"Adventures of King Prawn"
Travelogue of Bali, Malaysia,
Thailand, Laos, Vietnam and Mexico
January/96
1/1/96
Rudy told me that Kanika has a boyfriend. I asked her about this today
and she admitted, somewhat embarrassed, that she did. So much for one
more illusion. Yesterday, New Year’s Eve, was quite a nice day. In the
day, I rented a motorbike and traveled through quiet parts of the
island. It was beautiful to see children and homes still untouched by
the western influence. As I drove by, everyone was very friendly,
waving and smiling. As more tourists begin to take this road, I’m sure
the smiles will be accompanied by requests for money.
In the evening, I went to the Saladan Bakery where Robert and Ratana
threw yet another exquisite feast. As I was set to sing some songs at
the Beach Restaurant later in the evening, I left two hours after I
got there (and eaten) and didn’t stay until the bitter end. This
morning, I found out that nobody else stayed until the end either;
something which I know hurt Robert’s feelings. Oh well. I sang
“Nothing But The Truth,” “It Takes Two To Tango,” “Isn’t Love Stupid,”
“Hannah,” and “La-De-Da” at about ten o’clock. The audience had grown
quite large by the time I finished and numerous people came up to tell
me how much they enjoyed my voice and the genuine emotion that came
through in my performance. I really enjoy performing so much, I really
believe that I was made for this form of expression. Perhaps after the
next album I’ll take a little more equipment with me and do a little
mini-tour of different countries. (This is assuming that I don’t have
a band that is already touring with me.) At the moment of the New Year
there were hundreds of people hugging under the moonlight, fireworks
going off, the sound of the waves, music, and lots of alcohol being
consumed. It was a delightful night and made me happy. Oh yeah, my ear
is feeling better. Not well, but better. Healing takes time.
Today has been an uneventful day. Nothing too interesting to report. All
was quiet as everyone has been sleeping or nursing the hangovers from
last night’s indiscretions. I felt genuinely bored. I didn’t feel like
writing, reading, swimming, or doing anything. I could keep writing in
my journal, but considering the mental absence I’m experiencing it’s
probably nothing more than a waste of time. So, I’m off.
1/7/96
It’s become very clear to me that I must continue to make daily
entries-even though I haven’t lately-for the simple reason that so
much happens to me while traveling that I feel it must be documented.
Leaving Koh Lanta was the most emotional moment for me of this trip. Even
though I spent the same amount of time in Bali, the bonds I made in
Koh Lanta ended up being much deeper than I’d thought. The family
running the Beach Restaurant (Hanz’ in-laws): Sanong, Wupa, Michuka,
May, Kiss, Mong, Kio, and Mama had basically adopted me. I was invited
to sit with them for their authentic Thai meals (of northeastern and
Lao variety) and was greeted and treated like a brother at all times.
Saying good-bye to them was a very emotional experience. The last two
days before I left, everyone was giving to me in one way or another.
Whether it was two people massaging me simultaneously, or drinks and
dinner being bought for me, it was a nonstop act of receiving on my
part. Wupa and Sanong gave me a going away present of a box of
American chocolates which cost 100 baht. As this represents 5% of
their monthly income, it was a staggering gesture. In the morning,
after loading my luggage onto the boat, I went to the Swiss bakery for
the last time and got a coffee, croissant, and sandwich. I went over
to shake Robert’s hand, and as I did, I noticed that he was teary
eyed-quite a change for this typically stern sixty year old Austrian
man-and could hardly speak from his emotion. His expression of love
was so sincere and heartfelt that I was moved for at least an hour
after leaving the bakery. As Koh Lanta faded from view, I meditated on
the boat. The sun was still low in the sky (it was eight in the
morning) the breeze was strong and cool, and the ocean tranquil.
Though it had only been six weeks, my leaving Koh Lanta brought with
it a deep, bittersweet melancholy.
The trip to Bangkok, via Krabi and Phuket, was like all my trips: an
exercise in patience and physical stamina. The mini-van ride was no
less harrowing than any previous one. The flight found me constantly
yawning and swallowing in an attempt to equalize the pressure in my
ear, whose pain had hardly decreased. In Bangkok, finally, I took a
cab to Sukhumvit road, where my hotel, The Federal, is located.
Traffic in Bangkok is generally agreed on by the experts to be the
worst in the world. All police officers wear face masks for the
pollution and the pace of traffic has been documented to be slower
than that of someone walking. The Federal is a nice hotel. At only
eight dollars more than what i was paying in Koh Lanta, I’m centrally
located, and in a room with air-conditioning, a mini-bar, a
television, a swimming pool, and a beautiful bathroom. Sure, I don’t
need all these luxuries, but it’s nice to have a change of pace. I
performed my ritual of settling into my room, and then called a number
listed on one of the brochures for a massage. The cost was more than
twice that of Koh Lanta, but I was tired, my ear was hurting, and only
pampering would mitigate my suffering. Ten minutes after the call, a
cute twenty-four year old girl knocked on my door to give me my
massage. She gave me a good traditional Thai massage (I stressed
“traditional” with the operator, so there would be no
misunderstandings) with coconut oil. Her manner was friendly, much
more so than the Muslim influenced Thais of Koh Lanta, and she ended
the massage by kissing me. We hugged. She grabbed my cock playfully (I
was wearing shorts) and then bent over to kiss it good-bye. I’ll
probably be getting another massage from her soon. I dressed and
walked out into the streets of Bangkok to get a bite. The city is a
buzz of energy. Food stalls and vendors line every street. Elephants
with their owners approach tourists for photographs and money. The
traffic continues. (In fact, there is not a moment in the twenty four
hours of a day when the traffic lets up.) I found a restaurant which
had been recommended to me and ate dinner. It was mediocre. Ironic
that the best Thai meals I’ve had have been in northern California. I
returned to the hotel and wrote for a while. Just when I was ready to
go to sleep, Jim called me to say that he’d just arrived in the hotel.
I went to his room and he gave me some mail, checks, and the portable
hard drive for my computer which I’d asked him to pick up for me. We
spoke about this and then and I went back to my room to sleep.
In the morning, we went for breakfast, then to the bank, and performed
some of the necessary details (visa photos, etc.) associated with
traveling. When we were done, we returned to the hotel so that Jim
could go to sleep. I hired a driver to go across town (a task very few
drivers were keen on) to a hospital specializing in ears, nose, and
throat. The flight had exacerbated my condition, and I was interested
in yet another opinion. The drive was a colorful journey through the
heart of Bangkok. My driver, Adam, spoke English very well, and told
me stories of his life; including his time in Libya as a mechanic, his
four marriages, his drug use, politics, and life in general. After
more than an hour of driving (someone told me the distance is less
than ten kilometers) we arrived at the hospital. I saw a doctor who
performed the most thorough check yet, including tuning forks, looking
in my mouth, etc. He claimed that my inner and middle ear are
inflamed, that I have no permanent damage, and then prescribed some
anti-inflammatory medication. I left his office feeling a little more
optimistic.
The drive back was through even more congested traffic. Adam rolled a
joint with one hand, as he negotiated traffic, and we smoked and
talked. Feeling the effects of the marijuana, I instantly relaxed, sat
back in the seat, and took in the sights of Bangkok while listening to
Adam’s varied and interesting stories. I returned to my room and began
doing business work on the computer. (My Fedex package had been
delivered that day, as well.)
In the evening, Jim and I met with one of Jim’s friends, Steve, a sex
hound who lives in Thailand. He took us to the G-Spot, a go-go club
where naked women take showers behind glass windows while numerous
naked girls dance along poles on a stage. Unfortunately, the shower
show was over by the time we got there, so we had a few drinks and
then moved on to the Thermae, a sleazy underground bar owned by a
police colonel. It is there where many of the freelance “working
girls” go to pick up on the falangs. The room was full of drunk white
men and lucid, mercenary Thai girls, each hunting their prey. There
was a steady flow of traffic in a stifling and crowded room. Jim and I
left Steve to his devices and returned to our hotel. (Steve ended up
with Joy, a petite, powerhouse Thai girl.)
The next morning, Jim and I went shopping at various malls. I needed, and
bought, a pair of inexpensive tennis shoes. As I was used to being on
the beach, all I had was thongs; not appropriate attire for the city.
We then went to an overpriced seafood restaurant and returned to the
Federal. Not half an hour later, Steve showed up to take us to a
well-known massage parlor. Massage, traditional, and “monkey
business,” is a thriving business in Thailand. We drove across town to
a nondescript looking building and took the elevator up to the second
floor. There was a large room with a bar and tables. In front of the
tables was a very, very large room enclosed by a glass wall. Behind
this wall were about sixty girls, averaging twenty to twenty-four
years old. Each was dressed in her own attire, with a red badge that
had her identifying number on it. We looked for a while and then told
the Madam of our choices. She spoke into a microphone (which had a
speaker in the glass room) and our choices came out to meet us. My
girl, twenty-four years old, got a key, some towels, and pajama pants,
and we took the elevator up two more floors. This entire building,
seven floors (!), was nothing more than small rooms, lots of them,
containing a bed, a television set, and a table. She told me to put on
the towel and then led me back downstairs where Steve, Jim, and I took
a sauna. There was ice tea, buckets of ice and cold towels (in the
sauna), and salt for rubbing on the body. We took a half hour sauna
and then returned to our rooms with our respective girls. The massage
was traditional, long, and slow. (We requested three hours.) A waiter
brought us drinks and then the girl did her job. She watched Thai
music television and sang while massaging me. She was very, very cute,
and it was (almost) too much to want nothing more than a traditional
massage. But even if one wanted more, this was not the place for that
type of activity. By the time she was finished, I was so relaxed and
high (naturally) that I could barely walk or talk. The four hour
process, including drinks and tip, came to about seventeen dollars.
Then we were off for the famous (infamous?) Patpong Road. This area is
known for its bars and sex shows. Though previous visitors to Thailand
had related some of their Patpong experiences to me, nothing could
have prepared me for the sights (tragic, remarkable, disgusting) that
I would encounter. After a nice dinner, we passed various clubs titled
“Pussy Galore,” “The Big Pussy,” and other such subtle names. We ended
up in Cleopatra, where we sat at the bar: shaped like a big square.
Inside the bar was a very large stage which was elevated and well-lit.
Throughout the bar, girls were working the falangs, giving neck
massages, asking for drinks, and the rest of the routine. On the stage
was a girl (none of the girls was over twenty-five, and some were
seventeen, or less. All were very, very beautiful, with no breast
implants.) in a thong bikini, topless, dancing. At one point she took
off her thong, put her fingers between her vagina and started pulling
out a long string to which were attached twenty or thirty flowers.
Each girl had her specialty. One girl put a magic marker in her vagina
and then squatted on the stage and wrote signs and drew pictures.
Another opened bottles of soda water by prying the caps off with her
vagina. Then three girls came on stage, stripped, put small toy horns
in the vaginas, laid on their backs and played a song by blowing air
through their vaginas. Another put a whistle in her vagina and blew
it. The most beautiful young girl, with an exquisite body (no older
than sixteen) put lighted sparklers in her vagina, hands, and mouth,
and danced. To see this heavenly creature debase herself in such a
manner in front of a bunch of drunk white slobs was truly a case of
casting pearls before swine. I was deeply saddened, as well as
transfixed, by this experience. Most of the girls come from farmer
families that have little money. The girls are bought (the farms are
collateral in case they attempt to run away) at a very young age (one
I spoke with was brought from Laos when she was seven) and become
slaves of this labor. As in Phuket, all the girls can be purchased for
sex by paying the bar what is called a bar fine. (For depriving the
bar of their services for an evening, an hour, or whatever is
negotiated.) Other sex shows have people performing intercourse on the
stage as onlookers drink and smoke. It’s hard to relate this
experience adequately. As I said earlier, previous stories I’d heard
simply didn’t prepare me for the intensity of emotion one experiences
(I experienced) at one of these shows. It’s a very sad world
sometimes. At one point a bell went off and in less than ten seconds
the naked girls were off the stage and were replaced by girls, fully
dressed. Fifteen seconds later, three policemen entered the bar. They
stayed and surveyed the club for about two minutes before leaving.
Then, it was business as usual. Most of the girls come from Chiang Mai
and other northern Thailand towns. These towns are known for their
brothels and the high percentage of AIDS cases (from seventy to eighty
percent of all brothels tested). This staggering number comes from the
fact that sex for the Thai men in brothels costs about four dollars. A
condom costs about two dollars. They simply don’t use condoms and AIDS
has spread at an alarming rate. As soon as a club is tested and a girl
is HIV positive, she leaves and finds work at another club or
freelances. One girl, trying to get me to buy her a drink (I didn’t)
said to me: “Hi, I’m from Chiang Mai.” Knowing the high degree of AIDS
cases in Chiang Mai, Jim bent over and whispered into my ear “That’s
not the best pick-up line I’ve ever heard!” After the young sixteen
year old beauty emitted ping pong balls from her vagina into a beer
glass, we knew it was time to go. We left the hordes of people and
vendors on the street and returned to our hotel. As I write this, the
following morning, I can’t overemphasize how disturbed I was by the
experience. I mean, I love girls and beautiful bodies, but it’s simply
tragic for a woman to have to demean herself in such a manner out of
economic necessity. I’m grateful my life hasn’t required this degree
of suffering and sacrifice.
There are yet more plans for this evening. I’m curious to experience one
of the “monkey business” massages which involve foaming soap and a
naked girl. (I know, it’s hard to understand how I can feel repulsed
by the sex shows and yet submit to naughty massages, but I’ve always
felt massage to be a form of exchange in which there are no victims.
Still, I’ll be able to relate more on this subject tomorrow.)
1/8/96
Girls. Girls. Girls. This city is an overdose of beautiful girls. No
wonder AIDS is rampant. I think I’m about fifteen years late in
discovering this country. Anyway, Steve, Jim, and I got together
around five in the afternoon to go for a naughty massage. The first
parlor we went to wasn’t that impressive. One of the problems was that
it was Sunday, meaning many of the Thai men were also out cavorting
around, and had picked through many of the finer specimens (how’s that
for terminology?). Walking into the first parlor, we looked through
the small window revealing less than ten girls, each unattractive
enough to explain their non-employment. We sat for a moment, asking
ourselves whether we would submit to the selection, and then decided
to go to another, more expensive, super massage parlor. The second
massage parlor, Atami, was different from the moment we entered. There
were more than sixty girls (and these were the ones not being “used”
at the time) seated for our viewing pleasure. There were about thirty
in the entranceway, vying for our attention and employment, and
another thirty behind a glass wall, divided into two groups. The
proprietor (pimp?) told us the differences. The fat, ugly girls behind
the glass gave traditional massage which could culminate in a hand
job. The prettier ones, next to them, but still behind the glass, gave
not so traditional massage which included blow and hand jobs. The
third group, seated in the entranceway, and dubbed the “super girls”
bathed you, massaged you, blew you, and fucked you. We opted for this
group. (Don’t ask me why...it was the fever of the moment, plus they
were attractive. It’s also important to note that never, ever, in my
life have I paid for sex-at least monetarily-and that this experience
was a deflowering or coming of age for me. Still, I had no intention
of having intercourse, not because of AIDS, they and I are much too
careful for that, but just because, as I’ve stated in previous journal
entries, intercourse is something I reserve for emotional exchanges.)
We sat around for a while discussing strategies, choices, and costs,
as the girls continued to call out to us and vie for our attention. I
was shy and found it difficult to look over the girls carefully as if
I were in the market selecting vegetables. This would prove to be a
mistake. Steve and Jim made their choices and the pimp said he had the
perfect girl for me. I asked him again if he was sure, because, as it
was my “first time,” I wanted it to be special. He reassured me-not
that it took much-and we each went to the cashier to pay our 2,000
baht (about $80US) before being led upstairs, by the hand. My girl was
called Meow (how appropriate) and was dressed in a slinky black
outfit. We went up three flights, each flight with numerous rooms, and
entered a room which had a circular bed. Trashy western music was
piped in through some undetermined source. As I have no prior
experiences with which to compare, I can only say that the focus was
not on decor. A men’s urinal was present with no door or obstruction
to shield one while doing one’s duty. I used it. There was no toilet,
as such, so shitting or any activity involved in the release of a
woman (other than a simulated moan) was out of the question. Meow got
on her knees and unlaced and removed each shoe. An older woman
knocked, and then entered to ask if we’d like anything to drink. I had
not thirst but ordered a beer to complete the picture. She ordered a
Thai tea. The lady departed and Meow began organizing her soaps,
towels, and other assorted instruments of her trade. The perfunctory
exchanges were exchanged. She was from Laos. I was from Greece.
“Greece?”
“Greece.” (hands indicating left, and then right) “Greece. Near Italy.”
“Aah, It-ah-lee. How old?
”Thirty-nine. You? How old you?” (Her left hand indicated two, her right,
indicated four.) After a knock, the older lady again entered, placing
our drinks on the table. We sat and sipped, both clumsy and not
totally present in our predicament. I decided to pick up one of her
feet and massage it. My attempt at non-sexual communion. She jerked
back her foot, surprised.
“No. In Thailand no good.”
“Sorry. Oh shit. Really. Sorry. Shit.”
“When leave?”
“Two days.”
“You go Patpong?”
“Yesterday.” (Hands pedaling backwards. Head cocking to one side.)
“Yesterday. I go yesterday.”
“You like?”
“Okay. So-so. Different. Sad. No like much. You go? You go Patpong?”
“Me work. Sleep. Me no like Patpong.” After a few pleasantries, and a few
more sips and drinks, she got up and began to undo my belt. Ever a
victim of control, I kept wanting to help in the process. (In
retrospect, this must have seemed, for her, as it would for me if
someone insisted on singing harmony as I sing a song.) The pants were
removed.
“Aah, you no like?” He hands pointing to her underwear and then my lack
thereof.
“No.”
“In Thailand, good.”
“For me, no good.”
“Aah.” Then the shirt was removed with the same lack of harmony. If I
were present enough, I’d have realized that, at the very worst, the
experience was consistent, if not what I’d imagined. A towel was
draped around me (when did she get into hers?) and I was led into an
area separated from the bedroom by a four foot tile wall. Behind it
was a tile floor, an inflated mattress, standing on end, against the
wall, and the bath, drawn, warm, and bubbly. My towel was removed and
I was led into the bath as her towel mysteriously vanished.
“You sleep.”
“No. Me watch.” No response. Or maybe a shrug of the head. Soap,
Japanese, from squeeze bottle, was foamed up in her hands and I was
bathed. Chest. Cock. Balls. Anus. This was a cleansing, nothing more.
(I’m not sure I had a preference.) Pointing to my suntanned legs, she
said,
“Dark. Dark. You like. Like?”
“Yes. You? You like white? No good dark? This no good? No like?”
“No. No, me no like.”
“Aah...” Legs. Toes. Arms. Then, standing, my back. Underarms. Legs, ass
and balls. The telephone type shower head was used, throughout, as a
rinsing instrument, with the dexterity a hygienist uses when cleaning
one’s teeth. I was led out of the bath, then taken to the carpeted
bedroom where I was dried quickly and efficiently. In performance,
we’re talking Rolex, here. Pointing to the bed, she told me to sleep.
(They all say “sleep” when they want you to close your eyes and
relax.) I laid on my back (eyes open) as she combed her hair in the
mirror. After giving me a fifteen minute rub which could very loosely
be interpreted as a massage (this was not her forte) she pulled a
condom from somewhere in the back of her plentiful hair. Removing it
from the wrapper, she pointed to my sleeping serpent, making some
indecipherable comment about my lack of stiffness. Making little
attempt to stiffen me, she removed the condom from the wrapper and
began putting it on me; no easy task considering my non-erect
condition. Without comment, she wiped off the lubricant with a towel,
bent her head down, put me in her mouth, and began pumping away
furiously. Fifteen seconds later, she again wiped off the condom on
the now awakened member with the towel. Head bent down, she repeated
the head bob. No hand assistance. No caresses. No technique. No faked
emotion. Nothing. Less than thirty seconds later, she lifted her head,
leaving my mate in his tenuous position, laid on her back, and said
“You make love.” Nothing to this point was enjoyable. The sheer cold,
non-personal approach made me feel disgusted and disgusting.
“No,” I said.
“You make love now,” she repeated a bit more forcefully.
“No!” I responded, equally forcefully. I gesticulated actions that
suggested her manner was mechanical and rote, and then diagrammed a
frown on my face. She got the message, stood to he feet and angrily
began rearranging her materials. I laid there, wondering what I was
going to do. Eighty dollars had been spent without so much as a good
massage. And I’d showered before arriving, so the bath could hardly
have been considered an activity worth the expense. She continued to
busy herself with meaningless activities away from the bed. I decided
I would have her spend the rest of her allotted time massaging me,
even if she couldn’t do it worth a damn.
“Meow, “ I said, “Massage. You massage me.”
“Make love?”
“No. Massage. Massage. Nuat. You nuat me.” I gestured the act of massage
till she understood what I wanted. Miffed, she sat down and began
massaging one of my legs with the same degree of warmth and
sensitivity she’d displayed in her previous activities. We were both
angry with the other, that was for sure. By the time she began to
massage my other leg, I’d decided I would not leave without a sperm
release of my preference.
“Nuat ainee dai my kahp,” I said, repeating the phrase I’d learned in the
cab ride over, and which meant “Massage me here, please.” She acted
like she didn’t understand, so I repeated the phrase continuously
while pointing to my cock.
“Make love?”
“No. Nuat ainee!” She shook her head, took my cock in her hands, and
furiously effected the desired result. I hadn’t come in so long that
there was absolutely no pleasure in the orgasm. It was no different
than a cow being milked. Meow grabbed some tissues and carefully, very
carefully, removed the condom and then discarded it in the trash. I
was then led to the bathroom where my cock and balls were thoroughly
washed and dried. In the bedroom, Meow brought me my shoes and clothes
and began to dress me. I took over the task, indicating that I
preferred to dress myself. She went to the mirror where she dressed
and preened herself. I tried to think of something to say, some
comprehensible statement that would ease the tension. I could think of
nothing. I swigged on my beer and watched her watching herself in the
mirror. Finally, realizing we had nothing either of us wished to share
with the other, I got up, muttered “good-bye” and walked out of the
room. I descended the stairs to the bar area, aware that as I’d
finished my business ahead of schedule, my friends would not yet be
there. I ordered a beer, and to complete the picture, a pack of
cigarettes. Lighting a cigarette, I inhaled deeply and watched the
steady flow of women and their clients ascending the staircase. I was
angry. Let down. Some time later, Jim came down, a smile on his face.
I told him of my experience. He said his girl was great. Steve came
down a bit later, saying he would visit the establishment again. When
I related the lowlights of my experience, he commented that it was a
big mistake to have let the pimp choose my woman. I polished off my
beer, put out my third cigarette, and we walked out. On the way out
the door, the pimp looked at me and said
“Good? Good time?”
“Bad,” I said. “No good. Very bad.” And thus ended my first experience in
a massage parlor brothel.
We took a taxi to the Biergarten (have I mentioned the Biergarten
before?) to have a beer and sort out the direction the rest of the
evening would take. As we entered the full bar, a woman standing with
a group of her friends made some whistling sound and grabbed my cock
as I walked by. No pretense. No sly looks. Just a cockshake as a form
of hello. I jumped back, laughing, then continued my way into the bar.
A woman instantly came to join us at the table and Steve began
fondling her. As he outlined the shape of her ass with his hands, we
drank beer and talked. Soon ready for new experiences, we decided to
head to Soi Cowboy. (Soi is the word for the side streets off the main
avenues. Soi Cowboy is another notorious street of go-go bars.) Within
walking distance of the Biergarten and the Federal Hotel, Soi Cowboy
proved to be the best of the nightlife scenes which I experienced. The
girls were stunning, but with a bit less of the mercenary, aggressive
tendencies present at Nana Plaza, Patpong Road, and the Biergarten. A
constant flow of a variety of beautiful girls went up to dance. In
between her sets of dancing, one woman sat next to me, caressing me,
fondling me, and simply relaxing and making eye contact. At one point
she said that she wanted to go home with me. (At least I didn’t have
to buy her cokes to get to that point.) I said that that was out of
the question, but thanked her for her offer. She remained next to me
till we left. We stopped at two other bars at Soi Cowboy before
returning to the Federal.
The next morning, after breakfast, Jim and I returned to our respective
rooms to relax before our next evening at Soi Cowboy. I had been
feeling tired and a bit run down as a result of all the
anti-inflammatory drugs I’d been taking for my ears. I’d also been
given a hepatitis-A immunization, so my body was not in tip top shape.
I decided to have Latsa (the woman barber of the Federal Hotel who
gave me my first massage upon arriving in Bangkok.) work on me. I
called and asked for her but was told she’d return in an hour. I took
a nap until the phone awakened me with Latsa saying she was on her way
down. We hugged when she entered and layed on the bed. She kissed me
playfully and we tickled each other. Soon, her shirt and my shorts
were off and she had my cock in her mouth. I wasn’t looking for a
blow-job (I rarely am) but she seemed intent on treating me with this
very special form of massage. After rushing to the bathroom to empty
her mouth of my life-force, we sat and talked (with the aid of my
pocket dictionary) until it was time for her to go. I gave her the
massage fee (350 baht) and a 300 baht tip. I’d asked her what I owed
her, but she seemed unaware and unconcerned about a price and left it
up to me. This was hardly a large sum of money, but she seemed content
with it. There was more of a feeling of intimacy and friendship with
Latsa that made our act seem like one not based solely on the exchange
of sex. (She would call me twice in the next two days, and I would
visit her in her barbershop to talk.)
That evening, Steve, Jim, and I returned to Soi Cowboy where we visited
“Midnight,” a go-go bar with breathtaking women. Steve had set us up
with two sisters and a cousin. I was coupled with the youngest, who’d
recently arrived from her village, had only been with two falangs, and
had yet to master the tricks of the trade. She periodically touched
me, tentatively, but our interactions were limited. But she was
beautiful and innocent (relatively, very relatively, speaking) and I
look forward to seeing her again when I return to Bangkok. When she
got up to dance, she took off her dress and I realized that I was
sitting next to a beauty, indeed. As she left for her position on the
stage, another woman, with whom I’d exchanged glances, came and sat
next to me. We exchanged the necessary pleasantries dealing with
country of origin, and expected stay in Bangkok, and after a few
touches and squeezes, she undid my Thai style fisherman’s pants and
emitted a gasp when she realized I was wearing no underwear. She then
laughed and said something in Thai while I retied my pants. After a
few more rounds of drinks for us and the girls (they were working us,
after all) we returned to the Federal.
The next morning, Jim and I packed our bags and waited for the appointed
time when a taxi would take us to the train station for our journey
North, to Nong Khai, the gateway to Vientiane and Laos.
Avoiding the frigid, air-conditioned atmosphere of first class, we took
second class sleepers. The train left at eight thirty in the evening
and would arrive at eight in the morning. As it was dark, with nothing
to see on the way, we slept.
1/12/96
Nong Khai is a quiet little town that has yet to be ravaged or altered by
the booming tourist trade that the rest of Thailand experiences. As
the “Friendship Bridge” connecting Laos to Thailand was completed some
few years ago, Nong Khai has now begun to see an increase in its
traffic, but it’s still a peaceful place. We took a tuk tuk (have I
mentioned these three wheel motorcycle taxis yet?) to The Meeting
Place, an establishment Jim read about on the Internet, and arranged
to have visas obtained for us for Laos. The visas were costly (partly
because the Laotian government wants to minimize the influx of hippie
style backpackers and low class tourists) at over one-hundred dollars
for a maximum fifteen day stay, but there was no other choice. We
checked into a hotel and then went out to eat. Something which has
happened repeatedly in Thailand (and which continues to occur in Laos)
is that one is brought more food than one orders. Sometimes it’s two
of the same dish. This apparent “error” has repeated itself so many
times that I’ve come to understand it as yet another devious way the
locals separate falangs from their money. After eating more than we
ordered, Jim returned to the hotel and I went for a massage. The two
hour massage, for six dollars, was thorough and relaxing. In fact, it
was one of the better massages I’ve had. Later that evening, Jim and I
went to a restaurant located on the banks of the very peaceful and
beautiful Mekong River. We met two American girls with whom we would
speak and spend the remainder of the evening. We went with them to a
Karaoke bar (Karaoke is the thing in Asia) and listened to music and
drank. They were attractive, but subsequent conversation would also
reveal that they were lesbians. Oh well. We ended the evening early,
in anticipation of our journey into Vientiane, Laos, the following
morning.
I know that I will be returning to Thailand after Hanoi, Vietnam, but I
think I’ll give a brief overview of my impressions of the country.
Thailand is full of beautiful and very colorful people. The south, at
least the island of Koh Lanta, was mainly Muslim, and had a more
aloof, serious, and removed quality to it. Bangkok and Nong Khai, on
the other hand, had much more outgoing, gregarious personalities. The
people were always smiling, making jokes, and laughing. There is a
very special child-like quality to the Thai people. They like to
gamble, to dress up, to eat out (more so at the stalls than at
restaurants) and are a fun-filled lot. My time in Thailand was
radically different than my time in Bali. In Thailand, I explored, and
enjoyed the pleasures of the flesh. It is a hedonist’s paradise. It
offers a wealth of external stimuli from which one can choose. There
is the quiet of the islands, the bustle of Bangkok, and the relatively
unspoiled charm of the northern towns. The down side is that AIDS is
rampant and its effect won’t be apparent until a few more years, when
it will already be too late. Nonetheless, this is a country which I’m
sure I’ll be visiting again.
1/13/96
Having chosen the correct agency from which to get our visas, the customs
procedures at the border (The Friendship Bridge) were a breeze. We
took a tuk-tuk to Vientiane, the capital and largest city in Laos.
Though the population is about 400,000, one would never know it. It
lacks the loud neurosis of other cities of similar size. Almost
everyone rides a bicycle, though there are also a number of tuk-tuks
driving around. As a westerner, one stands out. There are only three
hundred foreigners living in Vientiane, mostly performing missions of
international cooperation. Additionally, the high cost of visas makes
it a prohibitive travel destination for many travelers. To be sure,
there are less than a thousand tourists in the country at any one
time. Having read up on the history of Laos, the covert warfare waged
against it by America, and the dubious distinction of having been the
most bombed country (B-52’s dropped excess payloads here) I’m
embarrassed to be speaking English and to be carrying an American
passport. Without a doubt, this country is my favorite so far. The
people are absolutely beautiful. They carry themselves with dignity
and dress in their native clothes. Though there is a slight degree of
western influence (blue jeans and baseball caps) the majority of the
women wear sarongs that are colorful and classy. There is an air of
calm that surrounds even the bustle of the outdoor markets. Though
there was once a fair amount of clubs, opium dens, and brothels in the
city, all that changed somewhat recently. The clubs close at midnight,
and there are very, very few bars. In the clubs, the Laotians dance in
a very relaxed and regal manner. The barely move their feet, and use
their hands as if kneading dough. They are always smiling, friendly,
and content (to my eyes) in their isolation from the rest of the
world.
The hotel we’re staying at is called the Lani. Rooms are exorbitant
($30-$40 a night) when one considers that the per capita income of the
country is one of the lowest in the world. Phone calls to Greece are
charged at a flat $9 a minute. On the other hand, meals are
inexpensive. Hundreds, if not thousands, of Buddhist monks are seen at
every time of the day, walking around.
We’ve eaten at a couple of native restaurants that overlook the Mekong
River. The food is good, though it is somewhat difficult to
differentiate the Thai and Chinese cuisine from that of the Lao.
Unlike Thailand, there are not women out and about looking to reel in
foreigners. In fact, there is little to no interaction.
1/14/96
This trip continues to bring up a wealth of questions for me. Where do I
want to live? What is important to me? What type of relationship would
make me feel content? Do I want to perform? If so, then how do I
envision that happening? I know that I don’t want to live in the
States. I know that I don’t need much of the useless fluff that
surrounds my existence in America. Little do I find to be necessary to
subsist. I can keep my home in Sedona and rent it out. The rent will
be more than enough to make the mortgage payments and provide a slight
excess of money. I could then continue to make albums (fly to the U.S.
to record them) and live off the royalties. Additionally, I could
teach or perform to add to my money. With this scenario, I could make
more than enough money to live, and save money, as well. So, those are
some of the thoughts. I don’t know what the answers to all my
questions are, but perhaps writing them down every so often will help
me to find the path. Returning to Sedona, even for the short time
necessary to sever my ties and responsibilities (and record an album)
fills me with dread. Nonetheless, it’s something which must be done,
and which I will do.
Today, Jim and I went to a town twenty-four kilometers from Vientiane and
visited what is called the Garden of One Hundred Buddhas. There were
(obviously) hundreds of giant statues of Buddhas and creatures in an
outdoor setting. They were magical and bizarre. The ride (we took a
tuk-tuk) was great as it afforded us the sights of quiet Lao villages.
The women continue to be beautiful. I know this must sound tedious (as
I repeat it constantly) by now, but I find this to be remarkable. How
is it that a country that isn’t aware of spas, gyms, tanning salons,
weight loss clinics, and the like, can be populated with thousands of
women, one more gorgeous than the next? None are fat. None are
plastered with make-up. And almost all smile and are friendly. What a
respite from the American women who are always frowning and putting on
airs. What a relief from the thousands of overweight, gauche,
classless females with which I’m confronted when living in America.
Were it not so difficult for a foreigner to stay in this country, I
would make an attempt to reside here. Unfortunately, that is not the
case, so I’ll take in what I can, and carry the memory of a people
full of heart with me as I travel.
It’s strange, I don’t have a lot to say about what it is that I’m doing
here (and perhaps I’m not doing that much) but I feel very, very good
to be here.
Tomorrow, my medication for my ear is done. Though I don’t feel the same
amount of pain and discomfort that I did before, I realize that my ear
is not back to normal, and that it will take some time before it is.
Even when the pain is gone, I think I will have some buzzing in my ear
for the rest of my days. What a sorry thing that is. I’ve always
prided myself on my hearing, on the absolute silence which I would
experience when I’d lay down to sleep. Now, I have that damn buzzing
(ringing?) to remind me that all is not what it was. And that’s
probably part of life, and aging. Maybe the reality is that I’m
growing older and not yet ready to have various parts of my body give
out on me. I know this is something that mom and dad have always
mentioned about their ailments, it’s just I didn’t think I’d be going
through it so soon. Our minds remain young as we age, perhaps even
regaining an innocence we’d lost, but our bodies continue to
dissipate. What a tragedy! Oh well, I’ll learn to incorporate the
grace of aging into my philosophy. At least, I hope so.
1/18/96
A week passed in Vientiane before I was really aware of it. Jim and I
didn’t really do much other than walk around and eat. One day, we took
a tuk-tuk to the University (Dong Dok University). There, we met
various students and were engaged in conversation. The students were
very, very nice and helped us to understand more about this country.
We also visited most, if not all, of the clubs in Vientiane. They were
geared toward the Lao people (and why wouldn’t they be?) and
interaction was not really something that was expected. This scenario
has repeated itself the entire time we’ve been here. The people,
especially the women, are absolutely beautiful, but it’s almost as if
one were looking at a magazine, because there is no way that one can
penetrate the cultural differences and engage in any meaningful way.
This is what would make living here (something I seriously considered)
a very difficult experience. If one is so obviously a foreigner, and
we do stand out, and one is resigned to spending time with all the
other expats, at all the typical expat watering holes, then one is no
more better off than before. My isolation from humanity is something
I’m trying to overcome. My life in Sedona, partly the result of my
choice, and partly the result of the people residing there, has been
removed and isolated. The place I move to will have to be
cosmopolitan, friendly, exotic, interesting, and hopefully have a good
telecommunications system.
Lately, I’ve been feeling the pressing desire to be coupled with a woman.
It’s not as if I think this is the panacea to my ills, but I do feel
that a relationship would do me good. Add to that the thought
(recurring) that I’m getting older, not younger, and my urgency
becomes a bit more understandable. Again, maybe this is all mental
masturbation. Maybe things really do work themselves out for the best,
but it doesn’t hurt to periodically voice, or write, down our
preferences and dreams.
Today, Jim and I leave for Luang Prabang, a small but highly cultural and
historical town in the mountains (and on the Mekong) of Laos. Though
it is only eighty kilometers away, the road is so bad that the bus
trip would take eighteen hours. But, even if one wanted to take the
bus, one wouldn’t be allowed. There are factions of Hmongs which are
known to kill tourists and travelers on this road, so the government
insists that all travel to Luang Prabang by tourists be done via Lao
Aviation. Everyone we’ve met so far (Lao and foreigners) have said
that Luang Prabang is beautiful and that we’ll love it.
There were numerous steps in getting to Luang Prabang. First of all, only
those with specific visas are allowed to travel there. Then, one must
make sure one’s passport is stamped upon leaving Vientiane, and upon
arriving and departing Luang Prabang. To neglect this seemingly minor
detail incurs fines as well as putting one on a blacklist prohibiting
one from future travel in Laos. (The Lao can be equally rude as the
Greeks when it comes to waiting in a line to perform a duty such as
getting one’s passport stamped. The only difference is that they say
“excuse me” as they cut in front of you.)
As there is a twenty kilo limit to checked baggage, I bought a carry-on
bag at the Vientiane morning market for nine dollars. It is quite a
nice bag; a Puma rip-off. (Many of the goods in Thailand and Laos are
either outright copyright rip-offs, or near rip-offs. There are bags
and sporting goods labeled Sadida (Adidas), Calvin Klein knock-offs
labeled Kelvin Kirby, and instead of Levi 501 jeans, there are Life
531 jeans. All of these articles are made in Thailand.) My bag has the
Puma insignia on it but the name of the company is AMUP. I transferred
the heavy items into the carry-on bag and checked the luggage, which
came to exactly twenty kilos. The airplane was an old Chinese
propeller job that took thirty-five minutes to traverse the distance.
I was careful to keep swallowing and yawning to equalize the pressure
in my ears, which are still in the healing process. The countryside of
Laos is basically empty, so unless one gets excited at scenery from
fourteen thousand feet, there wasn’t much to see. As we approached
Luang Prabang, one could see lots of palm trees and long boats on the
Mekong River, which outlines one edge of the town. The town is small,
about fourteen thousand people, and has all the charm of a Greek
village. Most of the traffic consists of people on bicycles and a few
on motorbikes. As with Vientiane, the hotels for foreigners are
absurdly priced, so that one evening’s stay is equal to the monthly
income of a Lao. Still, I’m glad we came here as the general vibe is
very relaxed and quiet (with the exception of the volleyball and
basketball court outside my window). Jim and I performed some
necessary tasks such as changing money and going to the travel agent
to secure seats for the return flight back to Vientiane. (One cannot
get a seat on a flight till the day before the flight. The time of the
flight is not known till the day before, either.) We then went to a
restaurant which was purported to be good. Unfortunately, it was run
by French people, which became evident when we were greeted by
“bonjour” and as French disco music blared over the speakers during
our meal. After eating, we returned to the hotel for a nap, which was
abbreviated by the whistles and screams of a volleyball match.
(Everyone who knows my sensitivity to noise can imagine my reaction to
this interruption, which I fear will be a daily one.) Beyond that,
I’ve seen little of Luang Prabang. In a few days, I’m sure I’ll have
some interesting and colorful experiences to recount. Till then...
1/19/96
This town is very, very special and is radically different than
Vientiane. It is really nothing more than a large village with all the
quaint charm that one finds in villages. Electricity came only
recently and as there is yet no paved road from Vientiane, trade with
cities is somewhat limited. On the other hand, it is the center for
opium production. After Myanmar (Burma) and Afghanistan, Laos is the
largest opium exporter in the world. In fact, opium packets are as
usable a currency as Kip, Dollars, and Baht. Last night, Jim and I
went to a nightclub called the Rama Club. (All the nightclubs in Laos
resemble discos, but they have live bands performing Lao, Thai, and
western music. Interestingly enough, the most frequently played song
is the Eagles’ “Hotel California”.) At nine o’clock, the club was
empty save for two tables. Within a half hour, it was full. The only
drink available was Lao beer. “Gin and tonic?” I asked. “Lao beer?”
was the response. I had soda water, Jim had a beer. Immediately upon
entering, Jim commented that the waitresses seemed dazed or drugged.
That’s when we realized that opium smoking must be a very popular
pastime. The people that entered had the same drugged look in their
eyes and had problems negotiating simple tasks such as putting chairs
next to tables and sitting in them. With no exception, the people were
very short and differed drastically from the people we saw in
Vientiane. The populace in Luang Prabang is comprised of Hmongs (from
Mongolia, short, and pudgy) and several other hill tribes. They were
fashionably dressed (relatively speaking) indicating that the export
of opium is a thriving business. The band couldn’t get the notes to
their instruments right, but the singer had a phenomenal voice. This
band played a mixture of hallucinogenic music interspersed with some
Lao songs. During the Lao numbers, hordes of people swarmed to the
dance floor and began line dancing! This is the first time I’ve seen
this since visiting country western bars in America. Each table had
numerous cans of beer on it. We stayed for about an hour and then
walked back home. The weather was quite cool, necessitating a sweater
or jacket, and the sky was clear with an abundance of stars.
I was awakened at four in the morning by the non-stop beating of a huge
bass drum, which I assume must be performed as some Buddhist ritual.
Luang Prabang is dotted with numerous wats. We visited many of them
and they are beautiful and ornate in the way that architecture from
the past tends to be. The Mekong and a smaller river which flows into
the Mekong provided us with a very scenic riverside walk. Children
were playing a game in which they tossed their flip flops (thongs?) at
a target some thirty to forty meters away. The accuracy with which
they threw their sandals was really quite astounding. Numerous times
during this trip I’ve noted how the children in these countries play
with the toys at hand, unaware that some cultures must have the latest
toy, or consumer item, to be happy. I’ve also noted that Luang Prabang
has very many children and babies. Obviously, birth control must not
be a popular concept here.
I bought a pair of jeans (made in Thailand) for ten dollars, and a hand
made silver, lighter cover for Anna. There is much silver
craftsmanship in Luang Prabang but the prices are considerably higher
than that of Bali. Jim and I then sat at a small restaurant on the
Mekong and had drinks. Boats (long, thin, and lightweight) continued
to go up and down the river bringing peasants to the market to do
their shopping. Some people were doing their wash or bathing in the
river. The serenity with which all this activity goes on is refreshing
to experience.
1/20/96
Today, Jim and I rented a boat and driver (with Marisa, an Italian woman)
to take us to the Pak Ou caves. These caves are notable for their
thousands of Buddha figures. The two hour boat ride (upriver, down
river took an hour) cost twenty dollars and gave us a glimpse of life
along the Mekong. With the exception of one town, which specialized in
a rice wine, which was a Lao version of raki, or moonshine, there was
absolutely no civilization of any kind to be seen. Periodically, we’d
see some water buffalo grazing, or a fisherman lazily rowing, but
little else. This country really is quiet, after all. The caves were
hardly worth the time or effort, but at least we can say that we saw
them. I think I’ve seen enough Buddha figures to last a lifetime! Not
half an hour after arriving at the caves, we took our boat back down
the river and slept for the majority of the ride. I wish there were
something interesting or noteworthy to relate, but there wasn’t. The
highlight of this day’s trip was probably in the moonshine town where
I gave many of the children balloons, which I inflated for them. (A
friend had told me to bring balloons for the children when traveling
to Asia.)
1/21/96
Jim and I visited a couple more clubs last night, but didn’t stay. We
entered the doors, looked around and then walked out again. All the
clubs were full, but solely with Laotians and in insular groups, which
tend to isolate them from interaction. Having come to understand this
phenomenon as a cultural idiosyncrasy, we’ve learned not to stick
around these places. Still, it’s a welcome change to see a country
where the entertainment is (seemingly) so harmonious and homogenous.
In the morning, we rented bicycles and toured around the town; no
difficult task considering the size of Luang Prabang. Once at the
outskirts, we continued on another four kilometers to a neighboring
town known for its textile weaving. The bicycle ride was on a dirt
road and revealed more beautiful and peaceful countryside. The town
was small and undeveloped. There was no electricity and the homes were
Spartan, at best. There were numerous women sitting at their looms
weaving, as well as children (hundreds!) playing with each other. We
parked our bicycles and walked around but were soon bothered by the
numerous women hawking their wares. Not in the mood to purchase
anything, and tired of trying to indicate this lack of interest in
broken Lao, we got on our bicycles and rode back to Luang Prabang. We
took the last road bordering the town of Luang Prabang and saw another
market and some more shops and hotels. Then, after a filling lunch, we
returned for our usual afternoon naps. It appears we’ve pretty well
exhausted the activities we’re interested in while visiting Luang
Prabang, and the remainder of our days here will probably be spent
simply taking it easy. We’ve been discussing where we want to go in
Vietnam (other than Hanoi) and what it is we want to do there.
Bangkok, with its many sights and sounds, is a difficult act to
follow. On the one hand, we want the quiet rustic nature of some of
the more laid back towns in Asia. But when we get there, we find that
there is little we can do. It’s different when one is on a beach.
Then, one can swim and pass the time doing nothing. But in cases like
Luang Prabang (and Hanoi, I fear) one is left with little to occupy
one’s time. At least we’ve been doing a fair amount of walking,
something I enjoy doing wherever I am. (Is this a genetic trait I’ve
inherited?)
1/22/96
Last night was very fun. After dinner and a good walk, we decided to go
back to the Rama Club. I wasn’t keen on the idea, but the alternative
was to go back to my room at eight o’clock and sit reading The
Economist magazine. So, faced with that option, Rama seemed the way to
go. We didn’t know it till we were told later, but the last two days
had been a Lao holiday during which there is lots of partying and
drinking going on. The Rama was full, but we were able to get a table
near the door, which afforded us with the best view of who came in,
and also gave us the best air circulation. After ordering our beers
and sitting there for a brief time, a young man at the table next to
us asked if we wanted to join his table. Seizing the opportunity to
interact with the Lao, we accepted. The table was comprised of about
seven women (girls?) and five guys. It’s quite difficult to tell the
ages of people here, so I’d guess that they were between sixteen and
twenty-two years old. As we soon learned, they were all students
studying to be teachers. The young man next to me asked if we liked
Lao girls, and when we said that we did, he urged us to dance with his
friends if we felt like it. Soon, after sufficient prodding, I was led
to the dance floor by two of the Lao girls and started dancing to some
“twist”-like song. The girls were lively and fun, and frequently one
of their friends (boys and girls) would shove them even closer to me.
As Jim and I were the only two westerners in the entire club, we
towered above the many heads and found it easy to survey and navigate
the sea of dancers. The music played on and we danced, each mimicking
the other. When the song was done we said “thank you” to each other
with a wai (hand in prayer position at chest height) and sat down. Not
much later, Jim was also talked into going up to the dance floor. It
was truly a pleasure to be able to interact in this way. We continued
to attempt communication with those at our table but were able to say
very little. We got up to dance a couple more times, enjoying these
brief moments of harmony with the Lao. The young man asked what we
would be doing the following day. We said that we were considering
going to the waterfalls (some thirty kilometers away) and he asked if
he could join us. We said that’d be fine and he agreed to meet us at
the hotel at ten in the morning. It’s now almost ten, so I won’t be
writing much more till I return from our trip. I’m glad we decided to
go to The Rama club last night. The Lao music (in the clubs) has the
feeling and melody of much of the music from the late fifties and
early sixties in America. The attitudes and friendliness (and
cleanliness) of the Lao also have that period’s flavor to them. Unlike
the west, however, one is never faced with violence. In fact, the
entire time we’ve been in Luang Prabang, we’ve yet to see one police
officer. This has led me to note that, for me, the quality of life and
appeal of a town is inversely proportional to the amount of police
presence. I think about my time in Los Angeles (and even Sedona, as it
now changes) with the constant presence of the police, and the fear of
property and bodily crime, and realize that the absence of fear makes
for a very healthy lifestyle. As we were walking yesterday, Jim
commented that he thought it was funny that he was envious of a people
whose average life expectancy is fifty years, and whose yearly income
is not more than three hundred dollars. What a revelation!
1/23/96
The waterfall was fine. Basically, the experience was just as I’d
imagined it. It was a pleasant enough waterfall, but what made it a
little more interesting was that we were joined by our young Lao
friend, and a friend of his. We met at ten in the morning at the hotel
and then went about getting a tuk-tuk for the drive. The first man
quoted us twenty dollars, which our friends said was too much. (They
had predicted that it should not cost more than ten thousand kip.) But
the driver said he would not budge on the price. So our friends
stopped another tuk-tuk as we continued to haggle with the first
driver. The second driver agreed to ten thousand kip. When the first
diver heard this he went over to the second driver and spoke with him
and reiterated that the price would be twenty dollars. I said it was
too much and that we would simply not go. He finally agreed to fifteen
thousand kip and dismissed the second driver. Our friends agreed with
us that what transpired was very wrong. I know I’ve mentioned it
incessantly in this journal, but I have a problem with this absolute
lack of ethics and “screw the foreigners” mentality that dominates the
consciousness of tourist havens. But I’m sure that these policies and
actions will soon come back to haunt their practitioners.
The ride to the waterfall was on a very dusty and badly maintained road.
Jim was ready to throw up less than half the way there. Our clothes
and hair were caked with dust. The scenery was beautiful. There were
numerous small villages dotting the way, the most memorable point
being the small children waving and smiling as we drove by. My
favorite moments of my travels continue to be the faces and innocence
of the children I encounter. No matter what the degree of poverty,
there is always a sincere and heartfelt wave that comes from the
children. (I brought and gave many more balloons.) The waterfall, as I
stated earlier, was nothing much to write about. We took pictures
(actually, Jim took pictures) ate some papaya salad (a constant
favorite for me on this trip) and then got back in the tuk-tuk for our
journey back to Luang Prabang. Both ways, we spent drilling each other
over customs of our respective countries. The boys ended up inviting
us over to one of their houses for dinner, the following evening. So,
tonight we will be dining with a Lao family.
Yesterday evening, we ate at the Villa Princessa, a restaurant and hotel
that we’d visited on three previous occasions. Part of this was due to
the fact that the food is very good. But also because one of the
waitresses, Phouangmala (pronounced like “Pamela”) is so special. With
an innocence, and shy charm, and delicious smile, she radiated beauty.
I was in love! Last night, I asked her if she was married. She shyly
laughed and said that she was single. I want her! So, I asked her her
name and will probably correspond, though God knows where it will
lead. The heart knows no boundaries, it just leaps. The head then
follows with all the obstacles and problems one would have to overcome
if one were to pursue such a situation. I don’t know what to write
about this encounter that will be any more illuminating than my
thoughts written about Kiss, in Thailand. The difference is that this
woman if much more attractive than Kiss, and has a very magnetic
charm. And she speaks passable English. So, I don’t know...
In speaking with other travelers, we’ve come to understand that Vietnam,
while worth a visit, is much higher paced than Laos, that everyone is
either trying to rip you off, or is ripping you off, and that the
people are rather peculiar, when compared to neighboring countries.
This has started Jim and I wondering if we are truly that intent on
going to Vietnam (we already have tickets to Hanoi) and if so, then
for how long. Neither of us wants to spend a vacation worrying about
being taken advantage of, or in constant worry over our belongings. We
will have to make a decision very soon, though I imagine we’ll
probably go to Hanoi and then abbreviate our stay.
I will miss Laos. I love this country and its people. It has such a quiet
charm and innocence to it, it’s hard to believe that it has been
terrorized and occupied by so many foreign powers. I think I could
live here, but there are so many other factors that would make it a
very difficult place to be. Telecommunications are not only very, very
difficult, but also very expensive. Medical care does not even get
passing marks from international observers, making it necessary for
one to go to Thailand for any serious, or even basic care. There are
few tourists, and few foreign goods, so leading any lifestyle
necessitating western items would be impractical. Added to this is the
fact that North and South of here are frequent shootings (killings)
and thefts by bandits and rebels, making one feel constantly
threatened. These and numerous other thoughts (which don’t immediately
come to mind) would be deterring factors in making a decision to live
here. Nonetheless, I admit that I like the people here very much.
1/24/96
Last night, we went to our friend’s house for dinner. His mother prepared
us a typical Luang Prabang meal, which included such specialties as
river moss (dried, and then fried with sesame seeds...delicious) a
spicy wood, the exterior of which one sucks and nibbles on as if it
were bone marrow (spicy...delicious), fresh watercress, and sticky
rice. We ate in the dining/living room, which was basically a table
with some chairs, and a television set, which the rest of the family
viewed while sitting on the floor. It was interesting to note that
while the mother could not have been older than Jim and I, she looked
to be in her fifties. Yet the sisters and brothers were young, down to
two years of age. We talked about various subjects and played and sang
guitar. Jim also brought up the subject of the letter I dropped off
for Phouangmala, and then asked if they knew who she was. They said
they knew her, that she was a good, hard working girl, twenty-two,
single (perhaps due to her high price, 500,000 kip, about $600) that
she spent much of the day doing washing, and worked at the restaurant
in the evening. They also said that as a result of her work and
lifestyle, she is very shy and has not had much contact with men.
(Read: no contact.) All of this information added to the allure of
this woman for me. It will be interesting to note whether I ever
receive a reply to my letter.
After dinner, we went back to the hotel, where I played them one of my
songs on the DAT recorder (they loved it and said I would be a great
success in Luang Prabang) and then headed off to the Rama Club. The
club was not as busy as previous times, but there were still happy,
smiling people dancing on the floor (sometimes women with women, other
times men with men) and chewing on pumpkin seeds. Again, I was struck
by the sheer joy and innocence with which these people enjoy
themselves. We left about an hour later to return to the hotel and
make final arrangements for our departure the following morning.
As I sit here typing this morning, another item sticks in my head, and
that’s how well behaved the children are. There has not been one
instance of a child screaming or throwing a tantrum during the entire
time I’ve been here. In fact, I never saw that occurrence in Bali,
Malaysia, or Thailand either. The only time there were ill tempered
children was when they belonged to foreigners. I don’t know what the
reason for this is, but it would be a very interesting example to
export to other countries where the kids scream, shout noisily, and
are spoiled rotten.
Leaving Luang Prabang was a sad moment. I know we had to go, but I’ll
miss this small town with its very likable people. I’ll especially
miss the Lao women, the most attractive and gentle of the women I’ve
encountered on this trip.
1/25/96
This morning, my last in Laos, I went to the Scandinavian Bakery (isn’t
it funny how I always end up finding a foreign owned bakery to satisfy
my gastronomic cravings) for my espressos and to say good-bye to the
three cute young ladies working there. They were very happy to see
that I’d returned from Luang Prabang but sad to hear that I was on my
way to Hanoi. One of the girls commented that I looked “handsome
today,” which is quite a bold statement considering that one rarely
sees couples together in this country (and then only if they’re
married) and that public displays of affection are never, ever seen.
We traded addresses and they wished my speedy return to Laos. I
returned to the Lani where Jim was throwing up the previous night’s
pizza for the second time. For a while, he thought that he wouldn’t be
able to travel, as he was feeling too ill. But, finally, he got up and
we went to the airport. What can I say that I haven’t already
mentioned in this country’s journal? I’m very, very attracted to the
quiet beauty of Laos and could easily live here. There is, of course,
the isolation to consider (as well as all the reasons I listed
yesterday) but sometimes the positive overcomes the negative, no
matter how great the latter may be. So, after fifteen days, it was “So
long Laos,” and “Good morning Vietnam!”
1/25/96
It’s cold! When I started this journey, I’d set the goal of staying in
warm tropical climes and to avoid winter at all costs. But I’ve begun
using up countries as fast as I use up batteries, and with fewer
destinations left, I’m forced to move further north. It was sixty
degrees when we landed at Hanoi airport. It was noon. Everyone was in
winter clothing with heavy coats and the streets were wet from recent
rains. Okay, here I go with immediate reactions. I haven’t heard horn
honking since I left the Unites States. Bali, Malaysia, Thailand, and
Laos were almost eerily quiet (with respect to car horns), even in the
midst of the nonstop traffic jams of Bangkok. I’d forgotten that
people honk horns neurotically in some cities (hello, Athens?). So, it
was with some surprise that I found our driver (we took a cab from the
airport into Hanoi: 36 kilometers, $20) honking every ten seconds at
obstacles that I never even noticed. The bustle of Hanoi is intense.
Thousands of people on bicycles, motorbikes, and cars, and trucks. And
the horns! Everyone blows them. Not one time. Not twice. Not a brief
sequence of short bursts. No. We’re talking concerto here. With
everyone blowing his horn, I wondered if the result isn’t rendered
meaningless. Nobody seems to pay attention to the horns, they just
keep driving down the middle of the streets which, by the way, have no
dividing lines. Drivers slalom in and out of the opposing lanes with
the skill of gondolieris negotiating the canals of Venice. Anyway, we
got to the Freedom Hotel, which had been recommended to us, and took
two rooms. (My bargaining skills have been honed, over time, and I
saved Jim and me a bundle on taxis, tuk-tuks, and hotel rooms.)
I entered my room which has no window, and instantly turned on the
heater. The walls were cold, The floor was cold. It’s cold! After
unpacking, I turned on the satellite television and watched some
videos as I arranged my things. Then I tried to retrieve my messages
from my answering machine. I wasn’t able to in Laos, as the area code
for Sedona, (520) which changed recently, was not yet accessible
through the Laotian computer system. Unfortunately, the same problem
exists in Vietnam, meaning that I probably have a wealth of messages
on my machine. Who knows if there is anything important, or an
emergency, which needs my attention? Whatever the case may be, I
simply cannot connect with Sedona (boy, if there ever was a sign of my
disassociation with that place, this must be one) until I return to
Bangkok. When that will be depends on how Jim and I feel about our
stay in Hanoi. Neither of us is interrested in exploring other parts
of this country.
1/26/96
It’s really quite interesting to me how three countries (Thailand, Laos,
& Vietnam) so near each other can be so different. The Thais were
warm, outgoing, and smiled back when I smiled at them. The Lao people
were the most dignified and warm of all. Their manner was always one
based on an innocent charm. The Vietnamese are stern and serious by
comparison. They rarely look one in the eyes and smile back even more
rarely. Perhaps this is a result of all the occupations and wars to
which they’ve been subjected. Who knows?
Hanoi is interesting. It’s an entrepreneurial orgasm, with thousands, or
hundred of thousands of shops, one next to the other. One street alone
had over eighty watch shops. Another street was for shoes. And so on.
Each shop also has a collection of things, and doesn’t just focus on
one product. A watch store may also sell batteries, socks, and make
noodle soup. Most the people eat on the sidewalk at any of thousands
of street-side vendors who prepare their soups over small make-shift
fires. The streets are constantly bustling but lack the orderly civil
pace that the equally busy Bangkok streets display.
I walked into one store and ordered two shirts to be made of raw silk.
Each shirt will cost $14. Besides that, I will probably buy a few
T-shirts, which are beautiful, original, and cheap. Many of the
T-shirts are embroidered with very creative designs.
My walk today took me through some of the more major shopping districts
and took me about two hours. But I abbreviated my perambulations as
the cold was almost unbearable (especially considering my summer
wardrobe). I returned to the room where I turned on the satellite
television to watch music videos. Television is strange. In one day
I’ve seen more than enough, and realized that I’ve missed nothing. And
yet, it’s so easy for one to become used to the brainwash of
television. In the quieter and less developed towns where I’ve stayed
I’ve found that I’ve missed television not a single bit. I will
definitely turn off my cable subscription once I return to Sedona.
Watching television is the result of boredom and leaves one no better
as a result. (This insight has also helped inspire one of my new songs
“The Boob Tube Is An Idiot Box”.)
Watching music videos has made me even more anxious to record my new
album. I feel the songs will be very original and creative and should
have a very strong structure as a result of the attention I’ve paid to
the writing of the lyrics. I’m thinking of stopping in Los Angeles
upon my return to America and having some meetings with musicians and
engineers about the best and cheapest way I can record the new songs.
I’m always torn between doing everything myself (which is cheaper but
insures that I’ll have to sequester myself for a long period of time;
something I can no longer stand) and doing everything quickly with
professional musicians (which is substantially more expensive, but
very slick). Hopefully, my conversations in Los Angeles, and my budget
at that time, should help to make my decision.
1/30/96
The time in Hanoi has been interesting but relatively uneventful so far.
Jim and I have taken in some museums (The Temple of Literature, and
some war museums) and have walked down numerous streets buying such
things as T-shirts for friends. Other than that, we’ve eaten at some
nice places, frequented by foreigners (expats) and some shitty places
frequented by both tourists and locals. What follows are some snippets
or observations of Hanoi that I’ve taken in the past few days:
In a Chinese restaurant full of noisy people eating (not unlike certain
Greek tavernas) I noticed, a few different times, people (men and
women) sucking up some snot in their mouths and spitting directly on
the floor. As it was a Chinese restaurant, and this practice a
well-known Chinese habit, I don’t think the people in question were
Vietnamese.
Walking around the lake at eight-thirty in the evening, I saw an elderly
western man (mid fifties?) talking to a young boy aged between twelve
and fifteen years old. They were discussing what the cost would be for
an evening of sex. Two hundred dollars was mentioned, but I didn’t
stick around to hear the end result of their bargaining.
Vietnamese teeth are in sorry shape. Or, at best, the color is a brownish
hue. It must be the water that affects their teeth, as opposed to ill
eating or cleaning habits. In Thailand, where few people have ever
seen (or can afford) a dentist, the teeth were the best I’ve seen,
anywhere. Everyone’s teeth were clean, white, and shaped perfectly. In
Laos, teeth were fine as well, but not to the degree of Thailand. In
Vietnam, everyone’s teeth are brownish, not shaped very well, and
often appear to have a film or paste covering them.
Last night Jim and I went to a discotheque called “The Metal Club”
which has two floors. Downstairs, there are private Karaoke rooms in
which one pays to sing to oneself(!) while a pretty woman operates the
machine and listens. The concept of Karaoke rooms (or booths) is very,
very common in Vietnam. Why one would do this sort of thing is beyond
me, but it must be done frequently enough to justify an entire floor
of rooms for it. The upstairs was a classic disco. When we entered, it
was still dark, with a few tables occupied (it was Monday night) and
the music had yet to begin. Soon, the music started (a mixture of
disco, rap, and techno) and a group of fifteen women got up to dance
with each other. They looked different to the women we’d grown
accustomed to seeing in Vietnam. Jim turned to me and said, “They must
be Japanese. They’re dressed like sluts and looking at us with
predatory eyes.” Before the song that was playing finished, one of the
women, notably older than the rest, approached our table, sat down
next to me, and introduced herself.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Lily, the mamasan.”
“Hi, I’m Paul.”
“Would you like dancing girls?”
“Dancing girls? I don’t know. What does one do? Get together with them
and dance?”
“Yes.”
“That’s an interesting concept. But as we just ate, we’re going to drink
our sodas and digest for a while. If we change our mind, we’ll tell
you.” She returned to the pod of dancing girls as I related to Jim the
subject of our conversation. At one table, where dancing girls had
been procured, one of the girls was busy giving a man a head and neck
massage. After about thirty minutes of disco music, the sound abruptly
stopped, leading us to believe that it was yet another of the very
common and frequent power outages in Hanoi. But the stage was soon
occupied by a woman who began singing, Karaoke style, to backing
tracks. Her voice was beautiful and she emoted more than any other
Asian I’ve seen so far. I was so moved that when she finished three
songs and descended the stage to go to the bathroom, I followed her.
When she came out of the bathroom I told her how much I enjoyed her
voice and that I was a singer too. She asked me if I wanted to sing,
that she’d love to hear my voice, but I told her that I didn’t have
any of my tapes with me. She suggested I come back to sing the
following evening. So, tonight, I’ll be performing at The Metal Club.
I’ve wanted to sing at least once in every country I visit.
Unfortunately, that never happened in Laos, but I believe it will
someday soon. Other than that, I sang in Bali and Thailand.
Speaking of Thailand, Jim has mentioned that I must include a one-liner I
used in Thailand (which he felt to be the best retort possible) to end
what was the bothersome approach of a woman. So, here I go:
We were sitting in the Biergarten, eating lunch, when a rather ugly
woman, with uglier teeth, sat down next to me. After the usual
pleasantries, she asked me to buy her a coffee. My response was my
usual one.
“Why?”
“I would like a coffee.”
“So would I, why don’t you buy me one?” Seeing that this approach was not
working, she tried something else. Putting her hand in a hollow fist
and moving it forward and backward in front of her mouth, she asked me
if I would like a blow job.
“No thanks,” I said flatly, “I just masturbated.” A few minutes later she
got up and walked away. Jim felt that to be the penultimate retort
possible.
I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it before (I don’t know how I couldn’t
have) but Asians have real difficulty pronouncing my name. Every time
I say “Paul” they seem to come back with “Prawn”. I’ve therefore
started introducing myself as Prawn, and have had little difficulty
with Asians getting my name right, as a result. I’ve also seriously
considered calling my stage name “King Prawn” for my next album. It
seems to have a memorable ring to it, despite the fact that it’s funny
and ridiculous.
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