In Conclusion

       Southeast Asia has been one of the most gripping, cultural experiences of my life.  I have been pick-pocketed, woke up in a hospital with an IV in my arm, had my passport and laptop stolen, contracted an agonizing stomach bacteria and spent a little time in a Laos prison.  But that's just the boring stuff and I wouldn't trade it for all the safety in the world.  I have met the kindest people on the earth, spending hours talking about Obama and Communism.  I've listened in horror about what the U.S. has done in Vietnam, Cambodia and Laos.  I've seen the affects of Agent Orange still present on the city streets three generations later and heard the stories of young boys and mothers in the fields stepping on undetonated mines and bombs.  And yet they love Americans.  They say time heals all wounds and this part of the globe has been under constant attack since the early 1950's.  Yet its heart still beats on with love and enthusiasm for all life.  Buddha is not just a statue or a concept, it is as real as the lotus flower, brimming with life and growth, flourishing under the dense forest of the worlds oppression.  We should learn a lesson from our Asian brothers and sisters.  Their happiness is so seeded within their soul and ancestry, it cannot be deterred.  Take away its water and nourishment, starve it of light and tranquility and still it grows.  It cannot be cut down and, and as is the case with love, its power is unseen, untouchable yet stronger than all the forces that strive to bind it.  Like water or earth or wind or fire it is a constant, always ebbing and flowing, forever in flux with the forces that push against it but remaining innocent and unchanged.  I pray my own smile could reflect such joy.  That my eyes could shine on others with such love and speak such emotion without ever uttering a single word.
       This is why I travel.  The pagodas and ruins are enchanting but they are nothing more than a back drop to what actually completes me.  Or rather reflects my lack of completion.  And I am searching to be whole.  It's an unachievable goal but the rewards from the struggle far outweigh any tangible destination point.  

Travel often, smile always and remember we see with our heart, not our eyes.

Enjoy Some Pictures

Laos Law

     Van Vieng is nestled at the base of some of the most dramatic limestone mountains the world has to offer.  In northern Laos they raise dramatically into the sky fall like a curtain to the ground all at the same moment.  The jungle immediately begins to cover them in dark green foliage, vines and exotic flower pedals.  This morning I'm watching the mist role over their sharp peaks until they are almost out of view.  We are at a riverside cafe and restaurant built on stilts and a soft rain is quietly falling around us.  Our table is a dark wood, almost Chinese in fashion.  It is short rather than using chairs we sit cross legged on an old rug with pillows all around for our backs.  Below a woman has hung bed sheets out to dry and now they soak up the rain while at the river's edge some children play in the river and bathe.  My eyes cannot let go of these mountains.  I think of Buddha and Taoism.  Not because I am one, or even fully understand the philosophy behind the religion but because I am at peace.  My heart wears the calm visage of the monks I see walking the the dirt streets either on their way to morning meditation or to collect alms from the neighborhood shops.  Linda is sipping on fresh guava juice while I blow on my coffee to cool it down.  I wish I had ordered the juice.  David has temporarily put down his book Understanding Buddhism to role a joint.  in light of the previous nights events I can't believe he's doing it.  And I can't believe I'm letting him.  You see, I don't want to go back to jail in this foreign country.  But the morning is young and life is so beautiful and the rain is cleansing our fears.  Like a thoughtful ghost I watch the scene unfold before me.  As David wraps the dense green marijuana buds into thin paper, time unravels and I feel powerless to stop it.  And I wouldn't even if I could.

       David is from Melbourne, Australia.  We met him on the bus from Vientiane and instantly became friends.  He teaches music and theater and has left his home for other vistas so that he might find himself, sort out tangled loves and put some direction to his compass.  We had more in common than initially perceived.  It would turn out to be a magical and frightening few days.  but enough of foreshadowing.  Let me bring this tale out into the light.

Linda and I hadn't planned ahead on where we would stay.  We seldom do anymore.  It's easier and more fun to show up figure it out.  When we got off the bus it was already agreed that we would follow David to The Banana Bungalows where he had a room waiting.  They were fully booked as were the two other establishments next door.  Our packs were growing heavier and our shirts were soaked through with sweat.  The bandanna I used to pat my forehead with had to be wrung out every few minutes.  When David suggested we sit and share a beer it sounded like the best plan of the day.  We had already endured a six hour bus ride through the mountains of Laos all on dirt roads and our stomachs ached from being tossed about.  As it often goes with friends in beautiful places, one turned into many and within a few hours the problem of lodging seemed as distant as the animal calls coming out of the jungle.  We talked about music and musical theory.  We philosophized on the merits of experimental theater and the magic of the ensemble.  David was recently exploring the  concepts of Buddhism and seemed entranced by the notion that the student must always question the teacher (a part of Buddhism that is woven into the fibers of its history since the first silk worm unfolded the weavings of the human mind).  Such a far cry from the religions of the Western World where follow and obey are the cornerstones of thought.  Linda would listen and laugh, chiming in at every appropriate opportunity as she does so well and lifted our spirits with her charisma and charm.   She is truly beautiful.  I could tell David was soft for her, all the boys are keen on her and that was fine by me as we had long ago traded romantic possibilities for something much more enriching.  Our love for each other went deeper than the physical and with that sort of freedom the bonds of friendship were free to travel to places I've never known to exist.  David, I think, wanted some alone time with her but who can blame him, she was beautiful and he was only on the second chapter of his Buddhism book.  And it matters little.  No one can direct the flow of water.

       But there was that sun.  Always present on every corner of the earth and it was slipping behind those mountains that held me so transfixed.  Soon it would kiss us goodnight.  We needed a place to unpack so we could appreciate it when it gently rattled our shutters in the morning.  So I left the budding lovers or way-station flirts to there business (and really what's the difference), to go and find a place to stay farther down the river.  At least she was in safe hands.  They hardly heard my footprints fade.  I walked a length of the river and was momentarily deterred by a herd of cows who claimed the right of way.  I was all to happy not to argue and found a patch of grass to lie in while they passed.  They were agreeable and thanked me before carrying on.

       I had some reservations when I approached this little farm road down the river.  This was truly the last house on the block and we needed a room.  A long path wondered past some hammocks, though a vegetable garden and beside a few squat toilets covered by a loose tin wall.  The room was a bungalow consisting of little else other than a bed, mosquito net and a fan.  Bottles of lizard whiskey sat next to an old U.S. Jeep that had long ago stopped working.  The cost was two dollars and fifty cents per night.  It was perfect.  I was careful not to step on any chickens as I raced back to tell Linda about the Eden I had found.  Down through the garden, past the toilets and around the hammocks (wouldn't a nap be nice); the cows were long gone but I was weary not to step in the all the gifts they had left.  Along the river and back up the bank to where I found my friends laughing and smoking much as I had left them.  We shared the last of the beer and agreed to meet later that night.

       

       I don't want to be here.  I didn't even smoke anything.  Where are my mystical mountains of limestone and jungle where Buddha sits and meditates?  None of this can be seen from the jail cell of the Laos prison where we sit.  And Buddha?  Why does he have to be so passive?  A little divine intervention is what we need.  This is all to real.  The severity of what the officer is saying is resonating through my head.  "One break Laos law, all guilty.  Two half year in jail."  This was serious.  I am scared.  We needed a way out.  The only guard who spoke English was the one with the gun, he was fifteen years my junior.  They took us, sometimes one at a time, sometimes in groups of two, into a small room for questioning.  But there really were no questions.  I sat and watched a gecko climb over the peeling green paint and between a crack in the wall.  Safety.  "By to have marijuana you have broken Laos law.  No matter who smoke or no, you all guilty.  Two half years in Vientiane prison.  We go now."  What would you do with this information?  Have you any idea about the justice system in non-westernized countries?  I have been to enough to know that it doesn't exist.  Corrupt police declare you guilty and then you disappear until your family and embassy can locate you.  By then it is often to late.  Simply staying alive in these prisons is a matter luck.  I thought about Linda.  This would be an entirely different kind of torture for her.  The men could be beat and starved but her fate would be terrifyingly different.  This could not happen.  What is the only other option?  Where is that crack in the wall where the gecko escaped.  Money.  Western Money.  More powerful than law or life or fate at this moment.  But this too is a treacherous road.   Let me ask you.  Have you ever bargained for life but at the same time had to realize the limits of your resources?  The more you have the more they will demand.  How do you draw that line and give up?  What is the amount that will make both parties happy?  Or do you really have a choice.  I didn't know any of these answers when we quietly, calmly and with a gentle step began to negotiate.  

       That's when David took command of the stage.  What were in the first two chapters of that Buddhism book?  He never explained why he stood and took the actions he did.  Guilt?  Karma?  Heroism and responsibility?   They had his passport.  Like I said before, you cannot control the flow of water and David's soul was a river riding high on new ground.  It rippled over shallow rocks but remained constant.  He stood and demanded, in a calm voice, to speak with the ultimate authority.  Nothing would be discussed until this was achieved.  He was taken to yet another smaller room with the man with the gun and the doors were closed.  From an open air vent in the ceiling I could here him explaining that the drugs belonged to him and him alone.  No other person had participated in the use nor had we had known it was present in the room.  This was partially true.  We all knew it was there.  We watched him buy it.  But no one had smoked it other than him.  A lie by omission is still a lie.  How thick is the veil of deceit?  He signed a sworn statement of liability.  What's the problem with this logic?  If you can bribe many why not bribe many?  There was more collective money than in one.  So where is the dollar amount?  The officer thought the same way I did and sent David back to our cell.  Another officer turned the TV so we could watch.  Soccer.  Amazingly my mind wandered into the game and I began to cheer for a team.  

       What I wanted was a papaya salad.  It's a mixture of under-ripe papaya, chili, lime juice and fish sauce.  We were all drunk.  David wanted a little smoke and the people all around us were getting high.  It seemed like an innocent gesture when he got up to go and buy a bag.  He was back within five minutes.  Something recognizable played in the background and  we ordered more drinks and food.  Van Vieng was beautiful and the mountains were silhouetted under an almost perfect moon.  We greeted fellow travelers and watched the night fall like a lose leaf from an aging tree.  But special nights must always come to an end.  People grow tired, morning descends upon dark and bills need to be reconciled.  It was time to go and our hour had long ago fallen past the hand of time.  It was time for a house party.  David was carrying his guitar and along the road I met some friends from Vietnam who also played.  They quickly followed suite and we were off to frolic and sing.
       For a while the music was grand.  Who doesn't like singing along to Oasis, The Beatles and Neil Young?  I think I was doing a particularly good rendition of Wish You Were Here  by Pink Floyd when they came through the door.  There was no knock, no forewarning to their entrance, they were simply there in the Bungalow.  And on the floor next to some dirty and tired sandals was David's small bag of marijuana.  When the officer in the camouflage jacket picked it up and help it out so we could all see it I knew the last chord had been played.  Did you exchange, a walk on part in the war, for a lead role in cage....Wish you were here.  We were, (pardon the expression Buddha) fucked.

       When David walked out of the room with the man with the gun  I had high hopes.  I felt bad for him but this had nothing to do with me.  I couldn't have been more wrong.  Back into the room with no TV.  They wanted money and they wanted a lot.  Five million Kip each to be exact.  That's approximately six hundred U.S. dollars and there were five of us.  All because one person had some pot.  That was the option presented to us.  Pay or go to jail.  At least we had an option.  None of us had that sort of cash on us so we needed to get creative.  Linda, myself and the two other people managed to come up with one million Kip between the four of us and offered it to the officer.  He took it but said nothing.  What of David?  They still had his passport.  After some discussion we were released with the understanding that David would return the next morning at eight am and pay five million Kip.  They would keep his statement and passport until then.  Then they let us go.

       We  had no idea where in this small village we were but it didn't take long to find a recognizable street and make our way back down towards the river.  We said our goodbyes and agreed to meet for breakfast.  Then we said our prayers and fell into a deep sleep.  That night I was joined in my bungalow by a small critter who came in between the walls.  I could hear him scurrying and scratching along the wood floor but couldn't bring myself to get out from under my mosquito net and lower my bare feet down to see what he was doing.  The next morning I rose at seven and discovered that he had ransacked my toiletry case and tore through all my condoms.  Knowing his propensity for safety I felt much better about being bit by him.  The way I saw it this little fucker owed me twelve U.S. dollars.  He never did pay up.  I also noticed that the fan was off.  How had he managed that?  I was slightly impressed.  Linda and I dressed, grabbed our ATM cards because we were now totally broke and went to meet David.  He should be back from the police by now.  Things were strangely quiet around town.  When we found the ATM we discovered why.  A passing French traveler explained that all the power for the whole town was off until five pm.  We had about eleven dollars between us and went for breakfast.  David arrived an hour or so later and told us there was on bank on the other side of town that had a working ATM.  He had taken out five million Kip and gone to retrieve his passport but a different officer demanded ten million Kip.  He politely left and waited for the man he had spoken with before.

       So was I surprised to see him that morning rolling a joint?  Not really.  That's just the way some things work.  Later that evening we sat with a couple from the UK while they sipped on opium tea.  David smoked and we played guitar and laughed, putting the previous evening behind us.  Eventually he got his passport back and we parted ways, most likely never to see each other again.  We had come to Van Vieng to go tubing and kayaking but saw so much more.  Farewell Laos.  We appreciate both your hospitality and corruption. 

Saigon: The Official Report

Thursday Feb 3rd., 2011, 10:00 am, Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Breakfast as usual.  Two eggs (fried), toast, bacon, sausage and a potato cake.  Strong coffee and juice.  When we bought our tickets to Saigon we decided to take the scenic boat voyage alond the Mekong River.  We were told it would be a four hour passage with a short bus ride to our final destination.  I paid for the tickets and we prepared for the trip the following day.


Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30am.  Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Arrived at the docks, left our bags with the caretaker and were escorted to a beautiful riverfront cafe for fresh shrimp spring rolls and juice.  Sad to be leaving Cambodia but the show must go on.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 12:00pm.  Phonm Phenh, Cambodia

Rushed onto the boat only to discover moments before taking off that our backpacks were exactly where we left them with the caretaker.  Back off the boat to get them ourselves.


Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 12:10-5:30pm.  Tonle Sap River heading towards the Mekong, Cambodia


Arrive in Chau Doc, Vietnam and are herded off the boat to get our Visa's stamped, welcomed to Socialist Vietnam and loaded into a fourteen passenger Toyota Van.  There are twenty-one of us with luggage.  We are all starving from the boat ride, in need of a bathroom (toilet paper not included when you find one) and a little tired.  Beautiful countryside with stilted homes made of tin or wood, fishing boats everywhere, children bathing and playing along the riverside, plenty of lush green rice fields and ox hard at work.  But I was talking about the van.

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 5:45pm. Chau Doc, Vietnam

The road from Chau Doc to Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh as it is presently called) is a six hour journey through continuous bustling city streets.  At times paved but for the most part not.  There are four people in my row made for two and my knees are at my chest because under my feet is the mammoth bag of Linda Batista.  Our driver has chosen a soothing speed of 90 kilometer per hour (roughly 62 mph) to navigate us through the sea of motobikes, vendors, children and potholes.  Not to mention traditional bicycles, goats and ox.  Ok, I'll mention it.  We should have cracked an axel at least a dozen times.  You got to hand it to Toyota, they build a hell of a vehicle.  Despite everything I manage to fall asleep for brief moments only to be torn awake by the sound of my neck cracking as the van takes complete flight going over a bump, (or maybe it was a child, it's was dark and we were all to tired to care). 

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 10:30pm.  Who Knows, Vietnam

Stop for food and a restroom.  What the fuck!  Did Linda use the last of my toilet paper? I quietly grab a dress out of her bag and head for the nearest hole in the ground.  Almost to hungry to eat but manage some pork and noodles in broth.  If I still drank I would have ordered a beer.  Instead I had two.  It's been eleven and a half hours since we left our hostel and we have no idea where we are or when this will end.  Our driver communicates only through the use of his horn and he has been talking to every driver and pedestrian since we left.  To us he has said nothing.  I'm coming back with a fog horn so I can reply in a language they all understand.


Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30pm.  A corner in Saigon.  Population: 5.38 million

Arrive in Saigon (or Ho Chi Minh, whatever the fuck you want to call it).  We have no idea where in this massive city we are and have not secured a hostel for the evening but we are glad to be out of that sardine box with a Toyota emblem on it and have both sandals planted firmly on the ground.  Still no sight of toilet paper but there is plenty of trash in the street that will work just fine.  I'm always touting the benefits of recycling right?  I suck down two cigarettes in rapid succession and lift our packs out of the van.  Linda's is covered in sandal prints.  Oh well.

Inventory:  Linda - One God awful 70 liter pack overstuffed weighing at least 49 lbs.  Two shoulder bags.   Me - One 40 liter pack weighing 29 lbs. (yes I weighed it before I left).  One day pack and one laptop.  Six bags between two people.

Friday Feb 4th., 201,1 4:30pm. Somewhere on the Mekong River before the Vietnam border

Notice my clever use of time reversal?  Just checking.

The Lonely Planet Shoestring Guide to South East Asia was revised in 2010.  If you flip to page 905 where it talks about Saigon there is a heading entitled Dangers and Annoyances.  As the sun was losing ground over the Mekong River and the Chinese New Year was reaching a feverish pitch, my feet were dangling over the back of the boat and I was thumbing through all the sights and activities we would soon be experiencing.  But this is what I read:

"The city has the most determined thieves in the country.  Drive-by 'cowboys'  on motobikes can steal bags off your arm and be gone before you ever notice."

Friday Feb 4th., 2011, 11:30pm.  Somewhere on a corner in Saigon, Vietnam

Being a communist country (or socialist as they prefer) even the great Saigon begins to shut down around 10:30pm.  There were no taxis, no Tuk-Tuks begging for our business or motobikes waiting to take us on a hair-raising ride where luck plays a very large part in our survival.  We were stranded, temporarily at least.

Saturday Feb 5th., 2011, 12:01am.  Same crappy corner in Saigon, Vietnam

A taxi approached and stopped on the corner of Ly Tu Trong and Trung Dinh.  I know this corner in the middle of nowhere now.  I will never forget it.  The trash on the street.  The small plastic chairs where some locals were sitting playing dominoes.  A neon sign across the alley is blinking and casting a blue and red hue on the street.  There are a few rats scurrying down a gutter, (really more a hole in the sidewalk).  I will never forget that corner, nor will I ever forget the force with which my arm was pulled from my shoulder.  I will ever forget the scream that escaped from Linda's gut as she realized what was happening, or the way time froze and I  locked eyes with the locals on the corner, vacant stares that showed neither compassion or anger, only transparency and recognition of the what had just taken place.

The motobike slipped away into the night, somewhere in Saigon.  He had my laptop and my U.S. Passport.  There was nothing I could do but watch it hang in his hand as he rounded the corner and disappeared.  I was left stairing at a red and blue neon light that said 'Crazy Girls' in English.  I was left with a pit in my stomach.  Lost in a communist country with no passport.  It is Chinese New Year and the U.S. Embassy won't be open for another five days.  Welcome to Vietnam.

A NATION REBUILDING

I don't remember my history like I should.  Cambodia was a country bordering Vietnam while I learned about the first war America ever lost.  Little was said about the Khmer Rouge.  Pol Pot was granted maybe a few pages in my high school books, compared to Hitler, and then passed on.  I will read more about this atrocity and the people who have overcome mass oppression and genocide.  Books like They Killed my Father and The Killing Fields I hope will broaden my understanding.  

     When the word genocide is used the Western world conjures up images of Hitler and the second World War.  We think of a time now long gone, indeed seventy years have passed since the Third Reich came to power and began to carry out there vision of the supreme race.  Saloth Sar, better known as Pol Pot came to power in 1975 when I was two years old.  My father came home from the war to my mother and his children. Life slowly carried on.  For Cambodia the nightmare was just beginning.  Pol Pot created the Khmer Rouge, a self developed metamorphosis of the Marxist ideology now known as extreme Maosim.  Under his rule the banks were destroyed, capitalism and any form of free trade other than agriculture ceased to exist.  Any man, woman or child with education be it of the scholarly nature, science, medicine, law, religion or philosophy were sent to re-education camps.  There they were tortured for confessions and immediately put to death.  Wearing glasses or speaking a foreign language was cause enough for execution.  It was a cleansing of a country few had even heard of in the western world and on a scale never seen before appropriated upon its own people by its own people.  Cambodia was transformed into a mass slave labor camp.  Bewilderingly the UN allowed the Khmer Rouge to occupy a seat at the UN General Assembly until 1991.  This meant the murderers represented their victims for twelve years.  Pol Pot died under house arrest in relative luxury and was cremated upon his death.  

     Why do I take so many pictures of young children here?  Every day I eat a meal or have a coffee I am out numbered by Cambodia's youth begging for money or selling black market items to tourists.  The Lonely Planet book I payed $29 for is a mere $3 here.  They speak better English than there parents and hold a glimmer of innocence mixed with a street smarts unparalleled.  They beg and play in the streets unaware of what their parents have endured in the last few decades.  If they still have parents.  The best estimates are that 1.7 million men, women and children were executed.  At the Killing Fields I saw a tree where children were taken by the legs and bashed upon the trunk in order to save bullets.  At S.21 which at one time was a high-school, an exercise post was used to draw people up until they lost consciousness.  Then putrid water was doused on their bodies to awaken them and the lashes would begin.  They were led to a cell, shackled to metal beds, tortured and killed.  I could see the blood stains on the yellow and white checkered flooring.  Meticulous documentation was taken of every person wiped out and the photos line the rooms and haunt you while you try and take it all in.  I couldn't bring myself to take pictures of some of what I saw.  
      In spite of this, under the thumb of such recent history, the Cambodian people have made the best of recent years and seem to be adapting and finding progress.  I am nothing but a tourist but I have never seen such warm and friendly people.  It is not uncommon to be stopped in a plaza and asked, "Where are you from?  How old are you?  How much money do you make?"  I have found myself watching the shadows change while I engage in lazy conversation over nothing in particular.  I'd like to think I am slowly gaining the right to call myself a world traveler, but I have never experienced anything quite as remarkable, quite as beautiful as I've witnessed here.  


      In all my adventures there is one consistent.  People don't generally like Americans or trust them.  From Peru to Baja Mexico, Bolivia, Thailand, Argentina, Chile, or Cambodia we are not always the beloved people we think we are.  Our government is meddlesome and manipulative.  We support whatever regime will keep our prices low meanwhile preaching from the mount about freedom and democracy.  Disagree?  Let me ask you this.  Do you think we were unaware of the atrocity taking place in Cambodia?  Or was it simply not profitable enough to get involved?  I don't have the answers to these questions but when an American gets outside their bubble, when they abandon FOX News and the Washington Post there seems to be an immense amount of data that is general knowledge to the rest of the world and simultaneously lacking in our own papers.  Who freed the Cambodians of Pol Pot?  The Vietnamese.  Remind me but weren't we at war with them?  

      I love my country and I defend it the best I can as an individual.  At times I get angry with the anti-american rhetoric but I politely listen.  Listen.  Listen, listen and listen more.  I think we Americans could do a lot more listening and less speaking.  I don't want to be forced to wear this, do you?  But are we really so far away from it?  Ideology is a powerful and persuasive tool.  The farther away I get from the America I love, the more I see how brainwashed we are by corporate advertising, poor food production, political injustices, lobbying powers and a general idea that our ignorance, not our thought is our freedom.

Angkor What???

     Cozied up against the alluring town of Siem Reep in Cambodia hides Angkor Wat, the eighth wonder of the world.  It began during the 8th Century when King Jayavarman II declared himself the supreme being.  Building continued to develop through the reign of various kings, it changed from Buddhism to Hinduism and back again between 790 AD and 1327 AD.  The western world discovered it in 1908 and since then the French and Americans have been investing in its restoration.  But enough of history.

     We've all seen the photos of Pyramids, Machu Picchu slipping behind the cloud forests and the The Great Wall.  Angkor Wat rightfully stands among the great achievements of man.  It's scope is vast and it touches the soul like the many water lilies floating in the surrounding waters.  In Angkor Thom hundreds of faces, larger than two men standing on shoulders, are built into the temple walls.  You may recall a scene from Tomb Raider with Angelina Jolie; parts were filmed in this very spot and much was modeled after the bizarre and eerie feeling that accompanies these ruins.  The craftsmanship and stonework are so detailed it is said that it must have been done by women because a man's hand would not be capable of such delicate and beautiful work.  Every wall, every corner and ceiling and entrance are meticulously covered in stone carvings.

     I wanted to write something great for such a great place but my imagination escapes me.  Better just to let the photos do there work.  Enjoy.

If You Meet Buddha on the Road...

     Bangkok is awkwardly nestled somewhere between the the old-world tradition that we westerners commonly conjure up in in our minds and a post modern mass of skyscrapers and technology quickly making its presence known to the rest of the world.  It frantically bustles at a dizzying pace beneath a whirl-winding blanket of smog and exhaust.  The humidity only makes the tension stick to the skin more; it's a wonder the go-go girls and ladyboys are able to have such intimate moments covered in the

Khaosan Road

Yes...I ate every bug.

musk of grime and pleasure.                                                                                                                         The whole squalid scenario only adds to the charm of Bangkok.  It bothers neither the prostitutes nor their over overaged, pot-bellied counterparts.  Only under the Bangkok skyline have I encountered anything like it.  And it's fascinatingly, no intoxicatingly erotic to watch.  Like a car crash that you can't seem to take your eyes off of, coming at you over and again.  But there is so much else going on as well.  Just as the eye delights in a feast of color and speed, so is the nose bewitched by thousands          of spices and herbs being cooked in the streets.  Old mothers and young daughters who have opted out of the love profession are busy sautéing, frying and grilling every imaginable sort of treat you could imagine.  If whole fish and skewered squid doesn't flirt with your palate then there is plenty of chicken, pork and beef to be had.  Just remember, it's all spicy.  But therein lies the beauty.  Just when you think you can no longer bear the heat beating at your brain, a small chili will attack you from the inside sending those tiny marbles of sweat beading up on your forehead and upper lip.  When you put all these sensory impulses into one brain it's only a matter of time before it overloads and has to re-boot.  A mid-day nap to escape the heat and traffic usually does the trick.  When you're finally ready to cope with that, then you start to recognize the architecture.  Cozied deep in the shadows of skyscrapers and condominium buildings are the old temples and royal palaces.  Buddha is very much alive and he tranquilly watches over his flock with a passive acceptance and radiant joy while we humans go about our linear existence.  There is a saying, If you meet Buddha on the road, kill him.  He must travel by boat because he is simultaneously everywhere while comically not existing at all.  Such is the magic of the original pot-bellied wanderer.  I must meet this vagabond and share a cup of tea.

caterpillar 

The nightly market

The American Institution.  At least it's politically correct.