Rock Bottom

As promised in my opening entry, I am committed to detailing both the good and the bad times while stationed in Asia. Granted, I complain a fair amount, but it is usually done in a good-natured manner because I am confident that the positive elements of a situation will eventually override the negative ones. However, that was not the case during my fifth night in Nepal. To be blunt, it was rock bottom for yours truly. This unedited text (which I scrawled by candlelight nearly 7 weeks ago) has been confined to the pages of my notebook until now...

2/27/09

The time is 4:30 A.M on a Friday and I am in Bhaktapur. Currently I am in a prone position on a wooden bed and desperately trying to soak up some comfort from an uncooperative mattress. It has been a restless night for a number of reasons (most of which I would find hilarious if they happened to someone other than me) and I have decided to write down my thoughts because, at this point, sleep is an exercise in futility.

We had an enjoyable day in Bhaktapur exploring the sights and natural surroundings of the small city. (By the way, when I write "we," I am referring to my fellow volunteer Lucy, our guide Hari, and myself.) Additionally, we soaked up the last bit of civilization (read: Internet access) before we head out to our teaching placements tomorrow. Our accommodations for the evening were supposed to be homestays with local families who spoke a bit of English. In my case, I am bunking in the spare room of a restaurant operated by folks who speak no English...and they locked me out.

I returned to the house around 7 P.M. so that I might order some dinner from the restaurant next to which I was sleeping that evening. However, the kitchen was closed...and the power had been shut off for the night. As I stood gently knocking on the door in the hope that someone would let me in, one of the building's other shopkeepers helped out by screaming at the inn's proprietors to remind them of the lanky American whom they were quartering that night. My hosts were eventually roused and let me into the house. I declined their offer to reopen the kitchen (I didn't want to bother them, although who closes a restaurant at 7 P.M.?) and instead devoured two Snickers bars that I found at the bottom of my backpack.


After reading by flashlight (or torch for my non-American readers), I tried to get some shut-eye. This is usually not a very difficult task for me. However, when you are are freezing and in a strange (and uncomfortable) bed, sleep becomes slightly more difficult to come by. To clarify, my room tonight was ringed with open-air windows that did not fully close (see picture above). Thus, the room was a bit drafty...and I only had a light blanket with which to cover myself. (I didn't have my sleeping bag because our project coordinators had deemed them unnecessary. In retrospect, I shouldn't have listened to them.) Nonetheless, I managed to sleep for a few hours before being awoken around 3:00 A.M. by the incessant click of a night watchman's walking stick. A night watchman? Really? He'll go away soon. He'll go away soon...

After the Nepalese Javert completed his rounds in the courtyard outside my window, I drifted off again...for an hour. This time my slumber was disrupted by the sweet melodies of several locals...spitting. Yep, spitting. My bedroom was unfortunately located across the street from the town bath/dishwasher/loogey depository. Around 4:00 A.M., a small crowd started convening to begin their morning routines and said routines apparently included some serious throat maintenance.

As I sat there shivering, hungry (I am accustomed to eating more than two small candy bars for dinner), and exhausted, I felt a desire to go home for the first time since I arrived in Asia. I realize that there are far worse things than living in Nepal for seven weeks and that I am extremely fortunate to be here right now. However, as I stare at the sagging ceiling of a restaurant's spare room in freaking Bhaktapur, I am struggling to see the forest for the trees. Or the light at the end of the tunnel. Or whatever euphemism that most eloquently expresses that I am not quite sure why I relinquished access to my own bed and my mother's cooking. The warm breezes of Thailand seem a long way from here.

(For dark humor, both literally and figuratively, I took the picture below. It accurately captures both my desolate physical surroundings and my gloomy mood at the time. Enjoy...I guess.)

Namaste

I am currently hunched over a keyboard in a largely deserted Nepalese Internet shop. A rat just scurried down the wall to my left and there are two monks updating their Facebook pages to my right. I've lost 20 pounds in the last 6 weeks and my head can now effectively be used as a mop. I haven't puked (yet) from my new malaria prophylactics, but I am fighting off bouts of dizziness more often than I'd like. Soooo, how are you?

This is my third post in three days. Since Internet access was not readily available at either my teaching placement or along the Everest trail, I will be forced to bang out reports on the last seven weeks in Nepal over the course of the next few days before I scramble off to India. As such, I will maintain a rapid-fire pace in transferring my handwritten scribbles to the digital realm. Just remember that I work this hard...for you.

I was sad to leave Thailand. She had embraced me fully and unconditionally. Although it was emotionally draining, I stiffened my upper lip, wiped the tears dry, and got on a plane. Like Mr. Bob Seger, I was "goin' to K-k-k-k-k-k-Kathmandu." After bidding adieu to the Land of Smiles, I flew via Thai Airways (with its accompanying eye candy, er, I mean helpful in-flight staff) to the biggest (and pretty much only) city in Nepal. During the flight, I was eagerly anticipating the many sights, sounds, and smells typically associated with Nepal: the towering, snowcapped peaks, the low, droning melodies of chanting monks, and the delicious aroma of hearty Sherpa stew. Surely I flew over some places that could have provided all three...but I got off the plane in the low-lying capital. The blaring horns, headache-inducing smog, and vulture-like touts who aggressively try to persuade everyone to part with their rupees quickly put the kibosh on any of my daydreams coming true.


Kathmandu is, by far, the dirtiest, most congested, and most chaotic city that I have ever seen. It would be futile for me to attempt to fully convey the sheer madness that occurs on a daily basis along Kathmandu's streets. From dogs running wild to various vehicles (cars, vans, rickshaws, motorbikes, bicycles) jockeying for position to ceaseless offers for everything from trekking to cocaine, the city is a frenetic mass of people, products, and pollution. Indeed, it can be a pretty intimidating and exasperating place. However, emboldened by my previous Asian traveling experience, I was able to meet the challenges of the metropolis head-on with the resolute confidence of a globetrotting veteran...although it helped that we only spent two days there before hightailing it to far more manageable locales.


Once the initial shock wore off, we set out to explore the main sights: Durbar Square, Bouddhanath (one of the largest stupas in the world, seen above), Swayambhu Stupa (otherwise known as the "Monkey Temple," which offered sweeping views of Kathmandu, seen above), etc. Our guide Hari was very informative about both the cultural significance and pertinent historical details of each sight. However, our fearless leader truly proved his worth by shuttling us safely around the city via "public bus." I employ the preceding quotation marks because the use of the word "bus" to describe these vehicles is entirely inappropriate.

Based upon my experiences in these minivans (and as evidenced by the photos below), it would be my opinion that Kathmandu residents do not require either of the following when utilizing public transportation to get from A to B: organization and personal space. Most of the shuttles are driven rather impetuously by cocky teenage drivers while their partner (usually just a slightly smaller version of the driver) hangs out of the space vacated by the sliding door and relentlessly hollers to alert potential riders of their services. After verifying that the van is going to your destination, you are then shepherded into the box on wheels where you await the inevitable overload of passengers and subsequent invasion of the six inches of space directly in front of you...as well as the occasional Nepali on your lap (my too close for comfort seatmate, of course, was a gentleman holding a leaking bag of onions...good times). Although our seating positions were never ideal, I could at least take solace in the fact that I was not forced to precariously hang from the side of the van (see third picture below).


My first couple evenings in Nepal were spent in the cozy home of a local family (the view from their small terrace is pictured below) who had agreed to house and feed me in the interest of cultural exchange. While I was able to keep up my end of the bargain with the young Bobbin (the 13-year-old son and only person in the house who spoke any English), it was impossible to converse with any of the other family members. So when Bobbin went off to his friend's house for Shivaratri (the Hindu festival honoring the god Shiva that was in full swing during my second night in Nepal), I was forced to go it alone when joining the intimate family celebration taking place around a small campfire set up in front of the house.

I emerged from my first Hindu festival certain of two things: Nepalis can squat on their haunches for extraordinarily long periods of time (I suppose using the squat toilet is good practice) and being unable to speak to anybody in a group conversation is really uncomfortable. The family bonfire lasted approximately two hours and largely involved me stiffly bending my body in and out of a squatting position. I tried, I really did, but I can't squat for more than two minutes without my knees exploding. (The "homemade whiskey" that I was given did help me stay in the position for three minutes...but the concoction tasted like lighter fluid.) Several of the party's attendees gave me confused looks (probably because they were wondering why I was having so much trouble staying low to the ground) and I was relieved when we finally headed inside for dinner.


Dinner was daal bhat, the traditional Nepali dish consisting of lentil soup and rice. It's not bad, but not great. However, its taste is of little importance within the context of this embarrassing episode. As my host mother served dinner, I was instructed to both sit and eat first. I don't know if I had been squatting for too long or if the two sips of alcohol were too much for my brain to handle, but I started enthusiastically shoveling the food into my mouth with my hand. My left hand. In case you are unaware of Hindu custom, the left hand is considered unclean because it is to be used to um...clean oneself (with water) after using the lavatory. Thus, you are never supposed to eat with it. But I did, and for about thirty seconds before I noticed the disgusted look plastered on the mother's face. I instantly realized my dining misstep, accidentally muttered an obscenity, and shifted the duties of food shoveling to my right hand. Bobbin and his little sister laughed, the mother shifted her gaze away from me, and the meal was eventually completed without further incident.

I sure know how to make a first impression.

Bumbling Through Bangkok

"The secret is not to act, but to be."

- Steven Seagal

My Thailand adventure was rapidly drawing to a close. After stops in Kuala Lumpur (which I know is in Malaysia, but I have deemed it part of the "Thailand adventure," simply because I can) and Chiang Mai, my final stop was Bangkok. The steaming, teeming, and always scheming capital city. (Please disregard the cheesiness of the preceding sentence.) Home to seemingly infinite supplies of massage parlors, go-go bars, brothels (as well as the far more convenient go-go bars/brothels), and t-shirts with ironic slogans (think Urban Outfitters on steroids), Bangkok attracts travelers from all corners of the globe with its few rules and plethora of cheap entertainment options.
As appealing as that all sounds, I could not jump right into the collective fracas when I arrived from Chiang Mai. On my last day up north, I had fallen ill from my malaria pills, which I had begun taking again (terrible decision) after discontinuing the dosage during my time in apparently malaria-free Ao Luk. I was fine until the fifth day, when I suddenly found it difficult to keep food within the confines of my body and had no desire (and limited ability) to unclench my limbs from a fetal position. And I had a head cold to complement the vomiting. Good times they certainly were not.


Despite my maladies, I gallantly soldiered on and was able to haul my lighter frame to Bangkok. In an effort to minimize the time spent looking for lodgings, I had made an online reservation at a seemingly reputable economy hotel near Khao San Road. I was confident that my room would be waiting for me in all its budget splendor. And maybe it was...but I never found out.

Upon arrival at the reception desk, I informed the manager of my reservation. He replied with a half-smile and began furiously looking through what I assumed was the reservation book. After about ten seconds, he looked up and conceded that there were no rooms available. My reservation was all for naught. Apparently, in classic Seinfeldian fashion, the hotel was able to take my reservation, but was unable to hold my reservation. And according to the sage Mr. Jerry Seinfeld, "that's really the most important part of the reservation." For anybody not getting my reference (you should be ashamed of yourself), take a gander at the clip below.



Alas, I was escorted by a young "assistant manager" on a 10-minute walk to another hotel that was evidently operated by the same company. Curiously, I was not given a free meal or a bottle of champagne to compensate for the inconvenience. However, the room's minibar did come stocked with whiskey, cigarettes, and multiple brands of condoms. So that was good.

After checking in, I had the unenviable task of filling my new anti-malaria prescription at a local hospital. Upon learning from a tuk-tuk driver that the medical facility recommended by my American doctor was "4 hours away," I proceeded to the closer Bangkok Adventist Hospital. As I waited while the reception staff scoured the premises for an English-speaking physician, I took note of the patient rights placard adorning the wall (see picture below). Needless to say, it was unhelpful in allaying my fears of being overcharged, misdiagnosed, sexually harassed, etc.



Although the receptionist had assured me that the doctor would speak "very, very good" English, she must not have been referring to the woman with whom I met. The doc spoke some English, but not nearly enough to comprehend what drugs I was trying to acquire and how many of the little white pills I needed. So, what did she do? What does anybody do these days when they don't understand something?

She Googled it. As I sat in the semi-clean doctor's office staring at a computer screen that rotated between Google and what appeared to be a Thai version of WebMD (I don't think trained medical professionals are supposed to reference that, by the way), I was doubtful that I would exit the building with the necessary medication in hand. Nevertheless, after a tiresome 20 minutes of confusing chit-chat about mefloquine, the doctor was finally able to fill my order. And she informed me that the hospital, which my slick driver had sworn was 4 hours away, was located a mere 20 minutes to the east. Lesson learned: do not believe anything that tuk-tuk drivers say.



The daylight hours of my 2-day stay in the capital city were spent taking in all the sights: the Grand Palace, Wat Arun, Wat Phra Kaew, etc. Not surprisingly, there was a dearth of excitement as I took many photos of important historical and cultural monuments and was not accosted by any crazies (sorry, I can't make them come to me). However, once the sun had set I was determined to find some uniquely Thai nocturnal entertainment (and not of the karaoke bar variety). So I went to check out a veritable Muay Thai extravaganza, held at one of the most fabled venues in the sport (so I've been told), Lumpinee Boxing Stadium.


The fight card was extensive as my admission fare granted me a front row seat for no less than 12 bouts. As the crowd stirred with anticipation, I bought a Singha and started talking to a couple of Australian gents who clearly had already consumed a beer (or ten). Since all of us were completely unfamiliar with the rules and customs of this ancient pugilistic form, we were a tad surprised when the opening round combatants emerged from their respective dressing rooms. Our confusion was twofold: they appeared to be 12 years old and had muscular definition far beyond their years.

Reminiscing about the gawky frame of my past (in stark contrast to my currently well-built body), I wondered how boys that young were able to build such brawn. Maybe I should take up Muay Thai to build, I mean improve, my muscles... I snapped back to reality when I witnessed what they did to each other in the ring and simply considered myself lucky that this was not an audience participation event. The first couple battles were lackluster affairs as the crowd waited out the youngsters in anticipation of the main event. With many of these early fights plodding along, I had the chance to peruse the promotional pamphlet that had been handed to me on my way into the arena. The brochure included insight into the history of the sport, basic rules, and famous champions of years past...

As well as an amazing triumvirate of celebrity endorsements. Featured in the handout were pictures of not one, not two, but three of the most absurd individuals in Hollywood. In no particular order of absurdity, they were Steven Seagal, Jean-Claude Van Damme, and Nicolas Cage. Talk about a marketer's dream. If I had any doubts about the legitimacy of the fights, they were quickly assuaged upon seeing The Great One, The Muscles from Brussels, and "Nick" (which apparently is Cage's incredibly uncreative nickname) gracing the pages of my program. I offer the image seen below as proof.



As the night went on, the fights became more entertaining. However, it should be noted that out of the 12 fights, only 2 boxers from the blue corner (which yours truly was sitting almost directly behind) won their contests. Coincidence? I think not. Anyway, the best fight of the night was the bout preceding the main event and I have included the final two (of five) rounds in the videos below. I'm not entirely sure if Mr. Red Trim Shorts broke Mr. Blue Trim Shorts' leg, but either way a stretcher was required after the referee called the fight. Beers and broken bones in Bangkok. What could be better?





NB: I have also linked the photos for my solo week in KL, Chiang Mai, and Bangkok in the upper-right hand corner of the blog, directly above the Thailand teaching album. Since I can't figure out how to make it automatically open in a new tab/window, I would again advise right-clicking so you can do that manually. (These basic computer tips are solely for my parents; I do not mean to imply that I am technologically savvy.) I have not had the time to edit out the less than stellar shots so you'll just have to sift through all of the pictures for the hidden gems. I have the utmost confidence that readers of such a highbrow blog will have little trouble with this. Don't let me down.

Pure Filler

Before I delve into the Asian content of this brief post, I feel compelled (and was asked by one "anonymous" reader) to comment on the recent signing of wide receiver/diva Terrell Owens by my beloved Buffalo Bills. Admittedly, I learned of the acquisition a week after it had occurred since the Nepalese media does not cover the NFL. (Reporters are too busy writing about government protests, power outages, and cricket. They love cricket.) However, after catching up on all the Bills-related news, I am very excited about T.O. potentially mixing it up in the following ways:

1. Touchdown celebrations, which could range from throwing snowballs at opposing players to making a snowman to eating buffalo wings in the end zone.

2. Shirtless press conferences and possible tirades while doing snow angels in his driveway.

3. Given his affinity for large sunglasses, the possibility of him wearing ski goggles during television interviews, on the sidelines, etc.

4. Although it has been three years since it was published, the outside chance of a local signing for his literary masterpiece, Little T Learns to Share.

(For those interested in saving $2.24 on the book, as well as for those who think I'm making this up, here is the link: http://www.amazon.com/Little-Learns-Share-Time-Outs/dp/1933771208/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1239114163&sr=8-1)

The bottom line is that the Bills have been really boring over the last 9 years. They haven't made the playoffs, haven't been fun to watch, and haven't been relevant. I don't think T.O. will make much of a difference in the standings, but at least we'll get to watch some ridiculously self-involved end zone dances. Ralph Wilson has apparently decided that he might as well be entertained in his final years, even if his team is mediocre. So, like Mr. Wilson, I will get my popcorn ready.

Enough with the football talk. Obviously, I have returned from Everest. And in one piece, I might add. Please, please, no applause is necessary. The next few days will be fully focused on compiling reports of my activities (legal ones only) in Bangkok and Nepal. However, since it's been a few weeks since I last checked in, I come bearing gifts. Well, a "gift" anyway. The following video is from an evening on Ko Phi Phi, which was detailed in "The LONG Weekend." I thought the video would be a lot sweeter, but it's mildly entertaining nonetheless. And as all the loyal readers know, that's what I'm shooting for: mild entertainment.

In case you want to know which idiot in the clip is me, I am the third jumper, the rather lanky fellow clad in a red t-shirt. Enjoy until I come back with with the details on Bangkok. (As always, I have also provided the link to the video at the bottom in case it's not working in the post. You're welcome.)

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.