bali dao

In Chinese, Bali is called 'ba li dao' (Bali, the island) in order to differentiate it from ba li, France. Because I would be traveling as part of the annual LongYang / TScale corporate holiday tour, this was not to be the rough-and-tumble solitary spin I'd grown rather fond of in Thailand. I'd have to suffer homely hostels and swindled swims another time; here, there be five-star hotels (two) and organized water sports (a catalog).
I left Shanghai with my aunt Cassandra, who was invited along as well. We did a fine job of alienating the other employees by having as many exclusive, nepotistic dinners and massage sessions as we could with the CEOs. Aunt Cass was a jewel, as far as roommates go. She's this winsome, mild-mannered polyglot, who's got a marvelous understated elegance. She plays tennis. She windsurfs. She's soft-spoken and articulate and knows botany in three languages. I observed her at the Pro Lambda holiday dinner (where a tanked Frank kind of came onto her), a paradigm of the corporate first lady, full of the demure confidence of a woman who grew up in Asia and raised kids in the United States. Here's us waiting for the diving boat to depart:

It was my first time, and a little bit frightening. I kept reminding myself that any second now I'd get accustomed to suppressing the urge to swim and hyperventilate while descending in deep water and inhaling through a bit-gag.
Aunt Cass was also the only one to surf with me. We rented longboards and wiry local coaches, and spent an afternoon being wave-whipped, sand-skinned, and hauled under. Hard. When I stood up for the first time after what felt like hours of abuse by the sea, I wanted to roar with primal glory. I thought, 'this must be what testosterone-fueled feels like.'
Aside from the recreational sports, there was some sight-seeing as well. Here, some dramatic, sea-splooshed scenery:


It was a gratifying not to have to worry about transportation or board, but this came at the cost of being entirely at the mercy of the itinerary, which had been tailored for wealthy tourists. It therefore included too much time at the duty-free malls, and not enough ethnic food or walking for my taste. Aunt Cass loaded up on local goods; soaps, sarongs, spices (saffron) - if it could be alliterated, she had its number. I collected seashells on the beach, and renewed my suntan and digestive discord. There was a big, beautiful sprawling oasis of a swimming pool at the hotel, in which I spent my mornings and after-dark hours, grateful for reprieve from some of the more dynamic members of the tour group. There was Mary, an alert and charming five-year-old, who learned to delete photos from my camera and reset my ipod settings with stunning dexterity;

Aboele, who had what I commonly term a high-perceived fun factor on account of her glittering pumps, low tolerance for liquor and supersonic whine, which the Republic of Indonesia was privy to each time she saw a spider or broke a fingernail;

Nelon, who looked almost cool, but didn't engage another soul in the group on account of the endless stream of cigarettes he smoked;

And a supremely pesky co-guide, whose fascination with my height compelled him to plague me with questions ranging from whether I had to buy men's clothing to whether I'd been birthed by aliens.

We threaded back through Jakarta. I felt bloated on seawater and coconut juice. I had eaten a cow brain on the last day, an act committed to defend the fearlessness of the American people to my squeamish travel companions. My patriotism didn't sit too well with the ten-hour flight, during which I had the misfortune to be seated in front of the garrulous guide and behind a stupifyingly playful Mary. Luckily, the hum of running engines have always lulled me into deep sleep, and I dreampt soundly of moonlit swims until we landed in Shanghai.

. . . to indonesia!

Taking a vacation whilst essentially on vacation is a good way to acclimate oneself to a foreign environment; taking two in the span of a fifty days, I suspect, prolongs the puppy love for at least another month or so. I'll be back on the 22nd. Above, the planter-sized firework bundle purchased immediately following this awful lunch with communists during which I wished oh-so-hard to be present at the concurrent CNY gathering of New York friends. Retail therapy - explosive retail therapy - is a best practice for eliciting solitary smiles.

Happy (belated) CNY!

A very large rat, auspiciously festooned to ring in The Year of the Rat. Across the plaza at Cheng Huang Miao this evocative pair angled in anticipatory hope:

Chinese New Year is a five-fold happiness. Aside from a week off work (and two off school), fabulous feasts, fireworks and dramatically reduced prices at department stores nationwide, it's custom to bai nian - that is, to pay visits to family, friends and acquaintances in order to personally wish everyone a happy and lucky new year. For kids (and kids are kids until they sire their own), these trips may essentially be boiled down to trick-or-treating for money.

CNY: FLASH Edition

A couple of weeks ago, I gave a talk on American business etiquette to the engineers at Pro-Lambda. It was great fun, and I’ll expound on it in good time. Of immediate relevance was my contention that Americans, by and large, tend to be more conscious of hygiene than apparel, relative to East Asians who dress to the nines, but suffer as a people from greasy bangs and startling halitosis. (I kept the last bit to myself and made the point through a rather funny (I thought) slideshow of an imagined business meeting between Homer Simpson and Dr. Indiana Jones, which nobody understood. Anyway.)
According to my colleagues, a fairly dominant Chinese perspective is that Americans are a sloppy, insouciant bunch. We drink, we fuck, and, moreover, we speak candidly (in exported film and television, anyway) about drinking and fucking. Drugs, lingerie and inter-class and race mingling aren't taboo either. I retorted that despite embracing certain socially liberal mindsets, there's no celebratory occasion during which America becomes a lawless land. Even the most joyous events end in tear gas and mayhem. Remember when the Red Sox won the ALCS in 2001 and some poor girl got a rubber bullet through the eye?
The following photographs chronicle the best bits of my first Chinese-Chinese New Year (and not a Middle Eastern war zone, as one might conceivably think), which focused on preserving the 2,000 year old tradition of amateur arson. Kim and I blew 200RMB on a not-negligibly-sized arsenal of contraband:

The man at the store explained that they come in four varieties, 'dangerous', 'more dangerous', 'very dangerous', and 'very, very dangerous' (not appropriate for beginner use). The degree of danger correlates to the recommended a) speed (from a leisurely canter to "as fast as you can") and b) distance ("10 meters. No, 5." "Well, which is it??" "5. 5 should definitely do it.") one ought to pursue after putting match to . . . is it a wick?
At sundown, several million private citizens emerged from their high-rises to manage their own pyrotechnics show in the streets, in the midst of residential skyscrapers, or wherever there was space. I hope that the following gives you a sense of how low and near the fireworks were, relative to the buildings:



Policemen patrolled, but only to distribute sparklers and fire extinguishers, as appropriate.
'Fireworks' falls somewhere between 'the beach' and 'kippered beef steak' in my list of favorite people, places and things. I did incur a bruise getting clocked (on the noggin!) by an exploding canister, and Tina's hair singed a bit from falling embers, but it didn't deter a tremendously good time. Behold:

This is Kim, me, two fountains, and a very brave Rusty, who's about the have his mind blown.

This is me, assuming the position recommended by the box.

This is Kim, appearing to have confused 'canter' with 'mad dash'.
Here are some shots taken around midnight. The noise was deafening.





The New Year was rung in to the sound of firecrackers and gleeful clapping (and not sirens and screaming mobs). I'm certainly thankful for a number of American social practices, but found myself conspiring ways to smuggle and sneakily detonate a half-hour's worth of happiness in Central Park. It would be so gratifying. . .!

thailand 1/23-25: krabi

When we arrived in Krabi, my back ached and I imagined that my right foot, swollen from bloodthirsty nits, might be gangrenous. I'd washed my hair in a sink in Bangkok, and it felt flaccid and forlorn. The pumpkin pants were wrinkled from a night of anxious, upright sleep. I was scared to look in a mirror.
The limp Krabi town bus depot, clearly a distant relative of the palatial point of origin, was host to a dozen or so small travel agencies. I sat down outside one, where an athletic-looking group of Australians were playing cards and drinking Singhas next to a mountain of hiking packs. A man came over and tried to peddle some sort of island boat tour; I waved him off. I began to idly snap photos, admiring the Australians, who, collectively, looked like an ad for Youthful Exuberance. The man made a second round, and was spurned again. He looked at me for a spell, and then began to ask questions.
Something comes over me when people who I've deemed a nuisance begin to ask me questions. I start spinning lies, voraciously and (t)ruthlessly. I can only suppose that endeavoring to lead an honest life comes from repressing an alternate, dishonest vision of reality. It's a luxury, additionally, of being endowed with an honest face. I take great pride in looking the part of sincerity and integrity. Today, however, I looked (and played) the part of a hard-nosed young reporter, tired of trying to differentiate between too many island boat tours to my editor. The man was both empathetic (which is important) and enthusiastic (which is better), and slyly (,he thought) gifted me the Barracuda Four Island Boat Tour in exchange for a favorable write-up.

I'm thus obliged to tell you that I had a fantastic time. (But really, I did!) We - three French couples, a pair of Singapore newlyweds and I - departed by longshore boat from the neighboring port of Ao Nang. I'll pause here to note that being by water - in any capacity - is my personal paradigm of paradise. Of course ample sunshine, dramatic cliffs, jewel-toned fish and the crunch of sand beneath bare feet have a slight edge over the bulkhead at Pratt Pool, but you get the picture.

Being in a bathing suit, I concluded long ago, is my natural and best-preferred state. Unfortunately, I hadn't brought a bathing suit. I had failed, in addition, to acquire one in one of the many Bangkok shopping malls, being host to much too much pride to a) spend 1000b b) for an extra-large bikini. However, forgoing snorkeling was a non-negotiable non-option. I was in Thailand, for chissakes, and I'd conned my way into a day-long excursion through some of the world's most idyllic beaches. So, when the boat paused aside some truly spectacular rocks for a snorkel break, I hesitated for only a second before plunging into the crystal waters, fully clothed in my sweaty pajamas. The water was very salty and very clear. It occurred to me that I'd likely incinerate my clothing upon return to Shanghai. I chucked the snorkel, but wore the mask, and found myself in a gregarious cloud of emerald guppies. I swam further out, and found a coral bed, where large, yellow fish were gathered. When the longshoremen rang the bell, we boarded the boat.
The rest of the day was spent flitting about to various beaches and cliffs. We'd dock, and the couples would wander off for private jaunts or dips. I took pictures, or snorkeled, or dozed. An unfortunate symptom of photographing solo travels is that you capture everything but yourself.

I shot the above to commemorate how clear and fish-filled the waters were, ankle deep, on that day on Chicken Rock. We'd just eaten lunch, and I (below)

watched the beautiful, svelte French girl Eugenie and her blond boyfriend Etienne tan themselves in matching, paisley-print swimming suits for a while.
When we returned to Krabi, I sought shelter. The eager man at the travel agency recommended a hostel in town. A man in a silver pick-up truck came to fetch me. His English was good, and he was rather funny. His name was Kit, and he worked at the hostel. He showed me to my room, which I was surprised and pleased to find was totally mine, and equipped with a private bathroom. I took what might have been the best shower of my life, and collapsed into a deeply delicious sleep.
I spent the following day exploring Krabi town, which was smallish for the most part. When that grew tiring, I brought a novel from the hostel - Terry Pratchett! - , and read it on a bench until I thought I should be hungry. I hadn't eaten since the previous day's lunch, but I didn't have much of an appetite. I also hadn't taken a shit in five days, which concerned me deeply. My father instilled in us a number of values growing up, but the two most salient ones involving slamming doors (don't) and pooping every day (do). Phone calls and e-mails typically conclude with a stern inquisition into the regularity of my bowel movements. I bought a bottle of water for dinner. I longed for male companionship, and digestive produce. I headed back to the hostel, where Kit was lounging, and struck up conversation. He proposed we grab a beer, so we headed to a bar down the way, where he was acquainted with the owner. We ate some nameless, exotic fruit, and rolled cigarettes with bamboo shoots and some strong red tobacco. It was nice.

By the time I retired, I had a good buzz going. The next morning, Kit recommended that I take a local bus to a nearby beach. My coach back to Bangkok was scheduled for 5PM that day, which would arrive with plenty of time to spare before my 9AM flight to Shanghai.
The beach was unique in that the sand was in a rudimentary stage of formation, which left my legs looking like this:

I had brought along a novel, which was the reluctant result of a lengthy and unsatisfactoy selection process. The Terry Pratchett had been a rare anomaly; Mary Higgins Clark, James Patterson and Nora Roberts dominated the hostel shelves. I wound up caddying the thickest Dr. Cross novel I could find, which took about forty-five unenjoyable minutes to finish. When I returned to Krabi town, it was mid-afternoon. I perused a guitar shop and a stationary stand, leaving behind a trail of seashells.
After bidding goodbye to Kit, I boarded a bus with a group of horrendously drunk Englishmen, which was Bangkok-bound. I was beginning to feel a little starved for company, and was grateful that the trip was drawing to a close. I sat beside a genial Hawaiian hippie, and they showed 'Borat' and 'Superbad' in succession, both of which tasted pleasantly of home (whatever, wherever that meant). I slept, until Bangkok, after which I slept until Shanghai.
I treated myself to a ride on the Magnetic Levitation train from the airport, which runs at 400km/hour for the eighty seconds it takes to get from PuDong to Shanghai proper at that speed. It was moderately terrifying. When I got home, it was empty, and I decided to bathe. I undressed, and was genuinely surprised by the sound of seashells - a shower - striking the linoleum floor.

thailand 1/22: the third miracle

As we approached the dispatch depot, I expected to see a small metropolis peppered with pilot cases and gleaming eateries. What I saw more closely resembled a post-apocalyptic ghost town. A few errant buses and stray curs littered an otherwise empty lot, while their drivers suckled cigarettes or loitered about a filling station. The smell of gasoline was nauseating. Where were the beachgoers? Where was the Starbucks? The sole commercial presence was a dilapidated 7-11 with dirty windows. I was concerned, but only mildly. Some gratifying cocktail of sunstroke and dehydration had diluted the intensity fear as an instinct. I bought two liters of water, and drank them mercilessly. I sat down. I considered playing fetch with a three-legged mongrel, but decided against it. A few of the drivers eyed me (and my pumpkin pants?) with suspicion.
After about half an hour, I began to feel quite faint. I pondered the ethanol inhalation and water poisoning, and wondered if non-fatal dosages of both, in combination, could be fatal.
Then:
Enter: woman -who was only a gnarled torso- in a shopping cart.
Enter: smiling, dark-skinned man on a motorbike.
Armless/legless woman charades (bear with me) that chartered buses depart from a second depot, 5 kilometers down the road. As she gasps for breath, Motorbike man offers a ride for 100b. I’ve just finished indicating that I much prefer to walk, when,
Enter: man in polo shirt.
Minutes later, I’m aboard a luxury coach with Polo Shirt and three other alleged bus drivers, en route to the legendary second depot. Polo Shirt and I made stilted, polite conversations, during which I tried not to make it too obvious that I was glancing obsessively at his watch
(which was telling me that we'd been on the highway for over fifteen minutes), and then mentally mapping out an escape route, should any of my (ethanol-laced) fantasies of being sold into sexual slavery begin to play out. Just as I was wondering whether or not I could survive a tumble from a high-speed bus, we pulled into the bus depot, which was an oasis of activity, alive with pilot cases, and coffee stops, and, most gratifyingly, white people, all headed to surf and tan and adventure on the southern seas. I felt like I was going to weep with relief. My new friend in the polo shirt even walked me into the depot, where he ensured that I purchased the correct ticket to Krabi. He left me at the food court, where I bought a side of fries and waited for their magic to work itself on my wearied soul. By 9PM, I was dozing aboard a plush two-story coach headed south.

thailand 1/21: ANCIENT CITY

I’d dined the previous night with Chuck, his parents, and his beautiful sister and her boyfriend. It seemed out of place to discuss my bearings (paltry, but comfortable) and my plans for the rest of the week (none to speak of) too explicitly, so we talked blandly of business schools and slandered Amherst instead. It was awkward. I decided then that I’d had enough of Bangkok, and chose, on Chuck’s recommendation, to take an overnight bus to Krabi the following day.
Photographs in a Japanese brochure found in the hostel lobby of ruined, cyclopean stone visages leering out from behind savage vines locked in the daytime itinerary. I packed my bag, and, brimming with expectation and purpose, boarded a bus for ‘ANCIENT CITY’.
The bus broke down about forty minutes outside of Bangkok. I tentatively (and correctly – a miracle!) made the transfer to a ‘local bus’ (an Isuzu cab with a couple of benches nailed down to the flatbed), by lamely flashing my brochure at anything with wheels. When I dismounted (ANCIENT CITY was a rolling stop), I was embarrassed to realize that I’d grossly misunderstood the brochure. For whatever reason, it hadn’t occurred to me until I stood before a billboard advertising parking rates that I wasn’t about to enter some time-capsuled jungle to spy upon pygmy-run pagodas. ANCIENT CITY, I realized too late, was a theme park; an idyll of replicas crafted by a meticulous (and insane) amateur archeologist and scaled to 75%. The park was in the shape of Thailand.
Miracle the second was that ANCIENT CITY didn’t charge admission on Mondays. I paid 50b for a rickety, tin bicycle, which rattled of death, and whose obstinate front wheel threatened death at every turn. I rode, at first timorously, and eventually more boldly, along the still, mold waters and moats, past stone carnations of myth and deity which must have been terrifying in their original, gigantic glory, but here where only impressive when captured in contextual composition on film:

There were, additionally, stone dioramas depicting Thai fables. Beautiful, drowned princesses who fled, in vain, on the arms of plucky, unlucky true loves from jealous, fantastical murderers. I liked stories like that.
When I left ANCIENT CITY by local bus two hours later, I was at peace with the world. The pumpkin fisherman pants clung to my legs with sweat, and I'd essentially toured the set of the Indiana Jones trilogy on bikeback, but it'd been a slow, satisfying way to spend the afternoon. I didn't believe in boredom. Best of all, I discovered that the endpoint of my bus was the junction at which I could charter a coach to Krabi.