Angkor Hot

Temples of Angkor, Cambodia. I got up before dawn and cycled the 7km to the gate entrance, hoping to beat the crowds when I arrived, a smidgen past six. Despite the early hour, it was already hot and muggy. Sweat dripped down my face in streams, pooling together at my collarbone to form a river down my chest. Ugh. Damn, it's hot out here.  

Still, I was excited to catch a silent sunrise at Angkor Wat. It would not be an exaggeration to state that I was stunned from the moment I walked through the main gate. Not by the temple, no, it was still rather dusky out---it was the hundreds of people already spread out across the expansive courtyard waiting for the sun to crest the temple's grand triple stupas. I was speechless, which may have been moot given the fact that I am traveling solo, but still. Angkor Wat had become a zoo, the lion pen at the center of the park, replete with food and drink vendors lining the entire northern wall. And, to add insult to injury, part of the main structure was obscured by scaffolding, part of a restoration project meant to keep the temples from collapsing on all of the tourists. Pish-posh, I say. 

The only saving grace to this unexpected first impression was that people seemed somewhat unfamiliar with how the sun works. Let me explain. Like many, I have observed that the sun typically rises in the east and sets in the west. Pretty simple, right? Now, on this fine morning, east happened to be behind the stupas, leaving hundreds of people waiting to take a back-lit photograph of three lumpy, dark shadows. Hmmm.

Using all the powers of deductive reasoning I've honed selling deep fryers and potato ricers  online, I went around the main entryway to see if anyone had mowed the backyard. Nope, just me and three other people. Amazing. The sun rose in its typical brilliant fashion, painting deep orange hues across the backside of the temple. I sat quietly on the lip of a boundary wall for 30 minutes and got some great shots. 


The interior of the temple, though a bit crowded, was still worth it. Detailed bas reliefs lined dozens of walls, intricate carvings grace the inside of nearly every doorway and column, stone buddas, goddesses, and naga encircle dozens of massive stupas. 

The most famous of the bas reliefs, covering three-quarters of the outer wall around the central courtyard, is known as the Ocean of Milk, but tastes a lot more like eight centuries worth of dust, lichen and bat guano when you lick it. Even licking it and then biting into a chocolate chip cookie didn't help. Blecch. 

One could spend days lost in this wonderland. I got tired after a few hours and went home to take a nap. Angkor Wat takes a lot out of you. Next, it's on to the capitol, Phnom Penh. 

The Shilling Fields

Siem Reap, Cambodia. After three days of slogging through the heat across Route 4, I elatedly, if not belatedly, arrived at my new base camp. Sitting at the foot of one of the world's greatest treasures--the wallets of foreign tourists--Siem Reap is also home to a slightly less well known archaelogical wonder: The Temples of Ankor. Welcome to the The Shilling Fields.

What a difference a day makes. After casually pedaling past laid-back villages, rice paddies and a wide assortment of extras from The Road Warrior, I was a bit taken aback by Siem Reap, a town with enough louts, touts and bumbling tourists to start its own traveling circus. Apparently realizing the draw that crumbly bits of rock has on foreigners, massive hotels have sprung up like proverbial weeds from every nook at cranny. You can't walk five feet without running into a new spa, gourmet bistro or the army of tuk-tuk drivers ready to carry the populace of Siem Reap to Vietnam for a bargain price. It felt a bit as if an exterminator had helped rid a house of an infestation by lovingly carrying the invader's insidious brood to several new areas of the home, then ladled a heaping dollop of jelly next to each clutch.

No matter, I was going to make the most of it. I purchased a three day pass to the temple complex so that I could explore at leisure. I was excited. Angkor Wat. The very name itself seemed laden with historical significance or at least dangerous electrical currents--either way, I was set. Like many, I had not realized that the temple complex was so massive, housing dozens of lesser known temples. I decided to spend my first day circling what is known as the Grand Tour, a road that carried me a full 21 kilometers around the outer temple ring. Starting out at Banteay Kdei, I was immediately set upon by an unexpectedly formidable foe--little girls who learned English from tourists.

They looked like normal little girls, with their bright smiling faces, joyful giggling and souls forged in the fiery flames of hell. As I said, normal little girls. They approached me like jackals. Jackals who learned English by watching Titanic and Terminator 2. Buy a scarf for your girlfriend? No, thanks. Then buy scarf for your mother, she loves you. No, really. I'm on a bicycle and can't carry anything. Oh, my gawd! Look see, the scarf, it's very light. No problem to carry (she drapes it over my arm). It's a good color.  I really don't need a scarf, thanks (I drape it back over her shoulder). It looks better on you, matches your eyes. (Big pout now on face) Oh, MY gawd! Nooo, not my color. Pink is my color. See? (She points out the pink in her outfit). You buy painting instead? No, no paintings. Like I said, I'm on a bike. Ohh, my gawwd! I know you are on bicycle. You are very strong (grabs my bicep). We can roll up paintings, very small. You can carry. Did you paint them? If you painted them then maybe I buy one (I say sarcastically). OhMYgawd, of course I paint them!  What, you don't believe? You paint me one right now and I'll buy it. (Smirk on face)  Ok, I did not paint (laughs). OhMyGawwd! (At this point I'm laughing out loud) You will come and look again on your way back out, yes? Maybe (I laughed, entering the gateway). Hasta la vista, Bay-Bee! (she giggled and waved)......Did I mention this girl was only seven years old?

The Temple was spectacular, as were Ta Sahm, Neak Pean, and my favorite, Preah Kahn, a tumbled wreck of partially collapsed structures that created a fun maze of broken passageways, fluttering bats, and trees growing right through the cracks of the walls, slowly destroying everything in their stretch towards the sun. I decided to save the heavy hitters--Ta Prom, Ankor Thom, and the mother of all temples, Ankor Wat--for the next day.  As for that little girl, she was waiting for me as soon as I came back out. You said maybe! 

We sparred for another ten minutes but in the end I prevailed. At least I think. I didn't walk away with any painting or scarves but she was so entertaining that I gave her a few bucks for effort. Oh....My.....Gawd.

Baby (Nearly) on Board

Sisophon, Cambodia.  Border crossings are never a fun experience. You wait in long lines, act like you know what you are doing, then carefully observe the people in front of you to see what they do. When they wind up buck-naked with their body cavity's being search without lubricant, you make certain to not do whatever they did.

 The Cambodian border crossing was relatively uneventful, if a bit dull. Now the border town you end up in, that that is a whole other story--just not one for this blog. But suffice to say, it is a series of Cambodian gambling saloons.

Cambodia is a bit more rough and rugged than Thailand, so it was a more interesting experience biking down the only fully paved highway in the country. Massive stone entryways beheld long dirt roads that run deep into the countryside. Thatch houses line the corridors, many built on stilts--a holdover from days when homes were bit directly on flood planes. Chicken run wild through the dust and across the road, occasionally taking care of that whole pesky slaughtering problem in the process.

The vehicles are bit more rugged as well. My favorite are the family motos, small scooters that often have an entire family sitting on them. The positioning of children is where the action is at. If the child is still an infant, Mommy usually just slings her under an armpit off the side; if the child is, say, old enough to sit upright, then perhaps they are lucky enough be sitting on a sack where the drivers legs normally go, and using their new sitting-upright powers to lean against the front of the moto with small, stick hands; from three and up, kids usually get wedged like slices of pepperoni between their parents. It would appear that Brittany Spears is not quite the villain we have made her out to be. 

Cambodians are some of the friendliest people I have ever met, and Trekky has already afforded me some completely unique experiences. As I was biking to Siem Reap, a young man on a moto slowed down to talk to me. He implored me to come with him to his village, just a bit off the road. We chatted a bit, and he didn't seem like the murder-and-eat-you type, so I went with my gut and agreed. While still driving, he took my hand and accelerated up to 35km/hr. Fun, but not recommended for those with worrisome mothers. After a few minutes we veered through one of the gates, and I resumed pedaling on the soft dirt until we arrived at his village.

What happened next was simply remarkable. He invited me into his thatch hut, which was soon surrounded by villagers, both young and old alike. He wanted to read me passages in English from a Khmer-to-English study book he had received, and have me correct his pronunciation in front of his friends and family. The pride on his face was astonishing. Ta cat climmed up da tee. Children laughed and giggled, old women cackled and asked if I had a good women (which I do), and I pulled out my maps to show them where we were. Those who question why I go on these trips, this here is the reason. It was a once in a lifetime experience and I am lucky to have had it. Having firmly bonded, we bowed our heads in acknowledgment, then assaulted and ate a different cyclist instead. Welcome to Cambodia.  

Horton Nears a Jew

Pak Chong, Thailand. The road to Pak Chong is surprisingly steep. I had been led to believe that most of southern and central Thailand, much like Twiggy Lawson, was completely flat. Trekky and I weren't quite prepared for that sort of climb so early in our relationship. Oh right, Trekky. I almost forgot. I did mention that I bought a Trek 4300 mountain bike and a couple of panniers so I could bike out of Bangkok, right? Good, I wanted to make sure we were up to speed.

As I was saying, I was quite exhausted by the time we made it to Pak Chong. Saddle sore doesn't even begin to describe the volcanic welt that has formed round my bottom. But the destination was worth it. Pak Chong is only a stone's thow away from Kho Yai National Park, a largely unexplored patch of virgin rainforest. There were several areas of deflowered rainforest but I don't go for those types of shenanegins.

Kho Yai only has a handful of trails, three to be exact, and to be frank, I am not sure I could have found my way around without a guide. Trailbuilding must be a bit down on the priority list in Thailand. So, we a small group from my guesthouse we set out with an eagle-eyed guide and a 60X magnification monocular scope. Right from the start we were rewarded with a wonderful sight, a trio of rare gibbons, a species of ape that almost never touches the forest floor. According to Wikipedia:

Gibbons are masters of their primary mode of locomotion, brachiation, swinging from branch to branch for distances of up to 15 m (50 ft), at speeds as high as 56 km/h (35 mph). They can also make leaps of up to 8 m (26 ft), and walk bipedally with their arms raised for balance. They are the fastest and most agile of all tree-dwelling, non-flying mammals.

And you should see them fling poo. Halfway through our walk we encountered a massive, twisting, 50-meter strangler fig. Strangler figs are unique in that their roots grow downwards from atop a host-tree, sometimes strangling them to death and leaving a hollow core, as was the case with this specimen.  A series of thick, wooden tendrils climbed up into the sky, and since I was dared, and no one care ever say no to a dare, I climbed about fifty feet off the forest floor into the tangled canopy. What a rush.




There was so much to take in. The roads were literally crawling with troops of macaque monkeys. Cars would zip around them as if they were simple pests. Very odd. Our pièce de résistance was yet to come.

 Hey, uh....could we get a ride to the market?

Just as we were getting to leave, luck grabbed us by the trunk--a long elephantine trunk. Two wild elephants came rumbling out of the forest, seemingly from now where, and began to forage around the edge of the right. Our guide dropped the back door of the flat-bed, and I joined him with our legs hanging over the edge, cameras at the ready. We we no more than 15 feet from 1500 tons of elephants. It wasn't until one turned towards us and made to charge that our hearts leapt in our throats. Our guide yelled at the driver, who floored it. Luckily the elephant backed off. We spent another half hour watching them, majestic yet massive beasts. As we began the long ride home, I asked if the guide if he had ever been charged by an elephant before. Yes, he said. "This new car. Old car..", he paused and slapped his hands together, "like pancake!". His laughter took us the rest of the way home.

 Oh, an eleph....I mean, AHHHHHH!!!!

It's the...Year of the Tiger, It's the Thrill of the Fight

Khorat, Thailand. In America, February 14th might be celebrated with candy hearts, cupid's arrows and legal reminders to remain at least 150 yards away at all times, but here in Thailand this Hallmark holiday kicked off an event of significantly more epic proportions. That's right, Chinese New Year.

Chinese New Year differs from American New Year in at least one key way: our New Year, with its champagne flutes, midnight kiss and firecrackers, is about as lame and doddering as Dick Clark on barbitu....actually, just Dick Clark. CNY on the other hand, is a bit like watching Cirque Du Soleil orgasm in the middle of a town square with thousands of people cheering it on.

Let me back up a bit. Trekky and I arrived in town late on the 14th. Honestly, I didn't even realize it was it was a holiday until I inadvertantly walked into the center of town looking for some dinner. What awaited me was a spectacle the like of which I had never seen. At the far end of the long promenade, a movie screen was erected to play showings of classic kung fu movies. Next came the food vendors. Row upon row of foods that cannot possibly be pronounced using the English language. I ate several things that crunched, squished and squirted, all to my delight. In the center of the promenade was where the real action took place. The Story of the Dragons.

Ï'm sorry...are you a dragon? No? Then shut the eff up".

From what little I could gleen, two great dragons--each brought to life by a dozen able young men, lit with a thousand glowing bulbs--got pissed at some jackholes who threatened a young girl.

 

  I am so pissed at those jackholes right now"

The dragons got all vengeful and stuff, and began a rampage that could not be stopped--that is, until five men dressed like they leapt from World-of-Warcraft came flying out of the sky with giant swords and plunged them into the dragon. This should have worked, except that real fireworks were shooting from the dragons mouth right at the men, and they soon retreated.

Nothing can be said to improve this picture

A hero needed to be called. The men puppeteering this lengthy serpent next ascended and spiraled the dragon around a sinewy pole, so it could achieve its aim of becoming a 30-foot tall helix of glowing, fire-works spewing death. Oh yeah, and some guy dressed like a hero swung up on another pole, bashing the dragon on the head until it died (that little dude on the stick). Maybe. I think. It was all very confusing.





Finally, the stage erupted in a show of massive fireworks, dancing dragons, beautiful women, a level 70 Tauren Druid and, of course, Dick Clark. It was awe-inspiring. There was a whole lot more but a picture is worth at least 280 more words in this case. Wait until you see the video.

 

Chinese New Year: 1    American New Year: 0

Shampoo is for Sissies

Ayuthaya, Thailand. At first glance, one may not realize that I have thick, luscious locks of curly hair. If it weren't for a relatively tight crop and the wonder of modern-day hair jellies, what with their industrial holding powers, smooth finish and delightful aromas, I would not be the dashing, slick-backed young man I am today.

Wait a minute? Why would I do this to my hand? Hmmm.

Unfortunately, getting a decent hair-care product in rural Thailand was proving to be difficult, at least one that didn't make me smell like a salted cod. The hot and heavy humidity out here had curled my hair fierce and angry, like a persian cat in heat.  So I did what any self-respecting traveler who has been hanging around monks for a while would do--I lopped it off. It's amazing how something that takes months and months to grow can be removed in less than six seconds.

Better question: why would I do this to my head?

It's about 20 degrees cooler now, and I have a big enough pile of hair to send to one lucky, old-school German grandmother. My new, sleek design was going to come in handy though. I could tell. It must be time to roll. I can feel it in the air, over the globe of my hull-free coconut.  

Oh my. What have I done?

Tuk, Tuk, Goosed!

There is a scene in Ong Bak:The Thai Warrior, that fitfully demonstrates the superior handling, tight cornering and overall maneuverability that defines the TukTuk experience. Despite the seemingly contradictory nature of this statement, I can personally attest that TukTuks are much, much, less safer than that video shows.

Fortunately, they are the predominant form of transportation here in Bangkok. But don't worry Mom, I wouldn't take such a serious travel risk when there is a much better option available.

Pictured: A much better option.

They typically have an extra helmet stashed away, though I am not even going to try and guess where. They sometimes fit, too.

Not only is it a blast traveling by motorbike through a smokey, humid, gridlocked city where buses, cars, trailer trucks, motorcycles and pedestrians all jockey for position, but it's also dirt cheap. Plus, they have the added bonus of being able to narrowly squeeze between all of the other traffic. You need only only make sure to keep your arms by you side when they suddenly goose the engine for a gap, iffin' you prefer to literally keep your arms by your side. Walking is sometimes preferable.

Chinatown was a great place to start. I figured I knew what I was getting into, having visited similar cultural regions in New York, San Francisco, Auckland and the like. Well, I was in for a surprise. You know that awesome greasy-spoon Chinese dive that's right near your house? The one with the open kitchen, guys yelling in Mandarin, flames shooting from the sides of their woks as they drip sweat into your lo mein? Good. Now imagine if that scene exploded across six square city blocks. Winding pedestrian markets no wider than a yard are lined with every asian specialty you can imagine: dim sum, mochi, roast duck, fermented things, raw things, scary looking things and things that there are not yet words in the English language to describe. It is fascinating. You've heard of ugly fruit, right? Well they have downright dangerous fruit, laden with thorns so sharp and rigid that with a small length of chain and a wooden handle you could easily fashion some manner of medieval mace.   

"Halt! Or thou shalt taste a nutrient rich death!"

And far be it from me to reinforce a racial stereotype but I think I finally figured out why Asians are so damn small. You could easily fit three of them abreast in lanes that could not host the carriage of a single Houston housewife.

Further afield, I found myself on the infamous Kho Sahn road, known chiefly for the throngs of foreign backpackers that flock there. In Alex Garland's brilliant novel, The Beach, (a fantastic read for any serious traveler) he accurately describes Kho Sahn as a hollow portal through which every young traveler will pass. It is a ghastly site. A mesh of cables and telephone wires criss-cross above a solid block of touts and louts, hawking everything from "designer" suits to "authentic" pad thai, as American music spills out of the bars into the crowded lane, washing over clueless foreigners who seem to think they are in Bangkok but are at least eight blocks away from it. Besides, I didn't have the requisite assortment of tattoos, piercings, dreadlocks, or hemp clothing that is the apparent hallmark of young "adventure" travelers. In my humble opinion, if the only locals you see are on the other side of the stalls trying to sell you a discount tour package that eventually lands you a cousin's amulet market, you probably are in the wrong part of town.

"Any last requests Jimminy? Didn't think so."

So far, so good. Bangkok is a great time and new adventures are always just around the corner. Try the cricket. A bit crunchy, a bit salty, but surprisingly edible. Cheers.

Several Enjoyable Evenings in Bangkok

Bangkok, Thailand. At least a dozen people quipped about spending "One Night in Bangkok" upon learning my intended destination. Besides confirming how spectacularly unoriginal we can be as a species, it belied the subtle impact this simple song has had on our collective consciousness. Given the clear importance of this song to the national psyche, I though it prudent to examine the lyrics for a moment. Here is a standard refrain:

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble
Not much between despair and ecstasy
One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble
Can't be too careful with your company
I can feel the devil walking next to me

Having now experienced Bangkok up close and personal, I feel singularly qualified to examine these fateful words for accuracy and authenticity. Lets examine what the research has exposed: 

One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble


TRUE: I could not scientifically assess the accuracy of this statement off-hand, as I am relatively soft and pudgy. However, detailed analysis has revealed that a simple word-swap can make a likely falsehood into an unassailable truth. As such, one night in Bangkok can definitely make a humble man hard, especially after consuming a truly orgasmic bowl of authentic Pad Thai.




Not much between despair and ecstasy

FALSE: Various studies have confirmed that there is a significant gap between despair and ecstasy. Between these bookends exist such emotional subtleties as anxiety, concern and wrenching constipation, amongst others. Having experienced several of these mild emotions first hand, I have determined this statement to be false.



One night in Bangkok and the tough guys tumble

FALSE: If the tough were to tumble so easily, one would have to question exactly how tough they were in the first place. Ring-side attendance at a Muay Thai bout has exposed that not only do vicious elbows to the head, knees to the kidneys, and kicks to the face leave lasting smiles on the faces of exuberant fans, but it has also shown the the tough guys invariably wins, and the pansy-assed loser ends up curled in a fetal position clutching his groin. This is indisputable fact.    

Can't be too careful with your company

TRUE: Without even visiting Bangkok this statement can easily be proven true. For example, by carefully managing growth and cutting unnecessary spend, Lee Iacocca did wonders with Chrysler. Conversely, rampant speculation and foolish shenanigans in the energy markets sank Enron quicker than the Titanic.    

 
I can feel the devil walking next to me

TRUE: Though this has little to do with Bangkok and, if my doctors are correct, has everything to do with my schizophrenia. It turns out that having a little devil walk beside you, pointing out everything your Mom told you not to do in Bangkok, is exciting.

No Thai Like the Present

Hey folks. Welcome to my new and improved travel blog. After carefully calculating the potential wrath (and existence) of a fire and brimstone first-testament Yaweh, I have decided to retire the Tales of the Wandering Jew. In its place has arisen The Throne of Immortality, a play on a favorite quote from the immortal Don Quixote. I have transferred all of my original posts over so as not to deprive any new or future readers of the pleasure of my history of madness.

Yes, I have once again flown the proverbial coop--a strange saying if there ever was one, given the poor aerodynamic properties of even the most advanced modern-day chicken coops. After about a fortnight of non-stop flying I have found myself in the not so unpleasant berg of Bangkok, of which I have absolutely nothing to say about at this point. For those keeping score at home, I have bested the initial odds, with both my rucksack and vital appendages intact.

I have been waiting a decade for the opportunity to use rucksack in a sentence and not have it be a veiled reference to a vicious blow to the genitalia. It's really the only reason for this post. Well, that and the photos I have just added. Cheers.