Everest (Base Camp) or Bust

I've been basking in the relative comfort of Kathmandu for the last few days. I have taken a hot shower, slept on a soft mattress, and even found the time to post a few updates (albeit on Thailand shenanigans that took place a month ago). Although I know you are thirsting for more of me and my musings, I am once again going to disappoint. (I think this might be turning into a theme.) I'm departing on a trek to Mount Everest Base Camp tomorrow morning and will be out on the trail for the next two weeks. If I'm not back to write about Bangkok, teaching in Nepal, and of course, my domination of Everest by April 7...just wait longer. (But not too long; something might be wrong.)

Ballin' in Chiang Mai

After leaving the concrete jungle of Kuala Lumpur (and it's far less friendly exchange rate), I was eager to explore Thailand's second-largest city, Chiang Mai. Located in the northern region of the country, Chiang Mai has in excess of 300 temples - almost as many as are in Bangkok - condensed within a much smaller geographic area. As such, I saw a lot of wats (Thai word for temple) during my stay in the revered "cultural capital" of Thailand. And had a bit of room mishap (don't worry, I'll try to keep my usual grousing to a minimum).


I always like a good deal. During my formative years, my parents (my mother to a far lesser extent) and grandparents drilled their fiscally conservative views into my head. However, there are also many people in my life (my brother, several of my friends) who have routinely encouraged me to indulge in the finer things in life. Although I usually heed my elders' advice while stateside, I made a conscious decision to splurge with reckless abandon upon my return to Thailand. Flush with cash from my...wait, no, no, it was a volunteer teaching position. Not to be deterred by my shrinking bank account, I was steadfast in implementing a strategy of impulsive spending for the duration of my stay in Chiang Mai. Below is a detailed list of where that extra coin was dropped:

1. I quickly bypassed a string of guest houses charging $5 per night and strolled into the far ritzier Smile House, which required me to shell out a whopping $7 per night. (Although the main attraction of SM was its inflated occupancy rate, my interest was also piqued after reading that the building once served as the "safe house" of the infamous Shan-Chinese opium warlord Khun Sa, more familiarly known as "Opium King," when he came to Chiang Mai. Come to think of it, that might explain the AK-47 I found underneath the bed... )

2. I always opted for the more expensive chicken fried rice over its vegetable counterpart. (I need my protein. This body is no accident.)

3. Instead of tramping all over the city to see the sights, I elected to take tuk-tuks everywhere. My feet were appreciative; my brain wondered what the hell was wrong with me. Most of my rides were spent trying to comprehend how there aren't more tuk-tuk related deaths, given that the drivers are often turning around to engage in conversation with their passengers, greeting people along the sidewalks, and veering blindly into oncoming traffic. My rather skittish look in the picture below should tell the story.


On my third day in Chiang Mai, I ventured to two very different places. At each locale, I sought the assistance of an individual who could not have been more dissimilar than the other. One had long, flowing hair; the other had a shaved head. One was dressed in blue; the other wore orange. One spoke no English; the other had quite impressive English skills. Oh, and one was an inmate and the other was a monk. (Sorry, I really thought you would be more interested in the garment color differences.)


Given my first Thai massage experience (see "Rubdown"), one would think that I would make an effort to visit a more upscale and professional establishment the next time I had a hankering for a good kneading. Well "one" would think that, but not this guy. Instead, I meandered over to the Chiang Mai Women's Prison for a full body massage. Despite the welcoming, Swiss chalet-like exterior of the "prison shop" (see above photo), I walked through the front door with a slightly halting gait. After the not-so-friendly receptionist/warden checked me for weapons and drugs, I crossed the double-steel threshold and cautiously entered the massage area. As I stood in the dimly lit bowels of a Thai correctional facility waiting for the three bored-looking female convicts sitting before me to decide who was going to have the honor of my company for the next hour, I considered the absurdity of the situation. I rated it an 8 on my admittedly rudimentary 1-10 scale of absurdity. I was officially out of my element. A mere 9 months ago, I was making binders in my Manhattan cubicle; now I was enlisting the services of female inmates in some place called Chiang Mai. What the hell was I doing?

I abruptly ceased trying to make sense of the situation and turned my attention to my surroundings. The lady (you can still be referred to as a 'lady" while in prison, right?) assigned to dole out my purchased punishment was about 5"1, 100 pounds, and named Nit. We got along fabulously and she made me feel right at home. Well, I really had no choice in feeling "at home" due to my slight blunder with the prison-issued massage uniform. Before commencing, I was told (well, actually just sort of shoved into a small side room seeing as how they spoke no English) to don a pair of pants and top that closely resembled the scrubs often worn by medical professionals. However, instead of a trusty elastic waistband, the pants required me to somehow fashion a makeshift belt out of a long string that emerged from the fabric clinging tenuously to my hip. (The other two customers seemed to have little trouble, but I could not figure it out. A Yale degree a genius make not.) When I emerged from the side room and tried to quickly lie down in an effort to prevent my pants from falling down, Nit took pity on me. Wrapping her arms firmly around my waist, she adroitly constructed a tight knot to uphold my trousers, but not before she ensured that her cohorts were made fully aware of my gaffe.

The massage itself was uneventful. Nit could speak no English, but she did communicate that I should utter "ok" if I felt any discomfort during the session. Which worked out great because I usually say "ok" when I want something to be altered or stopped. Anyway, I managed to use Nit's predetermined safe word less than 100 times (kept it in double digits; I'm such a trooper), but was disappointed that I couldn't ask her what she was in for. (Rest easy Mother; all of the muscle maidens had to be within 6 months of their release date in order to be involved in the massage program. At least that's what Lonely Planet said; for all I know she could have been a serial killer.) Given the ferocity of her kneading, I'd guess that Nit wasn't incarcerated for a white-collar offense. The intensity of the rubdown far surpassed that which I experienced back within the friendly (too friendly?) confines of Ao Luk. I don't know why I was surprised. This was prison after all.


After a tearful goodbye with my new acquaintances, I set out to explore some of the wats for which Chiang Mai is famous. After looking a few over (they were beautiful, I took way too many pictures, yada, yada, yada), I proceeded to Wat Chedi Luang to attend the daily "Monk Chat." As I approached a young monk, I was careful not to disturb him from the book he was reading. Perhaps a bit too careful as he did not hear me mumbling "sawatdee khrab" until I had said it three times. After a slightly awkward 5 seconds of me greeting an oblivious monk, he suddenly looked up and invited me to sit down. He introduced himself as Sunthorn Bo and we had a very enjoyable 20-minute conversation about topics ranging from his life as a monk to American girls to President Obama's economic stimulus plan (I kid you not). The very affable 25-year old was as curious about my "exciting" life in America as I was about his life as a monk. I'll spare you the details, but the talk was a wonderful conclusion to what was a very strange day.


I wish I could say that everything was peachy in Chiang Mai, but that just wouldn't fit my style. (I'm not that good at writing from a positive-person viewpoint. Must work on that.) My primary grievance was with the Smile House (in no small part because I was throwing down an extra 2 dollars a night). My first night in Room 25 was perfectly pleasant. The following morning I was informed that I would have to move because someone had "reserved" my room. After learning that people can (and apparently do) reserve specific rooms at low-end Thai guest houses, I moved my gear into my new bedroom chamber and hoped I would not have to move again. (Well that wouldn't be cause for a multiple paragraph complaint, now would it?) Naturally, I was awakened in my new room at 4AM by a rambunctious rooster, conveniently stationed 5 feet from my window, who was intent on showing all the hens what his vocal chords were made of. Don't slam head against wall. Don't slam head against wall...

Nonplussed, I groggily stumbled down to the registration desk to request a move to the other side of the building. They accommodated me with my third room in 2 nights. This one appeared to be in working order and I felt I would be quite comfortable in my new digs. Until I took stock of the bathroom and its broken screen. With a veritable four-lane expressway for mosquitoes into my john, I was forced to ask for yet another room. At this point, the staff was completely exasperated with my multiple room change requests and decided to give me what I wanted all along: a return ticket to good ol' Room 25. I never thought I could be so happy to see a $7 hotel room.

Next stop Bangkok. The comedy of errors with my lodgings was only beginning...

Luckiest Man Alive?

If you are reading this in an effort to sate your hunger for candid reports on my Nepali experience, you will be disappointed. If you are reading this for any other logical reason (e.g. you occasionally find my tales amusing, you are desperately seeking relief from a lengthy spell of boredom, you merely want to confirm that I am still alive), then you are in luck. For my next few entries, I will be taking you all the way back to my week of solo travel through the bustling metropolises of Kuala Lumpur, Chiang Mai, and Bangkok. (Warning: unchaperoned travel ahead!) Please try not to fall off the edge of your seat, which is where I assume you are rather wobbly perched after reading the preceding parenthetical note.

After a send-off for the ages in Krabi (well, that probably exaggerates my role in the festivities as I, after eating my greasy pizza with a tad too much vigor, was forced to retreat to my hotel room for a "nap" and a self-imposed verbal lashing for displaying such lackluster send-off spirit; to those concerned, I did eventually rally), I readied myself for my flight to Malaysia. (And by "readied myself," I mean I woke up and went to the airport.) During the goodbyes with the group, I was somewhat surprised by the visible emotion displayed on the faces of some of my teaching compatriots. (Note to self: improve self-esteem so affection does not come as a shock.) Maintaining my usual stoicism (or is it emotional repression?), I set out for Krabi International, arriving the customary 3 hours prior to my international flight's departure time. Alas, the Air Asia check-in desk had yet to open. Thailand foils my attempt at organization once again.

The flight to Kuala Lumpur was short in both duration and entertainment value. (But that obviously won't stop me from writing about it.) My one mildly interesting observation was that the emergency exit rows, which afford their occupants significantly more legroom, were left vacant by the herd of Asian passengers (read: everyone but me) who boarded the plane. This also occurred on the two other Air Asia (a budget airline with no assigned seats) flights that I took, thus "inspiring" me to put it on digital paper. In stark contrast to American carriers, on which you now have to pony up an additional fee in order to secure those precious extra inches, Asians (or at least those on my 3 flights, which I felt was enough of a cross-section for me to make sweeping generalizations) seem to prefer a more compact in-flight seating arrangement. I will now consider slapping myself in the face with the computer mouse for devoting the last 5 minutes of my life to this incredibly inane tangent.


My two-night stay in the Malaysian capital was largely devoid of amusing experiences. I have to take the lion's share of the blame (well, I have to take all of the blame seeing as I was alone; I just wanted to work in the phrase "lion's share") for the lack of "action." (Look at the picture above. Does that guy with the fluorescent identification necklace and high school yearbook pose look like someone who would go in search of "action?") I was tired, hungry, and staying in a hotel that had cable, room service, and air conditioning. I know my mother will scold me for not seeking out KL's cultural treasures, but I just wanted to decompress after my exhausting time in Thailand. (I also did not want to give Malaysia a chance as I only went there because I needed to exit Thailand in order to get a new visa upon my return. I know that blaming the inconvenience of a visa trip on an entire country is absurd, but it's certainly not the first time that I've gotten angry at something for nonsensical reasons. I can be weird like that.) The Petronas Towers (exterior picture below, assorted interior pictures above), which are Kuala Lumpur's globally recognized landmarks, offered amazing cityscape views, high-end shopping (which thankfully allowed me to replace my backpack with a new Louis Vuitton man-bag), and "premier" toilets. However, I much preferred staring up at the skyscrapers' glittering facade in the evening. Glittering facade? Who the hell am I?


Despite the traditional bent of my Malaysian trip (I stayed in a nice hotel, saw the main tourist attraction, etc.), there was a random event that prevented the trip from being completely story-free, although it has absolutely no cultural relevance. On my final afternoon in town, I was walking down the street when a man approached me. Although he appeared to be relatively lucid, his incessant babbling proved otherwise. The basic gist of his soliloquy was that I was a very lucky individual. In fact, I was the luckiest man on the face of the earth. He supported his claim by gesturing toward my face and its supposed "luckiness." For the first minute, I politely let him speak and responded with merely a furrow of my brow.

For those who are in the dark, I have had lengthy and strangely consistent string of "unlucky" things happen to me in the last 5-7 years. Starting in high school with a few harmless incidents (e.g. my car broke down in the Wendy's parking lot three times during my senior year, I broke my writing hand thumb a week before final exams), it snowballed during college into a theme, thus inspiring my friend Pete to coin the phrase "the wonderful life of Alex Tilton." A play on the then wildly popular VH1 show "The Fabulous Life," the bad luck theme manifested itself in the form of my broken ankle (suffered during a snowball fight), a small blister (which morphed into a staph infection and forced me to stay in the hospital for 3 days), my bedroom ceiling caving in (which made said bedroom smell like a sewer for three weeks), etc. The list is endless. To be sure, I am well aware that I have been very lucky with the "big things" in life: a loving family, loyal friends, and good health (most of the time). However, I am usually characterized as "unlucky" because of the aforementioned trend. Thus, I felt the overwhelming urge to correct the young man who was aggressively badgering me in front of the Petronas Towers.

Normally, a crazy street person in Asia wouldn't understand English well enough for me to communicate the unfortunate events of my past. However, my new acquaintance clearly grasped the gist of what I said to him. Or at least his face indicated such. As I enumerated the aforementioned broken bones and ceiling mishaps, his smiling face gradually devolved into a despondent frown. He concurred that I was "no lucky" and departed to find his next target, leaving me to continue my walk in peace. I was feeling good and even thought that perhaps I had been a bit lucky that he was able to comprehend enough of what I said so that he left me alone. Maybe my luck was turning.

Then I stepped in a puddle. Guess not.

NB: My buddy Brice recently expressed his disappointment that my blog did not contain the timeless phrase "wonderful life of Alex Tilton" in its title. My oversight is inexcusable and I apologize sir. I have appropriately amended the title and I thank you for your constructive criticism.