sydney on British Airways. Nice but unremarkable, right? Except that British has no direct service to Australia from here, so I fly from Seattle to London to Singapore to Sydney -- just about the longest single award trip you can possibly take. But it's International First Class! Which I imagine to be like 40 hours at a combination spa/bistro/open bar.

British began phasing out this extravagant award last summer, just as I hit the magic 150K miles required. So I redeemed that sucker tout de suite, figuring that it would get me close enough to visit my young arts scholar halfway through his stay in neighboring Indonesia. "Neighboring" meaning 3,000 miles distant from Sydney. Which is sort of like flying into New York and then popping over to "neighboring" Oregon.

Except that my ultra-meticulous planning did not take into account that countries have things called visas that limit tourists to a certain number of days -- 30, in the case of Indonesia. And I was envisioning a 45-day Indo-adventure. Oops. But wait: ANOTHER country down that way also has it's own special visa requirements that I learned about at the airport. More about that later.

Kicking around Sydney for a week or so MIGHT have been an option if I had ever in my life said: "Gee, I'd love to visit Sydney someday!" Which has never happened. So I needed elsewhere to hang for 10 days ... preferably someplace with really terrific Thai food.

That's right: after 40 hours aloft or in airports, I hop right back on the bird for a nine-hour flight from Sydney to Bangkok, almost 5,000 miles back in the direction I just came from. In Coach, this time. Honest, I really did plan it this way.

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Concerning the International First Class experience: It is absolutely everything I imagined it to be, and then some; more about that later. Right now, I want to watch Barack.


First Class lounge, Heathrow Airport.