"Adventures of King Prawn"
Travelogue of Bali, Malaysia,
Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Mexico
November/95
11/3/95
Made, who works at the reception, and who is the most genuine and
friendly of the reception personnel, commented yesterday that he
thought it bizarre how westerners are so drawn to sunbathing. He said
he’d asked some women why and that they responded that they wanted
darker skin. He says most Balinese want lighter skin.
Not one (and I do mean not a single one) of the Balinese I’ve seen wears
prescriptive glasses. (An optometrist would starve here.) I’ve only
seen one medical clinic, and happened upon it purely by chance, late
one night. From what I’ve seen, this culture is not as captivated with
medicines, drugs, doctors, as other parts of the world. But television
will change all that. It’s already begun. Indonesian advertisements
promote products of western origin. Deoderants, hygiene aids, they’re
all represented. (It’s interesting to note which companies have enough
money to pay for advertising. Pharmaceuticals.) It’s only a matter of
time before the brainwashing is complete, and the Indonesians are
wondering if their breaths are minty fresh, and their clothes white
and disinfected.
11/9/95
The Balinese are calm and rarely show anger (at least to my eyes). I’ve
never seen drivers shouting at one another, even at times when it
would seem most appropriate (by western standards) to do so. There is
almost always a smile on the faces of the people when they greet you.
As a country, it is picturesque, but far from being the most beautiful
place I’ve seen. The pervasive artists, dancers, and craftsmen give
Bali an air of constant creativity. Looking into the open doors of the
houses of remote villages, or walking down the side streets of
cosmopolitan Ubud, one is constantly faced with artisans working their
craft.
The Balinese appear to be very healthy, have excellent posture, and are
most often dressed in sarongs. Children are treated with respect and
dignity, but are not the whiny, spoiled little shits that one sees in
some countries. People marry very young and already have at least two
children by their mid-twenties. This, I believe, is partially due to
the fact that if one so much as touches a Balinese woman, (and “one”
didn’t) one marries her. The men are much more outgoing than the
women, especially when dealing with westerners. The women, on the
other hand, rarely look westerners in the eye, and are forever busy
with the ritual offerings, taking care of the children, working in the
rice fields, and preparing meals.
11/15/95
Just one more entry while in Bali. Last night, Putu (the wife of the
owner of the Melati Cottages, where I’m staying) prepared a Balinese
feast in honor of my departure. The numerous dishes included some
Balinese specialties: Suckling Pig, Smoked Duck, Sate, and other
delectable treats. Mary, an American I met yesterday, showed up
dressed to the nines. The only people partaking of the feast were Putu,
Putu’s daughter, Mary, and myself. After two substantial portions of
food, including beer, I got up and sang three of my songs (Putu had
conveniently brought their sound system with a microphone). I was
happy to sing, even though there were only seven people in the
audience. When I finished, Mary offered to do some body work on me,
feeling that cranial sacral therapy would benefit me most. (I’m
forever manifesting body work!)
We went to my room. As I was dripping sweat from just having finished
performing, Mary suggested I shower, which I did, and then added that
she would take off her clothes to work on me. I didn’t argue,
figuring, why question the techniques of a professional? I returned
from the shower to see her standing in her maternal splendor (she has
a ten-month old which she’s been nursing). Stimulated beyond
self-control, I stood behind her, put my partially erect cock between
her buttocks, cupped her breasts, and nipped at her neck. (Boys will
be boys.) She was somehwat responsive and then urged me to lay down so
that she could work on me. Her work was subtle (at least it felt
subtle to me) and included putting one hand between my thighs, under
my back, with the other placed right above “it”, in the pubic area. I
reminded myself that this was therapy and made sure that I didn’t
further encourage my arousal. Some time later, she was done. We laid
next to each other for some moments before she dressed and left. I
couldn’t have asked for more. (Well, I could have, but I don’t think
it would have made any difference.)
Thus ended my last evening in Bali. If this is any indication of what’s
to come, I’m looking forward to the rest of my journey!
11/16/95
So, here I am in Malaysia. After being ripped off by one taci driver, I
was placed in another cab with a man named Samy. A driver along the
Cameron Highlands roads for thirty-six years, he had that warm manner
and wisdom that comes from doing anything that long. As we drove up
the steep road, he sprinkled bits of his personal history into the
monologue on the Highlands. He said the Cameron Highlands is 40%
Indian, 30% Malaysian, and 30% Chinese. Along the road, occasionally,
I saw a darker, wilder looking people carrying long poles. He said
these were the Orang Asli, or original jungle people of Malaysia. They
were carrying blow guns with which they hunt birds and other wildlife
for food. Samy said that most of them live deep in the jungle but
surface sometimes to buy or sell goods from the traveling salesmen
that frequent the mountain road. He also mentioned that the
encroaching civilization has forced many of them out of their original
habitat and into government jobs.
11/17/95
I got off the bus, got my suitcase and was instantly approached by a man
offering me a taxi cab ride to the hotel I’d chosen. His price was ten
dollars, Malaysian, which I knew was too much from having studied the
map during the ride. He then came down to eight dollars, and though it
was raining cats and dogs, I told him I’d rather walk. He said it was
a long way (it was) but I insisted his price was too high. I was still
fuming about the money I paid that crook from Kuala Lumpur and was in
no mood to part so easily with my money a second time. I turned the
corner, leaving him mumbling, and saw a taxi stand. I asked the fee
for taking me to the Cathay Hotel, and after being told five dollars,
I felt instantly vindicated. The taxi took me to the Cathay and I was
told there was only one room, with air-conditioning, which would cost
me $50M a night. As this was considerably less than I would have
agreed to, I accepted, without seeing the room (a big mistake not to
be repeated) and sent the cab away. The room was of the shit quality
I’d begun to become accustomed to in Malaysia: no windows (well, one
in the bathroom), no decor, or even the attempt at decor, and a
bathroom the size of a small closet, with no mirror, and a telephone
type showering implement dangling to the floor. I was too tired and
too disgusted with the room, city, and country to complain. Instead, I
resolved to get the hell out of Malaysia as soon as possible.
11/18/95
I filled out some paperwork, had visa pictures taken, and looked at the
options for traveling to Thailand, settling on an eight hour mini-van
ride for $27M. I left the travel agent feeling some degree of relief
in that I’d soon be swimming again, and that I’d be doing it far away
from this cesspool of a country. I ate at a Muslim Indian restaurant
(I believe stall is the correct and more appropriate term) which had
flourescent lights, lime green tables and chairs and a motley group of
individuals eating a variety of (to me) nondescript foods. I ordered
some Indian pancakes, already addicted to them from the Highlands, and
an Indian vegetable pizza (as it was described to me). The pizza ended
up being a bourek type of deal with eggs and veggies. I washed the
food down with ginger tea, which was quite tasty, even though it had
milk. I continued my walk amongst the numerous hawkers and vendors on
the streets and ended up buying a small transformer for my toothbrush
and tape recorder. I then headed up to the Komtar Complex which was
basically a mini-mall. There, I got sunscreen, toothpaste, and other
such necessities which may prove difficult to find on a small island
in Thailand. I walked around till it was evening, and then sat for a
couple of beers before ducking into a Sylvester Stallone movie titled
“The Assassins”. There was plenty of killing amidst a wonderfully well
edited sound effects track, and I felt pleasantly numbed and
entertained by the film. When it was over, I went to the “Reggae Bar”
and had some beers and two slices of pizza. My diet while traveling,
and not in one spot for a while, sucks. In fact, I haven’t shit in two
days. Oh yeah, my tongue wasn’t black this morning. (Maybe the
blackness was a result of the Guiness Stout I’d had the evening
before.) Two people, a German teen, and a Swiss teen, joined me at my
table when the place filled up, and there was nowhere else for them to
sit. We spoke for a while, about the topics tourists often discuss,
such as malaria pills, hepatitis vaccines, good drinking spots, good
bong spots, shit countries, etc. At one point, when they sat down, the
man asked me what I thought of Malaysia. “Well,” I said, “I think it’s
shit.” They both started laughing, and then the man said, “Right
answer, yes, that’s exactly the right answer.” We spoke and drank
beers and then I returned to go to sleep.
11/18/95
There weren’t really any experience to speak of last night, but I guess
there are a few more things I’d like to say about Malaysia before I
close out my chapter on the country. First of all, there are some
aspects of the poor excuse for a room that I neglected to mention. The
towels were the size of sanitary napkins, but unfortunately had none
of the absorbency. If you held them up to the light, you could see
through them. It took both of these handi-wipe facsimiles just to dry
my hair. The bed had only a bottom sheet. The cover, let’s call it
that, was the size of a bath towel. I kept trying to position myself
under it so that I could be protected from the cold of the air
conditioner and the probes of the mosquitoes. I didn’t fare too well
in either respect.
When I first entered the hotel, I noticed a sign saying “Cathay Health
Center” which made me feel that perhaps my luck in Malaysia was
changing, after all. Here I was, in some flea bag hotel, that just
happened to have a spa. I decided I’d go do some workout exercises (to
undo the strain of travel) and finish off with a sauna and shower. I
pushed open the door to find a room lit entirely in red with, and I’m
guessing-but not exagerrating-on the number here, twenty Asian women,
scantily clad (and cute, I might add) staring up at a television set
that was playing some Malaysian soap opera. I closed the door, turned
around, and went upstairs to my room. I thought about my ignorance (or
is it naivete?) and wondered how details as obvious as those
surrounding the “health center” could have escaped me.
Last night the rain was pounding pretty heavily, and I decided to go to a
restaurant next door to the hotel. It was a Japanese restaurant which
served sushi, but at prices that would seem obscene, even by American
standards. The sushi chef said the reason for this was that the
establishement was frequented by Japanese and that most of the fish
was flown in directly from Japan, adding extra expense to the food.
Each piece of sushi cost $15M! My bill came to an astounding (by
Malaysian standards) $114M. Luckily, they took American Express cards.
After eating, I walked around some more (despite the continuous rain),
ducked into the Reggae Bar, and had a couple more beers. But it was an
early evening, as I knew that I’d have to get up early (pick-up was to
be at 5:00 a.m.) to catch the bus for Krabi. Before going up to my
room I reiterated my wish that I be awakened at 4:30 in the morning.
The staff treated my request with the same degree of politeness with
which they’d treated every previous request; none. (It was a Chinese
establishment.)
As always happens to me whenever I must make some early appointment (even
when I am carrying an alarm clock; something I don’t have on this
trip), I woke up periodically (neurotically) throughout the night,
worried that I’d overslept. Why I still believe like this, after never
having overslept, is beyond me. So I woke up at 12:30, then 2:00, then
3:00, and finally got out of bed at 3:42, figuring I’d take my time
preparing. I’d showered, dressed and packed by 4:12. I hung around the
room waiting for the phone to ring for my wake-up call, to be
considerate of the neighbors in the next room. At 4:40, the phone had
still not rung, so I took my bags down to the reception area. The
receptionist was snoring on a cot, an alarm clock at his side, and
didn’t even move as I rumbled past him, wheeling my luggage on the
floor. As the door out was locked with a chain and padlock, I found a
seat at the table in the reception area and listened quietly to the
rhythmic snoring of the man. Finally, at about 4:50, as he was turning
over into a more comfortable position, the man opened his eyes and
jumping to his feet, apologized to me.
The bus, a mini-van actually, arrived at 5:40 a.m. laden with nine other
tourists and the driver. The mini-van was a Toyota, ten seater, and we
made use of all available space. To save money, we did not go over the
bridge, but took the ferry across to Butterworth. At this time of the
morning, the scenery was strange and surreal. The ocean was full of
tankers and cargo ships, and the opposite side of the port
(Butterworth) was nothing but oil refineries with plumes of smoke
climbing out of large smoke stacks emblazoned with the words “Shell”
and “Esso”. Finally on the other side, we began our journey. The
inside of the van was freezing. Not cold, freezing! I asked the driver
to put the air-conditioning on low and he pointed out to me that it
was already on low. With air vents inconveniently placed above each
person’s head, it was a certainty that I would get no sleep and that
the entire ride would be uncomfortable. Some time later, we got to the
border and went through the procedures of visas and passports. Thus
ended what began, and continued to be, a hellish time in Malaysia, a
country I would never hope to return to or recommend friends to visit.
My overall impressions of the country? What can I say that I haven’t
already written? The only positive insights I have are that it was an
interesting blend of cultures, leading to a diverse array of sights,
sounds, and foods. But as a general feeling, a vibe, an energy; well,
something about it rubbed me the wrong way from the moment I stepped
off the plane till the moment I exited its borders.
11/19/95
Upon entering Thailand (I know this is going to sound “flighty”) I
instantly felt a change in the air. It was raining heavily, as it
would do for the rest of the trip to Koh Phi Phi. When we arrived at a
Thai border town (whose name escapes me), those of us going to Krabi,
and islands off its coast, were switched to another bus. This one was
just as crowded, the only difference being my chair, which was
three-quarters the size of the previous one. Half my ass dangled for
the duration of the next four hour leg of the journey. The driver was
a young man, certainly not over mid-twenties, who averaged 150
kilometers an hour! (And this was with heavy rains.) He frequently
passed over double solid lines, as the oncoming traffic honked and
flashed their lights in (apparent) disbelief over this maniac’s
indiscretions. All around me, people slept like babies. My knuckles
were bone white, the impressions of my fingers deeply imbedded in the
seat in front of me. Scenes of my death repeated themselves. We
started the journey one hour late, and arrived half an hour ahead of
schedule. (You figure it out!)
The countryside, what I saw of it when I wasn’t imagining head-on
collisions, was breathtaking. Large, verdant mountains with waterfalls
and raging rivers stood on both sides of the road. The towns were
sparsely populated (especially when compared to Bali) and were, more
often than not, flooded. People stood in the flooded, muddy roads and
fields fishing.
When we finally arrived in Krabi, a typical port town with lots of
sea-side vendors and boat ticketing agencies, I purchased a ticket for
Phi Phi (Koh means island, and is rarely used when speaking of
islands) and boarded the small vessel. It was a typical, small boat
laden with the same sort of tourists I used to see as a teenager (when
I still found it interesting and exciting to travel amidst hordes of
backpackers). Various nationalities, tattooed, pierced with ear, nose,
and god knows what else, rings, maneuvered their heavy rucksacks onto
the boat and then vied for positions amidst the salty deck. The ride
was an hour and forty-five minutes long. With the exception of the
“James Bond rocks” (used during the filming of one of the Bond films)
jutting out of the ocean, there wasn’t much to see. The water was a
murky green, not in the least inviting. I couldn’t help but compare
what I saw to the Greek Islands and the seas surrounding Greece. No
comparison, Greece is the hands down winner. What differentiates this
country from Greece, however, is that it’s populated by people with
smiles on their faces and beneficent spirits which shine through their
every action. Are these the effects of Buddhism?
Phi Phi is beautiful. The waters a calming stillness. A peaceful contrast
to the activity surrounding the boat as we disembarked. Many
approached, offering rooms at rates which would not be available upon
arriving at those rooms. But I followed an Englishman who had been
working at one of the resorts for the last four years. Thanks to his
knowledge and assistance, I got a room for the night at 450 baht (25
baht to the dollar); more than I was led to believe one would pay for
a room, but a price much less than what was available at other
locations. I hung up my mosquito net, showered, shaved, and changed,
and then began my typical, exploratory walk. The town was much more
populated and tourist laden than I’d imagined. It resembled one of the
moderately busy Greek islands, with hundreds of stores offering
tickets to other islands, handicrafts, traditional Thai massages,
foods (western and eastern), and telephone and fax services. I opted
to wait for dinner and availed myself of a traditional Thai massage
for 150 baht (for an hour). As there were numerous purveyors of this
service, it was basically a case of hit and miss. I walked into one of
the parlors, which had some fifteen to twenty beds lined up next to
one another. The woman who would massage me indicated that I should
remove my clothing. As I was wearing a sarong, with nothing
underneath, and the door was wide open to the busy footpath outside, I
said “Everything?” trying to let her know that I was wearing no
underwear, and that perhaps she should pull the curtains. She nodded
(which I now know doesn’t necessarily indicate understanding) and
gasped as I removed my sarong and lay on one of the beds. She said
something in Thai and three other women stuck their heads in the
window, laughing. A man entered to tell me that I must wear something.
I draped myself with my sarong and attempted to conceal my
embarrassment.
The massage was different from what I experience in America, and
different to what I had in Bali. It was a mixture of accupressure and
pulling (using legs, knees, and elbows). I wasn’t sure I was receiving
any therapeutic effects. But when the massage was over, and I stood
up, I realized that my head was racing, my body tingling with energy.
(I love that feeling.) There’s nothing like knowing one’s body has
released; the primary life force awakened. I was euphoric. Elated. I
continued my walking tour, noting that everywhere (or many places)
people were watching videos as they drank and ate. People have become
so accustomed to watching television. It’s almost a religion. Here I
was, on a beautiful island off mainland Thailand, and most everyone
was occupied watching the drivel of Hollywood as opposed to taking in
the sound of the waves, or simply staring up at the stars in the sky.
It’s a drug, as bad as any other drug, and one whose absence, I’m
sure, can only have a beneficial effect. It was during these walks
around Phi Phi town, with the blaring of televisions, the drinking and
singing (it’s remarkable that people are still singing “House Of The
Rising Sun”) that I decided to leave for a quieter island (Koh Lanta)
the following day.
My resolution proved to have merit, as I found what I’ve been looking
for. But first, how I got here. After breakfast, I booked a ticket for
the island of Koh Lanta which had been mentioned as a quieter location
than Phi Phi. Then I went off in search of another massage. Even
though I’d just had one the night before, I felt it might be some time
before I had the opportunity to have one again, and wanted to take
advantage of the many massage parlors in Phi Phi. But it was raining
quite heavily, so I stopped for a couple espressos. Sufficiently wired
from the caffeine (as I haven’t been drinking coffee for a while, this
infusion was distinctly felt) I walked down the streets until I found
a massage shop. Boy, what a massage. It was even better than the one
the I got the previous evening. This woman’s hands wee stronger and
her technique better. I got up feeling as though I were floating on
air. What I’ve found interesting about traditional Thai massage is
that the majority of the work is done on the legs. This is not to say
that they don’t work on the whole body-they do-it’s just that the
focus is on the lower half.
I stopped at an Italian restaurant and had a tomato salad (very good) and
fettuccine with tomato sauce (excellent) which was prepared al dente,
to perfection. Other than mom’s, it was the best pasta I’ve had in
years. Picking up my luggage at the hotel, I went to the harbor and
boarded the small vessel heading for Lanta. There were approximately
twenty other passengers taking the trip. Instantly, I was struck by
how friendly, open, and kind these travelers were when compared to
others I’d shared space with. Their faces and manner were open and
kind. Conversations were instantly struck up, as if everyone had known
one another for a long time. There were two Italian couples, a Swiss
couple, a Dutch couple, and the rest were German. And then the boat
pushed away from the harbor, chugging in reverse. Suddenly, as we were
still moving backward, the engine stopped. The passengers continued
the conversation until one of the Thai crewmen interrupted us, asking
if anyone had a mask he could borrow. At first, we thought he was
joking, but after he repeated the question a couple times, we realized
there was engine trouble and they wanted to go down to take a look.
One man pulled out his mask and gave it to him. We were all discussing
the possible problems when the crewman returned, saying that the boat
was broken and that they would call Lanta to have another one
dispatched. He said it would arrive in an hour, but we all knew this
to mean at least two. The boat was towed back to the harbor and we
disembarked to have refreshments. I was accompanied by Stefan and
Martina, a delightfully pleasant young couple from Germany. Not only
were they seated next to me, but I was instantly drawn to their
friendly and beautiful faces. We sat, talked and drank for almost two
hours before the replacement boat arrived. It was now almost five
o’clock, and the ocean was substantially more turbulent. To our
surprise, after we boarded, our luggage was not transferred to the new
boat. Instead, a line was attached to the old boat and it was tugged
behind us. We all sat on the top deck (there was only an engine room,
below) and discussed the possibility of rain. Out of the bay, on open
ocean, the boat was tossed by the choppy waters. The smiles of the
passengers were soon replaced by looks of concern as we hunkered down
and grabbed onto railing posts for security. I tried pushing on any
and all pressure points on my hand that might correspond to some area
in my stomach, or brain (I’m not even sure what it is that makes one
sea-sick) but it didn’t seem to help. One by one, people would crawl
downstairs, to the engine room, to use the one toilet available.
Conversation was limited and a few of the children were crying. I
thought about how certain animals behave strangely before earthquakes,
then decided to focus on more positive scenarios. It had just begun to
get dark as we pulled into the harbor of Lanta. Disembarking, we said
a few final pleasantries and headed toward the mini vans bearing the
names of our respective “resorts”.
I was booked at the “Relax Bay Tropicana”. How, or why, someone chose
this name is beyond me. In any case, I jumped on the booking as the
price was only 200 baht a night, and the pictures on the brochure
looked inviting. There were other resorts with rooms at 100 baht a
night, but even I draw the line somewhere. The reception area was
accessed through a main dining area which was elevated up above the
ocean, with a nice view (what view I could see in the dark). I was
given the key to my bungalow and was soon in a comfortable room with
two beds, windows that opened out to the ocean, a table fan, an
outdoors (but enclosed) bathroom, and a verandah. I unpacked, hung up
my mosquito net, and then showered and dressed for dinner. By the time
I got to the dining area, it was already pretty full. Most of the
people were speaking German, an occurrence with which I’ve grown
accustomed. Barbara, a German gynecologist who was on the boat with
me, and with whom I conversed during the crossing, joined me at my
table. We laughed and dined. Actually, to use the word “dined” is
misleading. Though the menu was some twelve or more pages, little
stuck out as appetizing, especially for a vegetarian. I had Thai soup
(nothing special) and a glass noodle salad (whose abundunt raw onions
would return to haunt me throughout the evening and early into the
morning). The fresh ocean breeze blew in through my windows. Unlike
the humid, stifling heat of Bali, this cool flow of air put me at
ease, as if I were getting another massage. The sound of the waves was
a soft, aural caress. I climbed under my netting, wrote a bit, read
for a few minutes, and fell asleep. It wasn’t a deep slumber (I kept
waking up in the night, onions heavy in my mouth) but it was a restful
one, nonetheless.
The morning found me bargaining for a better room rate, and finding out
the particulars of faxing, mail retrieval, and motorcycle rental.
After giving my clothes to be laundered (by hand), I rented a
motorcycle and joined Barbara (who’d already rented a motorbike) on an
island jaunt. We were both interested in seeing different rooming
possibilities before committing to a long period of time at the
Tropicana. We drove down the dirt road till we came to the place where
Stefan and Martina were staying (at 100 baht a night) and stopped in
to say hello. The rooms weren’t bad at all, but I felt ours were worth
the extra expense. Still, ordering from the Tropicana’s menu promised
to be a challenge. We continued on, in search of the Waterfall Resort
Bungalows, which some people (and Barbara’s book on Thailand) had
mentioned as a worthy place to stay. We drove for a very long period
of time, occasionally stopping and asking the locals where “Waterfall”
was. Our question were greeted with smiles and nods of assent. No help
there. After over an hour in the mid-day sun, the road came to an end.
There was a small school with students running around and gesturing to
us to go away. A teacher emerged, but he, too, knew no English and
seemed in no mood to assist us. Returning in the direction from which
we came, we keept an eye open for any road we might have missed. At
one turnoff, leading to a harbor town, we turned and headed for a
building. It looked official. Inside, people in uniforms performed
bureaucratic labor. Again, nobody understood English, but after a
great deal of gesturing and pointing to maps, we gathered that we’d
missed the turnoff some fifteen kilometers back, and that we were on
the east, as opposed to the west, coast of the island.
Finally, we found the correct turnoff and went down a very muddy and
precarious road leading to the Waterfall Resort. Reaching it took some
time, and my bike started making strange sounds (later revealed to be
a loose chain). The resort wasn’t anything exceptional. Besides the
fact that it was too far from civilization, it also cost about twice
as much for a room, which was nothing to speak of. We ate a mediocre,
and very spicy, meal and then headed back in the rain. Before leaving
the resort, two Germans, also on motorbikes, stopped to tell us that
some locals had loosened vital parts of their bikes and taken out some
of the gas. The story sounded strange to me, as if they’d imagined it,
so I didn’t give it much thought. Returning to the Tropicana, I
showered and joined Barbara for yet another evening of shit food. I
kept ordering, hoping that I would find one dish that would bring me
moderate satisfaction. Five dishes later, I bought a Mars bar and
gobbled it up as a last ditch effort toward gastronomic joy.
11/21/95
I hitched a ride with the morning bus taking people to the harbor. I went
to the Swiss bakery which I’d heard about. It’s fame was well
deserved. I had fresh croissants, bought a baguette, a sandwich, and
some freshly brewed coffee. This was my little bit of heaven, and it
will continue to be for the duration of my stay. I chatted with the
owner, a very amiable fellow, while drinking my coffee. Leaving the
Saladan Bakery, I boarded the bus back to the Tropicana. I napped for
a while, wrote in my journal, looked at some lyrics and then went to
the beach, where I took my first swim since arriving in Lanta. The
water was salty and murky from the winds and rains. Still, it felt
good to be swimming. Another couple came back from their ride to the
Waterfall Resort, where someone had deflated the tire of one of the
bikes, and loosened the nuts on another. It appears to be a scam where
problems are created (motorcycles crippled) so that the perpetrators
can then offer their assistance, expecting payment. In all the
“developing” countries I’ve visited, I experience nonstop acts by
locals in the process of trying to separate me from my money. I
understand their motives, but it doesn’t make me feel any better about
their practices.
I haven’t felt the same creative flow I had developed the last weeks in
Bali. I’m hoping that will change once I’ve settled in. And if it
doesn’t change, I’m hoping I can accept that fact with some grace, and
sit back and enjoy the experiences without wondering why I’m not
creating.
11/22/95
Today, a Swiss couple departed the Tropicana, saying they were cheated on
their food bill the previous evening. This is something I believe,
without a trace of doubt. There’s something wrong at the Tropicana but
I can’t put my finger on it. Perhaps it’s because the resort is owned
and operated by a Chinese woman. (The duplicity of that culture seems
to creep into my every entry.)
I haven’t had a good night sleep since I got here. Either has Barbara, or
Kristy, a Canadian woman I met who’s been here for a couple of weeks.
I’ve had peculiar dreams and restless evenings tossing and turning.
I’m starting to wonder if there isn’t some strange energy hovering
around the resort. I have no rational explanation.
I spent much of the day at the beach, sunning and swimming, working on
lyrics, and writing postcards to friends. Kristy sat at the beach with
me and we spoke on various subjects. I feel she is drawn toward me,
despite our age difference, but is reluctant to be too forward,
fearing that Barbara and I might be a couple. (Which is understandable
considering the amount of time Barbara and I spend together.) Barbara
has made a few comments which indicate that she would engage with me
if I were interested. But, I’m not, or else it would have already
happened between us. Still, I enjoy her company.
The task of the morning pages concerning God is to write about the God I
believe in versus the God I would like to believe in. This is such a
complex subject for me that I’m almost reluctant to tackle it. But,
here I go. I can’t say that I believe in a God, at least not one in
the form that is described by any of the churches and religions to
which I’ve been exposed. Some of the Christian doctrines are really
good modes of behavior to live by, but I don’t buy that Jesus was the
son of God. Or that God’s method of bringing Jesus to the world was by
impregnating Mary, a woman already married. So, what, Jesus’ mom was
an adultress with an amorphous energy? Somehow, this concept reeks of
fiction. There are so many contradictory ideas and beliefs surrounding
God that I’m left with my internal feelings concerning a God force.
Or, more appropriately, my lack of feelings. Why don’t I have any
feelings of a God force? Am I so removed from the spirit of life, so
out of touch, that I can’t sense God? Or is God simply a human concept
to ease questions and fears of the unknown? I would like to believe in
something that would give my life some degree of greater purpose, some
meaning, but it would have to be something that moves me to the core.
So far, I haven’t experienced that feeling. If there is a God, I would
like to believe that he would make my purpose apparent to me and then
help to guide me toward the realization of that purpose. I feel
creativity and expression are most definitely my reason for being on
this earth. So, God, if you’re really out there, lend me a hand. I
truly believe that I’m ready. Of course, I’ve always felt that to one
degree or another. So what more can I say? Amen.
11/23/95
Yesterday, I dropped off my CD’s with Robert and Ratana, the huysband and
wife owners of the Saladan bakery. Barbara and I then went to the Sea
View to have dinner. Afterwards, we went to a carnival type
celebration on the grounds of the main school of Saladan. Not unlike
the gamelan competition in Bali, this celebration included all the
schools of Koh Lanta, and competitions were set up for dancing,
singing, and Thai boxing. After Bali, the dancing seemed rough and
amateurish. The singing was extremely bad, but endearing in that way
that nonprofessional performances can sometimes be. The most
intriguing part of the evening was the Thai boxing. A ring had been
set up with folding chairs surrounding it. Inside, seated, were two
boys no older than six years of age. Other than the boxing gloves
(they were oiled up) there was no additional protective gear. The bell
rang, and these two boys attacked each other with a fury usually
reserved for men. Though punching was certainly an integral part of
the fight, they used their feet-actually, the heels, mostly-to kick
their opponents as often as possible. I assume this was done to weaken
the stance of their foe. It was quite strange to see children so young
able to go for ten rounds of two minutes each. We stayed and watched
one more fight, this time with children about nine or ten years old,
and then returned to the Tropicana.
The more I talk with people staying at the Tropicana, the more I find
that are having restless sleep. Usually, it’s not even restless sleep.
I find this bizarre detail intriguing; a mystery I wish I could solve.
Additionally, the more I stay here, the worse I feel about the staff.
There is a general feeling of ill will, of deceit. I’ve never gotten
the feeling of genuine joy or kindness. It’s really a shame because,
as far as I’ve seen, this is the best place to stay. The resort has
the best beach and the nicest bungalows for the price. I’ll have to
look around some more to see if I can make a move somewhere nicer
before the end of December. I’d hate to think that I’d be here the
whole time considering the attitude with which I’m confronted on a
daily basis. Being the outspoken personality that I am, these people
have no doubts about my feelings.
As I sit in my bungalow, computer before me, the sound of the waves
soothes me, and a light rain falls. I am reminded, once again, how
much I enjoy the sea. I have to make it a stipulation that I live
somewhere near water.
11/25/95
As I sat on the balcony of my bungalow, writing my faxes, Kristy showed
up with an espresso. She’d bought it at the Tropicana restaurant and
carried it all the way up to my bungalow. How she knew that I like
espresso, or why she decided to bring me the gift, was beyond me. She
sat on the balcony with me and we talked for a while. Afterwards, she
mentioned that I was invited to a party that was being thrown in
celebration of the birthday of two German women staying at the
Tropicana.
On the beach, was a large fire, on top of which were hanging some fishes
and chickens, slowly roasting. Two groups of people had formed, the
one group about fifteen feet from the other. The one group was mainly
Germans, drinking and conversing. The other group, to which Germans
from the one group periodically got up and visited, consisted mainly
of young Thais, huddled around a bong that was continually being
filled and smoked. This was my first time seeing drugs, of any sort,
while on my travels. The thought came up for me as to whether I would
smoke or not. As the conversation throughout the day had been on the
subject of moderation, I decided to give it a go. I took a couple
hits, and then sat and talked with Alex, a German banker from
Frankfurt. We discussed everything from music to banking to
spirituality, and felt a strong bond of communication. Later, the tide
surged and drenched most of us, so we moved the party to higher
ground. This shifted the circle of communication, once again, and I
found myself next to Barbara and Kristy, both of whom seemed to always
place themselves near me, no matter how many times I moved. Finally,
when it was nearly one in the morning, I decided to return to my room.
Kristy asked if she could have one of the many bottles of water she’d
seen in my room. I answered “yes,” and she accompanied me on the walk
back to the bungalows.
Once inside my bungalow, we rinsed off our feet, and I got her a bottle
of water, while also clearing the extra bed of my attaché case, and
setting some mood lighting (by propping my small flashlight inside a
toilet paper roll, pointing to the ceiling). I knew she was there to
engage with me in some format, but she was so shy that I didn’t know
what to do. Eventually, I rubbed the back of her head, and she placed
her hand on my knee (I was wearing a sarong). I kissed various parts
of her neck and ears, and even got a peck on the mouth, which she held
very tight and closed. I knew I was dealing with an innocent, much
more so than her age and body would suggest, and proceeded slowly and
with sensitivity. Over the next two hours, we slowly got naked and
touched and kissed. Throughout this time, she was very closed
physically...But she was there to engage. I’d place her hand on my
cock and she lightly caressed it with a hand that betrayed little to
no experience. Finally, after rubbing each other for some time (she’d
repeatedly got wet and then dry; a perfect example of the mixed
emotions and signals she sent) I asked her if she wanted me to make
love to her, and that if she did, I’d have to go put on a condom. She
said that that was what she wanted. I put on a condom and we made
love. Or, I should say, we interacted, somehow. Though relatively
passive throughout the experience, she emitted a few loving moans. All
the while, I was captivated by the innocence of the person with whom I
was engaged. I can’t remember the last time I touched someone that
innocent. When the sex was over (I had an orgasm and she experienced
my orgasm) we sat and talked quietly. She then got up and returned to
her bungalow.
This morning, after having slept to a very late eight o’clock, I was
awakened by Barbara’s knock on my door, asking if I was planning to go
to the bakery for breakfast. I said I’d meet her at the motorbike in
five minutes. I was hoping that she wouldn’t ask me any questions
about the previous night, as I didn’t want to tell her (obviously)
about my experience, nor did I want to expend the energy concocting
some plausible lie. Thankfully, she didn’t ask a thing. We went to the
bakery, had breakfast, and sat quietly, taking in the peaceful Sunday
morning. Before leaving the bakery, I bought a chocolate croissant for
Kristy. As I walked toward my bungalow, I saw Kristy heading down
toward the restaurant. I approached her, said “hello”, and handed her
the croissant. She looked at her feet, avoiding my eyes. I can only
assume that this is a continuation of her shy personality, or a bit of
shame or guilt for her experience with me. The answer to that remains
to be seen. Tonight, many from the Tropicana will be meeting at
Danny’s, a local restaurant, to have dinner. I can’t wait to
experience the dynamics that have developed as a result of the
previous night’s party and interactions.
11/27/95
Today, I’ve felt quite bored. This hasn’t happened in quite some time.
Maybe it’s the after-effects of smoking marijuana. Or maybe I’m just
bored. (What does that mean?) I’m not interested in sitting and baking
in the sun, so my time at the beach has been limited. Furthermore, the
water remains turbulent and murky and is hardly inviting to swim or to
snorkel. I’ll be going on a one-day snorkeling excursion very soon
(perhaps tomorrow) as it will provide me with a change of scenery.
Today, I walked back to the Tropicana from the Saladan bakery. I
walked in my brisk, Voudouris power-walk. It took almost one hour and
felt invigorating. I’m thinking that if I continue to do physical
activity it won’t let me feel lethargic and will also keep me in
shape.
I finished working on the lyrics to “Geographic Tongue,” meaning that I
now have three completed lyrics and melodies toward my new album,
henceforth to be titled “Album 96”.
I’ve seen Kristy numerous times since our encounter. She is friendly and
maintains the innocent, almost socially retarded personality that she
has. It strikes me as interesting-almost implausible-that she also
works as a waitress. I like her, but find it difficult to relate to
her. Which brings up the pertinent question of why I would choose to
interact, physically and otherwise, with someone like this in the
first place. I don’t know the entire answer, but I’m sure hormones
have at least something to do with it. I’ve been told by many people,
since starting my travels this year, that despite my assertion that
I’m too cerebral, that I’m a very passionate and expressive person. If
that’s true, then why am I reflecting the opposite in the women with
whom I choose to engage?
In the midst of a very hot day, a tremendous rainstorm just passed,
cooling the air and offering some respite from my state of mind. The
water is even dirtier than before, but at least there was a change, if
momentary, to my state of mind. Is this a metaphor for my life? Is
this another example of my new song “Wherever You Go, There You Are”?
(How long must I use pop therapy to try to figure myself out?)
11/28/95
On the way to Saladan, Barbara made some more comments as to how the
reason we haven’t yet had sex was because of me. I laughed (what else
could I do, or say) and continued to drive, without additional
comment. Sex with Barbara is simply not going to happen. It’s strange,
because I get along very well with her. I like her character, her
intelligence, and her sense of humor. I’m just not attracted to her.
Interestingly enough, she is almost the polar opposite to Kristy. I
was attracted (yes, the past tense has been purposely used) to Kristy
physically, but found absolutely nothing else in common with her. With
Barbara, it almost feels like we’re an old couple, but one that never
shared sex. Again, I’m not sure what this represents; maybe a
therapist could explain it to me.
Attempting to break the boredom that crept up on me, today I went on a
snorkeling trip, accompanying the divers to the island of Koh Ha. The
boat ride took about two hours, each way. The island was basically a
group of large rock protrusions in the middle of the ocean. The depth
of the water was a comfortable three to forty meters. But the coral
was hardly breathtaking and there were very few fish to arouse one’s
interest. The divers were at a level of about twenty meters, bubbles
rising up toward the surface. Looking at them below me, sustained in
the liquid silence, gave me the final push to get certified. As I’m
really doing nothing else at the moment, I think it’s time to dive.
11/30/95
Barbara and I went to the bakery for breakfast, and then said our
good-byes. She promised to call and leave a message for me here,
letting me know what the conditions up north are like.
We donned our equipment and went for our first scuba experience. I loved
it, and found it much simpler than I’d expected. I don’t know if it
will be the same once we’re diving to depths that require constant
equalizing of the pressure, but I hope so. It’s a sport that I could
enjoy, especially in places with a variety of coral and fish life. One
interesting point is that Uwe, the German instructor, is thirty-three
years old yet looks over forty. Various people have mentioned that
those who dive frequently age prematurely. I don’t ever anticipate
diving a lot, but if I did, this startling revelation would certainly
be a deterrent. The woman of the Indian couple got seasick and had to
get out of the water before the class was complete. As we stayed in
the water, and continued to swim near the bottom (only about two
meters) this didn’t affect me one way or another. At one point, Uwe
pointed to the bottom, where I was able to make out two eyes well
camouflaged in the sand. This sighting happened on two separate
occasions. As I found out later, it was two small stingrays that we’d
seen. I returned to the Tropicana, where I took a nap. I was very
tired as a result of the dive. Breathing slowly and deeply through the
regulator had the same effect as meditation. Tomorrow, we take the
boat out to Ko Ha (where I went on the snorkeling trip, before) and
have our first two “official” dives. I’m excited. The day after
tomorrow, after taking a written examination, I receive my
certification as an open water diver.
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