Maglayas

The most epic squat toilet of all time

2011-07-14T17:21:00.000-07:00

I hadn't planned on blogging during this six-week trip that we are taking to South America - the first couple of weeks were going to be pretty internet-light, and that's before we even get to the backwaters of Bolivia - but then I saw this squat toilet and thought, holy crap, it's just not right to keep this to myself.
I have a long, somewhat torrid history with squat toilets (see Squat Toilet: Still Not Owned and even better than set or scrabble, among others), so I know what I'm talking about when I say that this squat toilet was fucking terrifying. Sure, that picture looks innocent enough - you might argue that, hey, it's far from the tents and at least there's a weighted shower curtain in place to give some semblance of privacy.

Here is what's next door. I visited the toilet for the first time after dark and could not figure out where the oinking was coming from. You know what's not fun? Worrying about a pig charging you when your pants are around your ankles. I was pretty certain that the pig had been in some sort of pen, but in the morning I noticed that there were stone steps leading out of the pen to freedom.

In any case, I can handle a pig. What I can't handle is fearing that I'll fall 15 ft through the planks into a giant cesspool of diarrhea. Which is exactly what happened every time I tried to position my feet onto two wobbly planks of wood balancing precariously on some wobbly logs. Michael actually discovered that the front plank slides back and forth. WTF??

I really appreciate that this family let us camp on their property, and they were pretty awesome people. I just wouldn't mind, oh I don't know, some wood that is actually nailed down if I'm going to be hovering 15 ft above human waste.

colonialism at its . . .finest?

2008-08-30T05:51:00.000-07:00

Luang Prabang is the old French administrative capital in Laos, and I'd heard from scores of people that it is an amazing place to relax for a while -- good food, good strolling, good everything. And I love Marguerite Duras' "The Lover," a story set in 19th century French Indochina that was strikingly beautiful. So I was looking forward to spending some time here. I'll admit, it's stunning -- they did a great job of preserving the old French colonial architecture, and the crumbling buildings set amidst all the overgrown foliage are so romantic. The evenings here are warm and humid and seductive. LPB still has the smoke and street food and motorbikes that all Laotian towns have, and it adds to the sort of romance and adventure of it all. But it's all very . . .French. And it's been stirring my shit up ever since I got here.

This is the first real colonial town I've ever been to. I've been to the Philippines, which was a Spanish colony for 300 years, but it doesn't feel like Spain at all. And perhaps because the Filipinos embraced the Spanish more than you'd expect (dance, music, food, religion, and pretty much every Filipino has a little Spanish in them), it doesn't seem like . . .that big of a deal? And India was a British colony, but you'd hardly know it except for everyone speaking English. It feels like India everywhere you go, and that is the main allure of it. I guess the thing that threw me off about LPB is that everyone enjoys it because of its colonial influence. Laos is a total backwater, all one-road towns and dirt roads and tiny villages filled with shacks, yet here is LPB, a total anomaly in the country. LPB isn't Laos, it's a gorgeous, tropical 19th century French town; a French friend even told me that LPB has better baguettes than Paris. Couples walk arm-in-arm revelling in the beauty of it all, but I just feel like an asshole. It feels too wistful for something that was, in every other respect, horrible. It's pretty hard to reconcile the romantic in me that loves LPB's aesthetic, with the guilt-ridden historian in me that wonders what joy can be found in colonialism. I don't understand how I'm supposed to forget that the French barged in with total disregard for the Laotians, never integrated into the culture, and created LPB, an unnatural town that was ground zero for their claims to superiority, let alone think that it's all so romantic. Beauty is only skin-deep here.

note: this isn't a post to rag on the French, or imply anything about French people. colonialism wasn't limited to the French, and anyway every world power does horrible things. I mean, come on, I'm from the U.S.! this is purely about ethics, and nothing more.

"oh I miss new york, I can't wait to . . .mmm, is that pad thai?"

2008-08-24T06:43:00.000-07:00

I've really been missing NYC, but I have to admit, Thailand is probably one of the best places on earth to forget your woes and distract yourself by means of delicious food. Think of your favorite thai restaurant, then imagine a world where you can find your favorite dishes on every corner, steaming hot and made fresh in about 3 minutes, for about $1. and the best part is that there's great hygiene here, so you're probably not going to get sick (ahem, India). seriously, everytime I think about hopping on a plane back home, I pass a noodle stall and, well, obviously I'm still here.

I swear, every street has some sort of setup that looks like this. how am I supposed to moan and pout about being away from home when there are so many curry stalls to be conquered?

home sweet home

2008-08-21T02:44:00.000-07:00

Long-term backpackers are a really cool, interesting bunch. in the same way that I started seeing NYC from a new perspective after being away for so long, I think that being jolted back into the travelling world after a month in my old routine has gotten me thinking about what the common denominator is. I've had the "travelling conversation" (ie where are you from? where have you been? where are you going? why did you leave? etc) with hundreds of people, and the number of stories out there is staggering. but everyone left family, friends and everything else they love and are familiar with, and regardless of the story, it takes a special kind of balls to do that. so they must be searching for something that is, at least temporarily, more urgent. I used to believe I was above all this and that I was just travelling because it was the natural break in my life, but after a month and a half back home in NYC, I think the majority of travellers, including myself, are looking for a place to fit in. a home, or enough time away to be reminded of how great home really is. not that I think people are necessarily aware of this. I only realized that it was home I was truly searching for after I actually came back home to NYC only to leave it again a month and a half later, one of the more painful things I've ever had to do.

I've always raved about NYC to anyone who would listen, but I never really appreciated my life there until I left for places that were completely different, and met people who were on a totally different wavelength. I thought this year would be a scouting trip of sorts, a time to find cities where Michael and I might want to live abroad one day. well, it turns out that I didn't fit in anywhere, and while there are a few places that are so cool I'd definitely live there for a couple of years tops, none of them would ever feel like home. I never achieved "blessed, blessed anonymity" (to quote a friend from India, Matt), and everywhere I went, I felt like an other. in Asia, sometimes I'd get mistaken for Indian or Chinese or Thai and I'd think ahh finally, I'll get treated like a local, but when I started speaking I'd get treated like a tourist anyway. even in the Philippines, my own motherland, I still couldn't blend in like everyone else -- I'd speak the local language and I still couldn't get a break because my accent was all wrong.* I was stoked for Europe, the new melting pot where at least I wouldn't be hassled if I wanted a taxi or went to the market, but I found that there were still issues. Cultural attitudes were pretty disparate from mine, and I was even more aware of how "American" I was. not that anyone's attitude was a bad thing, but you know. I was just different.

so after feeling like a total wandering vagrant without a community for 6 months, mildly distrustful right off the bat and grizzled from getting ripped off/hassled so often, I was pretty apprehensive about getting back to the city I'd originally thought was my home -- after how I'd been treated everywhere else, who knew? but it took exactly an hour for me to get over that apprehension. I was going through NYC passport control, and the border officer was rifling through the pages. He asked me where I'd been, told me that he and his wife had loved Berlin (small talk?! wow!), gave me a big grin (an unnecessary smile?! soo American!), and said, "Welcome home." and in the following 6 weeks that I had in NYC, I was half local, half traveller rediscovering it all. home means something different to everyone, but the combination of Michael, community, Brooklyn, vibe, excitement, food and parties was everything I wanted in a happy life. the city just seemed shinier this time around.

then I left, to finish up travelling. 3 months is a drop in the bucket compared to the year I was away from NYC, but somehow this is more painful. if you feel your home, you know what I'm talking about -- you think about it constantly whenever you're not there and can't wait to get back. I had to take a detour through 12 countries to find my way back home, but better late than never.

*(I understand that in these developing countries, the way locals treat tourists is often a matter of necessity. everyone has a family to support, and whatever they're overcharging me is tiny relative to my western dollar. but still, it was hard to reconcile that with a gut feeling that had been instilled in me as a child: treat others the way you'd like to be treated, and everyone should be treated equally.)

aww, Brooklyn. I don't live in any of these houses, but I wish I did.

broke and bipolar

2008-06-20T03:01:00.000-07:00

During my time in europe, I have been so careful about not spending too much money, since I still have 4 months of travel ahead of me and europe is unbelievably expensive -- I pretty much live on street food like doner kebabs, dunplings, pierogies, etc., and I couchsurfed in cities where I´d be spending more than 2 days so I could cut down on costs. I've bought a couple of souvenirs for Michael, but that's it. I decided not to go to the taj mahal because it was $25 to get in; similarly, I bypassed the kremlin in moscow because I deemed it too expensive. not to mention the tv tower and jewish museum in berlin, wawel cathedral in krakow, the list goes on and on. granted, I didn´t particularly care about going into these places -- the whole, 'if you've seen one castle, you've seen them all' and 'I'll see them next time' mentality -- but still, I caught a lot of flack for not seeing some of these cultural icons. unfortunately, all of my penny-pinching was blown in about an hour of shopping at 4 of brussels finest chocolatiers and biscuteries.

Belgium is perhaps the chocolate capital of the world, so Michael and I agreed that I should buy a few bars of chocolate for us to try together when we reunite. 'A few bars of chocolate' turned into:
9 mini bars of chocolate in assorted flavors from Neuhaus, the legendary belgian chocolatier;
2 huge bars of chocolate in milk and dark, a pot of praline sauce, and a small box of truffles from Wittemer, the best chocolatier in Brussels as reported by the two belgians who worked at my hostel;
250g of chocolate covered spice cookies, 250g of chocolate almond biscuits, and 100g of florentines from Dandoy, a little biscuterie with awards plastered all around the walls;
2 bars of chocolate in dark and mille feuilles, 2 tubes of chocolate covered pralines in milk and dark, and a small box of assorted chocolate covered pralines from Galler, a trendy boutique chocolatier.

Total for impulsive chocolate binge: €95. the exchange rate is $1.60 to the euro, I think you can do the math.

what went through my mind as I was spending more on chocolate than some families make in a few months? well, nothing, until I had just stepped out of Neuhaus -- it was the 3rd of 4 stops, and afterward I suddenly thought, shit, I think I've already spent €70 on chocolate. my next thought? 'oh but I told michael I'd go to 3 chocolatiers and that biscuiterie didn't count. so far I have Neuhaus as a control, but only one other brand of chocolate to compare it to. onward to Galler!' where I proceeded to blow an additional €25 on chocolate.

when I finally realized the insanity of what I' d done, I called Michael in near-hysterics, alternately flaggelating myself for how foolish I was, lamenting how he couldn't possibly want to marry someone who could spend that much on artesanal chocolate, and scolding him for not being here to stop me from such lapses in judgment.

the lesson here? don't bring your credit card to the chocolate shops of belgium.

(I almost took a picture to post on this blog, but considering how much money I spent, the chocolate takes up embarrassingly little space. tear.)

Auschwitz

2008-06-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

I was in Krakow for a couple of days, and I initially thought that I would try to avoid Auschwitz, which is only an hour and a half away. I've been to the Holocaust Museum in DC, so I know what happened and I've seen all of the sad family photographs and personal effects of people who died. and I wasn't sure I'd want to see an actual concentration camp and retrace the footsteps of so many people who suffered - does it get any more depressing than that? but in the end, I was convinced by my roommates at the hostel that, really, it's my duty to go once in life. so I went, and even though I'm glad I did, I never, ever want to go back.

everyone knows about Auschwitz, so I won't bother rehashing the history of the place. and I hope you've seen Schindler's List or something, because I didn't have the heart to take pictures. but the first thing you notice about Auschwitz is that it is huge. logically it should be, but I guess I never thought about the scale of the operation when I learned about it. but it's at least a kilometer long and wide.

the second thing you notice is how quiet it is. Poland is a beautifully green and fertile country that oozes with life, and even on the bus ride to Auschwitz, I was surprised to see how many thriving communities we passed -- I just assumed that everyone would be too freaked out to live anywhere near it, but no, life went on. when you get to Auschwitz, you're dropped off at Auschwitz-I, which has been converted to a museum; to get to Birkenau, the actual concentration camp, you have to either wait for an hourly bus or walk 3km. I walked the 3km and it was one of the quietest walks of my life, despite the fact I was walking on a main road with the occasional car passing by. I just assumed that I was imagining how quiet it was because I was feeling really solemn, but I figured out what it was once I got to Birkenau. Birkenau is, hands-down, the quietest place I've ever been. don't get me wrong, I've been to deserted islands and I was just in mongolia, which is one of the most remote places you can go. I know what quiet sounds like. but what I realized at Birkenau is that life has sound, even if one never stops to notice. It's only once you get to a place as lifeless and awful and unforgiving as Birkenau that you notice how much more quiet a place can get.

for me, it wasn't seeing the old barracks or even the ruins of the crematoriums that finally pounded in the devastation of what happened. it was all of the smaller details that are overlooked in textbooks and museums. like I would walk down a gravel path, and there would be a sign informing me that Jews who were chosen to be sent to the gas chamber immediately upon arrival would be herded down this path. or you can still see a lot of scratchings on the barrack walls made by the prisoners. or the one that really got to me -- Auschwitz has no shade, and it was a pretty hot day, so I veered off the path into the trees to cool off a bit. at one point, I came across a sign saying that when crematoriums were full, women and children used to wait among the trees for their turn to die.

I won't bother trying to analyze Auschwitz any further -- it's a personal experience that is different for everyone, and honestly I think it will take a long, long time to deconstruct everything I felt there. there's not much more to say about Auschwitz except that you should go once in your life, not only to honor the dead, but also to gain a new appreciation on the life you have.

"Uncle!"

2008-06-12T04:25:00.000-07:00

I grew up in Chicago, land of slaughterhouses, polish sausages and deep-dish pizzas so unhealthy they will make you cry uncle. and I was raised in a Filipino household, which is all about meat, meat and more meat, with rice to weigh it down in your stomach and vegetables served sort of as an overstewed afterthought. and I love to bake, so much so that I often bake too much and keep the leftovers in the freezer to eat for breakfast. so I like to think that I can hold my own when it comes to fatty, carb-heavy cuisines that lead to obesity and heart disease. however, Lithuanian cuisine has humbled me and my arteries.

I read about these kepta duona in the Lonely Planet, and they described them as "fried bread sticks oozing garlic." so I was envisioning some sort of pan-fried garlic bread, like when you grill a cheese sandwich. well, not really.

not only were they deep-fried so thoroughly that my jaw started hurting from all the chewing, but come on. does it really need to be smothered in cheese? even someone from Wisconsin wouldn't have the nerve to do something so gratuitous. since these are considered beer snacks, I was curious to see what the main courses were like.

this is the infamous zeppelin -- people at my hostel warned me that I would shorten my lifespan considerably if I ate one, and now I see why. it is basically a potato stuffed with minced meat and cream, and then doused in sour cream, butter and bacon bits. now these are all ingredients that I consider ideal in most circumstances, but in these quantities? do Lithuanians have no shame? I don't know if you can tell, but there is a layer of what I think is straight-up lard covering the plate. unbelievably, one zeppelin is considered a half-order -- I nearly threw up watching the woman at the next table eating a full order.

white nights = best insomnia ever

2008-06-12T02:21:00.000-07:00

the White Nights are something everyone in st. petersburg looks forward to -- after a long winter where the sun rises at 9am and sets at 2pm, everyone is jonesing for some sun. well, 'some' sun is a bit of an understatement -- when I was there, the sun sort of set for about 2 hours before coming back up again at 3am, and apparently around the summer solstice, the sun stays on the horizon all night long. it's really neat, as long as you have some sleeping pills or nyquil handy -- my circadian rhythms were completely thrown off, and judging by the amount of people strolling the promenades and sitting in cafes, so was everyone else's.

11:45pm, the canals off nevsky prospect

12:15am, the rostral columns

12:30am, the museums across the neva river

what the Lonely Planet doesn't tell you about the trans-siberian

2008-06-03T22:22:00.000-07:00

I broke up my trans-siberian journey into 3 different legs -- Beijing:UB, UB:Irkutsk, Irkutsk:Moscow -- and the first 2 trains were pretty tame, as I had expected from reading up on my trusted Lonely Planet. Maybe that's because there's only 1 express train/wk right now that stops off in UB between Beijing-Russia, so naturally it will be filled with westerners, and UB:Irkutsk is relatively short at 28 hours so perhaps that's not enough time to get into the full swing of train dynamics. But my journey from Irkutsk to Moscow was a 3-night/4-day slog through Russia, which afforded me plenty of time to meet/avoid various people on the train as well as curse my Lonely Planet for not better-informing me about what to expect.

Don't get me wrong, I loved the train ride overall -- there is beautiful scenery outside, ample time to read and listen to music, and great people-watching. and I don't think all trains are like this -- 2 of my friends from Irkutsk were on train #1, the Rossiya, which is as tricked out as you can get and costs about $80 more as a result. But if you take a regular express train, you can expect any/all of the following:

1) crazy Mongolian traders: I had no idea these people existed until 4 days ago, perhaps the LP writers lucked out and didn't run into them. the traders buy a load of cheap wares in China (jeans, shirts, tracksuits, blankets, etc), and then get on the train with not only boxes of this stuff, but mannequins for displaying the clothing. the train had been an hour late arriving in Irkutsk from Mongolia, and 2 friends I met on the train told me that it was because the traders took so long getting through Russian customs. apparently most of them pony up some cash for bribing Russian border patrol, but those who come up short are kicked off the train (but not before a lot of screaming and cursing apparently). furthermore, to avoid customs tax, the traders usually distribute their wares to other non-traders throughout the train car (who are also bribed) so that it looks like they have less stuff. if you think there's a lot of bribing going on, just wait.

so once they get across the border, what happens? they sell the clothing on russian train platforms or from the train car during the short 20-min breaks we get every few hours. russians must come to the train station just to shop, because it is mayhem outside and there aren't very many people getting on the train. the traders bribe the provodnitsas so they can sell from the entrance of the train car, so if both doors to your carriage are blocked up by traders, well you're just shit out of luck and you're not going to get outside for fresh air until Moscow.

the traders also bribe the manager of the dining car so they can use the tables to prepare for arrival at each station, i.e. dressing mannequins, taping boxes, etc. and when they're not doing that, they're in the dining car anyway, getting wasted at 10am, chain-smoking, getting into fights, harassing their women, and generally being the source of eye-rolling from Russians all around. I thought the traders were Russian at first and I asked the dining car manager something about whether they live in Moscow, and he was like, "nyet, nyet, mongolian!" and gave me this look as if to say, we might like a bit of the drinky-drinky, but we're not ghetto!

once the train gets to Moscow, the traders don't even get off -- they have tickets to go back to Mongolia on the same train. this repeats itself all summer long apparently, with traders getting off just to buy more stuff.

2) crazy provodnitsas: provodnitsas are the train carriage attendants who are in charge of distributing linens, cleaning bathrooms, and generally insuring your well-being on the train. I was lucky and had 2 really nice provodnitsas who were cool with my requests to borrow a knife, turn down the light, etc. but 2 of my friends in the next carriage over had fascist provodnitsas, who wouldn't let them off the train at stops and continuously locked the women's bathroom in the train car for their exclusive use. my friend Elsa told me a great story about how the provodnitsa was cleaning the bathroom, so she waited in the hallway until the cleaning was done. the provodnitsa noticed her, then locked the door to the bathroom and walked off.

3) lots of roommates: no one gets off the mongolian train carriages since they were mainly full off traders bound for Moscow, but I was in a russian train carriage, which is an entirely different story. most Russians thought I was insane for taking the train instead of just flying to Moscow; they were only on the train for 1 night max. as a result, I went through 12 different roommates in the span of 3 nights, ranging in age from 7 mos. old to mid-80's.

4) russian vs. mongolian train cars: if your journey originates in mongolia, you get on a mongolian train car, and if you start in russia, you get on a russian train car. I didn't think there was much difference until day 2, when it was swelteringly hot in siberia for some reason and none of the windows in the russian train car would open. everyone starts sweating, and when you're on a long-haul train with no showers, that is serious trouble. meanwhile, my friends in the mongolian train car were enjoying nice summery breezes.

5) nonexistent train platform food: I had brought limited provisions with me on the train thinking that it would be easy to find hot station food for at least one meal each day. after all, the LP said that the choice of fresh items on train platforms was excellent, ranging from grilled chicken, dumplings, forest berries, etc. well it turns out that LP is full of shit :) I asked about hot food at all the stops, but most of the them only had kiosks selling more ramen noodles and cookies. of approximately 13 stops between Irkutsk and Moscow, only the following stops had real food:
Zima -- sketchy looking fried pies sitting around at room temp for lord only knows how long, filled with an even more mysterious meat; one of my russian roommates advised avoiding them at all costs, saying they were probably filled with "sausage from cat or dog."
Novosibirsk -- my friends came back with succulent looking pieces of grilled chicken. unfortunately, I had been lounging in the dining car and mongolian traders were blocking both exits, so I couldn't get off the train.
Yekaterinburg -- I don't know if this counts, because I left the station and crossed the street to buy hot meat-filled pastries so technically it wasn't train platform food.

6) time zones: it's already pretty disorienting to go through 3 russian time zones in a day at the beginning of summer, when the sun sets at 10:30pm as it is and you're basically chasing the sun, elongating all your sunsets on the train. not to mention the fact that all trains run on moscow time, but operate on local time -- so if you're looking at your train ticket and it says your train leaves at 10:30 am from Irkutsk, because Irkutsk is 5 hrs ahead of moscow, you should get to the station for 3:30pm. but try going from Ulan Bator in Mongolia to Irkutsk, which is further west since it's in russia, yet you gain an hour's time. huh?

7) almost no westerners: I thought there would be a ton of backpackers on the train from Irkutsk to Moscow. but most people go in the other direction, so there were only 5 of us on the train. so don't go thinking that it's necessarily going to be a travelling hostel, because it might be more like a mongolian barrio :)

Lonely Planet, I am disappointed in you.

hypertension and obesity, here I come

2008-05-30T21:22:00.000-07:00

the train journey from Irkutsk to Moscow takes 4 days, 3 nights. part of the fun is the grocery shopping -- at the main supermarket in Irkutsk, you usually see other travellers and debate which bread looks less stale, whether you'll get hepatitis from the apples, how long cheese will last without a refrigerator, etc. but considering the limited selection in siberian supermarkets, in the end, there's really no way to avoid a total junk food binge. this is my booty for the 4 days (and this assumes I'll be eating russian train platform food like dumplings, blintzes, etc.!):

in case you couldn't make out everything, here's a list:

5 bowls of ramen, in assorted beef flavors
4 rolls of bread
jar of nutella
jar of peanut butter
4 bananas
bag of oranges
2 types of chocolate cookies
hazelnut chocolate bar
chocolate pretzels
styrofoam tray of apples
canned peaches
2 bottles of unidentifiable fruit juice
can of peanuts

and to think, I demurred on the bacon flavored pringles because I thought they'd be too unhealthy.

Brehmer, this one's for you

2008-05-25T23:08:00.000-07:00

I haven't had a toilet post in over a month (gasp!), but central mongolia's, uh, "toilets" certainly deserve a mention. I'm no stranger to squat toilets (see any number of posts on this), and I've definitely used some outhouses before, but the thing I loved about Mongolian outhouses was the combination of sheer-drop-to-the-bottom and wind velocity that combined for a unique bathroom experience. I never understood why guys liked pissing off cliffs so much until I was pissing into a 20ft. deep hole and the wind was causing a sort of arc-ing effect I'd never had the joy of seeing before. folks, I officially have penis envy.

next time, I'm flying

2008-05-25T22:34:00.000-07:00

it takes a notoriously long time to get anywhere in the philippines, esp during typhoon season -- you're already talking about buses to ferries to more buses, and delays throw everything off. Michael and I had to go to Marinduque, the island where my grandmother is from, for a family reunion and both legs of the journey were pretty legendary, and apparently, fairly typical.

Getting to Marinduque went something like this:
1) my parents arranged a door-to-door service that picks you up from your house in Manila, takes you to the pier, gets you on the boat, then drives you to wherever you need to go in Marinduque. my mom, aunt, Michael and I are squished into the backseat of a 15-passenger van. Duration of car ride to pier: 4.5 hours

2) we catch the midnight ferry to Marinduque and it is a serious health and safety hazard. the boat fits maybe 300 but there are about twice that number sitting on the floor, standing on the decks, and squeezing into the bathrooms. life jackets are in a locked cabinet in the back of the boat. meanwhile, the waves are so rough that someone is walking around handing out plastic bags for people to puke in. a little kid is puking next to Michael, and his puke bag keeps swinging against Michael's leg. Duration of ferry ride: 3 hours

3) we finally get to Marinduque -- the car from Manila is parked below deck, and we return to find that the people who chose to stay in the car during the boat ride have puked all over the steps to the car. Duration of car ride to final destination: 1 hour

Trip summary: we left the house in Manila at 7pm only to arrive at the resort in Marinduque at 4am.

Leaving Marinduque:
1) all the ferries were cancelled for the whole time we were in Marinduque, due to bad weather. on the day we are supposed to leave, the ferries decide to run again, mid-afternoon. we race to catch the 4pm ferry, only to miss it by 15 min. the next ferry is at 7pm. Supposed wait time: 2 hrs, 45 min

2) the 7pm ferry finally rolls up at 9pm. Actual wait time: 4 hrs, 45 min

3) ignoring the station master's request to please stay in the waiting room, everyone rushes to the pier. we watch as people, then cars are unloaded. then we watch as locals take a cart (note the singular, not plural form) back and forth to the ferry to unload bags of produce, which keep falling off the cart as it is rolled down the plank. Duration of ridiculously inefficient unloading process: 1 hr

4) finally, all the stupid produce is off the boat. the boat guy gives the signal and people start sprinting up the plank to get the choice seats on the top level, i.e. open-air seating with easy access to balconies in case of puking. Duration of wait to get everyone sorted: 1.5 hr

5) we finally, finally leave, 4 1/2 hrs after we were supposed to. Duration of boat ride back to mainland: 3 hrs

6) we catch a bus back to Manila, and the driver is blasting 80's ballads like "lady in red," "you just don't love me no more," and every phil collins song I've ever heard. Duration of bus ride: 3.5 hours

7) we are dropped off at the bus stop near my cousin's house and walk back, grizzled and disheveled. Duration of walk: 30 min., + 10 min. for the guards to verify that these dirty hippies are, in fact, related to someone in this nice subdivision

Trip summary: we left the resort in Marinduque at 3:30pm, only to arrive at the house in Manila at 6:30am

I triple dog dare you . . .

2008-05-13T20:18:00.000-07:00

Balut is probably the philippines' most infamous dish -- it is a half-hatched duck embryo that is boiled at an early stage of development and then eaten with salt. I've heard comparisons to everything from soft-shell crab (since there is a beak and feet) to "it tastes just like chicken and egg, together," but since I was too scared to try it while growing up, I could never verify these claims. however, last night my aunt was kind enough to buy 6 balut for michael and I to try. I made the foolish mistake of trying to dissect mine first (as opposed to closing my eyes and downing it like a shot, my mom's method of choice), so unfortunately, I was so grossed out by what I saw that I backed down at the last minute. but watching my aunt and michael eat was pretty fascinating; if you are ever going to try balut, follow these steps:

1) when you look at the egg, one end should be slightly wider than the other. that's the top, and you want to tap that end against the table until it cracks.
2) take off the top bit of shell and suck out the juice. don't worry, you won't be drinking blood -- it's a clear liquid that is sort of like an eggy chicken broth

3) start peeling off the rest of the shell. you'll notice that the bottom part of the balut is hard -- that is some sort of placenta-esque thing that you don't want to eat

4) scrape off the embryonic membrane (this is where I got a bit squeamish) note: whatever you do, don't separate the wings, because the head/beak is underneath and it actually looks like a chicken. and the black stuff is the beginnings of feathers. just FYI

5) throw some salt on it. bottoms up!

and the award for best island ever goes to . . .

2008-05-12T21:10:00.001-07:00

Pamilacan Island is right off the coast of Bohol, the #2 tourist destination in the philippines, so it is pretty amazing how tourism has been so slow to develop here -- in the middle of high season, Michael and I were the only foreigners staying on the island. Pamilacan has everything your typical deserted island has to offer -- beautiful skies and seas, no roads (so no loud jeepneys or tricycles), no restaurants (you eat with local families), and not much to do (bring a few books). but the thing I really loved most was how seamlessly we integrated into the local community while we were there.

in most of the places I've been to, tourists are treated like an 'other.' maybe tourism is helping the decline of the local culture, so people aren't very happy to see you, or sometimes touristy spots are nowhere near where families live, so you get a skewed vision of what a country is like, or lord knows what other reasons there are. but in Pamilacan, random people would sit down and talk with us while we ate, and there was no shortage of little kids who were totally happy to play with us, complete strangers. and our hut was in the middle of everything -- the neighbor's roosters would crow right behind our outhouse at down, and at night we listened to singing at the church in preparation for the town's fiesta. perhaps it's the dynamics of the island itself -- Pamilacan is inhabited by whaling families who all know each other, and ever since the ban on whaling was passed in the 90's, they've all been in the same we're-fucked-unless-we-figure-something-else-out boat. in any case, when we arrived in Pamilacan, we were basically treated like family the entire time. which really made me appreciate how easy it is to find a deserted island, but how hard it is to find a deserted community that will accept you.

on the Bund, everyone is a 13-year-old kid

2008-05-11T19:42:00.000-07:00

the Oriental Pearl tower is probably the most striking building on Shanghai's skyline -- it's the one that sort of looks like a giant, unnecessary phallus meets the Jetsons. the best place to see it is on the Bund side of the river, and walking along you eventually get to a stretch of sidewalk that is just clogged with tourists. why? because the building in front of the oriental pearl has two spherical ends to it, and at this point on the sidewalk, they look like . . .well, you know what I'm getting at, we're all adults here. though "adults" might be a stretch, judging from some of the looks of glee on tourists' faces.

suddenly, the po-po isn't looking so bad after all

2008-05-03T04:02:00.001-07:00

the Dongyue Temple in Beijing is a Taoist complex that basically takes the concept of 'hell' to a completely surreal level. I thought the rat temple in deshnok was creepy (see "kind of like being back home on the J train platform"), but Dongyue turns hell into a bureaucracy, with departments lining the temple bearing names like "Department of River Gods," "Deep-rooted Disease Department," and "Department for Suppressing Schemes." huh? considering that about all I know about Taoism is what I gathered from the cover of The Tao of Pooh (having not even read it), all this focus on death, sickliness and sin is a little unsettling. or at the very least, un-Pooh.

this is my favorite department. you know that if you get sent here, you're in for all sorts of fucked up, middle-ages kind of pain. especially since these guys . . .

. . .are the ones who run the department.

unleashing my inner yuppie

2008-05-01T08:35:00.000-07:00

I've been in Beijing for about a week now, and yeah the forbidden city is great and there are a lot of cool temples around, but what I've been really enjoying is eating at all the bougie restaurants I otherwise can't afford in NYC.

I'm not really sure what is going on -- most places we've eaten at have been maybe 1/3 full, usually not even that. perhaps with all the western business in the area, entrepreneurs are jumping the gun and supply is exceeding demand? maybe they're getting ready for the influx of foreigners during the olympics? maybe we're going on off-nights? perhaps chinese people don't like contemporary fusion cuisine? but either way, we're going to semi-empty restaurants that should cost 4 times more than what we're paying. I normally don't care much for how artsy my environs are (I just want good food and a lot of it), but beijing is making me appreciate just how nice it is to dine in the midst of original art, or perch on one-of-a-kind stools.

cafe Sambal URBAN -- I swear to god, that is how it was written on the business card

Garden of Delight, located in a renovated alleyway. that's hot enough as it is, but you know you're playing with the big boys when you turn your giant white planter (yes, that thing with the banana plant in it) into a toilet pod.

duck de chine -- exposed brick and handsome mahogany inside a converted factory? please, that is the original bourgeois

my lungs long for los angeles

2008-05-01T08:17:00.000-07:00

according to the World Bank, 16 of the world's 20 smoggiest cities are in China -- so I figured Beijing would be bad, but since the olympics is happening in a mere 3 months, it must be getting better by the day, right? not really.

apparently all the coal power plants have been shut down and polluting trucks have been banned in the past couple of months, and soon all construction will be stopped. and locals have been telling us that it used to be so much worse -- doctors used to advise residents not to go outside and sometimes you couldn't see a skyscraper across the street. but even with all the improvements, it sucks to breathe here. and the pollution is so bad that each day, I break out in hives on a different part of my body. good times!

a relatively good day

most days were like this

I took quite a few antihistamines this day

lost in translation

2008-04-26T08:13:00.000-07:00

I know that poking fun at chinese interpretations of english is a pretty cheap shot, but I feel like these two should be exempt.

this is from the menu of one of Guilin airport's chinese restaurants -- this isn't exactly a small regional airport, you can fly direct here from London. I wonder what 'sliced meat cloud' is?

and this is a wet towelette that Air China gave me after my meal -- Air China is part of the star alliance that also includes United, Lufthansa, etc., so it's not like they don't have contact with the western world. but perhaps they don't have much contact with middle eastern patrons?

obviously, someone smoked up and then watched 'bubble boy'

2008-04-26T08:02:00.000-07:00

Zorbing is all the rage in Manali, for obvious reasons.

I mean, who wouldn't want to be shoved into a big plastic ball with an opening that is eerily reminiscent of an anus?

and then get strapped in and rolled down a hill, with 3 indian guys running alongside you "in case anything goes wrong."

I just feel bad for this poor guy, who has to slog up that hill only to . . .run our muddy shoes down.

next time, I'll try "ladies room"

2008-04-23T03:06:00.000-07:00

I've been pretty lazy about blogging lately, for a couple of reasons -- 1) toward the end of my stay in india, I was starting to get a little stir crazy, so I sort of shut down for a bit, and 2) once I left india and arrived in hong kong, I was too busy lapping up western amenities and culture to think about writing. I'll have to backtrack at some point so I can finish my thoughts on india, but meanwhile I'll write a little about my experiences so far in china. if you've been following my blog, you can probably guess what this will be about. yup, toilets.

so I've been on the chinese mainland for about 4 days now, and I grossly underestimated how necessary a working knowledge of mandarin is. today, I went cycling in the countryside with 2 friends, Sara and Cameron, and at one point I needed to find a bathroom. I walked over to a little chinese roadside eatery and asked if there was a toilet. she obviously didn't understand. here's the rest of the, uh, conversation --

me: toilet . . .uh, bathroom?
woman: (looks at me blankly)
me: [thinks to self, shit, how do I gesture this?] uh okay. toilet? [mimes squatting down on toilet, on pavement in front of passing bicyclists and nearby farmers]
woman: (smiles, says something in chinese, but still doesn't understand)
me: [thinks to self, fuck, what else can I do?] uh . . .okay. you know eating? [mimes shovelling food into mouth] then finish? [mimes rubbing belly with peaceful look on face] then toilet? [mimes squatting on toilet again, this time to the amusement of a passing tractor]
woman: (smiles, says in chinese, obviously has no idea what I am doing)

at this point, I give up and walk back to Sara in defeat. Sara speaks some mandarin so says she will try to talk to the woman. she comes back laughing -- apparently if I had just asked for the w.c., the woman would have understood. I come back to the eatery shyly, and meanwhile all the chinese staff are in hysterics because they finally understand what all my pantomiming meant. folks, the lesson of the story is this: exhaust every single word you know for 'toilet' before you start trying to act it out.

you know it's hard out here for a pimp. I mean, rickshaw driver.

2008-03-28T07:11:00.000-07:00

my friend Bjorn is learning Hindi and as I was flipping through his lesson book, I noticed this. man, I definitely would have paid more attention in french if we had anything half this interesting to translate.

dirty hippie alert #4: modern "dancers"

2008-03-28T06:42:00.000-07:00

yesterday, my friend Bjorn asked me and another friend, Philip, if we wanted to go to a japanese dance performance. my initial thought was, awesome, maybe it's kabuki! no, it was even better. I don't even remember the name of the style of dance, but it's all about letting your inner being express itself. in a later conversation, one of the dancers called it "a dance of the subconscious."

this guy's inner being seemed to like clinging to the walls and acting retarded. I know that is un-PC, but christ, how else do you describe this.

and apparently his inner being is actually a monkey.

during all the performances, the other dancers would sit to the side and "feel inspired" by the dance. you can't really tell in this picture, but the guy in the black is swaying in circles, the woman in pink is bobbing up and down, and the woman in yellow is snarling and clawing at the floor.

this is during the finale, when all 5 dancers let their inner beings start interacting.

it started raining, so obviously their inner beings wanted to go outside and be in harmony with nature.

theatre was in the stunningly beautiful, large home of the japanese teacher, overlooking the mountains. the dancer pictured below told me that you have to take the course for a minimum of 3 months, and I couldn't help thinking, you sucker, you are paying the utilities for this guy's pool so that he can teach you crap. absolute crap.

later that night, Bjorn, Philip and I were sitting around shooting the shit and the performance came up. I won't name names, but here's a little slice of our deconstruction. see if you can guess who said what:

"it was really interesting, I think it was about the ego overcoming the self."
"maybe, I thought it was more about life and death and the struggle of the spirit to break free of that cycle."
"uh huh. hmmm. yeah . . .I could, uh, see that."

just to be clear (so I don't go to hell for this post), Bjorn and Philip are awesome and the dancers I talked to were really cool. and I'm sure the dance is therapeutic and all that, and who knows what sort of fucked up dance my inner being would do. but I really, really have no interest in finding out :)

dirty hippie alert #3: the osho devotee

2008-03-28T06:09:00.000-07:00

my past couple of posts have been pretty serious, so I figured I would counter with some dirty hippie action. I've been slacking on the alerts due to a combination of slow internet connection and always forgetting to bring my camera to the internet cafe. this is actually an alert from february, when I was visiting my friend Cyrille in pune.

this was taken outside a german bakery near the osho ashram. for those of you who don't know osho, he is hot shit over here. officially, he is an indian guru who spent time in oregon establishing a commune, and was subsequently deported for immigration violations and tax fraud. unofficially, he is the "sex guru." he's got a pretty open attitude toward sex -- so open that in order to take workshops at his ashram, men and women (mainly westerners) are required to take an HIV text. why? because osho's belief is that people should be free to act on their sexual impulses, and if that means orgies in the public gardens for everyone to see (I've actually heard reports of this), then so be it. unsurprisingly, the demographic at the ashram apparently becomes somewhat skewed, with older western men comprising the majority of devotees. like this guy. come to papa!

the worth of the west

2008-03-28T00:24:00.000-07:00

during my time in india, I've had to defend myself against a fair amount of anti-americanism -- there aren't very many americans travelling in this region, so the few americans who are here end up being a sort of whipping post for frustrated europeans, australians, and other folk. after explaining to them that more than half of americans actually disagree with bush and that I myself worked for 5 years against his domestic policy, they usually let up a little. then we inevitably talk about obama v. hillary, and everyone is excited to see what happens. weirdly, all these conversations have sort of reinforced why I love the u.s. -- sure we've been in a dark time with bush, but people have never stopped trying to change things. and now, with the democratic primaries, there is so much potential for good in the future. coupled with the fact that the past few weeks in india have been really trying, I've been oozing with pride over the fact that I'm from the western world -- women are treated unbelievably better and have much more self-expression, I don't constantly worry about getting ripped off or taken for a ride, we don't throw our garbage in the street or river, etc. if patriotism was about western values and the western way of living, I would be uncle sam's favorite poster child.

all that has changed in dharamsala. it is sobering to understand how much power the west has, and how frustratingly little they do with it, particularly in situations like tibet. I thought I knew what 'marginalized' meant through my work in the u.s. (of COURSE, big drug companies are going to take advantage of old people! of COURSE, wealthy companies are going to exploit their workers!), but the situation with these tibetans is really opening my eyes to how much worse marginalization can get. the organizer in me wants to build a movement from the ground up, but how do you do that against a behemoth like china that doesn't actually give a shit? how do you do that when your people are so spread out and your real government is in exile? what the tibetans need is outside interference, but how do you do that when no country will be your advocate because in the end, it's not worth it, literally? the western world could band together for human rights so easily, and yet they choose not to. over and over again in so many parts of the world.

I've been reading stories about western 'support' for tibet and I don't know if I should laugh or cry. like when pelosi was here, sure she met with the dalai lama but she was so careful to word what she said, because her hands are tied by u.s. interests in china. but for days after, monks were carrying american flags. even yesterday, I had 2 monks approach me, ask if I was american, and when I replied yes, they gave me a big smile. for once, being american scored me bonus points. but for once, I wished one of them had called me out on it. it is so upsetting to be identified with a country that will inevitably let them down because it doesn't have the balls to go against its economic self-interest, because it doesn't have the balls to take the moral high ground.

after the holocaust, everyone said 'never again.' and yet, my beloved country and my beloved western world, with all of its money and power, still can't do the right thing.

this guy is part of a group of young tibetans that paints anti-china/pro-tibet tshirts all day long. here he is, with the beginnings of a shirt that will show the tibetan and u.s. flags intertwined. as if my heart weren't breaking enough as it is.

free tibet

2008-03-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

I am in dharamsala right now, where the dalai lama is living in exile. usually it's pretty shanti shanti here, but things have changed ever since the massacres in lhasa in mid-march. half of the tibetan shops were closed when I arrived, out of solidarity with the strikes in tibet. tibetans, even the monks, are painting their faces with pro-tibet slogans. everyone, including foreigners, is displaying a tibetan flag. there are at least 2 different hunger strikes going on. walls throughout the town are papered with news articles from around the world regarding the massacre, pictures of murdered monks, and painted signs expressing tibetan frustration. there are continuous marches throughout the day, and candlelight vigils and prayers at the temple complex at night.

as a western liberal, I've always known I should be pro-tibet, but I never actually felt what that meant until I got here. it is really sobering to see how little power and leverage these people have against a behemoth like china, and how no country will actually step up to defend these people if it means acting against their economic interests. for example, nancy pelosi and 9 senators came to dharamsala to meet with the dalai lama, and there are still signs up saying "thank you, united states, for supporting the tibetan cause." that makes me want to cry.

or, we could just do that

2008-03-17T04:12:00.000-07:00

I needed to recharge my cell phone today but there was no electrical outlet in my room. I asked the owner of my guesthouse where I could find an outlet, and he replied that there was one on the wall near my room. I was fine with just plugging my phone in right then and there, but, nice guy that he is, he offered to set up an extension cord into my room.

hello, shady, shady live wires.

kind of like being back on the J train platform

2008-03-12T06:37:00.000-07:00

this is the Karni Mata temple in Deshnok, renowned for its holy rats. around 22,000 of them.

there's a neat story behind it, something about the hindu goddess Durga asking the god of death to resurrect the son of some guy, and when he refuses, she takes all the souls in the underworld and turns them into rats, thereby depriving him of company. something like that. either way, the story was the least of my concerns in this temple, especially since I arrived shortly before dawn in time for their morning feeding. in case you're not sure what's going on in that last photo, those are 2 rats nibbling at my feet -- thank god the sadhu was nice enough to give me booties.

what can YOU fit in a pickup truck with an extended cab and short bed?

2008-03-11T00:24:00.000-07:00

because in India, you can definitely fit:
* 14 people in the bed, as long as 4 people are standing. oh, and 2 goats.
* 2 people on the roof, though I think 4 would still have been comfortable
* 4 women in the backseat with 5 children in their laps
* 3 people in front, in addition to the driver

welcome to my ride across the thar desert to get back to jaiselmer.

definitely better than backgammon

2008-03-06T19:14:00.002-08:00

in an earlier post, I talked about games I had invented to make the time pass quicker while on the squat toilet (see, "even better than set or scrabble"). I have a small addendum to that.

Bullshit: (esp good if you have just taken a 3 hour cooking class or are in a town with Gujarati food) you create a massive pile of shit on the porcelain, and then see how many quarter buckets of water it takes to flush it down into the hole.

is this becoming excessive? I think it probably is.

a sunset that is . . .memorable

2008-03-06T07:55:00.000-08:00

looking at this picture, you'd think I just went to some badass indian rock concert, right? nope, I went to watch the sunset. that's right folks, these people are filing off of a mountain. I'm in mt. abu right now, which absorbs a lot of the honeymooning runoff from udaipur, and sunset point is supposed to be one of the most romantic things to do here. I mean really, can you imagine anything more romantic than . . .

walking up a shit-stained street, hand-in-hand with your beloved . . .

so you can sit on benches and crowd around with 1,000 of your closest indian newlywed friends (while women walk around selling bhel puri, chai, and other snacks, of course) . . .

and take pictures as the sun (what you can see of it, as there are probably people in front of you) sets into dust? smog? what is that?

Bond does india

2008-03-04T08:47:00.000-08:00

Udaipur is my first stop in Rajasthan, and any local will tell you that it's most famous for its part in 'Octopussy,' a mediocre Bond film (Roger Moore, not even Sean Connery). after spending a good chunk of the day walking around, I was a little miffed to discover the following discrepancies between the film and reality:

1) There are gorgeous western women running around half naked and in perfect hair and makeup, everywhere. Manning the rows on the boat, at casinos in sheer tops, bellydancing for guards, all of it a veritable boobfest. First of all, those women don't exist here-- most western women here are pretty grizzled from all the travelling they've been doing, and I certainly didn't see any dirty hippies in that movie. Secondly, those women would be gawked at and/or harrassed by most Indian men between 18-35, and I didn't see a single sideways glance from the general populace. that sounds harsh, but it's a reality -- india is probably not the best place to play out your harem fantasies, yet here is Octopussy, leading a rogue band of hot women on a scantily-clad-women's-only island in the middle of udaipur's lake. wtf?

2) Bond escapes into a jungle, where he is pursued not only by the bad guys, but also every single type of animal you would stereotypically find in a jungle. there isn't even a jungle around here, but if there were, you certainly wouldn't find a crocodile in it. some would argue that the tiger is legit, but I think we're in the wrong part of india for it. and the big snake is reasonable, but to encounter all of these within 3 minutes? udaipur is the honeymoon capital of india because it's tame and pretty, not because it's the bush.

3) the bad guy's bodyguard is a huge indian guy wearing a turban. I really don't think any of the hollywood producers were thoughtful enough to think, hmmm, he's wearing a turban because we want him to be Sikh. nope, I bet the producer was like, OOOH, what is more indian than a turban? and come on, he has maybe one line in the movie! all he does is grunt, and bring out all sorts of exotic weapons with which to fight Bond. a totally disappointing representation of indian people.

4) no head wobble, no one spitting betel nut juice, no indian music anywhere, and only one cow the entire film? they might as well have saved their money and filmed on a set in Queens, because the only thing they got right was the crazy rickshaw driving.

the stuff of romance

2008-02-19T19:09:00.000-08:00

After almost 7 weeks of solo travel in india, I finally met up with michael a few days ago. we are having a really great time together, despite the fact that our bodies are pretty wrecked from the variety of ailments that have plagued us since his arrival. I have to say, nothing makes the heart skip a beat like:

-- things violently coming out of the body: I have been vomiting for 3 of the past 4 days, likely due to some bad cheese in mumbai and then subsequently feeding myself the wrong things for my recovery. meanwhile, michael has had more poops in the past 24 hours than I've had in 3 weeks, probably because of some sketchy chicken in goa. he actually started taking cipro, when it became clear that his diarrhea wasn't letting up and his gases were becoming "sulphuric."

-- open wounds: I have a lovely little hole in my back from a skin irritation

-- hives: walking on the beach last night, my left arm decided it didn't like something in the air and broke out in a few dozen hives

-- the usual assortment of mosquito/sandfly bites that turn red and swollen

-- (the kicker) bald spots: you'd think michael would go bald first, but I was shampooing my hair in front of the mirror the other day and found a bald spot the size of a dime. thankfully it is under a mountain of hair and unnoticeable, but what. the. hell. after calming down enough to do some wikipedia-ing, it turns out that it is fairly common and often times is triggered by stress or new situations. damn you, india.

-- lying around all day long tired and dehydrated and itchy from the above afflictions

luckily we are the mend, but by the end of Michael's 1/2 weeks here, I'm thinking we'll have a pretty kick-ass, bastardised version of "12 days of christmas" to sing for everyone (i.e. on the 12th day of india, my true love gave to me, 12 poops exploding . . .11 innards puking . . .10 mozzies biting . . .9 arms a-swelling . . .5 bald spots!). it's a good thing we're getting married and are mostly past the needing-to-impress-each-other stage.

so who wants to visit me in india next?

under the knife. sort of.

2008-02-14T06:44:00.000-08:00

I am in mumbai visiting a friend, Jordi, and it is almost like being back home in NYC. the city is incredibly cosmopolitan and probably the most westernized place I´ll see in india -- I can walk around in tank tops with my hair down and men don´t care, and there are loads of indian women in western clothes. not to mention the bars and restaurants -- I went to one of the most beautiful rooftop bars I´ve ever seen where I paid 500R for a drink ($12), then proceeded to eat a hamburger with gorgonzola and caramelized onions. there are beautiful people and general flash everywhere so I figured, hey, it´s valentine´s day and I´m seeing my fiance in a day and a half, not to mention hanging out on beaches for all of next week -- let´s get a brazilian! mumbai will probably be the best place in india for this, right? uhhh . . .

now I´m used to fairly basic parlors -- my favorite place in NYC was run by severe russian women who served free wine in the fluorescent-lit waiting area. I don´t need ambience and I don´t need someone to baby me through it. the experience started out benignly enough -- Jordi once got a facial at a salon located in an upscale part of mumbai, and said that it was clean and probably as good a place as any to get waxed. I walk in and it is bumpin, and in a matter of minutes, I´m being whisked away to a back room.

the first thing I notice is that the wax is in a regular kitchen pot. like the kind I use for making couscous.

whatever, I´m sure it´s fine, I think to myself.

the second thing I notice is that the woman has a butter knife. and she is dipping it in wax and coming toward my vagina with it.

the third thing I notice is that the wax is a little too hot. noting my discomfort, the beautician is blowing on it to cool it down before applying it to my skin. I have to laugh, because this random woman is effectively blowing on my genitalia.

and just when I think I can calm down a bit, she asks if I would like my landing strip trimmed. I say, sure. she brings out a huge pair of kitchen scissors. like the kind you use to debone a chicken. I hold my breath and pray that her aim is good.

if I had closed my eyes, it would have been just like any other brazilian I´ve ever had. unfortunately, that wasn´t the case and the beautician kept having to remind me to relax. yeah, you try relaxing when sharp metal objects are hovering around your clitoris.

India revelation #2 -- candy can be currency

2008-02-11T05:28:00.001-08:00

I was just in Pune visiting my friend, Cyrille, and one day we decided to go out for western food. you are supposed to look at all the food stalls and then go back to a central cash register where you pay in advance for your food and take the ticket to the stall, and only then do you get your meal. I had a bill of 165R, but when I gave the cashier 200R, she gave me back 30R and said she didn't have the extra 5R, and the look on her face seemed to imply that I should come back later for my change. Cyrille was just finishing up his transaction, and at the end, we both received mini Kit Kat bars, which we thought was just a nice gift from the management.

As I was finishing my meal, I decided I wanted to take the leftovers home with me. it turned out that takeaway boxes are 5R, so I thought, PERFECT, I'll just get my change from the cashier and use that to pay for the box. and this is where things go awry.

Me: Hi, I was wondering if you had the 5R you still owe me.
Cashier: I don't owe you 5R.
Me: yes you do, remember, I gave you 200R and you only gave me 30 back? my bill was 165R
Cashier: ahh. (head wobble) I gave you a Kit Kat.
Me: yeah I know. it was good. but you still owe me 5R.
Cashier: we don't give 5R change here. if someone needs 5R back, we give them kit kat.
Me: but you gave my friend a kit kat too, why did he get his for free?
Cashier: we owed him 5R too.
Me: oh. (pause) well here's my problem. I want a takeaway box for my pasta but they cost 5R, but I don't have any change left. can you just give me a ticket for a takeaway box?
Cashier: then give me back the kit kat.
Me: I can't, I already ate it.
Cashier: then you have to pay me 5R.
Me: but if I give you 10R, you're just going to give me another kit kat.
Cashier: yes.

the rules of the road

2008-02-01T05:09:00.000-08:00

I'm in Hampi right now, a gorgeous, gorgeous area of india. it's basically a rock landscape -- millions of boulders stacked on top of each other, for miles all around, with rice paddies and the occasional rock temple thrown in for fun. everything is pretty far apart and there's no public transportation, so I decided to finally sack up and learn how to ride a motorbike. it's actually pretty easy, though riding in india is a different ballpark so I've come up with this set of rules for my future reference:

1) when encountering rickshaws or other bikes, just move left. when encountering trucks, tractors, or buses, get off the road if you want to live
2) front braking on gravel or sandy bits = not a good idea, unless you want a souvenir scar from india all over your face
3) little kids who run up to you and yell 'hi' and stick their hands into the road are cute, so slow down. but don't stop, otherwise they'll surround you and poke your arms and try to practice their english with you, and it takes a while to escape.
4) if a local sidles up to you on his scooter while you're driving and tries to initiate sketchy conversation, feel free to yell "fuck off, can't you see I'm driving?"
5) try to carry a spare water bottle of gasoline in your rucksack. that's right, a water bottle.
6) there is no need to honk at goats because they always stay to the side. chickens, birds, pigs and normal dogs will move when you honk, but honking will only piss off crazy dogs and make them run after you. cows won't listen to anything. especially if they're too busy being intimate in the middle of the road.

even better than set or scrabble

2008-01-28T06:28:00.000-08:00

if it seems like I'm talking about bodily functions a lot more than usual (which, admittedly, is already more than the average person), it's because most conversations with backpackers in india inevitably turn to poop, and all the irregularities and misadventures revolving around it. fortunately all my stories only concern pee so far (see past post, "Squat Toilet: Still Not Owned"), but I was complaining the other day that squat toilets really make me miss relaxing on the toilet with a good book in hand. they're just not conducive to such leisure. so I figured I'd blog about the games I've come up with to pass the time during a bowel movement.

1. Battlepoop -- sort of like battleship. the object of the game is to land a poop squarely in the little pool of water. however, I've since stopped playing this game because of splashback -- even though I win, really, I'm losing.

2. Pin the Tail on the Poop -- after you purposely land one piece on the porcelain, you aim to hit it again and again with each subsequent piece. this is my favorite.

3. Chutes and Poops -- (this works best after an initial pee) poop lands on the porcelain, and you see how high up you can get it before it won't slide into the water anymore

if you have any other suggestions for games I can play on the crapper, please let me know because I am bored to tears sometimes.

maybe I'll take the train next time

2008-01-27T01:46:00.000-08:00

my plan for this morning was to take the bus from munnar to coimbatore -- the guy at the tourist information center told me that it left at 6:30am from the bus stand in town. easy enough, right? not really.

after I finally found the unmarked bus stand, 6:30 came and went, so I started asking the locals, "what time does the bus to coimbatore leave?" I got the following responses:

"6:30"
"6:40"
"7:00"
"7:20"
"9:00"
"10:20"
"5pm"
"6pm"
"there is no 6:30 bus"
"there is sometimes a 6:30 bus"
"there's a 6:30 bus but it leaves at 7"
"do you want tea or coffee?"

all spoken with the trademark head wobble, my absolute favorite.

yet another reason to love india.

my first indian traffic jam

2008-01-26T05:00:00.000-08:00

I'm in Munnar, a hill station high up in the mountains of Kerala. it is 60km to get from the bottom of the mountain to the actual town, if that gives you any idea of how many winding, single lane roads there are here. considering all the cars, buses, rickshaws and scooters in any indian city, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised that we were caught in traffic for about an hour. the following seems to be the general idea:

* the initial traffic jam. most likely a huge tourist bus meeting another huge tourist bus, and neither can give way.
* the cars/rickshaws/buses start to pile up on either side
* since it's a single lane mountain road, there's nowhere to maneuver. so, people start parking their cars toward the side (turning the one lane road into about 4) and get out to enjoy the mountain air
* time to socialize. people are smiling, laughing, climbing on top of cars/buses to get a better view of what's going on. shanti shanti, indeed.
* out of nowhere, people appear to sell snacks
* those toward the back, like my car, are told to try to u-turn. easier said than done on a narrow mountain road clogged with cars. every able-bodied man between the ages of 15-60 tries to direct each car. however, we still hit the cliff divider, rocks, the occasional small child, etc.
* somehow, cars start moving. people keep all their limbs inside as each car/bus passes.

if I am ever frustrated by traffic on the NJ turnpike or the Eisenhower or the 405, I'll remember that it could be so, so much worse.

Squat Toilet: Still Not Owned

2008-01-25T07:08:00.000-08:00

this is probably an inappropriate thing to blog about, but I figured I'd blog about it anyway as a warning for any of you who are going to be using squat toilets in the future.

I was on a 5 hour bus ride to munnar and had to pee really bad. so I went to the squat toilet and did my thing. unfortunately, I have a habit of looking down to make sure I am hitting the porcelain. (I don't want to veer right or left out of consideration for the next person, since pee on the bottom of your shoes is pretty gross) as I was looking down, the sheer force of my pent-up pee hit the toilet pretty hard and actually splashed back onto my forehead. yes everyone, I gave myself a bit of a golden shower today. the lesson here is: shield your eyes if you are going to look down while you pee.

sunrise

2008-01-23T21:08:00.000-08:00

the one thing I regretted after I left the andamans was that I never caught a sunrise because I was always waking up at 10am. luckily the light shines right onto my bed at the hostel, so I was able to catch it this morning. the only thing better than watching the sunrise over an ocean is watching a sunrise over a lake of clouds.

I'm a cheap bastard now :(

2008-01-21T23:18:00.000-08:00

when I originally started planning this trip, I figured I would budget about $15 (around 650R) a day for hotel, food, and incidentals. that's a good chunk of change in India, but I thought I would use it to make sure that I was always relatively comfortable. however, now that I'm here, I've started judging things by indian standards and it's hard to justify a lot of expenses. for example, I can usually get a meal for 70-80R ($2), and that's in a sit-down restaurant that is decently clean. a meal that costs more than 250R ($6) is really splurging for me, even if it's well within my western budget. and today, a rickshaw driver was charging me 25R to get to my hotel, but I knew he was ripping me off so I bargained him down to 15R. all that trouble to save 20 cents, probably one of my lower moments here.

during my final day at port blair, my friend Alex had a mild freakout to the hostel we chose to stay at -- justifiably so, considering our other friend, Cyrille, and I were killing mosquitos left and right in the bathroom, and while I was brushing my teeth, something was trying to crawl out of the sink. so Alex got a nice room at a nearby hotel for about $30, and later when he came to pick us up for dinner, he told us stories of his hot shower, a bathtub, a full-length mirror, a tv, sheets on his bed, a pillow that doesn't smell like mold, no need for a mosquito net, etc. all these things I used to take for granted! but things I won't have for a while because I can't bring myself to spend more than $3 a night for a room.

dirty hippie alert #2 -- the devotee edition

2008-01-21T22:49:00.001-08:00

I'm sure they're all really nice and well-intentioned, but you should have seen the bemused looks these guys were getting from the locals. these people just scream 'I live in northern california,' no?

Havelock

2008-01-21T01:27:00.000-08:00

After being so chilled out on Neil Island, I was sort of ambivalent about going to Havelock Island -- it's a bigger island with more people, more restaurants, more everything, but I just wanted to keep my lazy hedonistic lifestyle going for a bit longer. not only did I become so lazy on Havelock that I opted to skip my dive course and instead lay around on the beach or on a hammock all day long, but Havelock blew my mind with its beauty. it's still hard for me to describe, so I'll just share what I wrote in my journal at the time:

We [my friend Alex and I] drove past farms and rice paddies and swaying palm trees and happy children as the sun was setting. The clearing through the trees opened up to the widest, most beautiful beach I've ever seen. White sand carefully groomed by the waves pushing back to sea. The water is flawless, arresting and so still. It actually glimmers. A stunning hill of trees fringing the south end. An array of green -- shocking, heart-starting greens where we were, faded lonely color toward the sun. We missed the actual sunset but it still radiated in the sky. Delicate watercolor canvas. An empty sky striped with softness. I wonder how many people start believing in God after seeing something like this.

The ride back is poetry. Really. Alex reminds me that I should look at the stars while he drives the moped, so I look up. A flashing Venus. Mars burns. Orion's belt has turned into a knife. A thousand flecks of cold white against a cloudless sky. It is bigger than my life. The thickness of the air lapped at my skin.

The milky sand is a waterfall at my feet and the water is lighter than light. A child's blue. The sun is disappearing behind a mountain of clouds when I finally get back to the beach. A molten pink fireball kissing the water, a veil of violet hiding their sin.

the Andamans: "if it's smokable, we're smoking it."

2008-01-14T00:48:00.000-08:00

Hi mom. you probably don't want to read this post.

I've spent the past 5 days on neil island, a very quiet island in the andamans where there are only 3 guesthouses, a few restaurants, no internet or cell phone reception, and the main mode of transport is a bike. I always wondered what my life would be like if I had nothing to think about and nothing to do, and apparently it consists of eating, napping, sitting on the beach staring out to sea, reading occasionally, and smoking whatever comes my way.

just to be clear, I've only occasionally dabbled in illicit drugs -- I don't care either way for them, and I much prefer the destruction/debauchery that ensues from alcohol. but in the end, everything in moderation. however, there is nothing moderate about the sheer amounts of hash and grass and cigarettes that everyone has been smoking over the past 5 days -- there is apparently never a wrong place or time for it, since I've seen people roll a spliff and smoke it in plain view of police officers. I've had nothing to drink over the past week since there are no bars anywhere, but I've learned 3-4 new words for hash and smoked the indian and the israeli way, thanks to my new multicultural friends. I haven't been excessive but I honestly think that our collective effort has helped make global warming a nearer reality.

India revelation #1: grown men get spanked here

2008-01-08T07:32:00.000-08:00

I've spent the past 3 days in port blair, a semi-shitty entry city into one of the most unspoilt places in the world, the andaman islands. the reason I've spent so much time here is because of some debacle issuing ferry/boat tickets a couple of weeks ago -- they're in high demand and I didn't get on the ball until this morning. I've heard stories about how chaotic indian queues get, but the reality was even better.

8:45 -- I arrive at the ticket office to find a line of about 250 men on the left, and 20 women on the right (there are always separate men and women's lines). thank god I've got that extra x chromosome. it is hot as balls outside and there is no shade.
8:50 -- people start getting pushy because the ticket office is opening soon. men have their hands on the shoulders of the guy in front of them and they're pushing in a massive line toward the door. meanwhile, there are several indian navy guys with bamboo sticks waiting for them.
8:52 -- a small ruckus. 2 men are pulled out of line and whacked across the butt.
8:53 -- a large ruckus. 5 men are pulled our of line, all are whacked, 2 of whom at least twice.
8:55 -- the doors open and the women are let in first. I enter only to find that I have to get into another women's line, but at least this time, I have 14 to choose from.
8:57 -- the men are let in. I see running and a lot of tripping. I hear a lot of yelling. they are rushing to line up next to each women's line. everyone is sweaty, and that's made even worse because now we're in a relatively small space with no ceiling fans.
8:59 -- lots of money switching hands around me. dazed looking wives in line looking for their husbands, who probably made the right decision by sending the women to buy the tickets. guys are trying to sneak into the women's line. the rare times that the men don't yell at them to get back, I start preemptively staring people down and saying loudly, what are you doing, this is the WOMEN'S line.
9:06 -- bored-looking ticket counter workers take their seat and give all of us a look of disdain
9:08 -- they're just sitting there looking at us
9:10 -- still looking at us.
9:16 -- they finally open the counter. the woman in front of me is buying a boat ticket to chennai and doesn't have enough money, so she sends her friend to get more from her husband. two different times.
9:20 -- in the middle of this transaction, one of the other ticket counter workers needs to replace his printer ink. 2 other ticket counter guys, including mine, go to his aid.
9:23 -- printer crisis averted
9:33 -- I'm next in line. it's supposed to alternate between women's line and men's line, but I've heard stories about men trying to cut in front of women they perceive as hapless, so I put on my best intimidating look, put my backpack on the ticket counter so I can claim as much space as possible, bare my pointed elbows in a 'subtle' way, and say, hi, I'M NEXT.
9:36 -- as the 3rd person in line, I finally get my turn.

I think I've learned my lesson here, which is to either do this online or bribe an island boy to do it for me.

cows, cows everywhere, and not a steak to eat

2008-01-08T01:32:00.000-08:00

that pretty much sums up on my feelings on the cuisine here. I threw up all over the streets of port blair the other day, and even though it's probably due to taking my malaria medication on an empty stomach, I like to think that my body is rejecting all the vegetables I'm now being forced to eat. 5 days down, 2 1/2 months more to go. well, at least my poops have taken on all manner of interesting features.

"Bucket bath, I own you. Squat toilet, you're next."

2008-01-06T04:54:00.000-08:00

the last time I took a bucket bath, I was 11. I was at my lola's house in the philippines and there was a well in the backyard with an enclosure around it, and you pumped out water, heated it on the stove, and then did your thing. not one of my fonder memories, because it felt sort of scuzzy and really, who wants to take a bucket bath when showers are obviously the way to go. so imagine my delight when, after a nice day at the beach with some kids from the hostel, I decided I wanted to freshen up before dinner, walked into a shower room, and saw a concrete room with a faucet and a bucket, with nary a hook to hang my clothes on. since it was dusk, there was also a nice swarm of mosquitos around the little puddle by the drain.

I'm pretty proud of the fact that not only did I sack up and have a neuroses-free bucket bath, I also mastered the art of killing mosquitos while filling the bucket/washing myself. I really think this must be what parents feel like when they watch their child take a first step.

as far as the squat toilet, I'm actually pretty good at sitting on my haunches without peeing on the cuffs of my pants, and I'm not even squeamish anymore about using my left hand whenever I forget to bring toilet paper, which has been often. but I still let out a little yelp whenever I see a gecko or spider, so I don't consider it a true victory just yet.

dirty hippie alert #1

2008-01-05T03:45:00.000-08:00

the first in a series, I imagine. I am embarrassed to be american (I'm assuming he's american because come on, have you ever seen a german or an italian dress like that?)

Day 2: my eardrums long for home

2008-01-05T03:10:00.000-08:00

I took the bus to Mamallapuram this morning, about an hour and a half away from chennai. mamallapuram was fine -- pretty rock carvings, a beautiful shore temple -- but the bus ride was outstanding as an exercise in noise tolerance. it seems like bus drivers here honk at the following:

* when cars/mopeds aren't driving maniacally enough
* to tell people to get out of the way (in a city of 11 million people, this is a frequent occurence)
* while passing cars, both to alert the slower car and warn anyone in the oncoming lane that we are f-ing unstoppable
* when traffic is at a standstill. again, a frequent occurence
* when someone falls off their moped and isn't getting up quickly enough
* when passing a fellow driver or anyone else they know
* a 'fuck you' of sorts to other drivers who so much as question the use of the horn with sideways glances
* when nothing's wrong, to show everyone that he has the loudest horn (i.e. biggest penis)

the honking seems to continue until the situation has resolved itself, sometimes 10 seconds later. as you can probably imagine, there was more honking than non-honking, and the decibels were registering quite impressively since I made the awesome mistake of sitting up front next to the driver. I didn't think anything could be louder than the new kids on the block concert I went to in 1989 (screaming girls + joey mcintyre's falsetto = deafness), but clearly I was wrong.

(picture) cow hanging out at the bus stop -- that cute kid and I were taunting it by mooing:

India: I love you but for no real reason just yet

2008-01-03T21:14:00.000-08:00

after a flight debacle that resulted in an overnight stay in DC, I've arrived a full day late to chennai, where I'm staying with my friend Shona. I haven't left her apt yet and actually I've only been in india for about 6 hours, but I think I'm going to love this country because:

-- it's so humid here that the pages of my books are curling. I'll probably learn to hate it, but so far it's a nice change from the freezing chicago cold.
-- it smells really . . .raw. I don't know how to describe it, but it reminds me of the smells in the provinces of the philippines. sort of earthy mixed with rain and diesel and soap. yum.
-- the driving is chaotic and it's really fun as long as I don't die. it took me a few minutes to realize that everyone drives on the left side here, because my taxi driver was taking advantage of the empty streets and driving on the right to speed past gas trucks that had "flammable" marked all over them.
-- people everywhere -- my taxi driver got lost in the small neighborhood where Shona lives. at 430am, we asked 5 different people where her street was. that even beats NYC I think.

look for more halfway-formed opinions once I actually get off the couch and meet Shona for lunch.

"You're doing what? Are you insane?" and other FAQ's

2008-01-03T20:04:00.000-08:00

"Wait . . .where are you going?"
India from jan-march 21ish, living in beijing with michael until mid-April, travelling through china for as long as I can stand the language barrier (probably a month), cross the border into laos and make my way to bangkok, where I'll fly to london and live there for a month with michael so I don't go insane -- late june-july, most likely. fly back to bangkok and finish up the backpacking trifecta of thailand, vietnam and cambodia. get to malaysia, make my way down to singapore, maybe cross into indonesia and go through sumatra. see my family in the philippines, then fly to beijing so I can take the transsiberian railroad through mongolia to moscow, then get on another train and stop off in warsaw, berlin and brussels before I finally meet michael at st. pancras in london. this itinerary gets pretty sketchy past august, and anyway if I run out of money, I'm coming home a lot sooner :)

"what on earth is driving you to do this?"
it's the natural break in my life -- I hated my job in NYC and was going to leave anyway in January to go travel for 4 months before coming back to find another job. but when I was laid off in September, it actually worked out better because I was able to spend 2 months living in london with michael and see my parents for a good month and a half before leaving. cutting off all my ties to nyc is a lot more exciting anyway because it feels like I have the whole world at my feet and I can do whatever I want. and anyway figuring out what to do next is much easier when I'm relaxing on a beach somewhere in thailand, as opposed to freezing my ass off in february in NYC.

"so what are you going to do when you're done travelling?"
not sure, work-wise. I was throwing around the idea of grad school, but I think I'll miss the first semester with my travel schedule. I think I might just want to get on with it and find a job at a non-profit that won't piss me off as much as the union did. I'm 90% sure I'm going straight back to NYC with Michael -- he's looking into transferring to the NYC branch of his office, and anyway, we have a wedding to plan :)

"you're getting married? no way."
hey you'd get over your commitment phobia too if you met the man of your dreams. may 22, 2009, NYC (probably in queens, if you want a tiny hint for the venue)

"aren't you scared? your parents must be freaking out."
even though I've done a good amount of solo travel, this is kind of scary but not in a getting robbed/murdered/kidnapped kind of way . I don't do too well with loneliness so that's going to be the biggest issue for me, but that's also one of the things I really wanted to face on this trip. learning how to sit in bad spaces and be totally self-reliant. but maybe I'm wussying out by getting cell phones wherever I am. and yes, my parents are freaking out.

"are you bringing, like, everything you own with you?"
no, I have 5 ugly shirts that redeem themselves by being really good for hot weather, 2 pairs of khakis, 2 skirts, mosquito net/hostel sheets, rain stuff, tevas that I am reluctant to wear since I will be pegged as a dirty backpacker wherever I go, running shoes, and a rather impressive array of medical equipment that includes everything from cipro to syringes. a giant package of baby wipes for all the diarrhea I'm going to get. and I'm splurging by bringing a bottle of mouthwash, you know, since I'm american and I'm clearly obsessed with my teeth. etc.

"well . . .don't die."
I'll try not to.