Author: Chris Tharp
Date: 2014-11-23 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: General Fiction
Publisher: Signal 8 Press

THE WORST MOTORCYCLE IN LAOS

Rough Travels in Asia

By Chris Tharp

Praise for The Worst Motorcycle in Laos:

In The Worst Motorcycle in Laos, Tharp takes us on a wild ride from the neon streets of Tokyo to the dirt tracks of Indochina. The essays are insightful, humorous, and unflinching. A great read for the active and armchair traveler alike.

- Michael Breen, author of The Koreans

Tharp’s done it again. He’s got a knack for finding himself in, shall we say, interesting places and situations: from fake flowers and monks to persistent touts, these are the stories few can experience for themselves. Make no mistake, Tharp makes life happen on his own terms.

- Chris Backe, travel blogger at One Weird Globe (www.oneweirdglobe.com)

The Worst Motorcycle in Laos is a thoughtful rampage through the backwaters of Asia. Tharp writes about his travels with a refreshing, humble honesty, unafraid of exploring the gritty and the grimy, the seedy and the sublime. Witty, poignant and at times even disturbing, this is a great read for both the seasoned journeyer and those content to enjoy from the comfort of home.

- Brandon W. Jones, author of All Woman and Springtime

THE WORST MOTORCYCLE IN LAOS

Rough Travels in Asia

By Chris Tharp

Signal 8 Press

Hong Kong

The Worst Motorcycle in Laos: Rough Travels in Asia

By Chris Tharp

Published by Signal 8 Press

An imprint of Typhoon Media Ltd

Copyright 2014 Chris Tharp
eISBN: 978-988-12196-7-1

Typhoon Media Ltd:

Signal 8 Press | Distribution | Consultancy

Hong Kong
www.typhoon-media.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, except for brief citation or review, without written permission from Typhoon Media Ltd.

Cover design: Madalena Ng (Protein Creative)

CONTENTS

Dokdo!

Cobra

The Other Side

The Hills of Jinhong

House of Rose

Into the Wild West

90% Norway, 10% Bangladesh

Glimpses of Sumatra

Goldfish in Their Zoos

Big in Japan

The Worst Motorcycle in Laos

Moscow on the South China Sea

Smokin’ Joe

For Minhee

INTRODUCTION

In the fall of 2003, I moved to Chicago at the behest of a friend, who was reforming his industrial rock band with his old musical partner. They needed someone to play guitar and I had little else going on at the time, so I bade adieu to Seattle, packed a bag, and jumped on a plane to O’Hare, where I was soon supplying crunchy guitar riffs to the band’s driving, electronic-based music. It was an easy gig. My chief duties were playing the same three or four chords and stomping about the stage. There were no solos, ever. I got the impression that they didn’t want a guitarist who was too good out of fear he’d quickly grow bored, so I guess I fit the bill.

We played a couple of local warm-up gigs and then went on a month-long tour of mostly empty, hole-in-the-wall clubs throughout the Midwest and East Coast. The tour took us through a load of cities and states that I—a fully formed denizen of the West—had never actually seen before, places like Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Philly, Baltimore, DC, Richmond, North Carolina, Tampa, and Ypsilanti, Michigan. We were traveling. Touring in a rock band had long been a dream of mine, so I was determined to document the whole thing. I took extensive notes and wrote an ongoing travelogue, which, ignorant of the then-new concept of blogging, I published in a series of emails to friends and family. The response was quite positive, which was nice, since the band’s shows were generally met with sighs, shrugs, and that one weird guy who would get down with the songs just a bit too much. By the tour’s end I had reached an epiphany: I realized that I enjoyed writing about the band’s moving adventures much more than actually playing the music. A travel writer was born.

My friend who had lured me to Chicago suffered a mental breakdown not long after we returned to the Windy City, and quickly skedaddled back to our hometown of Olympia, Washington to convalesce with his parents, leaving me and a pile of bills behind. His partner was determined to go on with the band, only with a brand new lineup: I was summarily relieved of my rockin’ duties. I now found myself broke and friendless in the big cold city, living alone in an apartment that I could not afford. So I took a job at a call center and found a cheaper room on Craigslist—a sublet in a three bedroom place from a guy who planned to backpack through Europe for a couple of months. While he traipsed around the Continent, I toiled and congealed in the biting Chicago winter, plotting what to do with the next chapter of my life.

When I wasn’t interviewing potential 7-Eleven cashiers at the call center (a recruiting agency for low-level jobs), I spent my time wandering around the spectacular town that I found myself now trapped in, taking in the architecture, drinking beer at one of the innumerable neighborhood taverns, catching bands, eating Italian beef sandwiches, performing at the odd comedy open mike, watching movies at the second run theater around the corner from my apartment, and most importantly: reading. I exclusively read travel books checked out from the library. I quickly became acquainted with the term “armchair traveler,” as I’d pass the evenings and weekends in the cramped room of my sublet, transported to myriad spots across the globe by such writers as Paul Theroux, Pico Iyer, Jeff Greenwald, Graham Greene, Tim Cahill, and of course, the granddaddy of them all, Mark Twain. I read every travel tome I could get my hands on, devouring books in the course of a single night. Chicago was a wonderful city and I was soaking it up to a point, but being in America would just no longer do. The piles of books I read convinced me that it was now time for me to see the rest of the world. After all, if these guys could do it and write about it, why couldn’t I?

I returned to my hometown that spring, and by late July I had taken a job teaching in South Korea, which I viewed as an ideal jumping off point to other destinations in Asia. I arrived in Korea on a sticky night in early August, and fell in love at once. For the first six months I would have recurring nightmares of going home. I had a decent job, a clean apartment, a crew of new friends, and the rest of Asia at my fingertips. I was mesmerized by this new land and all it offered up--the dizzying choices of food, the shops and the bars, the buzzing markets and constant street life, the challenging language, the beautiful women, as well as an ancient culture that seemed to take on the pulsing glow of modernity with more ease and panache than my own. If this was Asia, I didn’t just want to stay: I wanted to see it all.

A decade later, I’m still here, and while I certainly haven’t seen it all, I can say that I’ve made a healthy stab. In addition to much of Korea, I’ve visited Japan, China and Hong Kong, Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, Laos, Malaysia, Indonesia, the Philippines, Burma (briefly), and New Zealand. All but the latter are featured in this book. Many have proven so seductive that I’ve returned several times. This can prove distracting, as some countries’ charms are so overwhelming that it’s difficult to resist the urge to come back again and again, sacrificing the experience of seeing a new land in order to deepen the love and understanding that you’ve already established for the old one. This is certainly the case with a country such as Laos. I’ve been four times now and am further transfixed each time I visit. I just can’t stop falling in love with the place.

I live in a continually shifting community of expatriates, all of whom are travelers by definition. And though I am thrilled by travel and live to write about it, I have friends whose traveling exploits in Asia make mine shrivel by comparison. I have seen much of Southeast and East Asia, but am a virgin when it comes to the real exotic heart of Asia: the ‘stans (Kyrgyzstan, Uzbekistan, Tajikistan, etc.). I have only tasted Indonesia, despite having spent a month there. I have also yet to visit the Indian subcontinent. A couple of adventuresome friends recently toured Bangladesh, a place so bereft of visitors that I am told it’s impossible to buy a single postcard.

This book is by no means exhaustive, nor am I attempting to show off my traveler’s stripes, which are less than mighty when compared to many others. I do believe it’s possible to take a day trip to your neighboring county in Missouri and write a compelling travel piece about it. It’s been said many times before, but good travel writing is about the writer’s personal journey, rather than the external trip itself. That said, many people seek out travel writing as a way to escape the mundane. I certainly did. Crazy experiences such as a jeep wreck, a knife fight, or a dinner of roasted sheep’s heads washed down with herbal hallucinogenic tea can do wonders to spice things up for the armchair traveler. We do like a taste of the exotic in travel stories, and I hope I can deliver on this front.

This collection of essays is as much about me as the varying locales, which may not be to everyone’s taste. By placing the reporter smack dab in the middle of the story, the late great Hunter S. Thompson invented “gonzo journalism.” I suspect it was travel writing that inspired him to take this bold step. In fact, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas could be considered one of the finest travelogues of the 20th century, and while I fervently hope to avoid aping his much-copied style, it would be a lie to deny the influence: I too place myself smack dab in the middle of the story, whether it takes place in a Filipino guesthouse, a comic book shop in Japan, or on a bus rumbling through the Cambodian countryside. Unlike the good Doctor, however, I cannot write high.

This book is true, in that all of the events have actually happened as they are described. A few minor details have been altered for the sake of storytelling and in some cases the chronology has been rearranged. Some people’s names have been changed and other people who were with me have been omitted from certain sequences. In one case a major character is actually a composite of three different people I have known and traveled with. I have taken a few liberties, but at no point am I just making events up. I have actually been to every spot in the book and done the things described.

It’s no secret that Asia—especially Southeast Asia—attracts sex tourists, who are, more often than not, middle-aged men. This theme pops up a few times in the book and is impossible to ignore when writing about the region, though I realize it may make some readers uncomfortable. I’ve come across many such men in my travels and describe a particularly loathsome group that I’ve twice encountered in Phnom Penh, Cambodia in the essay, “Goldfish in Their Zoos.” The language I use may be shocking and even horrifying for some, but these guys are really out there, and I feel an obligation to include it in the story.

So, kick back and enjoy the essays that make up this book, which range from the cities of Japan, the jungles of Sumatra, and the deserts of far Western China. I hope you too are transported, just as I was during that cold, lonely winter in Chicago. Perhaps, like me, you’ll be inspired to see more of this big, crazy world. Who knows, maybe we’ll run into each other somewhere along the way. If so, the first drink is on me.

Chris Tharp

Busan, Korea, 2014

DOKDO!

South Korea, 2014

The old man on the other side of the fence had a message for us all, one so important that it required the use of visuals. The sign in his left hand—thrust aloft by a long stick—reminded us that the only way to salvation was to believe in the Lord Jesus Christ. He voiced this mantra, the battery-powered megaphone in his right hand amplifying his rote, histrionic delivery. This harangue almost betrayed our surroundings: though we were solidly in the South, his dramatic tone and fervor sounded North Korean. The words reverberated around the expanse of pavement and ricocheted off of the huge metal hull of the Sunflower, the white, red, and blue passenger ferry moored just meters away.

My fellow travelers ignored the diatribe as they jostled for position and attempted to queue up in the sticky morning air. They were dressed in neon hiking gear, bright scarves, floral-print pants, floppy hats, and visors-aplenty. Most were over the age of sixty. They cackled and clamored as they scurried up the narrow ramp and disappeared into the guts of the boat. Most carried backpacks, bags, and boxes stuffed with ramen, pepper paste, boiled eggs, dried fish, huge plastic jugs of soju, and of course, kimchee. These folks had come prepared. After all, who knew what items would be available once we reached the island, and if so, at what cost? Prices off the mainland were notoriously dear, so it was best to bring some of your own stuff.

In no hurry, and wary of getting elbowed by old ladies half my size, I left the chaos of the boarding mob and walked across the concrete strip toward the fence. A wet breeze flittered in from the harbor. The July sky hung low in a grey haze and I looked up, wondering if it was going to rain. This was the monsoon season, so anything was possible, but the relative brightness of the clouds made me think that the weather just might hold. I approached the old man on the other side of the chain-link fence, who continued with his proselytizing. I dug out my smartphone and fumbled with the touch screen until I managed to bring up the camera function. I snapped a few photos as the man rambled on. He wore a blue sun hat, a white button-up shirt, and blue pants, along with a red vest with a large white cross emblazoned on the back. The Korean letters on his white sign were written in red and blue, the same colors as the big boat in front of him. I wondered if this was on purpose. Did he come here every day?

As I lowered my phone camera, the old man suddenly switched to English: “DO YOU BELIEVE IN JESUS CHRIST?”

“Sure!” I shouted back, flashing him a thumbs-up. My actual beliefs are none so set, but I was in no mood for a debate.

His face lit up. “VERY GOOD!” He seemed relieved. “GOD BLESS YOU!” He then went back to the thankless task of convincing his countrymen to repent.

The man’s message rang in my mind as I boarded the boat. I was at no risk of being saved, but rather wondered just why he had picked the embarkation point of a ferry for his personal mission to help redeem our souls. And then it struck me: just a few months before, the Sewol ferry sank off the island of Jindo, en route to Korea’s vacation hotspot of Jeju Island; 307 passengers died. Most of the victims were high school students out on a school trip, and the tragedy shook the nation to its core. The disaster unmasked a host of deep, ugly problems in modern Korean society, especially the corruption, graft, and greed that is so widespread, not to mention the incompetence that these things breed. Those kids died on their parents’ watch, and the country spent the ensuing weeks and months both pointing fingers and steeping in a miserable, collective guilt. The sinking of the Sewol was the most traumatic event I’d witnessed in my nearly ten years in Korea. The disaster laid bare a basic disregard for public safety throughout the country. No one could step on a boat afterwards without thinking, Is this thing really sound? Are emergency procedures in place in case the boat goes down? The nation was still reeling, yet there I was, with hundreds of others, climbing aboard another ship. Mortality had to be on everyone’s minds that morning, and the old Christian man knew it. What better time to drive home the issue of salvation?

I settled into my seat as the boat chugged out of the steel town of Pohang’s harbor toward Ulleungdo, an island formed by a now-extinct volcano rising sharply from the sea, situated some 120 kilometers east of the Korean peninsula. Ulleungdo is a popular vacation destination, and the nearly full boat reflected this. People head there to relax, sightsee, fish, hike up and down its steep volcanic ridges, and eat its famous raw fish, mussels, and squid. But Ulleungdo also draws visitors for another reason, one that surely resonated deeply with most every passenger on board: it serves as the jumping-off point for visiting Dokdo, the disputed islets lying between Korea and Japan that inflame extreme passions all over the peninsula. For many Koreans, a visit to Dokdo is a pilgrimage of sorts, a kind of patriotic hajj. It’s a must-do before you die, which probably accounted for the preponderance of grey hair, canes, wrinkles, and bent backs on the boat that day.

I sweated in my seat as the safety video played on the screen above. Pay attention, everyone. I sat in the back section of the boat’s second level, far from any air-conditioning vent or windows. The cabin was dark, stuffy, and hot. I sipped from a bottle of water and scratched several mosquito bites burning on my ankle and lower leg. I had been ravaged by the beasts in my cheap, moldy motel room the night before. As the video played on, the Sunflower plowed through the waves, but the going was smooth, overall. The boat was large enough that I didn’t feel the direct effects of the swells below. For this I was thankful: I am, at times, an acute sufferer of seasickness. And when it’s on, it’s on: my malady is one that neither pills nor ear patches can alleviate. Inland waters and calm seas are fine, but the open, rolling ocean is not my friend but a merciless force capable of making me miserably ill. But this was not going to be one of those trips. Just ten minutes in, I knew that it was going to be all right. I exhaled a sigh of relief, sat back, and smiled.

A member of the crew arrived in front of our section. He held a large orange inflatable life jacket, and proceeded to give a detailed demonstration on how to use the thing, including the attached flashlight and emergency whistle. I watched as he took us through each step, explaining the details in speed-of-light Korean. I leaned forward and nodded along, struggling to understand his rapid-fire spiel. I probably got about every fifth word. He noticed my attempt and made deep, intense eye contact with me every few seconds, at one point stopping his demonstration to address me directly, in English:

“Very important! Do you understand?”

All heads turned my way. Maritime safety was paramount in the wake of the Sewol catastrophe. This guy was performing his duty with due diligence and wasn’t about to let an American tourist slip through the cracks.

“Yes, yes,” I stammered, half full of shit. “I completely understand!”

He wasn’t buying it, but had more important things to worry about than some foreigner’s Korean listening skills. He eyed me warily before resuming his safety lecture. When he finished, our section responded with a round of rather enthusiastic applause. The man bowed, shot me a hard look, and then moved on to the next section.

After a while I got up to explore the ship. One thing was certain: the Sunflower was a seasoned vessel that could have benefited from a deep steam-cleaning and scrub-down. The walls were scratched and the carpets were stained and filthy, but that didn’t stop many folks from rolling out pads and mats and making themselves at home right there on the floor. Geriatric passengers seized the opportunity to sleep; everywhere I looked, there were little grandmas and grandpas sprawled out and snoring, like hibernating gnomes. A group of college kids (some of the rare young people on the boat) spread out a mat of their own and played card games. Elsewhere, packs of red-faced older men sat snacking on sliced pigs’ feet and pouring each other shots of soju, while their female counterparts sat in separate groups, yammering and sipping sweet instant coffee from paper cups. As I navigated my way through these spontaneous floor parties, it was obvious that I was the only Westerner on the boat. It was also obvious that people were enjoying themselves. Their vacation had begun the moment we pulled away from the pier.

I ambled back to my seat, popped in my ear buds, activated the “Sounds of Nature” app on my phone, and did my very best to enjoy the ride.

*

“Minbak?”

The grandmother grabbed me by the right arm, stopping me in the midst of the river of passengers slithering off the ship. She held a sign advertising her minbak, or homestay.

“Minbak?” she asked again.

I quickly sized her up. She wore baggy floral pajama pants and a purple shirt. Her hair was done up in a high, slightly loose perm. Her eyes were quick and smart and she wasn’t shy around foreigners, which might have meant for some hard bargaining ahead.

“Minbak.” She pulled on my arm. “Come. It’s good.”

“How much is it?” I asked, mustering my best Korean.

She dodged the question with a half-wave of her tiny hand.

“It’s nice. Very clean. Come with me.”

Having made no better arrangements, I followed the grandmother off the quay and over the gleaming metal suspension bridge that lead new arrivals into the tiny town. Seagulls swooped and squawked in the air, which tasted of kelp. A large sign hung above, proclaiming, “Welcome to Ulleungdo” in bright, playful letters. I turned and looked at the narrow harbor to my left, penned in on the far side by sheer, volcanic rock. A metal walkway was bolted into the ancient black lava, providing a kind of catwalk around the pitching water. This rock shot straight up into the grey skies, quickly turning into the face of a mountain, blanketed with pine trees up top. The water had a blue-green tint but was otherwise clear, and I could easily make out the sea floor. A few colorful painted squid boats were roped to the bulkhead at the water’s edge, their racks of round glass lights looking fragile as they jerked and bobbed in the weak waves. Several blood red tents were erected in front of the boats, under which were tubs filled with gurgling ocean water and captive sea life. Two hardy women manned the tents, where they sliced up the unfortunate creatures for paying customers who sat at a couple of white plastic tables just beyond the tent’s edge. Next to them were a few vendors selling instant coffee, roasted chestnuts, and grilled cuttlefish, along with hotcakes filled with melted brown sugar. Further up were racks of drying squid, which hung and fluttered in the breeze like pale, tentacled pieces of laundry

Dodong occupies a narrow valley, a mere stretch of dirt between two mountains. Everything is squeezed together and compressed, reminiscent of the compact villages found throughout Europe. The town was buzzing as we snaked our way up the main street toward the old woman’s house, and I began to sweat in the dank press of the afternoon. The passengers poured off the ship and bubbled up the side streets and alleys or crammed into minibuses and taxis that would transport them to accommodations on other parts of the island. The streets were choked with these vehicles, which lurched and honked and squeezed by each other with just inches to spare. Every thirty seconds the grandmother—who was surprisingly quick for her age—would turn around to make sure she hadn’t lost me. I imagine there had been incidents before when other potential clients had pulled a runner. She wasn’t going to let that happen this time.

Eventually we came to a side road which climbed up toward the mountainside. “There,” she said, pointing to a small wooden house about halfway up. “Minbak.”

The grandmother was right. The room was clean and quiet, and the air was good. I had my own bathroom, with a toilet, sink, and hot water shower. Like any minbak, there was no proper bed, just a couple of thin pads and blankets that I could fold out on the floor. This was exactly what I was after, and the price was right, so I happily paid and settled in. She lived in the house with her husband, a thin, stooping man who often sat on the platform outside in front and smoked. They were both from South Chungcheong province in the middle of the country, but had moved to Ulleungdo some decades before.

“I live in Busan,” I told her.

She shook her head. “South Kyungsang province people are so loud! They come off the ship and it’s ‘blah blah blah blah blah blah.’ I couldn’t live with them. They drive me nuts.”

Ulleungdo is an impossibly rocky place. It was formed by a rather diligent volcano over the ages, with the last violent eruption occurring 9,350 years ago. The explosion was so big that it deposited volcanic stones as far away as central Honshu, Japan, some 800 kilometers away. It also blew off the top of the mountain, forming a caldera that exists today.

As a result of this tumultuous volcanic past, Ulleungdo has very few natural beaches. Most of the shoreline consists of sea meeting rock, so the government has created a couple of sea walkways in parts of the island by blasting the rock and constructing bridges, stairways, and metal platforms where necessary. This is the only way that the public can witness the island’s rugged beauty from the shore. One such walkway begins in Dodong, so after a lunch of sanchae bibimbap (mixed rice with wild vegetables) I made my way there.

As I left the edge of the town, I passed a group of anglers. They leaned their long poles over the railing and saturated the water with ladles full of reeking chum. I stood among them for a few minutes, watching as they brought in a few small, spiny fish. They unhooked these fish and threw them into holding pots, which were then lowered back into the water. These fish would be eaten later, raw.

I was alone as I entered the Ulleungdo GeoPark, a 1.7-kilometer shore path that features the different kinds of volcanic rock formations found on the island. Over the millennia, the ocean’s relentless assault has stripped away layers of rock, revealing clear evidence of past eruptions and pyroclastic flows. Much of the solidified lava was black, though there were parts where deep red veins were blasted bare by the wind and water. The patterns and textures on the rocks came in beautiful and psychedelic waves and ripples, amazingly symmetrical in their composition.

The East Sea stared back at me on my right as I made my way down the jagged coast. It heaved and roiled on the horizon, smothered in a constant grey mist. Water pummeled the gnarled, rocky shore—hissing, grumbling, and belching foam and spray up onto the path at times. Seabirds silently hung on drafts of air, looking down with empty, black eyes. The place was quiet and forlorn, save for the growl of the wind and sea.

The shore path ended abruptly at a small beach. Spires of stacked round stones known as dol teop rose up from the jumble of rocks. A crumbling pier disappeared into the surf. At one point there must have been a settlement there. The wind chewed ruins of an old building stood nearby. It looked as if it had once been hit by a bomb; only portions of three walls remained. A dirt trail climbed up to my left, past a raw-seafood tent blasting Korean pop from the 1960s. Bulbous orange sea squirts sat in a big glass tank; a lone, middle-aged woman staffed the otherwise empty establishment. She wore a rubber apron and rubber gloves, and sat looking bored in a blue plastic chair. I waved as I ambled by. She answered my greeting with a dead stare.

The trail rose up over the spine of a small peninsula that jutted out like a digit from the hand of the island. A wooden sign appeared, pointing me toward a lighthouse on the apex of the rise. The trail climbed more steeply than before and I took it easy, watching my footing the whole way. The dirt path advanced through two small clearings populated by a family of goats, who bleated and kicked while they chomped on the shrubbery. I stopped to savor the moment. The sight of free-range animals is a rare treat in Korea, where most are shut away out of sight in dark barns or industrial agri-pavilions.

The lighthouse stood atop the mountain, with its beacon rising above the low pines to warn any nearby ships of this deadly strip of land. Cliffs tumbled down to the sea on three sides. A wooden observation platform was constructed in front, accessed by a short foot path. I sat down, guzzled some water, and took in the scene in front of me. The sun had now managed to burn its way through the barrier of clouds, shining off of the dappled surface of the sea, hundreds of meters below. In the near distance the flat-topped island of Jukdo sat solid and squat, like a southwestern mesa surrounded by ocean. Music pulsated from a tour boat, warbling bass and treble mixing with the electrical hum of cicadas in the trees around me. Dragonflies zipped and flitted through the air as I rubbed my leg and wiped the sweat from my forehead. The seashore walkway continued on below. A long spiral staircase corkscrewed down to an inlet with crystalline water—a perfect place for a swim. Beyond that, several metal footbridges and spans lead to the port of Jeodong, whose white pylon jetty encircled the harbor like crooked teeth. A crane was in the process of shoring up the jetty’s defenses, lifting the pylons from the barge it sat on and depositing them on the ever-thickening barrier. I could clearly hear the engine grind and struggle as it hefted the obscenely heavy concrete Xs over the mouth of the harbor. It reminded me that Koreans are always hard at work, even in such idyllic surroundings.

That night I sat in one of Dodong’s little restaurants, just off the main street of the town. I tucked into one of the island’s famous dishes, honghap bap (mussels in rice), washing it down with a fat bowl of pumpkin rice wine, another local specialty. The rice wine was sweet, milky, and thick, and went down too easily. It complemented the bowl of honghap bap, as well as the four side dishes arrayed in front of me, and I quickly found myself feeling hot in the face and more than a little drunk.

A family sat at the table next to me: a man, his wife, and their son. They ate from a platter of raw fish and a pot of maeun tang, the spicy fish head soup that is always served with Korean-style sashimi.

“You eat Korean food very well,” said the man, pouring himself a shot of soju. His wife and son abstained. “Can you eat raw fish?”

“Of course. It’s one of my favorites.”

“Ha!” He turned to his wife. “I didn’t think foreigners liked raw fish.” He grabbed a slice of fish with his chopsticks and fired it into his mouth, chewing vigorously.

“My parents didn’t eat it,” I said, searching for more words, “but these days it’s different. Many young people like it.”

The restaurant’s husband and wife owners sat at an empty table nearby. “This is true,” the husband said. “Many of my foreign customers order raw fish.”

The man swallowed, raised his eyebrows, finished off his soju, and refilled his glass again. His wife looked my way and smiled, while his son paid me no mind, lost instead in the universe of his smartphone.

“Is your son a student?” I asked.

“A student?” the man slurred, reaching for another slice of fish.

“No!” his mother said, laughing. “He’s a doctor!”

“Oh,” I replied. “He looks so young. Congratulations.”

His parents beamed with obvious pride, while the son appeared to want nothing to do with the goings-on. In fact he was so detached that he was wearing sunglasses, indoors, at night. I sensed that his mom and dad came from a rougher class, that they had worked hard to put him through school, and that now he was ashamed of the old man’s uncouth ways. They had probably forced him to come along for the trip.

I turned to the owners. “Have you been busy lately?”

“No,” said the husband. “Not so many visitors.”

“Because of the Sewol?” I asked.

“Yes, yes,” said the wife. “Because of the Sewol. People are afraid to get on the boat.”

The family got up from the table and made their way toward the door. The man was last. He drained his glass and grabbed the check, looking at me with a flushed face and shining eyes.

“What are your plans tomorrow?”

“Dokdo!” I said. “I’m going to Dokdo.”

“Ha! Very good. We went to Dokdo, today!” He smiled warmly and gripped my hand. “It will be good for you to see Dokdo. You can understand our feelings… you can understand our minds.”

I finished the night down at the little harbor, with a new bottle of pumpkin rice wine in hand. I sat on one of the benches and sipped the sweet brew from a cup, feeling the breeze cool my forehead as the waves lapped the bulkhead. Groups of old Koreans sat around me talking, smoking, eating squid, and drinking soju, but mostly just relaxing. They ignored me, which was great. By now I had reached the limits of my Korean ability, and was content to not speak. Joyfully at home in the pleasant soup of my own head, I just closed my eyes and sighed.

It was only nine o’clock at night, but I was tired, and I had to be up early the next day to make the boat. I stood up from the bench, swayed, and strolled back toward my minbak, but after just a few seconds, something stopped me in my tracks, something I hadn’t noticed in the daytime. There, in front of me, was a huge lit-up mural that served as a backdrop for the whole harbor. Submerged in the blue sea was a map of Korea—North and South. On the very top, connected to the mass of the peninsula, was the outline of Dokdo, rising up from the surface like the tip of an iceberg. Underneath, in white letters, read the following:

The Loss of Dokdo. The Loss of Korea.

*

The Koreans call it Dokdo, meaning “solitary islands.” The Japanese call it Takeshima, which means “bamboo islands.” Up until recently, the tiny percentage of the world that had even heard of the place knew it as the Liancourt Rocks, named for a French whaling ship that nearly wrecked upon its shore in 1849. Both Korea and Japan claim the islands, with each country citing documents, maps, and other evidence going back hundreds of years. It’s a twisted, Byzantine chain of claims and counter-claims, but South Korea has administered the islands since 1954, when they sent a small naval contingent to occupy the rocks, much to the chagrin of the Japanese. Today the islands host a small and mostly semi-permanent population: a contingent of thirty-seven police that act as guards, a few Ministry of Maritime Affairs and Fisheries personnel, three lighthouse keepers, as well as a fisherman and his wife (the only permanent residents). So it would appear that Korea has the upper hand, for the time being at least.

Dokdo is made up of two main islets (Seodo and Deongdo) along with some thirty smaller ones, all composed of volcanic rock formed in the Cenozoic period. The islets lie 215 kilometers from mainland Korea and 250 kilometers from mainland Japan. Japan’s Oki Islands are 157 kilometers away, but Ulleungo is the closet landmass, lying 87 kilometer from the islets, which are visible to the naked eye on a clear day. The area is home to a unique marine ecosystem, with a thriving population of seabirds. Sea lions used to call the rocks home, but were overhunted during the Japanese colonial period and are now thought to be extinct. However, the fishing grounds around Dokdo are known as some of the most fertile in the region, and there also may be large deposits of natural gas underneath the seabed throughout the surrounding area.

The centuries-old Dokdo dispute was left unresolved at the end of WWII and has continued to fester accordingly. Dokdo was not mentioned in the peace treaty Japan signed with the Allies, a fact that Japan continually points to in order to bolster its claim. However, a map issued by the US military in 1946 clearly shows Dokdo to be in Korean territory. This map, known as SCACPIN 677, established the “MacArthur Line,” which delineated the postwar territorial boundaries of Japan. This is perhaps the most compelling piece of evidence for Korea’s current claim on the islands, at least from an American point of view.

Whatever the case, Dokdo has been a thorn in the side of progress between the two nations since they established diplomatic relations in 1965. Neither side has conceded an inch, and each accusation and claim has only salted old wounds and rubbed raw the anger, especially for the Koreans. Japan has offered to take the matter to the International Court of Justice, which Korea has continually rebuked out of fear that granting the request will somehow legitimize the Japanese claim. The most recent flare-up in this ongoing brouhaha took place in 2005, when Japan’s Shimane prefecture celebrated “Takeshima Day.” This was met with widespread protest and rage in Korea. Just this year things got even worse, with Korea condemning a series of Japanese elementary school textbooks that describe the islands as “sovereign territory.” In response to these new textbooks, which also call the Korean occupation of Dokdo “illegal,” Seoul recalled its ambassador from Tokyo.

Dokdo is an extremely emotional issue for Koreans. As foreigners, we often scratch our heads and wonder how people can get so worked up over a couple of rocks in the sea. It’s easy to dismiss Korean attitudes as overcooked nationalism, but the issues run much deeper than simple real estate. Japan’s insistence on claiming Dokdo has to be viewed through the lens of their colonial legacy. Japan annexed the Korean peninsula in 1910. They stayed until the end of World War II and were an exceptionally nasty occupying force. Koreans became second-class citizens in their own country. They were forbidden from speaking their language and were forced to take Japanese names. The Japanese did their best to stamp out an entire culture, at the same time ravaging the country for its natural resources. The most grievous crime, however, was that of sexual slavery. During the war, Japan impressed tens of thousands of Korean women into sexual bondage, forcing them to serve Japanese troops as “comfort women.” This was rape on an industrial scale. Koreans have not forgotten this. They have a deep sense of anger and humiliation over the fact that they were occupied and brutalized, and many believe that Japan has yet to make sufficient amends. The wounds still bleed, and Japan’s obstinacy over Dokdo only serves to rub their nose in the shit. Combine this with a series of South Korean governments that are too willing to stoke the nationalistic brushfire of Dokdo for their own political ends, and people lose their minds. Protestors have gone to extreme and bizarre measures to drive their point home: they have cut off their own fingers, covered themselves in bees, stabbed themselves in the stomach, decapitated live pheasants, rammed embassy gates with vehicles, placed severed dog heads on the sidewalk, and even self-immolated.

These extreme acts are rare, but show just how potently Dokdo looms in the Korean psyche. For nearly ten years I have seen and heard it firsthand: “Dokdo is our land!” is the refrain, repeated ad nauseam by politicians, celebrities, housewives, businessmen, taxi drivers, restaurant owners, grandparents, and students of all ages. It is everywhere: a constant, inescapable bombardment of a single message, a patriotic tape loop on infinite repeat, much like the rote sermon delivered by the lone old man at the ferry terminal. For a while Dokdo swag was all the rage: there were T-shirts, towels, key chains, coffee cups, hats, ashtrays—even socks—all advancing the singular point of view. Companies used Dokdo to market their products. Images of the islets even appeared on the side of milk cartons: Have you seen us? Pro-Dokdo groups have even taken their cause to America, purchasing full-page ads in the New York Times to make their case.

At first I sympathized, which gave way to head shakes and eye rolls, which in turn resulted in a total desensitization. In the end, my feelings on the matter were and are irrelevant. Dokdo matters to Koreans. It drives many of them to the point of obsession. The whole nation is bound by a deep reverence for these otherwise obscure islets, so is it any surprise that, after nearly a decade in the country, I was compelled to see them myself, firsthand?

*

The Dolphin was a smaller craft than the Sunflower, and we felt every wave. The rollers hit us from the side as we rumbled east from Ulleungdo toward the islets. The boat pitched, rose, and fell, and I knew at once that I was in for it. The tentacles of seasickness gripped me right away and I went green.

Things were not helped by my condition that morning. Drinking a bottle and a half of sweet pumpkin rice wine the night before had been a moronic move. My head hissed and my stomach gurgled before I even stepped foot on the boat. Equally idiotic was my choice of breakfast. The terminal for the Dokdo boats was located twenty minutes away from the main town. There were no restaurants in or around the complex. The only dining option was a convenience store selling ramen and some other processed, instant foods. I settled on a packet of goopy yellow curry over rice, which was now doing its best to find a way out of the agitated pool of bile sloshing around my stomach. I took a deep breath, let out a small, gassy belch, and resigned myself to my fate.

As with the Sunflower, most of the passengers on the Dolphin were middle-aged or older. There was a definite geriatric vibe. Two exceptions were the girls sitting next to me, Sung-hee and her little sister Su-kyeong. Sung-hee was in her early twenties. She wore jean shorts and a T-shirt and held two banners to her chest, to be unfurled once we reached the islets. Her sister was about sixteen. An expensive-looking Canon hung around her thin neck. They both were originally from the south coast city of Masan, but had called the US home for much of their lives. Sung-hee’s flawless English reflected this.

“We live in Indiana,” she said.

“Indiana?” They have Koreans in Indiana? “What’s a good Hoosier girl doing on a boat to Dokdo?”

“My sister and I are travelling around Asia right now. It seemed like a good time to come.”

“As a Korean, do you feel specially connected to Dokdo?”

“Of course. Japan needs to recognize that this is Korean territory. They should have when they returned the islands at the end of the war. I think they’ve been very unfair about things.”

Sung-hee was no fire-breathing nationalist. She admitted that this was more of a sightseeing trip than anything else, but she was still very clear where she stood.

“It’s not just Dokdo,” she continued. “I correct my friends when they refer to the East Sea as the ‘Sea of Japan.’ And guess what? Once I explain it, they agree with me. It’s just a matter of educating people about the past.”

Sung-hee and Su-kyeong quickly nodded off—rocked to sleep by my own tormentor, the rolling sea. There is something uniquely miserable about seasickness. Seasickness is an awful, demoralizing condition that strikes you at your core. Your equilibrium is thrown out of whack and the whole universe turns rank. Once it sets in you know there is no way out, save violent retching, which only brings temporary relief. It’s a stopgap measure: if you stay on the boat, you’ll find yourself once again possessed until you end up with the dry heaves. I’ve wrestled with seasickness many times in my life, and I envied those two girls next to me who snoozed away so peacefully, unaffected.

A crew member walked down the aisles, distributing plastic grey barf bags to any stricken passengers. His manner was soothing and solemn, like an employee of a funeral home. When he got to me he stopped. I attempted to put on a brave face, but my lack of color betrayed me.

“Are you okay?” He gave a slight, sympathetic smile.

“Fine,” I said. “A-Okay.” I popped one thumb into the air, dying inside. I may be seasick, but I’m not going to chuck into a bag. He nodded and continued on his way.

I held out as long as I could, but finally gave in, squeezing by my two conked out companions and hurrying to the back of the cabin, where I located the head and immediately ejected the Technicolor curry and rice into the awaiting toilet. This afforded me some temporary relief, and after splashing off my face I emerged, reborn. As I steadied myself and tried to walk back to my seat, I took some solace in the fact that I wasn’t alone. Many other passengers also found themselves in the deep throes of nausea. Some held their heads in their hands and sighed, while others forwent their chairs, electing instead to curl up on the carpeted floor, groaning with each deep buck and sway of the boat. These were mainly elderly folks, whose advanced age seemed to make them more susceptible to the unbalancing ravages of the sea.

I sunk back in my chair and attempted to read, but this just hastened the return of my sour gut. Instead I looked out my window at the expanse of rolling blue water. The sky was cloudy but bright; it looked like the sun might make an appearance any time now. The seas were a bit high, but the weather was otherwise decent. There were no foreboding black clouds, no visible squalls. Even so, we were lucky to launch that morning. Often the Dokdo trip is canceled due to weather. Conditions have to be just right to allow the ships to head out. I arrived in Ulleungdo fully aware that the trip might not even happen. It was the rainy season and conditions were known to change by the hour.

After two hours of rocking and rolling on the East Sea, the captain announced that we were due to arrive at our destination in fifteen minutes. This injected a bit of life into the otherwise zombified collection of passengers, who began to stir and collect their things. A palpable hum rose in the air. The omnipresent TVs—which had been playing a tear-jerking documentary about a family of a girl with a brain tumor—were finally shut off, and patriotic music was piped in instead. People slipped their shoes back on and grabbed their backpacks. We were almost there.

I waited, counting the minutes. My nausea had returned in a big way, and I had serious doubts as to whether I could make it without another trip to the head. I squeezed the end of the armrest and breathed deeply, feeling my stomach rise up into my throat with each dip of the boat. Ugh. I may have to use a barf bag. Suddenly I heard a commotion from the port side of the boat. People shot from their seats and looked to the windows, murmuring and pointing. I saw a shadow on the water and then caught a glimpse of a dark, rocky mass. Dokdo! We had arrived.

The crew killed the boat’s engine and we just sat there, bobbing up and down among the high waves. The boat pitched steeply from one side to the other, causing some passengers to stumble and grab hold of seats, pillars, or one another.

A voice crackled over the PA system. I didn’t catch all the words, but the announcement was met with an audible moan from the passengers, who looked at each other with deflated faces.

“Bad news,” said Sung-hee. “We can’t land. The waves are too big today.”

This certainly wasn’t good news. Actually stepping foot on Dokdo was one of the main selling points of the trip. Most of the travelers were decked out in full hiking gear, in hopes of scrambling around the rocks in the thirty-minute time period we were to be allowed ashore. Two men—resplendent in a small fortune’s worth of spandex and helmets—had even brought their mountain bikes along, much to the annoyance of several of the crew members, who had muttered under their breath when the men wheeled them aboard. They’d have to bike Dokdo another day. We were sea bound.

Despite the sketchy conditions, the crew popped open the door to the outer deck and invited us out for a photo op. I rose from my seat and joined the steady stream of my fellow passengers who excitedly pressed toward the bow of the boat and scurried up the stairs, into the morning light.

As soon as I emerged from the cabin, I felt a surge of relief in the fresh, salty air. I felt refreshed and invigorated, despite the fact that the boat was at the mercy of the swells, which rolled and tossed it like a cheap toy. The crew members warned us to hold on to anything we could. People tumbled and fell. One grandmother slid by me and latched onto my leg. Another slammed into my shoulder. Both were unfazed, however; they were concerned with matters more pressing. Their glowing eyes were fixed upon the massive rocks emerging from the surf in front of us.

Dongdo and Seodo, the two main islets, rose starkly from the boiling sea. Both were walls of black and grey, with a dusting of green up top. They were larger than I had imagined: no mere rocks, but staggering volcanic formations. I had never seen anything quite like them. They seemed wholly unique in makeup and above all, placement, sitting in the middle of an otherwise vacant stretch of ocean like ancient petrified sentries—truly impressive pieces of geology, surrounded by scores of lesser rocks. This was an enchanting, natural wonder, and I stumbled and swayed atop the shifting deck, truly awed by the surroundings.

I grabbed ahold of the boat’s anchor chain and attempted to snap photos—a tricky task on a slick surface in constant motion. The wind whipped over my face and I took in deep lungfuls of delicious, satisfying air. The sky was alive with a moving mosaic of seabirds. They called to us as they shifted and swooped on the ocean air currents. As I looked to the islets, I saw thousands of them, a white flurry of gulls soaring and circling around the rugged stone rises they called home. Dokdo, it appeared, was a true haven for birds.

The scene on the ferry’s deck erupted into an orgy of photography. I staggered over to Sung-hee and Su-kyeong, who had unfurled their banners and smiled brightly with the rocks in the background. One banner read: I LOVE DOKDO! The other proclaimed: WE SHALL ALWAYS STAND GUARD OVER DODKO! Su-kyeong handed me her camera, and I clicked away. Another group—a trio of young men— brought along the Taegukgi, the South Korean flag. They held it up, grinning widely. I took their photo as well, and they posed with me in turn. Suddenly I was surrounded by beaming Koreans. Many asked to take photos with me, which I gladly obliged. People greeted me in English and Korean, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand, flashing thumbs-up, and pointing to those splendid islets that we had all endured two ocean voyages to see. We had braved the sea together, at a time when no one in the country wanted to step on a boat, and the result was a fleeting taste of wonder. For just a moment I felt like I was one of them, like I just might belong. My chest heaved, my eyes glassed up, and I felt a bizarre, yet welcome sense of pride.

“What do you think?” asked Sung-hee, as seagulls flapped and squawked just feet from our heads. A patch of clouds dissolved and shafts of sunlight blasted through, splashing across the surface of the water.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. “It’s just beautiful.”

*

The next morning, after a breakfast of fruit and instant coffee, I headed up to the Dokdo Museum, a gleaming, modern building tucked into the mountainside just above Dodong. I wasn’t sure what to expect. Could a whole museum be dedicated to Dokdo? Would it be informative or just dressed-up propaganda? Except for the barfing, visiting Dokdo had been a lovely experience, and the boat trip had been remarkably indoctrination-free. I had been expecting speeches, videos, brochures—but aside from a couple of patriotic songs, there had been none of that. Perhaps they knew their audience; after all, no one really needed convincing. I doubt any Japanese tourists take the trip, and it’s not like the issue of Dokdo is controversial in Korea. There is no debate, no point/counterpoint. Only one opinion is ever expressed, and it’s accepted as fact by every Korean I’ve met. Would the museum be any different?

The museum was more subdued and less righteous in tone than I would have originally expected, but the whole purpose of the endeavor is to advance Korea’s claim. Admission was free, so as not to scare away any foreigners who may be on the fence, I supposed. I walked out of the already-sweltering late morning into a high-ceilinged foyer, complete with skylights on the top. On the wall hung a mural made up of hundreds of tiles hand-drawn by elementary kids, celebrating everything Dokdo. Most consisted of crayon-scrawled depictions of the islets, along with the Taegukgi and some common slogans. However, a few gems stood out:

One tile showed a Korean soldier comically kicking a Japanese soldier in the butt as he ran back onto his boat.

Another showed a mother in a hanbok (traditional Korean dress), cradling a baby Dokdo in her arms.

One tile featured a beautifully drawn lotus flower with Dokdo in the center.

Perhaps the best-drawn tile showed a pair of two vigilant eyes watching over Dokdo, with the Taegukgi as the pupils.

My personal favorite was a nice drawing of the islets, along with the following words, in English: “Dokdo is ours. Duh.” I took it that the artist had spent some time in the States.

The rest of the museum made Korea’s case for Dokdo through careful, sober documentation. It was all very scholarly; emotional pleas were generally excluded. There were maps, books, and letters spanning hundreds of years, each of which appeared to solidify the claim. Many of them were Japanese, which only lent credence to the cause.

No Korean museum is complete without a lifelike diorama, however, and the Dokdo Museum didn’t disappoint. Supposedly based on a historical incident, the diorama depicted a group of irate Koreans in white hanboks chasing Japanese fishermen off one of the islets. The Koreans were confident and fierce, while the Japanese appeared disorganized and panic-stricken. Several had fallen to the ground and were literally scrambling to their landing boat, just seconds away from being thrashed by the stick-wielding guardians.

After the museum I rode the cable car up to the top of the mountain that overlooks Dodong. I was accompanied by a group of about fifteen bellowing college students from Seoul. I was sweaty and grumpy and not really in the mood to chitchat, but when traveling you often don’t get to choose the when’s and where’s. I immediately became the object of curiosity for this boisterous group, peppered with the inevitable: “Hello!” “Hi!” “Where are you from?” “Oh, sunglasses good!” “What’s your name?” “Do you like Korea?” “Did you eat lunch?” “Handsome guy!” (A long time ago I learned not to take too much stock in the latter. Any Western man in Korea gets called “handsome” at some point, regardless of his appearance.)

On top of the mountain is an observation platform where you can view Dokdo on a clear day. This was not a clear day. The sun slashed its way through the clouds, but the omnipresent grey haze of the rainy season buried the horizon, dashing any hopes to actually see the islets. This place is important to Koreans, as it cements their assertion that Dokdo can only be seen from Korean territory, making it all the more theirs. I took them at their word, and sat down at one of the tables for a lunch of iced noodles in tofu broth, a summer specialty.

Having had my fill of all things Dokdo, I made my way back and jumped on a minibus heading away from the town. The bus crawled along the narrow road blasted into the jagged shoreline and then crisscrossed its way over the main ridge of the island, before weaving down to the other side. Ulleungdo’s north side is more rugged and less developed, with several rock formations rising from the sea and mountain peaks towering above the few villages dotting the shore. It has a rough, wild beauty, complemented by the wide, emerald green sea.

Eventually I jumped off the bus at the village of Tae-ha. I was sticky and in need of a swim, so I ambled down the hamlet’s empty streets toward the little harbor. The place seemed abandoned, except for one older, bald man, standing in a nearby doorway.

“You look great!” he said, in perfect English.

“Thanks!” I replied, waving as I passed. Wow. Nice guy. Korean islands can do wonders for a man’s vanity.

It was a lonely afternoon in Tae-ha. The beach in front of the little harbor was as empty as the town, save a white dinghy sitting forlornly atop the rounded stones. As I looked to the far side of the stretch of rocks, I saw a metal spiral staircase winding up a cliff face. This was the beginning of another seashore walkway, but the way had been blocked off with a high fence. As I gazed more closely, I saw that the staircase was battered and bent, warped and crushed like a soda can, no doubt the result of a violent storm, a testament to the real power of the sea. Closer was a queer building that resembled a railway station. A sign read: Tae-ha Monorail. A single track snaked up the side of the mountain, a kind of funicular railway. Two cars sat idle and unoccupied below. Tae-ha’s attempt at attracting the island’s tourists had obviously fallen short, and the result was depressing.

I stripped down to my boxers and stared out at the water in front of me. The small waves drew the stones out to sea as the tide ebbed, raking them over each other in a soothing clatter. I waded into the cool clear water and then dove in, immediately cleansed and refreshed. I popped up to the surface, took in some air, and swam back under, taking in the world below. Many of the white and grey rocks on the bottom were covered with a kind of luminescent green kelp, which glowed brightly in the clear water. Pieces of it broke free and danced under the waves. For a moment I hovered there motionless, eyes open, surrounded by brilliant, emerald confetti of the sea.

When I came back up for air I just floated there, slowly treading water, relaxed and filled with a sense of peace. A jetty stretched out nearby, hemming in the tiny bay with jumbles of pylons. They looked like giant, concrete jacks. A ragged gang of seagulls perched atop the barrier; their shit ran down the concrete in long white streaks, like rivulets of melted ice cream. They paid me no mind. They just sat there, fat and happy, their eyes scanning the horizon in search of threats or food.

*

I upgraded to first class for the return trip to the mainland. It was only six bucks more and well worth it. The cabin was bright, clean, and well air-conditioned; the seats were soft and comfortable. The only drawback was the TVs, which were even louder than the ones on the lower decks of the Sunflower. They blared out one of those ridiculous Korean team challenge comedies where everyone yells, all the time. I popped in my ear buds, activated my “Sounds of Nature” app, and gazed out the window at a rolling ocean that barely registered in my gut.

The original idea to go to Dokdo had been a laugh. It had come to me over beers with a friend. Why not go do Dokdo and write about it? There’s so much ammo there. I thought it would be weird and funny. It would be so easy to make fun of all of those ajummas and ajeosshis who view a trip to Dokdo as their sacred, patriotic duty. I could sit back with my pen, cock my eyebrow, and judge them. But soon I realized that the trip was much bigger than I originally thought—that perhaps more than just nationalism was at play here. And whatever I thought of Koreans’ feelings on the matter, they were just that: their feelings. I could stand back and comment, but that surely wouldn’t change the way they felt.

Dokdo represents a certain longing that we all have—a longing to agree on something, a longing to belong. It’s something that, at least in Korea, everyone recognizes as theirs, something that’s worth fighting for. Despite our militaristic nature in America, I’m not sure we really have such a thing. Would we ever, as a nation, rally over a set of rocks? Sure our military would protect our territory, but would we really be invested in the cause? Could just a few islets become a national touchstone that united all Americans, that electrified both our collective pride and shame? Do we even care about anything that much anymore? Sure, the national mood after the attacks of 9/11 gave us a taste, and there is never a shortage of patriotic bluster and flag-waving come war time, but even so, we don’t feel so deeply connected as a people. Public opinion in Korea is basically unanimous. There is no dissent on the issue. Is such a thing even possible in the USA, even when we’re in the grips of righteous, nationalistic ire? Dokdo made me think about all of this, and made me envy Koreans just a bit, if nothing else than for their unwavering, earnest commitment. Those few moments on the bow of the boat drove that home. And even if I didn’t understand it any better, I was glad that I had come. Political fireworks aside, Dokdo is a spectacular piece of natural real estate to behold.

When we landed in Pohang and disembarked, I heard the familiar sound of a voice squawking through a megaphone. The Christian man was still there, standing behind the fence in the exact same spot, delivering his holy message. Did he ever leave? He spoke the same words, wore the same clothes, and carried the same sign. He was relentless.

As I walked by, I gave him the nod.

COBRA

Vietnam, 2005

“Hey Dong,” I said, waving him over. “Check it out.”

There it was in English, next to my finger, stuck between entries for Bamboo Garlic Chicken and Steamed River Fish: Fried Snake.

Dong took in the selection, barely nodding his head.

“Can you please order it for me? I want to try it.”

“Hmmm,” he mused, sucking on his lips.

“Fried snake, see?” I said, pointing again. “I’d really like to have some.”

“But I already make order.”

“I know, I know, but I want eat some snake.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’ll pay extra. I don’t mind.”

Dong struggled to find his words. “This snake… this snake no good.” He paused and sized me up, like a manager considering taking on a young boxer, or a hardened sergeant eyeing a new recruit.

“Still… I wouldn’t mind trying it.” I looked across the table to Sam, who shrugged in mild encouragement, as if to say, Go for it, dude.

“You want the snake, yes?” Dong asked in his twangy Vietnamese accent, dropping most of the consonants as the words ricocheted off his tongue.

“Yes,” I had now totally convinced myself. “I want to eat some snake.”

“Hmm… okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I take you good snake. This snake no good,” he said, waving the menu away. “Tomorrow I take you cobra. Good for strong. Good for man.”

He made a fist and stuck out his forearm, the universal Asian sign for STAMINA.

*

I hadn’t come to Vietnam on some great culinary adventure. I had simply come for a vacation. I wasn’t seeking the strange, exotic, vomit-inducing cuisine that has made stars of some on the Travel Channel. I just needed to escape the gripping cold of the northern winter through sun, beach, cold beer, good food, and cheap prices. But there was something else, another reason pulsing underneath: I was making a pilgrimage of sorts. Because of the war, Vietnam, or at least the idea of the place, has haunted many Americans, including me. Several of my childhood friends had Vietnam-vet dads with dead stares, unfathomable angst, and tempers that burned magnesium-hot. I was fed the staple of films and pop-culture Vietnam War fare, from Apocalypse Now to Platoon to Full Metal Jacket. So part of me yearned to step foot in the actual country, to see the palm trees and smell the red dirt and try to comprehend what had happened some thirty years ago. Though I was working in Korea, this was to be my first real Asian vacation: why go to overrun Thailand, when instead I could set foot in the place where the shit really went down?

So my buddy Sam and I flew into Ho Chi Min City, or Saigon, depending on your geography, sense of political correctness, or loyalty to the Hanoi regime. I found that most foreigners did indeed refer to the place by its newer name, in honor of the glorious victory of the Vietnamese people, as well as a nod to old Uncle Ho himself. However, most of the locals still called it Saigon, and no amount of revisionist cartography or re-education was going to turn the tide as far as that was concerned.

During our first few days there, we paid homage to the war and all things Vietnamese: we crawled through the Viet Cong tunnels at Cu Chi, enduring a histrionic sixties-era propaganda film exhorting the “bastard American imperialists” and their “South Vietnamese flunkies.” We witnessed ex-guerrilla guides demonstrating nasty, bamboo-spiked traps, designed to kill and maim American GIs, while a gaggle of bloated, sunburned Russian tourists joked and laughed, obviously delighted to see their former tax-rubles at work. We rode motorbikes around Saigon, getting separated in the unstoppable river of other riders (Sam was eventually shepherded back to our hotel by a local Good Samaritan). We shot rusting Kalashnikovs and American .45-caliber pistols at animal-shaped targets for a buck a bullet. We took a boat tour on the Mekong River, tromped through villages, dined on fresh-caught fish, and endured a tourist hard-sell at the local rice candy factory. We sucked the meat of crazy tropical fruit with names like Jack, Dragon, Durian, and Star. We sipped tea and were sung to by adorable local girls in silk dresses. We even saw our unflappable guide Dong stung by several angry bees at a honey farm.

We now found ourselves in the crumbling town of Can Tho, a drab and smallish city located on the banks of the Mekong and the site of a raging battle during the American War. The place looked as if it had never fully recovered. Dong checked us into a cavernous, belittling hotel that looked as if it had been designed by Stalin’s personal architect—all moldy concrete, cold tile floors, and mysteriously stained carpet. We seemed to be the only guests. At reception, we were made to fill out probing and lengthy check-in forms; they insisted on holding on to our passports. I tried to protest, but was assured by Dong that it was for “security reasons.”

For dinner, the always-cool Dong took us to a restaurant in the center of town, right along the river. We followed a narrow staircase to the second floor and sat at a creaky table made of dark wood. The room had its own French terrace and was stuffed full of European tourists, who gesticulated, smoked, and spoke in hushed, Continental tones. Small lizards darted along the bare walls while ceiling fans whirred languidly overhead. The place was steeped in the rhythms of the Mekong and very Indochine. I half expected a group of mustachioed, white-linen-clad colonial administrators to sashay in, grab a table, and begin shouting out orders for wine.

“So are you up for it?” I asked Sam.

“Eating cobra?”

“Yeah. Cobra.”

“Sure… I guess.”

“We are in Vietnam,” I said, sucking down a cold gulp of 333 Beer. “I saw it on TV one time—you know, that curly-haired chef who travels around and eats everything. What’s his name again?”

Sam looked back blankly.

“Anyway, this is some live, fresh shit. They kill the cobra right in front of you. Bam! Then the guy slices it open… and get this: he drains the blood into a shot glass which you drink, right then and there.”

“Sounds delicious,” Sam sniped.

“But that’s not all. He then cuts out the still-beating heart, which you chew up and swallow.”

“Great. What about the rest of the snake?”

“What do you mean?”

“The rest of the snake. You know—the body? What they do with it?”

“Oh, yeah. They fry it up, or maybe it’s steamed… I don’t know. Anyway, they serve it with rice and you eat that too. But it’s the opening act that brings in customers.”

“Hmm…” Sam leaned back in his chair and took a deep drag on his smoke.

“So, what do you think?”

“When in Rome,” Sam exhaled, raising his eyebrows. “But the heart’s all yours…”

*

By eleven the next day, we were on the road with Dong, on our way back to Saigon, after a morning spent on the river. We were meant to visit a floating market, but alas, we came along during one of the few days that it’s ever closed. Tet, the Vietnamese Lunar New Year, was just two days away, and the country was in the midst of preparations and on the move—on its way to visit family members in far-off cities and provinces. The road was heaving with traffic of all kinds: buses were crammed with people inside and supplies on top; whole families balanced on 100cc motor scooters—fused together to maximize all possible space; cars wove in and out, overtaking on the left and the right, honking and sputtering blue fumes. The scene was total chaos, and I held onto the car door armrest with a constrictor-like grip. Sam, like me, was sweating pure fear. Dong, of course, was unperturbed and blindly passed trucks on corners while puffing on his omnipresent cigarette.

Adding to our misery was our ever-growing hunger. We each had eaten a tiny bowl of noodles at around seven that morning, but the fuel had since spent itself. What had begun as a small twinge had now evolved into a full-blown need for more food.

“I’m seriously starving. I need to eat soon,” Sam croaked.

“Me too, dude. I’m famished.”

No sooner had we declared our need to eat when Dong pulled off of the main road and stopped the car in front of a storefront.

“Here there is the snake.” He gestured to a large sign above the joint’s door, featuring a huge, garishly painted, nasty-looking cobra. Sam and I gazed at each other, took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

“Here we go,” I said.

Sam nodded his head in silence and followed me through the door.

The restaurant was located in a basement. It was dank and bunker-like, all concrete, with an assortment of plastic tables and chairs. A few fluorescent bulbs sickly lit the place, revealing a massive mural on the wall, depicting more colorful and extremely venomous-looking cobras. The days leading up to Tet must mark a lull in national cobra consumption, however, for despite it being lunchtime, there was no one in the place, other than the bored-looking older couple who ran it.

Upon seeing us, the couple’s indolence evaporated. They were immediately on their feet, excited by the prospect of some business, and no doubt turned on to the scent of cash reeking from these two tourists’ pores. Dong’s Vietnamese greeting sounded like a taught rubber-band being plucked, and we were immediately led into a back room containing a large scale and about ten burlap sacks hanging from the wall.

Dong consulted with the old man and turned to us.

“How big you like?”

“What?”

“You want big cobra or small cobra?”

I looked at Sam, who just shrugged and shook his head.

“Is there a difference in price?” I asked.

“Big cobra very expensive.”

“Uh… I guess we’ll go with medium?” I said, looking back at Sam, who, with each second, collapsed further into himself.

“So, yeah,” I continued, “One medium cobra, please.” It was as if I was ordering French fries or a latte.

The old woman considered the burlap bags and grabbed one in the middle. The snake inside writhed violently as she took it off the wall and over to the scale, all business.

Dong and the couple formed a huddle of sorts around the scale, weighed the bagged snake, and began to talk in quieter, more serious tones, no doubt the financial negotiations, which, in bargain-cultured Vietnam, can take some time.

Sam took advantage of the lull in the action. He sighed, turned to me, and said:

“I can’t do it, dude.”

“What?”

“I can’t do it.”

“You don’t want to eat any?”

“Nope. Don’t wanna do it. I don’t wanna eat a cobra. I’m really hungry and want a normal meal—like some rice and chicken and fish or maybe a good ham sandwich.”

“A ham sandwich?”

“Yeah. The sandwiches are awesome here.”

“But we’ve come this far already.”

“You go ahead. Knock yourself out. I’ll watch. But I’m not eating any.”

“You’re not eating any?”

“Listen man, I never really wanted to eat snake in the first place. This whole thing was your idea. I ate rattlesnake back in Idaho once, and it was okay, but not that great. I feel no need to repeat the act.”

And he was right. The whole crusade to dine on snake had been my personal mission. I was the one who insisted on it from the beginning. Nowhere in the proceedings could I recall an enthusiastic endorsement from my travel companion.

“Well screw it, then. I don’t want to sit here and eat a cobra alone.”

So it was decided.

*

Dong took the news reasonably well, despite the fact that he probably lost face in front of the old couple, a great indignity in any East Asian culture. We loaded back into the car and continued down the road. But I did detect a change in his demeanor. He seemed to look at us differently, to regard us with much less respect than before. We had undoubtedly proven ourselves to be something less than men in his eyes: all bravado, no balls. I don’t know the Vietnamese term for “complete and total pussies,” but I’m sure it was reverberating inside of his head.

Despite our reduced status on the Southeast Asian stratum of machismo, Dong was still our guide for the rest of the day, and as such, suggested another restaurant.

“They too have snake. No cobra, but there is the snake.”

He took us to a lovely outdoor restaurant located on the banks of a swiftly flowing muddy stream, and they indeed did have snake. Four to be precise—listless, half-dead Asian pythons—each about three feet long. They sat in an inch or two of water at the bottom of a dirty aquarium, next to a tank containing some large fish that were also available for consumption.

After some consideration, I pointed to the one I wanted, and it was removed from the tank by our waiter slash python-wrangler. He held it by its tail and proceeded to whip it around in a circle, bashing its reptilian brains on the pavement beneath: SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!

A group of middle-aged, well-heeled German tourists—lunching on deep-fried elephant fish—looked on in horror from their table just feet away.

After the snake was unceremoniously dispatched, its executioner took it back into the kitchen, where it was ground up and fried, along with some onions and other seasonings. In ten minutes it appeared at our table, in a bowl, along with a crispy rice-wafer. We broke off pieces of the wafer and used them to scoop up the minced snake meat.

At once I regretted my decision not to eat cobra, which is said to have a nice firm white meat. This python flesh was nothing of the sort. It was dark, greasy, and mushy in texture, as if the meat itself had absorbed the mud in which the creature had spent the majority of its life. Even worse were the bits of snake vertebrae scattered throughout, adding an unwanted crunch. It was an oily, nasty dish—nearly inedible—but we endured and took down every bit of our reptilian hors d’œuvre, rewarded afterward with a set menu of fish, chicken, rice, and soup. This was very much to Sam’s satisfaction, despite the fact that he never did get his ham sandwich.

THE OTHER SIDE

Japan, 2006

“Mmmmmmmy God this is so good,” I mumbled, chewing the sushi in slow motion, savoring every molecule of texture and flavor. “Mmm-mmmmmm… good lord.”

“Excuse me.” Steve—my friend and colleague—waved to the sushi chef, who was busily chopping ginger on the other side of the counter.

“Ah… yes-uh?” The chef stopped his work.

Steve proceeded very slowly: “What-kind-of-fish-is-this?” He pointed to the silver slice perched atop the ball of molded rice in front of him.

“Aji,” the man replied.

“Aji?” repeated Steve.

“Aji. Hai,” confirmed the kind-eyed chef. “How do you say in Eng-uh-rish-uh?”

He looked to his partner—a grey-haired man of about seventy—who stood just feet away, putting the final touches on a shrimp roll, and rattled lighting Japanese his way. The old man glanced up, smiled, and just shook his head. The younger chef then furrowed his brow, gripped his shining knife with his right hand, and drummed on his apron with his left. He whispered to himself, lost in contemplation, until his eyes suddenly came alive: “Oh, yes. Aji in English! Spah-nish-a mah-kuh-rel.”

“Spanish mackerel. Of course,” nodded Steve.

“Hai. Aji.”

“Aji is better,” Steve said. “Much easier to pronounce.”

“You need to seriously get down on that, Steve. It’s literally one of the most delicious things I’ve ever had.”

“No time like the present.”

I stopped to watch Steve eat this chef’s masterpiece. He gingerly gripped the sushi between two wooden chopsticks and lifted it off the plate. He slowly lowered it toward the ceramic bowl containing the soy sauce mixed with atomic, bright green wasabi. He carefully let just the bottom of the rice absorb the sauce before elevating the now ready-to-eat sushi away from the counter toward his awaiting mouth.

“Go on,” I said. Take it down. The whole thing.”

The sushi disappeared behind his lips. Steve slowly chewed. His eyes gave away intense pleasure. Hints of tears welled up in the corners, visible through the round glasses that partially reflected the fluorescent lights above. He groaned and ever-so-slightly shook his head in deep approval as he swallowed the work of art.

“Ahhh…”

Steve set down his chopsticks and finished off the moment with a deep gulp from his ice-cold, foamy-headed mug of Sapporo. He set it down with a heavy clunk on the counter and sighed.

“These are some damned good eats. Was I right about this place or what?”

“This restaurant? Or Japan?”

“Both.”

“Yes, you were. Can we move here?”

The two chefs went back about their business, slicing fish, molding rice, and placing their creations on white plates with the skill and precision of masters. Each took his time, working deliberately and with confidence, in the manner of one who has been at it for ages. Their restaurant was a very small affair marked with a simple sign outside and a sliding black door. The interior consisted of a tiny counter that seated just four or five, as well as two very small tables. There was a second-floor space as well—probably reserved for groups of businessmen—with one tired-looking, bob-headed waitress who ran orders up the stairs and empty dishes down. The place was ordinary, as far as sushi joints in Japan go, but the food transcended the unremarkable surroundings. Having just eaten one of the most fantastic meals of my life, I was pulsing in culinary ecstasy.

“I found this place last time I came here,” said Steve. “I was walking around in the rain, looking for somewhere to eat. I can’t read Japanese, so I was shit out of luck, as this isn’t the most English-friendly country, especially with regards to signage. I wandered the streets, obviously clueless, until a voice, in English, called out to me. Across the road I saw a young, dark-skinned, non-Japanese guy selling handmade jewelry at a little table. So I went over to talk with him. It turns out the he was mixed race—Indian-Israeli-Japanese—and spoke something like five languages. I told him I was looking for good eats, so he had a friend watch his wares while he led me up the street, and voila! Here we are, the best sushi in Fukuoka.”

“You enjoy aji?” The younger chef asked, knowing our answers.

“Incredibly delicious. No, more than that: exquisite.” I struggled, not finding adequate words.

“Arigato gozaimasu.” He punctuated his thanks with a quick bow.

“We are visiting from Korea,” said Steve.

“Oh, Korea? Hai.”

“We live in Busan.” I added. “Do you know Busan?”

“Busan?” He pointed in the direction of the sea, as if to say, Just over there.

“Yes. We took the ferry here today.

“Oh. Busan. Hai.” He nodded in understanding.

“Actually, we’re from America.”

“Ah-mae-ri-kuh? U-S-A?”

“Yes, sir.”

The chef’s eyes lit up. “Oh… America. I live in USA three years. With father.” He nodded to the old man silently working next to him.

“Wow. That’s your father?” said Steve.

“Hai.”

“Oh, really? You lived in America? Where?” I asked.

“I live in… Mo-suh-suh Lake-uh”

“Moses Lake?” I blurted, not sure if I had heard him right.

“Hai. Moses Lake. Washington State.”

“I’m from Washington State! Olympia. Do you know Olympia?”

“Olympia. Hai!”

“Wow. What on earth were you doing in Moses Lake?” I gasped.

“Where’s Moses Lake?” Steve chimed in.

“It’s an unremarkable town in central Washington—the last place you’d expect this guy to be holed up.”

“I work for JAL. Japan Air. With father. We make the sushi for JAL workers.”

“Oh, that’s right! They have a big airport out there. It used to be an air force base, I think. They must use it for training.”

“Yes. Tuh-raining.”

“I heard that it’s one of the alternate landing strips for the Space Shuttle.”

“Space Shuttle. Hai,” the chef enthusiastically confirmed.

“Small world,” shrugged Steve.

The man translated for his father, who stopped his work, looked our way, and grinned. The father then turned to his son and appeared to give him some sort of orders. The son bowed and immediately grabbed a white plastic container and walked from behind the counter and out the front door. He returned a moment later with something in the container, most likely from the saltwater tank that we’d seen outside. After just two minutes, he produced a final dish and set it down on the counter: on it were two abalones, cut free from their shells. They were as fresh as it gets: still moving.

“Awabi,” he said. “My father’s treat. No pay.” He quickly shook his head and made a small waving gesture with his hand, as if to say, Don’t even think about it.

The old man smiled and bowed.

“Wow. Thanks,” said an impressed Steve. “They didn’t do this last time I came,” he whispered.

Next to the shellfish sat two narrow slices of lemon.

“Use lemon. Good taste.”

“Well thank you. Uh… ari-gato go-zai-masu!” I struggled, and then, just as awkwardly, attempted a bow.

“This is a first for me,” remarked Steve, raising his eyebrows. “But I must say it looks damn good.”

“Uh-huh.”

We grabbed the lemon slices and squeezed away with excitement, only to watch the poor creatures convulse in agony as the lemon juice seared their flesh.

“Oh, my…” I muttered.

The two of us looked on in pity.

“This is just sadistic,” confessed a bemused Steve.

Both abalones continued to squirm and writhe, spending their last few moments of life in what had to be unimaginable pain.

“I’m not sure whether to thank our hosts or condemn them,” I remarked.

“I hear you. Whatever the case, it’s time to put these guys out of their misery.”

“Sure thing,” I said, horrified. “I’d expect them to do the same for us.”

The abalones contracted and released in a spasmodic ballet.

“Ready?”

“Ready.”

“Down the hatch!”

I popped the twitching mollusk into my mouth and chomped down. The flesh was a bit tough and I had to work at chewing, unleashing an explosion of sea salt and deep sweetness. The lemon juice only served to amplify the bright, fresh flavor, and for a moment, my whole mouth came alive.

*

Fukuoka is a city on Japan’s southern island of Kyushu and just a three-hour high-speed ferry ride across the water from Busan. For much of the world, the aquatic mass that separates the two countries is known as the Sea of Japan, though Koreans universally balk at such a Nippon-centric label. They insist on calling it the East Sea, which, seeing as it’s only east of Korea, doesn’t make it any less territorial. Perhaps a third, neutral name needs to be dreamed up by a committee in the United Nations, made up only of representatives of countries who have no horse in this particular race. But whatever you choose to call it, Steve and I crossed it. It was mid-April, and we had few days off from the university, so we decided to jump on a boat and see how the folks on the other side of the water did things.

It was my first trip to Japan, and though I did have certain expectations, I was shocked at how different it was from Korea. Koreans and Japanese look a bit similar and do share some cultural traits, but it stops there. To visit both nations in the course of a day is an exercise in contrasts, and it woke me up to how dissimilar they actually are.

The first thing that hit me was the tranquility. The place was quiet. Granted, Fukuoka is less than a third of the size of Busan, population-wise, but the moment I walked off that ferry I could hear it or—more accurately—not hear it. I took a deep breath and felt my muscles relax. Ah, calm. Urban Korea is a loud, often chaotic place: there’s really no end to the din. The constant growl of cars, buses, trucks, and motorbikes combines with the clamor of loudspeakers from vehicles selling produce; K-pop pumps and blares from the fronts of phone shops, cafes, bars, and stores. And then there are the people themselves, who cackle and joke and argue and cajole at generous decibels. Koreans like to think of themselves as quiet, but in reality they’re often just the opposite.

The Japanese, on the other hand, are truly quiet, and this became evident in laid-back Fukuoka. Steve and I decided to walk from the ferry terminal to our hotel, which was located in the city center. The outlying streets were almost empty of cars, and I noticed right away that many people got around on bicycles, easy to do on the flat surface of the town. Bikes are a much rarer sight in Busan, which is a city carved into the valleys and ravines of many mountains, making pumping pedals a lot more difficult.

Steve and I strolled under overcast skies along the peaceful streets of Fukuoka, listening to the calls of seagulls while taking in the eye-catching architecture of the city’s most basic houses and apartment buildings. The Japanese have a flair for design, and this struck me as we made our way toward the downtown. Instead of blocky apartments, we saw small square sections pushing out from the sides of the buildings, breaking up the lines and grabbing the eye; outdoor staircases wrapped around structures in rounded, gently ascending bands, rather than the obvious forty-five degree diagonal slopes found throughout much of the world. Daring colors were employed as well, with bright greens, reds, and oranges splashing out and adding some verve to what could otherwise be a dreary urban landscape. Even the angles used in the building design tended to be unexpected and exciting. That’s not to say that the architecture was flashy or trying to impress; like many things Japanese, it was mostly understated, something small that just changes the whole way a building is perceived—a tiny detail that makes you say think, Wow. That is cool. Korea, on the other hand—while definitely improving on its design aesthetic of the last few decades—is still all too often the land of the unimaginative shoebox apartment block, where the drab and literal reign. And sometimes, perhaps in reaction to this, they take things too far in the other direction, with modern buildings adopting the science-fiction-strip-mall look—all overdone cheap plastic and aluminum with some nifty colored lights added for effect.

Our hotel rooms were twice the price and half the size of anything we’d get back in Busan—glorified broom closets, really. A narrow single bed abutted the wall, with just a few feet of space to maneuver around it. A slim counter stretched out at the foot of the bed; on it were a tiny television, lamp, notepad, pen, and radio alarm clock. A chair was pushed in underneath in case you wanted to use the structure as a desk. The bathroom was an even tinier affair, a toilet and sink crammed in with only inches between, and just a few feet from the wall to the shower/tub. This was cramped space, to be sure. It struck me just how difficult a place to maneuver this country must be for large people.

Yes, the rooms were minute, but they were tidy, clean, well located, and the best bargain for the buck. After Singapore, Japan is the most expensive country in Asia, and it didn’t take long for sticker shock to set in. Almost nothing is cheap. Combining that with an unfavorable exchange rate, and cash hemorrhaged.

Cash, yes, it was a concern. I had brought plenty, but knew that it could go quickly in Japan. So you can imagine my elation that night when, at the sushi joint—after taking down the tortured abalones and finishing our draft Sapporos—Steve graciously produced his card and picked up the sizable bill. Styled. As we walked away I thanked him profusely, but he just waved his hand and said, in an exaggerated Boston accent:

“Fahgitabouttit, Mr. Thahp. Just buy me a bee-ah and some wicked re-tah-ded gah-lic bread.”

Fukuoka is a town made for walking, with flat streets, conscientious drivers, and polite people. Steve and I wandered through the business/entertainment district that also housed our sushi paradise. There were plenty of massage joints and karaoke rooms, advertising their wares with pictures of busty, dyed-haired girls with large brown eyes. Clusters of suit-and-tie-clad men wandered the sidewalks, chatting and smoking (cigarettes were among the few things that could be called “cheap” in Japan). We passed by a number of pachinko parlors and even went in one to try our luck. The ringing and buzzing of the machines joined together in one massive hum that seduced and tempted, reminding me of a Vegas casino. We sat next to each other and fed coins into the hi-tech units, but were both totally baffled as to how to operate the things, and received no help from the indifferent staff. I quickly picked up on the vibe that we weren’t welcome there anyway, and we made for the exit.

We soon came across a regular video game arcade, which was everything I had expected to find in Japan. The place contained at least ten different versions of the crane game, with alarm clocks and stuffed animals and anime figurines and cute puppy pillows up for grabs by the mechanical claw; groups of teenage girls stood around live-action dancing games and watched their agile classmates try to match the moves demonstrated by the lit-up digital board in front of them; boys played drumming and guitar games, along with soccer, baseball, basketball, and first-person shooters and fighters. This place—along with the pachinko parlor, was the very opposite of quiet Fukuoka—with a mélange of sounds drifting and combining and clashing: revving engines, machine-gun fire, punches, techno music, screeching brakes, whirring helicopter rotors, thumping drums, screaming, and laughing; along with beeps, blips, and modulating tones from the eighties and beyond. In fact, it was eighties games that I was most after, and soon we came upon a huge section of nothing but vintage arcade games from the decade of my teens. I binged on Galaga, Pac-Man, Frogger, Donkey Kong, and Asteroids, and was overwhelmed with giddiness when I came across a machine containing Scramble, a spaceship shooter that I loved as a kid but hadn’t seen for over twenty-five years. There I was, transported back to 1983, sitting in the tiny arcade cluster of the Lacey Cinemas, killing time before a Friday-night film.

After our video game orgy, Steve and I ended up at a bar popular with expats, where I freely spent the money I’d saved from dinner on beer for the both of us. Japanese beer is easily the best in Asia: it’s clean, fresh, and full of flavor, lacking the formaldehyde and cat urine that seem to be present in so many of the continent’s lesser brews. Whether it’s cars or electronics or beer, the Japanese just do things right. They pay strict attention to detail and they don’t cut corners, and it shows everywhere. Things in Japan are just nice. Almost nothing looks shitty. My first few hours in Fukuoka made me seriously question what I was doing in Korea.

Steve and I ended up joining a group of Japanese ska heads who occupied a couple of tables. One of them was celebrating a birthday, and they were freely pouring from a large bottle of Jose Cuervo. They were in full punk regalia—leather, Doc Martins, bleached Mohawks, safety pins, checkered trousers, bowler hats, tattoos—and drank with savage ferocity. I immediately liked them and joined in their madness, slamming shots and slurring in one guy’s ear about the beautiful power of punk rock.

“You like punk rock?” He said in good English. His name was Koji.

“Yeahhhhhh, man… I love punk rock.”

“Cool man,” Koji nodded. “Punk rock changed the fucking world.”

“Hell yeah!”

“To punk rock!”

“Punk rock!”

We slammed our beer glasses together and drank.

“I wanna hear punk rock now!” I yelled. His friend, a tiny girl in huge boots and black dreadlocks, handed me a shot of tequila.

“You want to listen punk rock?”

“Yeahhhhhh!” I yelled, downing it.

“Okay. You go to my friend’s bar. Tonight there is punk rock music.”

Koji wrote down some quick directions for me. I slapped him on the back and shook his hand, and Steve and I were off in search of the punk palace.

“How cool is this, dude,” I said. “We’re gonna see a punk show in Japan.”

“Yeah man. I can handle it.”

We hiked down the street according to the directions, until we came to the lobby of the building that housed the bar.

“This is it,” I said.

We boarded the elevator and rode it up to the sixth floor. As we exited the elevator, we stood in front of a door. Loud punk music blared out from behind. A skinny dude in black leather stood there, collecting the cover. He smoked Marlboro Reds and laughed with two buddies, who were also fully done up in the Japanese punk rock uniform. As we approached he politely pointed to the sign, which read: 1500 Yen (about sixteen or seventeen dollars at the time).

“It’s a bit pricey… but screw it, we’re in Japan, what can we do?” I slapped down the notes, got my stamp, and walked in, followed by Steve.

Like most of the places we’d been to that night, the joint was small, with a DJ spinning standard, vintage punk fare (Ramones, Buzzcocks) from a table up on a platform. We sauntered up to the bar and ordered a couple more beers, taking stock of our surroundings. A few Japanese punks were hanging out drinking, but otherwise it appeared to be empty.

We got our beers and walked around the black box of a room.

“Where’s the stage?” asked Steve.

“That is a good question.”

As we looked around more, we quickly discovered that there wasn’t one.

“I think we just paid thirty bucks to listen to a punk rock DJ,” muttered Steve.

“A punk rock DJ? Are you kidding me? There’s no such thing. DJs are the least punk rock people in the world.”

I gulped down my beer and glared at the guy in the studded leather jacket standing on the DJ platform. He fiddled with his laptop and bobbed his head. I fought the urge to jump up there, grab his headphones, snap them in two, and force them down his gullet.

Steve continued, “Well, that’s what the cover was evidently for. I don’t see any band.”

“Nah, nah, nah.” I felt the tequila-stoked fire burn in my belly. “Let’s ask the bartender.”

“If he speaks English.”

“He’ll speak enough.”

We went back to the bar and got the man’s attention.

“Hey,” I yelled, over the blare of Black Flag’s TV Party. “Tonight… band?” I mimed playing the guitar. “Punk rock show?”

He shook his head no.

“No band?”

“No,” he said, turning away.

“Fuck this shit.” I moaned to Steve. “We’re gettin’ our money back. Come on.”

Steve followed me to the door. I was now loaded on beer and tequila and on a punk-fueled tear. As I exited I turned to the guys collecting cover.

“Tonight, no band?” Again I mimed the guitar.

“No, no,” he waved me away.

“Then we want our money back.”

He looked at me, not fully understanding.

“Money back. Yen.” I slapped my palm. “We came for band. No band. No money.”

“No. You pay.”

“No. Money back.” Slap slap.

“No no. You pay! No money back!” Vehement head shaking.

“Give us our money back! You call yourselves punks? Charging money for a fucking DJ?”

“Uh, Chris, let’s just get out of here.”

“These little assholes have the nerve to call themselves punk rock? You cocksuckers don’t know shit about punk rock! Sure you got the uniform on but that doesn’t mean anything, you poser motherfuckers!”

The guy at the door had enough, and lunged at me, screaming in Japanese. His friends grabbed him before he could land a punch, and Steve pushed me into the elevator which opened up just in time. As the door closed, we heard a loud THUNK of the skinny dude’s boot against the metal.

“Holy shit, dude, you’re going to get us killed.”

“Sorry,” I gasped. “Punk rock my ass…”

“You’re crazy, Tharp.”

“Fuck it.” My rage now turned from hot to ticklish, and I unleashed the chaos in a series of deep belly-laughs, which echoed around the confines of the elevator.

We were both hungry now, and hoped to grab a bite on our way back to the hotel. Japan isn’t as rife with late-night choices as many other Asian countries, but they still know how to rock some after-hour street grub. We soon came upon a tent lit by a single bulb. It was empty except for the man sitting behind several metal pans of steaming water, in which was floating an array of oteng—a kind of compressed fish paste. I had eaten the Korean version, odeng, on countless occasions; it was one of my favorite street snacks, but the way they served it up on the peninsula was no match for the sight before me.

“Oh my God! Do you see that? Is that odeng?” I drunkenly moaned.

Korean odeng comes in just one color: beige, and is almost always a square cut from a ribbon and stuck on to a wooden skewer. This authentic oteng came in a variety of shapes, colors, and sizes. There were squares and triangles and orbs made up of various shades of yellow, brown, and even red. Unlike their Korean cousin, none of them were skewered, but floated independently in the broth.

I had to have some.

“Wow. I’ve never seen anything like it.” I hovered over the hot vats of oteng in absolute fascination. “Where do you start? I want some.”

“Knock yourself out.”

“Hey, sssir!” I looked through blurry eyes to the man, who glared back wearily.

“Oteng. How much?”

He looked on, unmoved.

“Hey Tharp, I don’t think he speaks English.”

“That’s okay! I’ll just point to what I want! Don’t these look fucking awesome?”

“Never been a big fan.”

“Okay, sir! I want… lemme have… let’s see…” I tottered on my feet as I attempted to make up my mind. “Lemme have the… the big round red one.” I pointed, “…and THAT one… and… and… OH YEAH! The triangle one looks great!”

The man looked down and vigorously shook his head side-to-side.

“I don’t think he’s having it,” said Steve.

“What?”

“I think he’s through with you.”

“What? No way. Excuse me, sir? I’d like—”

He looked back up and shook his head again—this time more forcefully. He accompanied this with a dramatic waving of his arms, letting me know—in no uncertain terms—that my drunken ass wasn’t going to get served.

“Ah man! Come on! I just want some odeng!”

He muttered something in Japanese and further waved me away. Steve pulled me back out onto the sidewalk and we stumbled toward our hotel.

“This sucks. Motherfucker!” I shouted back.

“You were denied. You were refused odeng,” Steve said, laughing. “I’m not sure if that’s ever happened before, to anyone, anywhere.”

We ended the night in a noodle tent. Steve made me promise to ratchet it down a few notches before entering, to which I gladly obliged, having learned my lesson from the recalcitrant oteng seller. We both ordered bowls of ramen, which went down nicely after an evening of sushi and booze. When some Westerners hear the word ramen, they may picture dirt cheap Top Ramen, with its packets of MSG flavoring. That style of ramen is mainly eaten by the truly poor and broke students back home; it bears little resemblance to a real bowl of ramen sold in the tents of Fukuoka, or any Japanese city, for that matter. Proper Japanese ramen is tender to the tooth, served in a rich, savory broth, and topped off with a couple of thin slices of sweet, fatty pork. It’s a glorious thing to behold and even holier to ingest, and after an evening of non-stop talking, Steve and I were left with no words—just slurping sounds—as we took down some serious noodles.

*

The Shinkansen rocketed at a velocity that seemed impossible. Steve and I relaxed, worked on a crossword together, and watched the Japanese countryside warp by in a blur as we headed north toward the main island of Honshu, enjoying this truly remarkable mode of transport. The bullet train lived up to its reputation, reaching speeds of nearly three hundred kilometers an hour. Often, when traveling by car or even airplane, you have no sense of how fast you are actually travelling. The Shinkansen, however, shattered all such ignorance. One glance out of the window toward the rice fields and houses flickering by, and we had no trouble comprehending the speed of our journey.

Hiroshima sits on a river delta and has all the features of a modern, lovely Japanese city. The wide, tree-lined streets play host to light-rail trams; the air is clean with a taste of ocean salt; like everywhere in Japan, the sidewalks are immaculate and the shops and restaurants give off the warm glow of prosperity. Hiroshima looked like a terrific place to call home, nothing like the scenes of destruction that I’d come to associate it with. For most of us, it is synonymous with misery and horror. To gaze at the present-day city was pleasantly jarring, however, since it looked nothing like the black-and-white photos of flattened and charred buildings, skeletons of vehicles, and the maimed, hopeless inhabitants that I had come to equate with the city. I knew the place had been rebuilt, of course, but I had no idea just how completely they had achieved the goal. Like Fukuoka, Hiroshima was nice. While its history may have been tragic, its present seemed nothing of the sort.

But we hadn’t come to Hiroshima to marvel at its modernity: we were there for its past. We wanted to pay witness to this venue of unimaginable carnage and attempt to understand—not with our minds, but with our guts—what exactly had gone down at 8:15 in morning of August 6th, 1945. We wished to examine the scene of the crime, to pay our respects, and perhaps to give penance. Most overriding, though, was the urge to reach out as humans and attempt to make sense of what can only be described as the height of inhumanity.

So Steve and I disembarked from the Shinkansen and set out for the city’s Peace Park—a memorial to the atomic attack that lies along the banks of the slow-flowing Ota River near the city center. Steve consulted the map in his guidebook, and we were immediately on our way. This wasn’t easy. Now that I was actually in Hiroshima, I fought the urge to turn around and jump back on the bullet train. Did I really want to spend my afternoon thinking of such death and my country’s bloody hand in its creation? But this was more a pilgrimage than a pleasure trip, and we grimly pressed on, knowing our quest to be one of necessity.

The Peace Park is aptly named, for it was quiet, even by Japanese standards. The only sound was that of the breeze, some squawking seagulls, and the weird little pink sightseeing boats chugging up the river. Steve and I strolled along in contemplation, observing this unwritten rule of silence, hyper-aware of the fact that we trod upon hallowed ground. It was early spring and the cherry blossoms were just beginning to bloom, giving the surroundings a taste of life. But all I could think about was death. I tried to imagine the feeling of going about your business on a Sunday morning, only to be blinded by a flash, feel the air ripped from your lungs, and get hit with an incinerating blast of hellish heat. Multiply this feeling by tens of thousands of people, and the enormity becomes too much to bear. As I morbidly obsessed on these details—the melted flesh, the crisped skin, the people who were vaporized with their shadows burned into the sides of buildings—I was not overtaken with emotion. I felt no tears, no horror, no guilt even. I was strangely detached, bowing my head, walking in silence, but feeling little. I was reminded of attending mass with my family in my late teens, with the kneeling and genuflecting and mumbling of prayers. The process was supposed to infuse me with grace, but instead I was left feeling hollow and false in the knowledge that I was just going through the motions.

The most iconic structure in Hiroshima’s Peace Memorial Park is the Hiroshima Prefecture Industrial Promotion Hall, which is the closest surviving building to the epicenter of the bomb’s detonation. It has since been renamed the Genbako Dome, or “A-bomb Dome”, and serves as a testament to the blast. The roof of the dome was sheared off by the explosion, but the frame remains, giving the building the look of a clean-eaten carcass, a warning to other prey. It’s the one remaining relic of that terrible morning, and to anyone viewing it, it sends home the reality of what happened. After snapping some photographs, I just stood and looked. The emptiness inside me gave way to a warm, sad understanding.

Eventually Steve and I wandered up to the Peace Park’s museum, where my earlier mental speculation as to the effects of the bombing and subsequent radiation on human beings was confirmed by many graphic photographs. These pictures served as exhibits—close-up shots of burned, poisoned, and misshapen people—all civilians, many of them children. I hadn’t eaten since the morning, but my hunger turned to nausea as I took in the photographic evidence of the crime. They were hard to look at but I forced myself, and I challenge anyone to do the same and not be sickened.

We spent about an hour at the museum, which included not just documentation about the victims of the blast, but information on the physics of the Hiroshima explosion, as well as extensive data on nuclear weapons in general. There were charts displaying which countries possessed the bomb, as well as the estimated size of their arsenals. Unsurprisingly, the USA topped the list. The museum strove to be more than a memorial, however. It attempted to inform people about the reality of nuclear weapons, and at the same time, it advocated for their total eradication.

As we left the museum, we came upon the guestbook, which was an intriguing read. Messages from people around the world attempted to articulate the inexpressible. Most were short lines of sorrow and regret, with plenty of pleas for peace. Some of my fellow Americans left personal notes of apology, trying to put their shame and sense of guilt into words. One Canadian commenter did the opposite: she attempted to wash away culpability by reminding the world—through underlining, exclamation points, and all caps—that she was from Canada, NOT the USA, and that her nation had no hand in the bombing. The guestbook acted as part mirror, part Rorschach test. After reading comments for ten minutes, I was ready to leave my own. I picked up the pen and put it to the white paper, but paused. I attempted to form opening words, but they felt cheap and inadequate. Defeated, I set the pen down and walked away.

Stunned and somewhat shaken, we left the Peace Memorial Park and headed back into town. Though two hours of revisiting one of the greatest atrocities of the 20th century had tamped down our hunger, our appetites now returned with a vengeance. It was time to eat, and soon we found ourselves in the huge, covered Hondori Shopping Arcade, because nothing takes your mind off atomic catastrophes like the bright colors and strange flash of happy Japanese consumerism.

For lunch we went local, sampling Hiroshima-style okonomiyaki, a kind of fritter layered with egg, cabbage, bean sprouts, sliced pork, and octopus, cooked on a hot plate as we looked on. It was hearty, filling, and delicious. This was some proper regional fare and made us feel more connected to the older, non-nuclear Hiroshima.

Bellies full, we left the little restaurant and joined the shoppers in the Hondori Arcade. We had an over an hour until our train back to Fukuoka, so this market looked to be the perfect place to kill some time. Steve was looking to pick up some souvenirs, but Japan had already sapped my wallet, so I was more than content to just window-shop and return to Korea empty-handed.

“I’m gonna check out that shop over there. Maybe pick up something for my students,” Steve said.

“Cool. I’m going to look on my own. Why don’t we meet back here in thirty minutes?”

I proceeded to walk down the arcade a couple of hundred meters until something caught my eye. It was a comic book store. While not a collector or even a huge fan of comics, I love the stores that contain them. In America I’ve spent many hours browsing through store selections, from superhero stuff to alternative to erotica. I like to check it all out, and the more obscure the title, the better. I had never been to a comic store in Japan, though. I was familiar with manga (Japanese comics) and had dabbled in reading some years before, but here I was in Hiroshima, facing the entrance of the Manga Mothership. So I slipped through the threshold and proceeded to get lost.

It must be said that the Japanese are notorious perverts. They even outdo their old allies Germany in this regard. Some of the strangest sexual stuff on the Internet emanates from Japan. Whether it’s bukkake (a ring of men masturbating onto a woman—or another man), puke videos, or “tub girls,” with arcing shots of brown liquid from the subject’s assholes, the Japanese just seem to have an obsession with bizarre and forbidden, or at the very least, relaxed attitudes toward those who do. There’s a pervy, sexual vein running through Japanese society which they embrace openly. This was evidenced on the streets as well, with so many of the women wearing short skirts and stockings or knee-high heeled boots. So much of the fashion had a fetishistic sensibility. There’s just a sense of really kinky sexuality that pervades the country as a whole, and nowhere does this manifest itself more clearly than in manga. This comic shop took things to a whole new level. I thought I was prepared for what I was about to see, but, in reality, I was not. And bear in mind that this was no seedy shop near the train station or off some forlorn freeway exit. It was in the busiest, most famous shopping arcade in the city.

The bottom floor was made up of your run-of-the-mill manga, most of which featured cover illustrations of young teenage girls drawn in the form’s signature style—long limbs, slim bodies, full breasts, and unrealistically huge eyes. As I walked down the aisle and eyed the covers, I saw that the comics spanned countless subjects: high school romance, baseball, basketball, idol groups, fantasy, magic, martial arts, supernatural, horror, and many more. Like most manga, eroticism was inherent in even the most innocent of titles, though I only took in a few that featured swimsuit poses and camel-toed panty shots. They were in the collection, but in the minority, and as suggestive as they were, everyone kept their clothes on, even if it was just their underclothes.

I then took the stairs up to the second floor, which was similar in tone to that of the first, though a couple degrees hotter in content. Again, I just looked at the covers: more panties and bras, bikinis, as well as some exhibitionist and upskirt stuff, but still open to all ages.

The third floor was both a literal and figurative level up: only eighteen and over allowed. Gone were the innocent high school crush narratives. Everything here was about primal sexual urges: the clothes came off and the characters went at it. All the titles featured naked girls with big eyes fucking and getting fucked; being objectified, humiliated, and defiled. Orifices featured prominently. Close-up detailed drawings of juicy penetration. This was some straight-up nasty, porny stuff—explicitly portrayed right on the covers—but nothing scarring.

Then there was the fourth floor. Like the third, it had an attendant checking anyone who appeared to be of questionable age. It was on this floor where I discovered that almost anything goes in Japan, as long as it’s drawn in a semi-cute way. At first it wasn’t so bad, relatively—mainly gay comics featuring high school girls and boys. But things quickly took a turn for the vile. I spied various kinds of rape, erotic pissing, and a few books featuring very pretty girls shitting. But it didn’t stop there. This was Japan, and as I was finding out, they can really mine the depths. As stomach-churning as some of the comic covers were, they inadequately prepared me what I was to regard next: a whole aisle featuring pre-pubescent girls and pre-pubescent boys in obvious sexual situations: illustrated kiddie porn. My first impulse was to look away, but a sinister curiosity took hold and kept my eyeballs glued to the covers: I had stumbled into dark, bizarre territory and wanted to take it all in, if only this once. I had never seen anything so manifestly taboo, and there was loads of it. A few of these titles showed shockingly young kids, some so young that they wore diapers. And it got worse as I peered on. I could feel my pulse quicken and breath grow shallower. Was this stuff for real? As my eyes scanned this gallery of finely drawn covers, I felt like I was rubbernecking a gory car crash; I was compelled to look, even though I knew the sight may make me sick. I was witnessing the unthinkable and it just got more extreme as I burrowed deeper. I had come too far to turn back and was now committed to seeing the very worst that this store could throw at me. And I got it, in the form of what can only be described as hermaphrodite toddler covered in come comic porn. I felt like I had just been kicked in the head. I’d had enough. I’d seen my fill and no longer felt pressed on by some invisible hand. I was dizzy and wanted to puke. I ducked my head down and locked my eyes on the exit, not looking as I got the hell out of there.

As I burst from the first-floor entrance, I swallowed a lungful of air in an attempt to quell the hot wind whipping forth inside of me. I wanted to smash the windows and set fire to the store. I was wrong, I thought. I was wrong about this culture, about these people, about this nation. I was momentarily convinced that Japan, for all of her beauty, cleanliness, and seeming civility, was an evil place. I told myself that something dark and terrible boiled underneath the surface, something not even concentrated fire could scour away. For a second I pondered whether the destruction wrought upon her so many years ago had been such a bad thing, and then immediately felt like a heel. How could I even contemplate such a thing? I was an American in Hiroshima, the site of the darkest and most awful act in the whole history of human warfare. This atrocity had been executed just decades before by my government. Attempting to justify such a crime because I was bothered by some comic books was beyond sacrilegious. I was frightened that I could even think such a thing.

My blood was percolating, but my anger quickly began to subside and saner thoughts crept back in. Perhaps the abominations I had just observed weren’t so terrible after all, when put into a certain context. For all the sickening stuff one finds below the surface, Japan is a very safe, civilized place. Maybe they had something figured out. Maybe it’s better to recognize such taboo subjects and create a space to contain them, rather than suppress them to the point to where they burst out in more harmful ways. Maybe the Japanese are just more honest about our dark sexual impulses, and their seemingly lax attitudes reflect a more realistic approach to the problem—a kind of societal harm reduction—like experiments in drug decriminalization.

I stood there, scanning the crowd for Steve. As I gazed out at the clusters of people shuffling past the shops and restaurants under the market’s arched arcade, I thought of our sushi feast from two nights before. How sweet it had been. Japan had been good to me. I’d immediately encountered kindness, generosity, and mastery. I repaid it by getting drunk and starting a fight at the punk club. Japan responded by denying me oteng. Japan seemed like such a bright, twinkling place, full of beauty and magic, quality and wonder. The country at times seemed to approach perfection. But putting up such an immaculate façade must be taxing. Is it any wonder things get ugly behind the mask? Should I have been so surprised that Japan had such a dark vein flowing so shallow beneath the skin?

Whatever my judgments, Japan didn’t need my approval. As I watched the citizens of Hiroshima shuffle by, they seemed relaxed and content and totally unconcerned with my petty judgments. They were pleased to be living in this exquisite house they had built, and weren’t seeking my input in the matter. Japan was kind, Japan was brutal; Japan was lovely, Japan was disturbing. Japan was anything I wanted to call it, but it wasn’t mine. So when I finally caught sight of Steve’s spectacled face, I held up my hand and waved. He walked my way and soon we were off, rocketing back toward Fukuoka and then sailing on to Busan, our home on the other side of the sea.

THE HILLS OF JINHONG

China, 2009

Gregoire was French, and like a lot of foreigners who have settled down in Asia, larger-than-life. Every word was accompanied by a grand gesture, each sentence punctuated with an exclamation point. He wore his shirts half-buttoned and sported an unruly fountain of greying, dirty-blond hair. He chain-smoked harsh Chinese cigs and was never seen past seven at night without a full glass of booze clutched in hand. As the proprietor of the Mekong Café, he was the go-to guy for any Western visitor in town. After all, he’d lived in Asia for over thirty years, mostly in China. He’d married a local woman and settled in Jinhong, in southern Yunnan province, near the border with Laos and Burma. So it was safe to say that he knew the lay of the land, which was good, because the four of us had arrived in town with the intention of doing some real exploration, and who better to steer us in the right direction than a salty European expat with real local knowledge? Sure, the man had his own financial interests at heart, but he always delivered, especially in the kitchen. You see, Gregoire was also a trained chef, and the café’s menu reflected this, consisting of local favorites (chicken cooked in coconut, fried river fish with lemongrass), as well as French-inspired dishes. But best were the exotic daily specials, which he’d hard-sell us on every night.

“Hello my American friends! Things are good today, no? You must try the donkey stew. It is amazing! I get the meat from local farmers. I guarantee you like it, or I give you your money back! And tomorrow, I have wild boar. I kill the pig myself!”

Gregoire provided more than just sustenance to the trickle of non-Chinese travelers coming through Jinhong. He also served as a local tour operator, offering hill-tribe treks guided by his friend’s wife, a woman who had grown up nearby. In fact, her home hamlet was on the itinerary. So on our second night in town, Gregoire sat us down and laid it all out.

“This has only been going one month. You will be the third group to ever trek through here” he promised, emphatically tapping on the topographical map through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “This is not some bullshit tourist thing!”

“Yes, you should come with us. We need a few more guys,” chimed in another Frenchman—dark-haired and quite young—from the table next to ours. His blond companion nodded in approval, and within minutes we handed Gregoire a fistful of red hundred-yuan notes, sealing the deal and guaranteeing our place on the next day’s trek.

My three Busan companions—Sam, Steve, and Scraggs—and I were up at the crack of dawn the next morning, gathering at the Mekong Café where we drank potent coffee and rendezvoused with Gregoire, the two French boys (Tomas and Ben), as well as the trek’s guide—a glowing pixie of woman named Xing La. She was short and dark-skinned, with satiny hair and playful eyes. Her English was barely functional and delivered in a sing-song soprano voice, but it was enough to get us from point to point and provide us with basic needs, though this wasn’t enough for Scraggs.

“I was really hoping for someone who could explain the local flora and fauna, who does a bit more than say ‘THIS WAY’.”

“This is China,” weighed in Sam. “I’m sure all of the fauna were killed and eaten long ago.”

“And most of the flora has been harvested and pressed into an herbal elixir to make your dick hard,” added Steve.

Scraggs attempted to mask his disappointment through laughter, but it was no use. As a Brit who grew up on a steady stream of David Attenborough programs, he was keenly interested in the natural surroundings and noticeably deflated when Xing La’s lack of English proficiency became apparent.

“I mean, come on mate. We’re paying good money for this trek and our guide barely speaks the language.”

“Ah shut up,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”

Our little group packed into Gregoire’s minivan and rode out of town, winding and climbing through the jungle hills that make up the Xishuangbanna region of Yunnan province. Like most of the roads we’d traveled on in southern China, it was surprisingly smooth and well maintained. Gregoire was especially proud of his minivan, which was brand-new.

“It is excellent, no? I just buy it last week! Air-con, all the extras!”

After about an hour of cruising through forest and tea plantation clearings, we pulled into the town of Menghai, famous for its market, which draws buyers and sellers from the whole of Xishuangbanna. Most of the folks at the market were members of the surrounding hill tribes, evidenced by their distinct, colorful clothing. These vibrant outfits act as uniforms, the main way to tell the groups apart. This is especially true for the women, who all don their best threads when coming to town. The hill tribe fashions helped to transform this market into a kaleidoscope of goods and colors. The Menghai market was beautiful, bracing, and exotic. I knew at once that I was at a remarkable gathering of commerce, that such stunning variety doesn’t come together too often.

The market was a thriving showpiece of vegetables, tropical fruits, and (as it was the wet season) wild mushrooms, which are common to the area. Mushrooms were sold everywhere, in piles and baskets, and in an array of colors and sizes, just a preview of what we’d see once up in the hills. And as this was China, it didn’t take long to come across the more bizarre products, represented mainly in the form of meat and insects. The first of these was the hairless carcass of a dog—gutted and splayed open—complete with snaggletoothed head. Further along were several huge sections of a beehive—each containing hundreds of white, still-squirming larvae in various stages of metamorphosis. The young French duo were immediately fascinated by the bees, and soon, with the help of Xing La’s translation skills, they were handing over a few Mao notes in exchange for some nice hunks of hive.

The meat section was as grim as you would expect. Like any traditional market in that part of the world, there was no refrigeration. Locals worked the meat tables in a matter-of–fact manner, enduring the pungent smell of innards and waving away flies. And like the American Indians of yore, the hill people of Xishaungbanna waste no part of the animal. There were the conventional meat cuts, of course, along with legs, hooves, tongues, intestines, livers, clotted blood chunks, skins and hides, pigs’ faces, stomachs, and one whole pig’s ass, complete with attached sphincter and shit tube. You could still make out the brown stain around the puckered hole.

After the dizzying market scene, we re-boarded Gregoire’s new van and rode to the neighboring town of Menghun, the trek’s starting point. Gregoire stopped the van.

“It is here we part ways my friends! You follow Xing La. She grew up here and knows where to go! I must go back to the café. Au revoir. See you in a couple of days!”

With that he gave a wave and drove off.

We wandered the sleepy streets of Menghun for a while, checking out its small, unglamorous market. It was our last chance to buy any real goods before heading up into the hills. I seized the opportunity and paid about a dollar for a straw sunhat. We ate a noodle lunch, and spent a few minutes checking out the local wat on the town’s edge before setting off down the road and into the hills.

By the time we got to really hiking, it was late afternoon. We followed a dirt track up through rough cultivated land— rice, tobacco, sugarcane, corn, and tea—the latter being by far the most common crop grown in that area. Sometimes we’d pass a farmer or a house—always with an aggressive, barking dog—but otherwise we were alone, and each of us took the wide path at our own pace, stopping often to regroup and drink water. The afternoon sun was punishing, and we were steadily gaining elevation. It was so hot you could nearly hear the air hiss. I was gushing sweat and gripped with thirst. I was also running out of water: the three small bottles I’d picked up at the market in Menghun would not last to our destination. Not only was I going through it quickly, but my trekking mates were tapping it as well.

“Hey mate, can I have a sip?” asked Scraggs.

I finished my tug and handed him the little plastic bottle.

“Me too,” panted Steve.

Scraggs passed the bottle along and Steve dusted it.

“Did either of you bring any water?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Uh, nope… I seem to ‘ave overlooked that little detail.”

“Nah. Forgot.” joined in Steve. “But that’s all right. I picked up a Red Bull.” He took the can from his pack and opened it with click.

“No water? It must be ninety five degrees out, plus insane humidity.”

Steve shrugged and said, “Oops,” before finishing off his caffeine-laden drink.

“You shouldn’t drink that shit out here, Steve. It’ll do more to dehydrate you than anything else.”

“What’s up?” A flushed-looking Sam hiked up. “I got some cool pictures down below.”

“These two didn’t bring any water.”

“Bozos,” he said. “Well they’re not having any of mine.” He took out a bottle and gulped some down. “I didn’t bring extra, and it serves ‘em right for not being prepared.”

We pressed on through the heavy heat, losing far more water than was coming in. Eventually we came upon a spring. A large bamboo tube ran down from the hillside. Clear water cascaded over the lip and into a ditch on the side of the dirt track. At this point—with the exception of the well-stocked French pair—we had all exhausted our reserves and were parched.

Xing La gestured to the spring. “Water good. Drink okay.”

It looked clean and cool, but my impulse to drink away was shunted by caution. I knew that drinking untreated water in the mountains could have catastrophic consequences. I looked to Sam, who, along with me, had the most experience with hiking and backcountry situations.

“I don’t know, dude.”

“It looks good... but that’s no guarantee.”

“Nope.”

“And waterborne parasites will fuck you up. It’d be a total game-ender for this trip.”

Xing La tried to assuage our fears by drinking first. This convinced Scraggs, who went in and drank deeply and greedily. Steve had a few cautious sips, but Sam and I held off.

“You are both braver men than I,” I said.

“Oh, come on. We’ll be fine. If she can drink it, we surely can.” said a very satisfied-looking Scraggs.

“She’s a local,” I offered. She’s used to it. Different tolerance and all.”

After the spring we passed through a village perched on the hillside, which, according to Xing La, was home to the Lahu people, though the only residents we saw were ducks, chickens, and one very fat pot-bellied black pig. Most of the locals were shut indoors or out working the fields. The houses were made of wood and most were built on stilts, to combat against flooding and unwanted visitors, such as vermin and poisonous snakes.

After almost four hours, we arrived at our destination: Xing La’s village, home to the Belan tribe, and where she had grown up. She had since made the great leap to the big burg of Jinhong, but visited regularly, these days with small groups of curious foreigners in tow.

In contrast to the Lahu village, most of the homes here were made of brick, a style common to southern Yunnan. The few streets that ran through the settlement were mud bogs, as the rainy season softened every bit of exposed earth. Water buffaloes and cattle wandered freely, along with chickens, ducks, geese, and several apathetic-looking pigs.

We climbed the wooden stairs into her family’s home, and were welcomed by her beaming mother and aunt, who handed us hot glasses of tea. We sat and looked over the village rooftops as we sipped. Children played outside of their homes, and smoke from the many cooking fires hung like a kind of bluish mist. The sky then darkened, turning purple-black, and opened up in an early-evening deluge, accompanied by some earth-rattling thunder. This was a natural ritual that we had come to expect like clockwork. We had made it just in time and crouched on the elevated deck in satisfied silence, watching the hills purify themselves through twenty minutes of intense, unrelenting rain.

Xing La’s family home was unlike many others in the village, in that it was made of wood, with one common room where the cooking, eating, and sleeping were done. Another attached room served guests. Five bed mats with blankets were spread out, along with two sofas. A TV and DVD player sat in the corner, a testament to the electricity that we were surprised to see in this remote village. We weren’t counting on having electricity on a hill-tribe trek, but it turned out to be a blessing because, after the thunderstorm, David and I stopped in at what passed for the local store to see what was available. Not only were we happily surprised to find bottled beer, but, to our astonishment, it was ice cold. In fact, it was the coldest beer we drank in all of China—where the locals all too often serve it up warm—purchased in a muddy little village that lacked even bathrooms.

That’s right: there were no bathrooms, no outhouses, no commodes. The business of doing one’s business was all au natural. Xing La cleared up any confusion about this issue shortly after our arrival with this simple explanation:

“For pee, you can do below.” She pointed to the area of mud beneath the house that absorbed all manner of water and food waste, including urine, evidently. “For shit,” she continued, “you go to mountain behind village. Make hole in dirt. Be careful of pig. Pig want eat when you shit, so you take stick and hit pig.” She demonstrated the proper pig-beating technique with her hiking cane, just to be clear.

Before the meal, the French pair, along with Xing La’s mother, set out preparing the evening’s appetizer: the bee larvae from the market, steamed to tenderness in the hive itself. Tomas and Ben busily picked out the white proto-bees and sucked them down. I joined them for a while—more out of curiosity than hunger—along with Sam and Scraggs. Steve passed on the whole endeavor, looking on, arms crossed, scowling. But his prejudice was unfounded: the little larvae were actually pretty good. The steaming process made them good and succulent, with a bit of sweetness thrown in. It was the older, more developed larvae that were much harder to stomach; they were a lot further along in growth—pretty much whole, fully formed bees. They were kind of crunchy and bitter, and after chewing a up a couple and snapping a few photos to horrify my friends back home, I gladly bowed out of the bee-eating, leaving it to the French, who went at it with what can only be described as gusto.

For dinner, we sat around a low wooden table and were presented with a feast. The room was dark, lit only by a couple of candles and the flames of the cooking fire. Heaping plates of food were set out in front of us and, we all dug in, communal-style. We ate freshly picked stir-fried mushrooms, eggs with ripe tomatoes, fried pork, steamed greens, freshwater fish, and the most delicious of all, eggplant cooked up with searing chili peppers. Each dish was prepared with amazingly fresh local ingredients, which is the hallmark of any great cooking. However, the pièce de résistance came at the end of the meal, in the form of two tremendous wood grubs that had been roasted on the open flame. Forget the bee larvae: these things were massive—huge white worms the size of Cuban cigars. We passed them around the table with each of us taking a bite or two; Steve once again turned up his nose at the opportunity to dine on such a delicacy, which was surprisingly tasty once you got over the fact that you were chewing on half-developed insects. The sight of us munching on these titanic grubs was too much for our hosts to take in. They doubled over in hysterics and rattled away in their tribal dialect through eruptions of laughter. I couldn’t be sure of what they were saying, but imagined it to be something along these lines:

“Look at these stupid white people! They’ll eat anything we serve them!”

After dinner we bid our hosts goodnight, retired to our room and opened a couple bottles of baiju, a kind of Chinese firewater that tastes like it could power tractors. It’s gnarly stuff, but does the trick and does it quickly. We passed the bottles around and were good and drunk before we knew it. We exchanged a few traveler’s stories and insulted each other’s countries, a given in a roomful of French, Americans, and English. It turns out that the young Frenchmen were medical students on a break from their studies.

“We just finished volunteering at an orphanage in Laos for three months and now we are doing some traveling before heading back to Paris,” Tomas informed us.

“After here, we are going to northern Yunnan and then to Chengdu to see the pandas,” Ben continued. “We want to take the picture with the pandas… I know it sounds like the tourist thing but hey… why not?”

“Why not?” I shrugged.

“How can you come to China and not see the pandas?” Tomas added. “It’s like going to Egypt and not visiting the Pyramids.”

“Sure,” I nodded.

“I think the Great Wall would be a more accurate analogy,” said Steve.

“I’m sorry?” Tomas wasn’t following him.

“Well, I don’t think pandas work so well as a comparison to the Pyramids. The Great Wall is a more recognized symbol of China.”

“But we are not going to the Great Wall,” Ben protested.

“The Pyramids are to Egypt as the Great Wall is to China. Both are legendary, manmade structures.”

“Supposedly manmade!” replied Tomas. “I absolutely think that extraterrestrials had a hand in constructing the Pyramids.”

“What bollocks!” chimed in Scraggs. “Extraterrestrials? Is this what they teach you in Froggy medical school?”

“Yes, that and which wines best compliment the cheeses during our three-hour lunches. It is all perfectly natural, no?”

“France…” Scraggs further taunted, “…the only country in the world where even the doctors go on strike.”

“Well why shouldn’t they? Are doctors not workers too?”

“You’re not the first commie Frog I’ve met, mate.”

“Me? A communist? Le Roast Beef calls me a communist? I am not a communist. You are mistaking me with my father.”

Tomas took this opportunity to tell us about his background. Though born and raised in France, his parents were actually Chilean. His father had been a prominent scientist—as well as committed Marxist—before the 1974 coup that ousted and killed then-president Salvador Allende. In the midst of the turmoil, his father fled the country, finding refuge from Pinochet’s torture rooms in the more tolerant environs of Paris.

It was a good night of travelers’ camaraderie. I remember a lot of laughing between hard belts of booze, but the heat and hiking of the day had taken its toll, and after the last bottle was tapped, we turned out the room’s lone light bulb and went to sleep.

*

“Tharp, you are a total cunt!”

This was my morning greeting from Scraggs, stabbed my way in a venomous southern English hiss.

“You were snoring the whole night, you bastard. I barely could sleep.”

“That’s a shame because I slept like a rock. Maybe it’s the altitude.”

Scraggs shot me a look like I had just diddled his sister and walked out.

“My revenge for you not bringing water yesterday!” I shouted after him.

After breakfast and tea, we threw on our packs and headed back out. This time we left the larger dirt track in favor of a footpath that cut through the hills. It had rained during the night and the abundant vegetation was now dripping. The wood smoke and animal odor of the village was now replaced with the sweet fragrance of summer’s bloom and damp earth. Everything was wet, and a light mist drifted down from the restless clouds above the trees. Before long, this mist turned into a steady rain, and we all donned our gear, covered our packs, and pressed on through a narrow valley of vivid green rice paddies. Farmers worked the fields in the rain, lifting their heads to check us out as we walked by, but, aside from a few smiles and waves, they just went about their earthly toil.

I walked in the front with the spritely Xing La. Though small and short-limbed, she kept an aggressive pace. It was obvious that she had spent her whole life walking these paths; she pressed on effortlessly, smiling and telling me about her father, who had just passed away the year before.

She said he was a teacher and made the very trail we hiked upon. The trail headed to another village, the home of the Wa Zhu people, who according to Xing La, were very poor. Her father would go there to teach, sometimes staying for months on end. The Wa Zhu could not afford to pay her father, but instead provided him with room and board. As she relayed the story, she swelled up with pride. It was clear that she missed him very much.

Throughout the morning, we hiked through more rice fields and tea plantations, passing through a village of the Akka tribe; the only visible inhabitants were an ancient woman and a big black dog that barked ceaselessly. Eventually the fields and paddies gave way to thick forest, and for the first time we felt like we were in semi-wild country. The light rain continued to drip through the trees, and the muddy ground became treacherously slick. Everyone but our surefooted guide slipped at least once. At one point we came to a clearing and stopped to fill our water bottles from a covered well, next to which was a stilted shack and a pond. We rested for about fifteen minutes, then got up and continued down the trail, deeper into the forest. Very soon after the clearing we came across a fork.

“This way,” Xing La said, going left.

The rain intensified as we silently trudged along the mucky path. After about thirty minutes of hiking, Sam looked around and asked:

“Where’s Scraggs?”

We stopped and took stock. Scraggs wasn’t with us.

“David! Scraggs!” we yelled, but no answer. Our shouts were muffled by the many trees. We were in the thickest part of the forest and sound didn’t travel far.

“Daaaaaaavid!”

Nothing.

“Where the hell is he?” asked Sam, annoyed.

“Right after our water stop we came to a fork in the trail, remember?” I said. “He may have not seen us and taken the trail on the right, instead.”

“In which case he’s screwed,” added Steve. “He could just keep hiking all day, trying to catch up to us.”

Xing La looked to us nervously. “What we do?”

“You tell us,” said Steve. “You’re the guide.”

“We gotta go back to the well,” I interjected. “Hopefully he’s waiting for us there. If he did take the wrong trail, he may turn around and head back to the last place he saw us. After all, that’s what we’re doing.”

We changed directions and double-timed it back toward the pond, stopping every minute or so to shout his name, only to be met with silence.

After about twenty minutes we approached the clearing. Sam was working out the likelihood of Scraggs’s location.

“He probably didn’t even see us take the left fork. He’s always stopping to look at birds or different plant life. Half the time he’s lost in his own head. We’re always waiting for his pokey ass.”

But this time he was waiting for us. There, in the clearing, next to the well, with his leather Aussie hat, fanny pack, and sky blue muscle shirt, sat Scraggs.

“I’ve never been happier to hear your loud American voice in my life,” he said to Sam, getting to his feet.

“What the hell happened to you?” Sam asked.

“I went to ‘ave a shit and when I came back, you lot was gone. I walked up the trail, but seeing as how it forks and all, I thought it best to come back here and wait. And thank God I did.”

We watched as the muscles in Xing La’s face visibly relaxed. Her grimace transformed into a beaming, toothy smile.

“We go,” she said, performing an about face and marching on.

We went back into the forest and climbed up and down muddy hills through the rest of the afternoon, pausing at one point to eat a meal of beef, spicy eggplant, boiled eggs, and rice, wrapped entirely in banana leaves—perhaps the best packed lunch of my life. The landscaped then opened back up as we passed through more tea and corn fields. The rain had since ceased and the sun was doing its best to break through the clouds, succeeding every few minutes with vertical blasts of light and tropical heat. Eventually the trail intersected with a much larger dirt track, which led us into a ramshackle village full of grubby children, chickens, and clapboard houses. This was the village Xing La had mentioned earlier, the home of the Wa Zhu people, where her father had come to teach all of those years ago.

“There is the school,” she pointed. “And my father… he live in there.” The humble, thin-planked abode stood as a testament to his good work. Xing La proudly paused to show us and absorb it herself, smiling, her eyes shimmering with hints of tears.

After passing through the village, the track wound down the mountain, toward a village at the end of a green water lake. This village was occupied by Dai people, and was our destination for the day. As we descended, we came across some local women clothed in brilliantly colored tribal garb. Xing La stopped to chat with them. They spoke softly and smiled coyly, obviously shy in the company of so many foreigners. Both of them carried lidded baskets, which they opened for us, exposing a bounty of wild mushrooms in each. The mushrooms were black, brown, yellow, red, and orange; long and short, with stems and caps of all sizes. They were beautiful and looked delicious. The people in this part of China ate well, it seemed. The surrounding land had much to give.

The Dai village was more of a small town, with some nice, modern homes made of stone and polished tile. The roads, while not paved, were more dirt and gravel than mud. Our lodgings, however, were humbler than the night before. Again we stayed with a family in a wooden stilt house, but our mats were thinner and the space more cramped. Underneath the house lived a bristly black dog chained to one of the wooden beams. Her teats sagged with milk and she guarded a litter of pups that squirmed in a basket. Every time one of us went up or down the stairs—the house’s only entrance—she growled and snarled and lunged at us in ferocious desperation. The patriarch of the house—a man of about sixty named Ah-la—pointed to the dog, made a biting motion with his hand, and shook his head as if to say, “Don’t mess with that bitch.”

We were sticky with sweat and covered in mud. After a hot day’s hike, the lake looked inviting. Xing La said that it was good for swimming, so she marched us about a half hour away from the village to a peninsula jutting out into the middle—a good spot for a dip. We changed into our trunks and jumped in the cool green water, our vitality restored as the day’s grime washed away. The sun now peeked out from the fat white clouds, and the water felt as if it penetrated the skin and cleansed our very souls. This was not enough for Ben and Tomas, however, who brought along soap and shampoo and proceeded to have a proper scrub-down.

“Well that’s a sight rarely seen,” Scraggs remarked. “Frenchmen bathing.”

Steve forgot to bring along his swim suit, so after banishing Xing La, he stripped down to nothing and made a naked sprint from the shore to the lake, his pecker comically flopping all of the way. The ground was slick, of course, and just before the water’s edge he slipped on the mud, falling straight onto his bony ass. Our laughter reverberated around the lake, as there’s nothing more amusing than a naked guy falling down. After a very quick dip, Steve went back up on the shore and donned his hiking boots, along with a straw sunhat, and proceeded to prance around in a silly nude burlesque straight out of an episode Monty Python’s Flying Circus, a performance that will forever be seared into the flesh of my brain.

That night we ate decent meal—though not as stellar a banquet as the evening before—and sat up with Ah-la drinking baiju and smoking cigarettes that tasted as if they’d been rolled out of dried dung and grass. Tomas had picked up a good deal of Lao during his time at the orphanage, and attempted to communicate with the old man over shots of booze, as Lao and Dai are quite similar languages. The rest of us were helpless, however, knowing no Lao or Dai and barely more Chinese, so we drifted to sleep to the sound of Tomas try to pronounce the impossible, while the women watched a dubbed version the Ice-Cube/J-Lo action thriller Anaconda on the old room’s very modern TV.

*

We were up early the next morning to a chorus of roosters and barking dogs: the alarm clocks in rural China double as home guardians and mealtime protein. The women cooked a breakfast of last night’s leftovers on the fire while our grumpy crew stirred and packed. I sat with Ah-la on a slight terrace outside of the main door, watching sunlight seep through the trees as mist rose from the smooth green waters of the lake. He smoked in silence and we both sipped from cups of hot green tea.

After breakfast we took some photos with Ah-la and his family and said goodbye. We hiked along the rock-strewn road along the lake, out of the hills, and into flat, farmed country with power lines, a few cars, and motorized farm equipment. It was here that the road became paved, and for several hours we walked a monotonous line back into civilization, ending up in the proper town of Mengzhe.

We ate a large lunch at a scruffy, white-walled restaurant in town and afterwards walked over to the local Dai temple. The place was full of people; some kind of festival was on. Xing La told us that it was a “celebration for old people,” and she was right: scores of elderly folks milled about. Some talked and laughed, while others danced to the traditional music piped in through loudspeakers. I broke off from the group to check out the scene on my own, and soon came across of pack of old men at the far end of the compound. They sat at a table crowded with dishes of food and bottles of beer and baiju. Upon seeing me, they vigorously waved me over and offered me a seat, greeting me warmly in Chinese. The man to my right wore an old green army jacket; he sloshed some beer into a filthy glass and slammed it down in front of me. I obliged him with a warm sip, igniting half-toothless smiles from around the table. Army Coat Man then handed me a set of chopsticks and motioned to the food. The dishes in front of me were unrecognizable—alien in content and appearance—and looked as if they had been sitting out all day. They were half or mostly-eaten, and had obviously been drunkenly picked at for hours on end. But this was Asia—China at that—and despite my already-full belly, I knew that I had to eat, lest I insult this band of tipsy grandpas. I thrust the chopsticks into a bowl containing hunks of tough-looking meat wallowing in congealed black goo, grabbed one, stuffed it into my mouth and chewed with fervor. The old boys immediately broke into a cheer, and a white-haired man with the face of a dried orange filled another glass with a deadly pour of baiju. This too was thrust my way, and I took it down in one burning gulp, which seared away the gamey meat taste lingering in my mouth. Again the men cheered, with Army Jacket slapping my back and cackling.

The white haired gramps asked me a question in Chinese. I shook my head. He asked again, this time louder. Again I shook my head.

“I’m sorry… I don’t understand.”

Army Jacket took over. He pointed my way and slurred a couple of words, attempting to clarify his buddy’s query.

“Mei guo? Mei guo?”

I recognized this as one of the handful of Chinese words I had picked up: American.

“Yes, yes! Mei-guo! I’m American! I’m from USA.”

“U-S-A?”

“Yes.”

“U-S-A… uhh…” he pointed to himself. “China!”

“Yes. Me: USA. You: China.”

Army Jacket then got very serious. He grabbed both my hands and looked hard into my eyes.

“China! USA!” He mimed shooting and, with his mouth, made the sound of bullets firing and bombs exploding. “No! No!!” he shouted, moving his hand back and forth for emphasis.

“No! No!” I repeated, waving my hand as well. I grabbed my grease smudged glass, gave his a clink, and along with the rest of the old boys, drank to prospect of enduring peace between our two great nations.

*

That night all of us from the trek, including Xing La, met up at the Mekong Café for dinner. Gregoire was as effusive as ever, all smiles, handshakes, and back-slaps:

“Did I tell you or what? Good trek, no? I would not lie to you.”

“It was terrific, Gregoire, just awesome.” I said.

“Great trip, mate,” seconded Scraggs.

“Of course it was! I would not stay in business selling the bullshit! Which reminds me: my special tonight is soup of the river turtle. Turtle, you think I am crazy, but no! The meat is so tender. You must try!”

I passed on the special due to a fondness for the living version of the main ingredient forged in childhood, going instead with the coconut chicken, which turned out to be a great choice. We lingered over drinks after dinner and eventually busted out some cards and played many rounds of poker. Gregoire brought forth a huge jug of homemade baiju that he had just “gotten off the farm” and I helped him drink it, along with Ben and Tomas. This stuff was straight-up Chinese moonshine and by far the strongest hooch I’d had on the trip. It must have been highly flammable and dangerous to smoke around. You could smell one shot all the way across the table, and Sam almost vomited at the sight of it. We had no poker chips, so we used tea packets and some kind of small green mystery fruit purchased from a nearby stand instead. Gregoire bet huge and stupidly on every hand whether he held good cards or not, resulting in him handing all of his money over to us, which we gladly took.

“Consider it a rebate,” remarked Steve.

It was three in the morning when we wrapped things up. I was steaming from the baiju and the world had taken on an unreal, crystalline quality. Gregoire closed up the café and insisted on giving us a lift back to our lodgings. He puffed on a smoke and laughed to himself, weaving through the empty streets of Jinhong in his brand-new van, chaperoning his favorite new customers back to their cheap, hard beds.

HOUSE OF ROSE

Philippines, 2010

The girl carefully slid the key out from its slot behind the dark wooden check-in desk. She waved a few loose strands of hair from her face and motioned for me to follow. I trudged behind, lugging my backpack and sweating. It was only nine in the morning and already hot. My mind was full of static and eyes bleary from lack of sleep.

The girl was willowy and brown-skinned, with a protruding mouth and thick, pink lips. She wore a short denim skirt and flip-flops that slapped the stones as she sashayed down the small path toward the communal room. The back of her skirt was slightly unzipped; I caught a glimpse of her blue underwear and felt a sudden flash of heat. I took a breath and swallowed. She was tall and long-limbed, with a bushel of hair pulled into a long ponytail that slightly bounced as she walked. She stopped at the door, inserted the key, and—flashing me a huge, toothy smile—unlocked it.

“Here is your room…”

“Thanks,” I said, plopping my pack down onto a thin mattress of a bed in the corner.

I did a quick scan. The room appeared to be empty. “Is there anyone else in here?”

“No. You have it to yourself… for now.”

“Lucky me.”

“Yes… lucky you.” She lingered in the doorway, cutting a dark, leggy figure in the blast of morning light.

“I’m Chris. What’s your name?”

“Mirasol, but you call me Mira.”

“Mira.”

“Yes.”

I approached, offering my hand, which she accepted. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Chris. Enjoy your stay at House of Rose.”

House of Rose sat at the end of a small side street on the very edge of Puerto Princesa, the capital of the Philippines’ Palawan Island. It was situated in a lush, palm-tree-shaded area quite far from any action in town. The place was named for the woman who ran it—a Filipina in her mid-thirties—married to a hulking, bear of a Kiwi named Andy, who had bought the property some years before. The small compound contained a collection of bungalows, a kitchen, and an open-aired restaurant and bar, along with a cheap above-ground swimming pool that was almost never occupied. The whole complex had a tattered, improvised feeling, as if one day Rose and Andy woke up and hastily decided to open their home up for visitors. That’s not to say that House of Rose lacked charm. Like the name suggests, the place was homey, informal, and relaxed. I felt comfortable straight away, perhaps because of its relative shabbiness. This decidedly unpretentious hostel was set far enough off that everyone was forced to mingle with each other. It was an island of sorts—a guesthouse adrift—where both the visitors and the staff were, in a way, captive. While this surely caused some to bristle, I knew straight away that this was the kind joint that brought out the friendliest in people, and was immediately glad I’d come.

I napped hard through the late morning and, after lunch, made my way to the nearby beach, which was one of House of Rose’s selling points. This cove was only accessible by a mucky trail leading through a mangrove swamp. The beach itself was small, with a forlorn hut staffed by a friendly dude selling soft drinks and renting some fourth-rate snorkeling gear. Lacking any outfitting of my own, I was forced to make do with what he had available.

Despite the sad state of the leaky mask and ill-fitting, blister-inducing flippers, the underwater scenery far exceeded my expectations, with a psychedelic array of coral and schools of skittish reef fish. This spectacle was nothing short of enchanting, so I propelled myself out of the little inlet toward the open sea, spurred on by the promise of viewing even more bizarre and chromatic sea life. I was happily dizzied, lost in this hypnotic return-to-the womb, when I suddenly came face-to-face with the undulating form of a blue-and-black-banded sea krait. Though docile, these ocean-going snakes are off-the-charts venomous. My heart thumped in my throat. And despite the fact that I was enveloped in welcoming water and surrounded by neon splendor, I was now very aware that I was swimming alone in the South China Sea, surrounded by countless creatures that I knew next to nothing about. I was far from the solid ground and felt extremely vulnerable. If anything were to happen, I’d be toast. So I turned back toward the beach and paddled my legs with fervor. Mission aborted.

That evening I emerged from my room and joined a small group of guests in the dining area. We sipped drinks and watched Venus Williams obliterate an opponent on the flat screen above.

“She’s got legs just like I like ‘em,” said Bud. “Feet on one end and pussy on the other!”

He slapped my back as he howled at is his own joke. Matt and Scott, two young guys who, it turned out, were from my hometown of Olympia, Washington looked down at the table and visibly cringed. Andy, the barrel-gutted owner, sat nearby, smoking and nursing a bottle of San Miguel. He took a drag and smiled for what appeared to be the first time that day.

“I’d make quick work outta that, tell you what…” Bud finished off his drink. “But I’d better be careful, cuz you know what they say: once you go black, you can never go back!”

Bud screamed again with laughter, looking around the room for any kindred spirits. I couldn’t help but crack a smile, and neither could the curly-haired Matt, who suddenly guffawed and looked to me, as if to say, Is this guy for real? Andy shook his head, chuckling to himself, while a Dutch couple in the back picked at their meal and gazed on in disgust.

“Hey Drew!” Bud shouted to his son, who stood behind the small wooden bar. “Give us another round of margaritas, lickety-split!”

“Sure thing, Old Man.” Drew grabbed the bottle of Jose Cuervo, emptied it generously into the blender, and then pressed a button, filling the room with a high-pitched, industrial grinding sound. He wore his white baseball hat backwards and his shirt unbuttoned, exposing a newly purchased shark tooth necklace that dangled above his bronzed pecs and six-pack abs.

“You mind if I take some photos?” asked Scott.

“No problemo, bro.” He began to pour the drinks. “You sure you don’t want one?”

“That’s fine. I’ll stick to Coke”

Drew slipped on a pair of shades, grabbed two margaritas and struck his best pose. Scott clicked away. Party on, bro.

“That’s mah boy!” Bud nodded in pride.

Unlike his son, Bud had elected to go totally shirt-free, wearing just calf-length board shorts and flip-flops. He was around sixty years old and ridiculously tanned, with close-cropped grey hair and a small, sinewy frame adorned with a couple of jailhouse tattoos. Bud bounced around House of Rose like a lightning ball, striking up a conversation with anyone in the vicinity, burning with the vitality and energy of a man half his age. He was from Texas and spoke in a harsh twang at volumes only found on the North American continent. Despite his obvious brashness, Bud was an expert charmer, and usually managed to elicit smiles out of even the most reserved visitors at House of Rose.

What Bud exactly did back in America was a mystery, though he was now retired—“on disability,” he claimed. It was difficult to discern exactly how he could be held back, physically, at least. The guy was a firecracker. He was now collecting a monthly check back home and living it up in tropical Asia, where he spent his days and nights drinking and whoring. He was proudest of the latter, talking up his sexual exploits with nary a whiff of shame.

“Last night me and Drew got us some whores,” he announced.

Scott raised his eyebrows.

“Oh, really?” Matt egged him on.

“Sure as shit,” he replied, nodding seriously and making eye contact with all three of us. He then yelled back to his son, “Ain’t that right, Drew?”

“What’s that, dad?”

“Last night we both got us some whores!”

Drew beamed a horsey smile and gave a thumbs-up.

“Get this…” He lit a smoke and continued. “Mine was a skinny lil’ thang… felt like I could crack her pelvis straight in two. His was short and fat, with a big ol’ ass and a pair of tits like a couple of bags of milk.”

“You know I like me some booty, Dad,” Drew confirmed, delivering fresh margaritas.

“Ain’t nothing wrong with a little cushion for the pushin’. But I prefer my meat close to the bone!” Bud grinned, exposing a set of teeth missing several key members.

“Now get this.” Bud stood up. “I was drillin’ into mine like a rabbit in heat…”

He demonstrated his best pelvic thrust.

“…and then I looked over at mah son, just a couple feet away, and he was doin’ the same. I turned to him and gave him a hi-five, right then and there!”

He recreated the moment, reaching into the air with his hand, which was met by Drew’s in one triumphant slap.

“Screw fishin’ or workin’ on cars! Bangin’ whores side-by-side—now THAT’s some real father-son bondin’!”

Bud cackled and grabbed his son around the shoulder in a half embrace. Drew looked on stupidly, chuckling under his breath. I took a sip of my newly concocted drink.

Bud took a breath and reflected, nearly choking up: “There ain’t many fathers who have a relationship like that with their son.”

“You’re a… lucky man.” Scott managed.

“How’s that margarita?” Drew inquired.

“It’s terrific. Damned good,” I said, telling the truth.

“Right on, bro! Did I tell you I know how to make ‘em or what?”

“You weren’t wrong there.”

“Hell no, bro!”

He offered up his hand for a “bro shake.” I clumsily obliged, attempting to follow his lead through the complicated, multi-step ritual that ended with us both pantomiming the smoking of a joint. He finished it all up with a fist bump with Matt and Scott.

Our little crew was soon joined by two more members of Bud’s entourage: his daughter Brenda and her husband Chuck. They were also residents of the Lone Star State, and along with Drew, had flown out to the Philippines to visit the old man in his retirement haven. Brenda later confided that this is the only way they could visit their father, since he would be arrested if “he ever set foot on American soil again.” She had straight red hair, wore round glasses, and only drank cola (“Don’t drink anymore since quitting crack,” she said), while her big-bellied husband guzzled beer and explained why this trip was such a momentous occasion.

“I swore I’d never leave America again. I’m dead serious.”

“Why not?” asked Matt.

“Y’all ever heard of Hurricane Hugo?”

“Sure, I remember,” I said.

“Well I was on vacation in the Dominican Republic in ‘89 when it made landfall. It was pure hell, I tell ya. I was holed up in my hotel room for three days without runnin’ water or electricity. I thought I was gonna die. Never thought I’d be so glad to get home. When I finally got back to Houston the first thing I did was kiss the ground and swear that I’d never leave the USA again.”

“Sounds pretty intense,” said Matt. “Hey Chris, you ready to order? I’m starving.”

“Yeah, all that snorkeling today worked up my appetite.”

“Let me ask y’all something,” continued Chuck, in the manner of a Christian who is about to thickly lay on the Jesus pitch.

“Shoot away,” I offered.

His tone was heartland earnest. “Have you boys tried the Chicken Cordon Bleu?”

I had made the mistake of ordering this gut bomb back on Luzon and felt like I might die from intestinal blockage for hours afterwards. It seems to be everywhere I turned in the Philippines—some uncelebrated national dish.

“You mean here?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. Right here.”

“Uh, no,” I replied. “I just got in this morning.”

“Well, y’all listen to me good.” He looked deep into my eyes. “Do yourself a favor and try it. Try the Cordon Bleu. Best thing on the menu—actually to hell with the menu—this here is the best damned Cordon Bleu I ever had! Ain’t that right Brenda?”

“Mmm-hmmm. It’s soooooo good… You really should try it.”

“Chicken Cordon Bleu. I’ve had it the last three nights in a row. I don’t even bother orderin’ anything else on anymore. Mm-mm, Cordon Bleu.”

While not morbidly obese, Chuck was well overweight and looked like he could benefit from a few less meals of breaded chicken breast, deep-fried and stuffed with cheese and ham… but that didn’t stop him from requesting it once again when Mira came over to take our order.

“Y’all gonna get it, too?” Chuck stared us down.

“Sure… uh… why not?” Matt obliged.

“How could I ignore such a recommendation?” said Scott, closing up the menu.

“And you, Chris?” Mira asked, cocking her head and smiling. Her hair was now let down and cascaded over her shoulders. She wore the same denim skirt as in the morning, but had since changed into a pink uniform polo shirt that read, House of Rose.

Chuck interjected: “I got three words for you, Chris: Cor. Don. Bleu.”

“Actually… I think I’ll go with the grilled barracuda instead.” I pointed to the menu entry to be absolutely clear. Mira’s English was decent, but not expansive. Chuck looked deflated.

“Oh, man, you’re missin’ out I tell ya.” He shook his head and looked to Brenda for concurrence. “What can I say? I tried.”

“Maybe next time,” I said, watching Mira’s long legs saunter back into the kitchen.

Kiwi Andy caught me mid-ogle: “You like her?”

“Uh…. what?”

“You fancy Mira?”

I offered a shrug, palms upturned.

“I give her one day off a week, just to give the others a chance.”

“Will you look at that,” Bud muttered, still enraptured by Venus’s moves on the TV. “Mmmm-mmm-mmm… I would eat the corn out of her shit.”

Our meals soon arrived, and we dug in appropriately. Scott and Matt took down their Cordon Bleu gut bombs while I happily ate my slab of grilled fish. From the pained look on their faces afterwards, I knew I had chosen wisely. After all, I’d need more room for beer.

The Philippines is a one-beer nation and San Miguel is the brand. It’s a very drinkable pilsner, especially when served up ice-cold. The company’s signage is omnipresent throughout the country. Wherever there are people, you are reminded which beer rules the land. And the best part is the price: it’s rarely more than a dollar a bottle, often cheaper. The result is a constant river of drink for the beer-inclined traveler.

With this in mind, you can imagine how we passed the rest of the night. We stayed in the restaurant/bar, shot pool, and drank bottle after bottle of San Miguel. Bud continued to both charm and horrify as he held court; but in the end, the seven of us were bound together through shared nationality and the camaraderie of drinking. This group of otherwise disparate Americans formed a temporary red state/blue state coalition for our stay at the House of Rose, yet in the back of my mind I craved escape. As we guzzled San Miguel and shared stories of both home and our respective adventures abroad, I kept stealing glances at Mira as she fetched bottles and cleared the tables. I was transfixed by her dark, gazelle-like form, and couldn’t help but thinking what she planned to do on her one day off.

*

The next day, I joined Scott and Matt in an expedition out of the exhaust-choked chaos of town. We rented motorcycles and headed north on the two-lane road, which soon opened up into green country, with the wild sea on our right. Our destination was Honda Bay, one of Palawan’s many marine sanctuaries. Once there, we chartered a boat for a day trip around the many islands which dot the bay, taking in the salty air and, more importantly, the array of sea life pulsing underneath the water’s choppy blue surface. The highlight was Snake Island, named not for any resident reptiles—there were none—but rather for the thin, serpentine shape of the tiny landmass.

In the waters right off of the main beach was a deep canyon, home to thousands of fish. The tour operators fed the fish daily—a dubious practice, conservation-wise—but one that assured the snorkelers delivered to the area got the biggest bang for their buck. And the bang was mighty indeed. We snorkeled and looked on in amazement at the masses of fish gathered up—whole walls of finned creatures moving as one organism. Even the shallows were thick with shimmering, living clusters, deprogrammed of their natural fear of humans due to the feeding routines. I’ve never taken in such a spectacle—assuming that such delights were reserved for deep-sea divers—and came to realize why Palawan had come to be billed as the crown jewel of the Philippines’ eco-tourism hot spots.

In the early evening I found myself seated alone at the tables of the House of Rose. I typed away on my laptop and uploaded files to Facebook, amazed that wireless technology had managed to reach even this remote corner of the Philippines. This novelty was short-lived, though, as midway through my cyber-work, the power cut out.

“It happens all the time,” said Andy, shuffling into the space. “Power blackouts. No need to worry. We got a big generator to deal with this nonsense.”

Within a couple of minutes, the generator was fired up and power restored, though the machine itself sounded like a pickup truck with the exhaust pipe removed, a machine-gun combustion engine that destroyed any semblance of tranquility.

“You busy right now?”

“No.” I yelled, over the generator’s din.

“Come join me for a drink at my mate’s if you’d like.”

“Sure thing.”

I jumped into Andy’s van and he drove us to a tiny, open-air bar near the center of town. Andy double-parked and as soon as we got out, we were greeted by the proprietor, a skinny, leathery man who appeared to be in his late 50s. His name was Claude, and he hailed from Quebec, though like Andy, he was spending his golden years drinking away the hours in Puerto Princesa.

“This is Chris,” Andy said. “He’s a Yank, but don’t hold it against him.”

Claude warmly gripped my hand. “Welcome, my friend.”

Claude ushered us to a large outside table and promptly ordered a round of San Miguels from his much younger wife. The massive age gap between expat husbands and their local wives is de riguer in this part of the world. Such is the way of the Philippine retirement plan, I suppose.

We were soon joined by several other paunchy, middle-aged white dudes, all of whom were seasoned veterans of the Palawan scene. I sipped my beer and took my place at the end of the table, while the local boys talked shop. All of them were married to local women and at least made a partial living by offering booze, lodging, tours, and even girls to the visitors coming through.

“Things are better these days,” said Jan, a white-haired Dutch guy who owned a small hotel.

“It’s about fuckin’ time,” added Andy.

“Was it slow before?” I asked, embracing the role of the greenhorn.

“You don’t know about the kidnapping?”

“What kidnapping?”

“Abu Sayaf? You as an American should know these things,” said Jan.

“I know about Abu Sayaf,” I said, attempting recovery. “But aren’t they down south, in Mindanao?”

“That’s their base of operations,” said Andy. “But eight years back they kidnapped some tourists—including several Americans—from a resort here in Palawan.”

“Dos Palmas. Honda Bay,” added Claude.

“Honda Bay? I was just there today.”

Andy continued: “They came during the night, loaded them in a boat, and took them away to an island down south, where they held them in the jungle for several months. A few hostages were killed… some beheaded.”

Claude ran his hand across his throat and made a gagging sound.

“…though most were eventually freed by the army.”

“And a load of ransom money,” said Jan.

“Anyway,” Andy said, “as you can imagine, tourism to Palawan dropped off massively after that, which is ridiculous. It was just one targeted raid.”

“On the rich,” says Claude.

“Exactly,” said Andy. “You have nothing to worry about, Chris. I guarantee you that House of Rose will be the last place ever hit,”

“You are right about that, my friend,” laughed Claude. “Even the terrorists have some taste.”

“Tell all of your friends to come,” said Jan. “And, if,” he lowered his voice, “while you’re here, you ever need a place to take a girl… I have rooms by the hour.”

“That is good to know,” I said.

Andy looked my way and shot me a wink.

Buzzing from the beer, we headed back to House of Rose just in time for dinner. The cast of characters from the night before was gathered up again. Brenda and Chuck sat in silence, gorging on their daily fix of Chicken Cordon Bleu. Chuck sported a white muscle shirt and improvised headband, and was broiled red by the sun, the kind of burn that is agonizing just to look at. Bud and Drew were next to them, beers and smokes in hand. I took a place at the adjacent table with Scott and Matt, who both plugged away on their laptops.

“Well look what the cat drug in!” said Bud. “Your lil’ gay buddies told me about your adventures today.”

“You really should check it out, Bud,” said Matt.

“It’s awesome,” added Scott, sipping from a Coke. “Check out my photos.”

“Well, we’re fixin’ to go tomorrow. Ain’t we?”

“Sure thing,” mumbled a miserable Chuck, mouth full of Cordon Bleu. “But y’all need to remind me to bring my sunscreen.”

“What are you doin’ tonight?” Drew asked. “You got any plans?”

“Here I am. What’s up?”

“Well the girls want to head out later, once they close up the kitchen. You wanna come, bro?”

“Count me in.”

“Not us,” said Chuck, looking up from his half-eaten plate. “I feel like I survived a napalm attack. My sizzled ass is goin’ to bed as soon as I’m done with this chow.”

After work, the women changed their clothes and came out to join us.

“You girls is lookin’ fine tonight!” exclaimed Bud.

Mira and Rose smiled, while the short, darker-skinned Dalisay gave him a death glare and hissed, “You try to touch me, old man, and I cut off your hand.”

“Cut whatever you want girl, just as long as it ain’t my pecker. I’m still usin’ it!”

The eight of us piled into two tricycles—the motorcycles with sidecars found throughout the Philippines—and headed away from House of Rose into the town center. The dirty streets were filled with pedestrians, motorcycles, a few cars, and many other tricycles. Like most developing countries at night, the side streets were dark save the lights of the vehicles. People stood and sat in front of gates and doorways, drinking, smoking, and gambling. Some had guitars and entertained each other with songs. Nearly everyone in the Philippines can sing decently and strum at least a few chords on a guitar—never have I been to a country so steeped in music. We passed by open air restaurants with their display cases full of meat and fish dishes, fried rice, pancit, lumpia, and adobo. A few neon-lit girlie bars pumped out loud pop music in an attempt to lure in the men, and mange-ridden dogs wandered free.

“Where are we going?” I asked Mira, who was sandwiched against me in the small sidecar. I put my arm behind her and she leaned in close.

“Away from House of Rose!” she said, smiling. “We want to show you Princesa!”

The tricycles stopped at the town’s harbor and we all got out. We walked along a wide promenade lit up by white lights on green poles and took pictures of each other in groups and couples. The sticky Palawan air was cooler at the water’s edge; families and couples strolled along and gazed out into the dark of the bay. A couple of large ships were moored at the docks, and I got the sense that the municipal authorities did everything they could to make sure this part of the little city looked as spiffy as possible. A huge sign at the harbor’s edge spelled it out in white stone lettering: WELCOME TO PUERTO PRINCESA.

“How old are you, Mira?”

“Twenty-two. How old are you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“You are liar!” She slapped my shoulder. “Much younger.”

“Nope. Thirty-eight.”

“You are American, yes?”

“Yes, but I live in Korea.”

“Korea? Why do you live in Korea?”

“Work. I teach there.”

“Korea is very cold, no?”

“Yes, right now, VERY cold.”

“I cannot stand the cold.” She shivered at the thought.

“Are you from Princesa?”

“No. I’m from Roxas… to the north.”

“Do you like working at House of Rose?”

“It’s an okay job… but many hours and little money. But I meet many people… many visitors… many countries.”

I paused for a moment: “Do you have a baby?”

To me this seems like a legitimate question, since nearly every woman under the age of twenty-five I’d seen or met in the Philippines had at least one kid. The Catholic Church’s imprint was visible everywhere in the country, especially in the form of millions of children birthed by very young mothers.

She grinned and answered without hesitation, “Yes, I have baby. A son. His name is Miguel. Look.”

She brought out her cell phone and showed me a picture of a chubby-faced toddler with huge brown eyes.

“Very cute.”

“I miss my little boy…”

“Where is he?”

“He lives with my mother… in Roxas. I don’t see him so often.”

“It must be hard for you.”

“Yes, but I must make money.”

“Hey you guys!” Rose waved to us. “Come this way.”

We followed Rose and the rest of the posse along a trail leading up the hill that loomed over the harbor. Once we got to the top we came upon a cluster of large tents lit up with white Christmas lights. As we entered, I saw that they were packed with people shouting. The air was hazy with cigarette smoke, and I could taste sawdust and sweat. A vivid sense of excitement burned in my skin.

“Hey Mira, what is this place?”

“Filipino casino!”

The crowds gathered around various low-stakes games of chance, all of which looked homemade. Each had a game master and groups of players throwing down bets; behind them stood even more spectators. We moved into the room, squeezing through the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd.

“You wanna play?” I asked.

“Okay.”

We made our way to a huge table. In the middle was a sunken platform made up of squares of many colors. A hole was cut in the middle of each square. Along the edge of the table were colored rectangles that matched the squares. This was where you placed your bet. Once all the bets were placed, a soccer ball was tossed onto the platform. It rolled and bounced about until eventually settling on a color. If the color matched that of your bet, it paid out.

I handed Mira some pesos and we both placed bets. The man tossed the ball onto the platform.

“Para para para!” she shouted. I know para means “stop” in Spanish and assumed that they must have adopted it in Palawano. After all, Tagalog is full of Spanish words.

“Para! Para!” I shouted.

“Para!” Mira echoed, laughing.

The ball settled on orange. We won.

We ended the night at a strange club in town, complete with cover band. Filipinos are the kings of cabaret bands, providing the lounge entertainment for countless hotel bars and clubs throughout Asia. It’s no wonder that they’re also masters of the form in their own homeland.

We ordered a round of beers and hit the dance floor when Matt joined the band on stage for a version of “Twist and Shout.” Matt had been a guitarist for a few indie bands back home; he strummed and belted out the Beatles classic with gusto, all while being backed up by an extremely courteous group of Filipino players, who appeared slightly bemused by the spectacle. After Matt’s stint sitting in, Bud bought several rounds of tequila shots for the table, and the girls tore it up, throwing out all of their best moves to a blaring soundtrack of pop favorites, with Lady Gaga and the Wonder Girls heavy in the mix. The Filipinos love their pop, especially with an extra dollop of cheese on top. They adore music of all forms and have no time for scorn or self-involved irony.

It had been a long, sweaty day and I was spent. I drooped in the chair, nearly nodding off, thinking of my bed at House of Rose. Mira grabbed me by the hand and attempted to coax me back out to the floor, but my shoes felt like they were filled with wet sand and I just couldn’t keep up, so I collapsed back into the seat.

“Are you okay?” she shouted in my ear.

“Yeah yeah… fine. Just tired… and drunk.”

She sat down next to me and held my hand.

“Oh poor baby…” she teased. We watched Bud as he leapt and spun in crazed abandon, tapping from a seemingly infinite well of energy.

“I like you, Mira.”

“I like you, too.”

“I’m leaving on Wednesday.”

She nodded along with the beat, watching the old man continue to cut it up.

“Can I take you on a date tomorrow?”

*

After a day trip by motorcycle to the other side of the island, I returned to Princesa, killing time before my upcoming date with Mira. That evening, I wandered away from the guesthouse toward the center of the town, eventually settling in at an open-air bar and restaurant nestled on a side street. I sat alone, listening to techno-pop music blare over the tables and sipping yet another cold San Miguel.

An old woman in a straw hat ambled past. She carried two baskets tied to a stick that lay balanced across her shoulders. She called out, “Balut! Balut!”

“Have you ever tried balut?” asked the waitress, a perpetually smiling young woman of about twenty.

“Isn’t that the half-formed baby duck cooked in its egg shell?”

“Yes, that’s it, though these are baby chickens”

“Uh, no. I can say with some certainty that I have not eaten balut.”

“It’s good!” she laughed. “You want to try?”

I sipped and thought for moment before pulling the trigger: “Uh, sure… hook me up with some chicken fetus.”

The waitress called to the old woman, who stopped, opened one of her baskets, and produced a white egg. The waitress paid and handed it to me. I felt its warmth radiate into the palm of my beer-cooled hand.

“Okay, now follow my directions. First, carefully crack.”

I nodded and tapped the top of the egg on the table.

“Good. Now peel away just a little bit… that’s good!”

“Okay, what next?”

“Drink the soup.”

“The soup?”

“Yes, drink the liquid inside. It is very good. Some say the best part.”

Again I followed her directions, putting the warm egg to my lips and tipping it toward my mouth.

“Go ahead and suck.”

I did as I was told. The balut broth was slightly salty and tasted very much of chicken. So far so good.

“Finished?”

I nodded.

“Now peel the shell away.”

I slowly stripped away the shell, revealing a hardened yellowish yolk and purple umbilical cord. Soon the alien head became visible, all slimy and pink, complete with bulging eyeballs and an almost fully formed beak. A spider web of veins twisted underneath the sickly, translucent skin.

It was a grotesque form, reminding me of the baby in David Lynch’s classic film Eraserhead.

“Now eat,” instructed the waitress. I took a breath and went to take a bite before she stopped me: “All. Take all at once.”

“Okay,” I said, eyeing the hideous mass just inches from my face. “Here goes nothin’.”

With that I popped the whole balut into my mouth and chewed. As I bit down, I felt my teeth slice through the yolk and into the flesh, followed by a burst of warm fluid from the semi-creature’s insides. The taste was intense—chicken concentrate—the very essence of poultry. But what disturbed me most was the crunching. I could clearly feel its tiny bones snap as I crushed and ground up the fetus in my chomping maw.

I quickly gulped the fleshy, gooey mass down, and chased it with beer in a frenzied attempt to purge every trace of balut from my unfortunate mouth. My stomach balked at the delivery, but the impulse soon passed, and I managed to keep it down.

The waitress looked on in pure joy: giggling, beaming, and punctuating the whole affair with sincere applause.

“Well done!” she praised. “It is very delicious, yes?”

“Delicious? Well… I’m not sure if that’s the word I’d use. It was very… chicken-y.”

“Do you want another?”

I shook my head and laughed. “I’m good, thanks. In fact, I’ll take the check, please.”

“Already? Why are you in such a hurry? Do you have some kind of a date?”

“Yes. As a matter of fact, I do. I have a date.”

*

When I returned to House of Rose, the dining area was quiet, save for a couple of new guests I didn’t recognize. Andy was there, smoking and drinking, of course, eyes fixed on the cricket highlights flashing on the TV. Rose saw me sit down and came over.

“Are you ready for your date?”

“Yes.”

“Just remember to use a condom,” added Dalisay as she walked by with some empty dishes.

It was nearly midnight by the time Mira emerged. After work, she’d gone back to her shared room to shower, change, and put on some makeup. She wore the same denim skirt from the morning I arrived and a sleeveless black top, exposing her thin, round shoulders. I caught a hint of perfume as she walked up.

“Are you ready?”

“Sure… where are we going?”

“Let’s just ride and see…”

Mira got onto the back of the bike and we took off into the nearly empty streets of the town. It was late, and with the exception of a few bars, and a restaurant or two, everything was closed up. She gripped my waist lightly and nestled her chin into the back of my shoulder.

“Do you want to meet my cousin? We can go to her house.”

We rode through the central business area with its haggard shopping center and fast-food chains, past the impressive white-and-blue cathedral, and out to the far end of town. Mira directed me down a dirt road until we came across a small house. We stopped. The barks of several unseen dogs echoed around the neighborhood and no lights were on inside. Mira lightly knocked on the door, but got no response. She knocked again: nothing.

“Maybe she is asleep…”

“Well, what should we do?”

“Let us just ride.”

We rode back down the main strip into town, toward the airport, and then turned around. We then headed back out toward her cousin’s place and turned around again, doing several laps through Princesa like cruisers in small-town America. We talked about nothing, but just rode, savoring the night breeze that whipped through our hair and the damp warmth of each other’s bodies.

“Are you hungry, Chris?”

“Yeah, I could eat.”

We stopped off at one of the few restaurants still open. It was a Vietnamese noodle house. In the late 1970s and early ’80s, many Vietnamese fled their homeland via the sea. Some of them ended up on Palawan and are still around today, their noodle shops a testament to their presence.

Mira and I were the only customers. We ordered two bowls of chicken pho and colas, sitting under the restaurant’s buzzing fluorescent lights, slurping the noodles and broth and sipping the soft drinks from plastic straws.

“Where do you go tomorrow?” Mira asked.

“I’m heading north, up to El Nido.”

“Are you coming back through Princesa?”

“I’m not sure yet. I may go all the way to Coron and fly back to Manila”

“You should come back during my day off and we can go the beach. Would you like that?”

“I would,” I said, waving away a fly.

We rode back to House of Rose as slowly as possible. Neither of us wanted to be there, but it was very late and there was really nowhere else to go. I suddenly remembered the offer Dutch Jan had made the day before: “If you ever need a room,” he said… but it didn’t seem that this was going to be that type of night. Mira worked hard, but wasn’t a working girl.

As we approached the guesthouse, the streets got darker. The branches from the trees reached out over the lane, and moonlight sifted through.

“Stop here,” Mira said.

I killed the bike and just sat there. An orchestra of frogs chirped from the swamp nearby.

“Look at the stars,” she said, pointing up through trees. There they were, glowing white; majestic.

We got off the bike and stood in the middle of the road, just looking up, afloat in the tropical night. I felt the warmth of her hand, her long fingers intertwining with mine. I turned to her, leaned in, and we kissed.

She smiled and laughed.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I felt that warm wave rise again inside and placed my hands on her hips, feeling her bone through the strong denim of her skirt. I went in for another kiss, this time with more purpose and passion, but she placed her hand on my chest and lightly pushed me back.

“No.” Again she smiled, though I could see in her eyes that she didn’t trust me, that she knew exactly what I was after.

It was nearly four a.m. when we returned to House of Rose. The place was dark and shut down.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“I forgot my key,” Mira said. “I cannot unlock the room.”

“Well isn’t Dalisay in there?”

“Yes, but she is sleeping.”

“Wake her up.”

“No, no… she will be angry. I will stay out here until morning. Just two more hours.”

“Come to my bed. I have to get up at six as well. The van to El Nido comes at six thirty.”

“I cannot. It is against the rules.”

The temperature had dropped significantly, and now a slight seaside chill hung in the air. I could see that Mira was cold. I went to my room and grabbed a light sweater from my pack and gave it to her.

“Here. Wear this.”

She slipped it on. It draped over her like a blanket.

We sat together in one of the wooden lounge chairs on the edge of the dining area. I held her and she rested her head on my shoulder. We listened to the sound of the night—dogs, frogs, crickets, far-off music, motorbikes, cars, and voices—until I dropped into sleep.

“Get up,” Mira said, kissing my forehead, bringing me back. “Go sleep. Go.”

We stood up together.

“Thanks for a great date, Mira.”

She nodded. I embraced her weakly, then turned and walked toward my room.

“You will come back for me?”

I stopped.

“You can come see me on my day off. We can go to the beach.”

I looked back toward her silhouette.

“Will you promise to come back?”

“I will,” I lied. “I promise.”

INTO THE WILD WEST

China, 2008

Prologue

The best parts of China are often the parts that don’t look like China. After all, China is a country so massive and varied that your preconceived notions are easily destroyed. This is especially true if you travel around the edge of the country. It is here, close to the borders, where things get strange and interesting. This is where you can discover nations within the nation. This is where your expectations get flipped on their head. This is where China will slap you in the face and ask, “Do you even know where you are?”

I was amazed when I saw actual skyscrapers in Ürümqi. The skyline was made up of a cluster of brand-new structures, one of which was a dead ringer for Philadelphia’s famed Liberty Place, reproducing its ziggurat top in smaller scale and reaffirming the Chinese talent for knockoffs. Ürümqi: it sounded exotic enough. I was half-expecting a desert bazaar, a meeting place dug out of the dunes full of camels, turbaned traders, and mud huts. After all, we were following the old Silk Road and about as far from Beijing as you could get. We were in Xinjiang province in the far west—Uyghur country—a massive territory that was supposed to be China only in name. But at first glance, central Ürümqi was an utterly Chinese place, with shiny cars cruising the streets and buildings that gleamed underneath the relentless desert sun. After all, the area was awash in oil money and the city was clearly benefiting. Its residents seemed to be thriving and happy, as long as they were Han Chinese.

Uyghurs are a Central Asian Turkic people, closely related in language, culture, and DNA to the folks who inhabit neighboring countries such as Kyrgyzstan and Uzbekistan. Their cities have a lot more in common with Kabul and Tashkent than Beijing. In 1949, when the Chinese communists took over Xinjiang, Uyghurs made up over ninety percent of the population. Today it’s less than fifty, thanks largely to Beijing’s policy of settling the region with Han Chinese, who hold most of the good jobs and pretty much run the show. Uyghurs, it seems, aren’t even invited to the party. They have been made second-class citizens in their own country. They widely consider themselves a colonized people and resent it. As a result, they’re beginning to buck.

Steve, Sam, and I had taken the train to Ürümqi all the way from Shanghai, crossing much of the country over the course of a week. It was the summer of 2008, and the Beijing Olympics were just about to get underway. The eyes of the world were on China and they knew it, so the whole nation had been spruced up in preparation. The locals were under strict orders to be congenial guests; “undesirables” were rounded up and hidden from view; travel was strictly controlled. Security was tight, even thousands of miles away from the action. The authorities were watching everyone, citizens and foreigners alike.

They were being especially niggardly with travel permits, as we found out in the lonely outpost of Golmud, when we attempted to get off the tourist track and head further along the Southern Silk Road. This is why we had come out west: we wanted to get into the heart of un-Chinese China. But we were denied, stymied by a chain-smoking official who repeatedly muttered, “I dare not. I dare not.” Unwilling to risk an incident, he turned us around and put us on a bus heading back north. It was their time in the sun, and they would abide no hiccups.

So after a few days in the touristy oasis of Dunhuang, we jumped back on the train and were now were traipsing the sidewalks of Ürümqi, surrounded by aluminum and glass instead of sand dunes and apricot groves. We weren’t supposed to be there until the end of the trip, where, after our rough sojourn in the sand, we would enjoy the trappings of Western-style luxury before flying back to Shanghai. But one of the hidden joys of travel can be dealing with sudden changes in itinerary. It is here where the happy accidents occur. We were now in Ürümqi whether we liked it or not, so we decided we might as well try to enjoy it.

That night, after resting up in our downtown hotel, we took a walk into the Uyghur quarter, looking for authentic Central Asian grub. This is where the city took on a very different flavor. Perhaps the town wasn’t as Chinese as we thought. The streets were darker and the buildings grubbier. There were far more people outside. Some were busy working and selling, while others just seemed to mill about. Smoke from cooking meat filled the air, along with music. The place suddenly jumped with life. It was poorer and more ragged, but humming with vitality. Moreover, we saw no Chinese faces. The people here were taller and light-skinned, with high cheekbones; round, wide-set eyes; and prominent noses. Most of the men sported moustaches and skullcaps; the women dressed modestly, with long sleeves, long skirts, and multi-colored headscarves. Some were strikingly beautiful. We had entered a different world in just a matter of blocks. An invisible border separated the two areas, but as tourists, we were allowed unfettered access.

We sat down at a plastic outdoor table next to a street cart for our meal. An old man and his son were grilling chicken, and the aroma of the meat cooking over open coals proved too much to resist. He was also the only vendor we could find who would sell us beer, so the deal was sealed. We sat there, under a single fluorescent bulb, grubbing on delectable barbecue chicken and sipping cold lager, while the mournful melodies of Uyghur pop songs warbled from the man’s cheap stereo. We didn’t see a single tourist walk by, just a procession of Uyghur men and women, a few of whom cast curious glances our way.

“It looks like we finally made it out of ‘China’,” I said, raising my glass.

On the walk back to the hotel, we decided that we needed whisky. We had finished our last bottle a few days back and that just wouldn’t do. Once we crossed back into the Chinese zone, we quickly found a liquor shop, where I shelled out 125 yuan (about twenty bucks) for a bottle of Johnny Walker Red. But we had one problem: there was no ice in our room and no ice machine on our floor. We’d have to track some down at the hotel.

“I’m sure that they’ll have some at the bar in the lobby,” said Steve.

The hotel’s bar was a tiny affair: just a bar with a few stools. I never saw anyone drinking there. It was staffed by a single bartender in a black jacket and bow tie.

“Ni hao.”

“Ni hao.”

“Do you have any ice?” I was slow and deliberate, but it didn’t register. Like the rest of the hotel’s staff, the bartender spoke pretty much zero English.

I tried again: “Ice?”

He leaned forward with his eyebrows raised and his mouth slightly open, trying his best to decipher the foreign noises emanating from my mouth.

“Uh… ice?”

He responded in Chinese and then just stood there.

I took a shot in the dark and tried Korean, since sometimes it uses Chinese words: “Eoreom? Eoreom isseoyo?”

No luck. I’d have to resort to charades.

I mimed dropping ice cubes in a glass.

Nothing.

I then wrapped my arms around my torso and shook my body: “Brrrrrrrrrrrr! Cold! Brrrrrrrrrrrrr!” This only furthered his confusion.

Finally I took the bottle out of the bag.

“Ice!” I said, shaking the bottle. “We need ice for our whisky!”

The bartender looked toward the bottle, cocking his head like an inquisitive puppy. He then took it from me and stared closely, scrutinizing the label. A smirk overtook his lips as he looked up and shook his head “no.” He pointed to the label, which, instead of “Johnny Walker,” read “James Worker” in identical lettering. It was a knockoff, and probably undrinkable. We’d been had. We were clearly back in China again.

Heaven Lake

“Is there a problem with the tickets?”

The wooden kiosk was manned by a different guy than the day before and he didn’t like what he saw. Mumbling to himself, he examined all three pink slips as if I had just presented him with a series of advanced calculus problems.

“I bought them here yesterday,” I continued. “Right here.” I tapped on the counter of the creaky kiosk for effect.

The attendant stared at the papers, picked at his ear, and spat.

“Do you think he can read English?” asked Steve.

“I doubt he can even read Chinese,” said Sam

The man shook his head, pulled out his cell phone, and punched in a number. Soon he was yelling at someone on the other end (perhaps the vendor who had sold me the things). He ranted and howled, seemingly livid, but maybe he was just asking about the weather. After all, with Chinese it can be hard to tell.

After more examination and phone squawking, we followed him to the other end of Ürümqi’s People’s Park to a waiting bus—where he proceeded to have a shouting match with the driver. Stymied, he led us to another, where, after more verbal pyrotechnics, we were also turned away. Finally, we were ushered into a totally different tourist office (this one in an actual building with electricity), where our man locked horns with the woman working there until—after handing over a wad of paper Mao portraits—she reluctantly agreed to honor our tickets. Her name was Miss Yi and, after the man left, she was all happy teeth and shining eyes, depositing us on a forlorn and empty coach just outside. We looked on in helplessness as all the other buses pulled away, leaving us to broil in the brutal desert heat.

Over the next hour and a half, Chinese tourists trickled in, and by eleven our bus was full and ready to go, though only after what seemed to be a case of flagrant racial profiling: for some reason, a young couple—the only Uyghurs on the bus—was booted from their seats and ejected from the bus. Perhaps it was a simple ticketing mix-up, but the whole affair seemed suspect. They were soon replaced by two smiling Han Chinese. The passengers of the bus exhaled and collectively unclenched their assholes, and the bus finally jerked into gear and pulled out onto the road leading out of the city.

Our destination was Tian Chi, also known as Heaven Lake, a natural alpine reservoir nestled high in Tian Shan Mountains, just two hours out of town. This picturesque lake sits right under the nose of the 5445-meter Bogeda Feng (Peak of God). According to the brochure photos, it’s surrounded by pine-covered mountain slopes, looking more like Switzerland than China. But it is in China and the Chinese know when they’ve got a good thing going, so it’s definitely on the map as a major tourist attraction. After some sour incidents earlier in our travels, we had sworn off the big tourist sights, but the photos of the mountains and the lake looked majestic and inviting, so even if the lead-up was touristy, we could at least get in a hike, or perhaps even sneak in a swim. I knew from experience that in China if you’re willing to walk just a little a bit, you can beat the crowds; most bus tourists don’t stray far from base.

About twenty minutes into the journey, as we rumbled across the flat desert plains, Miss Yi got up out of her seat and fired up the karaoke machine wired into the front of the bus.

“Uh-oh,” I said, nudging Steve.

She appeared to be testing the microphone. Her voice echoed from the speakers, drenched in the wet delay effect that is the default setting on all karaoke machines in Asia.

“Please tell me she’s not going to sing,” muttered Steve.

“Dear God no.” Sam pulled down the bill of his baseball hat and feigned sleep.

Fortunately Miss Yi did not sing, but she did talk. Lacking a grasp of the language, I assumed that she was giving us a prelude of what we were about to see, maybe describing the sights and the history of the area. But as her spiel went on, I realized—from her sing-song tone and animated eyes—that she was delivering a sales pitch. Her presentation was fully memorized and well-rehearsed; it was obvious that she performed it daily. Her voice bounced and ricocheted off the many surfaces of the sealed vehicle, lubricated and propelled by the power of Asian karaoke super-reverb. This went on for over forty excruciating minutes; after just twenty, I was ready to garrote her with the microphone cord.

Eventually, after a prolonged pee-stop, we began our climb into the mountains. The weather was gorgeous—literally not a cloud in the sky—and it was wonderfully warm. I was looking forward to getting to the lake and taking in some nature, but going straight there would just be too easy. This was modern China, after all, and there was commerce to be done, so soon we stopped at the side of a road in front of a mystery building.

“Chinese herbal medicine shop,” said Miss Yi. “We stop for thirty minutes. Come in and buy!”

Feeling no need to purchase any ground-up bear claw, aromatic tree bark, or deer penis, I stood in the gravel parking area with Sam and smoked in the heat. Steve sat on a nearby stump in the shade, glowering.

After the herb store, we wound further up the mountain and finally made it to the lake, or at least the parking area below, which was crammed full of what looked like at least one hundred other tour buses. From there, most all visitors elected to take the cable car up the five kilometers to the lake. These were small, covered two-seaters—more like chair lifts, really—strung up the face of the mountain like lanterns.

“Let’s hike up,” Sam said. “Isn’t that why we came here? We can take the gondolas down.”

When we broke the news to Miss Yi, I could almost hear here synapses sizzling

“No cable car? But it is very far!”

“It’s okay,” I said. “We really want to walk.”

“Why?”

The three of us had thrown on our hiking boots before leaving. We brought daypacks and sun hats. We had plenty of water and were ready to go. When I looked at my bus mates, I saw that most of the women wore skirts and high heel shoes, while the men sported dress slacks and cheap oxfords. Perhaps the cable car was the best choice for them.

We waved goodbye to our Chinese comrades and climbed up a trail made of concrete and stone. This paved path followed a stream tumbling down the rocks; we passed a series of impressive cascades. We saw no one during our sweaty ascent, which took a little more than an hour. When we finally cleared the hump, we arrived at a vista overlooking the lake. I was taken aback by its beauty. The water was deep blue and looked pristine. The lake was surrounded by rocky, ice-capped peaks, with Bogeda Feng ruling over all at the far end. It was gorgeous, just as impressive as the photos.

From our vantage point, we could see a set of stairs heading down from the cable car terminus to the shore. Tourists poured over the stairs like insects, crowding and then queuing up at a large dock. From there, they donned orange life vests and boarded sightseeing boats that took them out onto the water. Every time a boat left the dock, the skipper blasted the mighty horn for several seconds, which echoed around the lake, shattering any tranquility that may have existed. This occurred with disturbing regularity—every two or three minutes, it seemed.

Avoiding the mob of boat boarders, we scurried down to the lake’s edge and hiked around the shore. A wooden walkway was constructed for part of the way, anchored into the sheer cliff face with large bolts and steel cables. As we made our way around, we saw few other walkers. The air was sweet and remarkably free of the dust that perpetually lingered near the sands of the desert lowlands. It was a perfect day to ramble in the mountains, and I was very glad we had come.

As we hiked along the shore, we came upon steps that led up to a “temple”—more of a tourist show than an actual, working house of meditation. The boats disembarked here, as well, so we joined a steady line of bodies jostling and climbing the stairs to the site. Colorful flowers bloomed in profusion among the shrubbery that lined both sides of the stairs. As we came to the entrance, we were stopped by a couple of gatekeepers. They wanted a fourteen-yuan entrance fee. This was only about $2, but I’d been to so many temples in Asia that the last thing I was going to do was to pay for one so obviously set up for tourists. My friends agreed, and we turned around. As we began our descent to the lake, Sam stopped and examined a couple of the mountain flowers.

“Check it out.”

They were fake, hundreds of paper cutouts that were literally pinned to the bushes.

“So beautiful!” said Steve, rolling his eyes.

If the flowers weren’t bad enough, the temple did more to disrupt the tranquility of the surroundings than enhance it. The stairs led to a platform up top, upon which sat a giant bell. This is typical of many Buddhist temples, but in my experience, only the monks are allowed to ring the bell, which is often struck with a heavy log mounted on a kind of pendulum. This particular bell was open to the general public—which that day meant several thousand tourists—each one making it their personal quest to climb up to the temple, pay two bucks to a fake monk in a costume robe, and ring the damned bell:

DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Wait twenty seconds:

DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Wait twenty seconds:

DONGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!

Combine this with the constant blare of boat horns, and you had a positively resounding din.

Ah, nature.

“This is really getting on my tits,” I said.

We managed to escape the evil temple bell by hiking further in, by climbing over one ridge and then another, letting the land itself act as a sound barrier. As expected, it took no time to lose all other tourists, and we were now on our own, save the herds of sheep and Kazakh shepherds who inhabited the lakeshore in their yurts. It finally felt like Central Asia.

My objective was to have a swim, and we found a spot, though it was uncomfortably close to a small herd of cows raised and tended by the Kazakhs. You could see the brown haze of some cow shit particles in the water near the shore, but we moved down to what seemed like more acceptable, hygienic environs. The lake looked clean, though I knew that appearances meant little: with these amounts of people and livestock, the water was probably dirtier than I thought. But we settled on a spot and I stripped down to my swim trunks and jumped in, relishing the bracingly cold lake water.

“You guys coming in?” I asked.

“No, man,” said Sam. “It’s all you.”

I swam out from shore, to where the water was well over my head. A sightseeing boat approached, stuffed with camera-toting passengers. I waved to them as they passed by; they looked at me like I was on fire, and then started greedily snapping pictures. I got the impression that to them, swimming in the lake was the height of insanity.

I got out of the water and dried off and, after about an hour’s hike back, we found ourselves at the cable car station. The line was much longer than anticipated, and after an interminable wait, Sam and I slid into the contraption, and the attendant locked us in. Steve was just behind us, sharing his car with a teenage Chinese girl who appeared horrified to be riding with a lanky, bespectacled foreigner.

The drop down the mountain took about twenty minutes. The cars descended quickly, and several times I had to take my eyes off of the ground to avoid spins of vertigo. Heights have never been my favorite.

I hate cable cars. If we hadn’t been running late, there’s no way I would have agreed to ride in the loathsome thing. Cable cars are awful because they clutter up the natural scenery, but worse than that, they ruin mountains by transporting up herds of people who are too lazy to do the actual work it takes to get to there on their own. And these particular cable cars gave me even another reason to despise them: they had speakers attached to the cable poles, blasting atrocious Chinese pop music along with loud advertisements. On the side of a mountain. I suppose the sound of wind, flowing water and birds was just too much to expect. Such natural noises just might have taken our minds off of the most important thing of all: shopping.

And to think that some people still refer to China as a “communist” country.

We were very late, barely making our bus and facing a very annoyed, tsk-tsking Miss Yi as we slunk back on board. As we jerked out of the expansive parking lot and sped back toward Ürümqi, I nodded off. All of that activity—the hiking and swimming and cable car and endurance, coupled with an early start to the day—had assed me out. But my sweet bus slumber was soon interrupted by the perky Miss Yi, who once again plugged in the karaoke mike and started a new shuck and jive.

Sam looked at me with an expression of unfathomable annoyance. Steve pulled down his hat and tried to shut her out. I fantasized twenty different methods of murder. But nothing we did could stop her run-on spiel. She went on for another thirty minutes. At this point I was worn down, and almost admired her commitment and energy. She just didn’t stop. She was like an animatronic character on a Disneyland ride, and quit the pitch only once we’d reached the outskirts of the city, where we stopped at the crown jewel of all Chinese tourist traps: the dreaded jade factory.

There was more shopping to be done

“Fuck this,” Sam said, grabbing his pack. “Let’s get a taxi.”

We fled the bus and easily found a cab to take us back into the city, which took about twenty more minutes and cost just a little more than one entry fee to the Tian Chi fake mountain temple. We were back in our room before the bus even left the jade factory, with vivid memories of “Heaven Lake” dancing in our rattled, sunburned heads.

The Olympic Spirit Comes to Kashgar

“The security forces are here,” whispered Hamish. “They’re on every street corner. You can fuckin’ well guarantae it. You just have to know how to spot them.”

As his name suggests, Hamish was Scottish, and spoke with a heavy brogue. He sipped from a can of Coke while he fiddled with a small, expensive-looking video camera.

“I thought this place would be in lockdown,” I said, “after what happened.”

“Not with the Olympics on, mate. The whole world is watching China right now, and you can bet they’ll put their best face forward. Any real reprisals will have to wait until the glare of the spotlight has been removed. Once everyone’s packed up the cameras and gone home—that’s when the heads will roll. But I’m not gaein’ anywhere. I’m stayin’ right here.” He gave his own camera a little shake, for effect.

We were in the town of Kashgar, sitting at the courtyard café of the Chini Bagh Hotel—the gathering place for the smattering of Kashgar’s tourists and expats—as well as our headquarters for the next few days. The massive compound occupied the grounds of the former British Consulate and was one of the few places in town that housed foreign travelers.

The Western media always seem to describe the country’s Uyghur population as “restive”—a word utilized so often that it’s become the default adjective when discussing the region. Despite its overuse, it’s not an inaccurate description, since the Uyghurs clearly bristle at the heavy-handed Chinese rule. In fact, just two days before our arrival there was an attack on Chinese security forces. Sixteen cops were killed by two Uyghur radicals in a combined grenade/knife assault. The assailants were apprehended at the scene and dragged away, where they disappeared into the bowels of the state security apparatus and surely faced a nasty, brutal fate.

We were about to leave Ürümqi on the day of the attack, but the trains were held up due to “sandstorms.” Two days later, we were allowed to move on, and after a twenty-four-hour trip, we now found ourselves in this ancient Silk Road city. I was sure the place would be under martial law, but things were strangely normal, at least on the surface. As the Scottish journalist Hamish said, the Chinese needed to keep up appearances. It was the opening day of the 2008 Olympics, and they weren’t about to let it be marred by a couple of Uyghur extremists.

Kashgar has been a vital city for centuries, serving as the seat of the Uyghur Empire and the meeting place of both the northern and southern silk routes that skirted the Taklimakan Desert. Stepping into Kashgar is to be, at times, transported to an exotic past. The film The Kite Runner was shot in the city’s old town, a picturesque stand-in for pre-Taliban Kabul, with its rabbit warren of alleys and ancient buildings. It’s a very traditional place, where the men wear skullcaps and the women cover their heads with beautiful, colorful scarves. While moderate when compared to some other Muslims, the people in and around Kashgar are still quite observant. The city’s main mosque—a looming, yellow structure—is mobbed with men during Friday prayers. Donkeys and carts are the chief mode of transportation. The houses are mostly made of mud and supported by wooden beams. Everywhere are locals selling melons and freshly made bread, known as naang. Bread is not just important in Uyghur culture: it is sacred. To step or sit on bread crumbs is a cultural taboo, a kind of blasphemy. Steve joked about insolent, rebellious Uyghur teens, hanging out on street corners, smoking cigarettes, and crushing bits of bread under their derrieres. We imagined some them picking up guitars and forming a punk band called “The Crumb Sitters.”

That afternoon we explored the town’s labyrinthine streets, walking past the many haberdasheries and restaurants serving up steaming bowls of langman, their staple noodle dish. Wafting smoke from grilled mutton was a constant and made our mouths gush: we eventually gave into temptation and took a few savory skewers down. The streets were alive with people—buying, selling, walking, working, or just hanging out. As we ambled through the shaded alleys, we were followed by throngs of children dressed in brightly colored clothing. Some of them—both boys and girls—had shaved heads, a lice-prevention measure. These kids begged not for money, but for photographs. They were fascinated by our digital cameras, and screeched and squealed as they crowded around the screen to get a look at the photos they posed for. They wanted us to take photo after photo. They couldn’t get enough—like the dog who never wants to end his game of fetch. At one point, we had to literally try to outrun the kids, who, when we stopped, grabbed our arms and shirttails and hung on with all they had.

That night the three of us went back to the one restaurant attached to the compound—John’s Travelers’ Cafe— where we drank bottles of watery beer, nibbled on oily piles of stir-fried vegetables, pork, and beef, and took in the full spectacle of the Olympic Opening Ceremony with the rest of the Kashgar’s truly international crowd. About twenty of us sat in the cafe’s wobbly plastic blue chairs, cheering each other’s countries as the teams paraded across the small television screen set up in front. When the camera zoomed in on the dopy visage of George W. Bush, the café erupted in a chorus of boos, most virulently trumpeted forth by our trio of liberal Americans. I ended up sitting with a group of English guys who, after enough beers, began hurling abuse at everyone both on the screen and in the café. I like this idea of affectionate insults and, as a result, often find Brits good company.

The ceremony lasted a good three hours, with coverage and previews afterwards. We continued to make merry. We were eventually joined by Chris and Ian. Chris was an Aussie who was working as a travel guide for rich, middle-aged tourists along the Trans-Siberian Railway. He was enjoying his downtime by doing a little touring himself. Ian was from Tennessee and taught English in China. He claimed to be wanted by the IRS for eighty thousand dollars in unpaid taxes.

“Hell, I might live and die right here in China,” he said between sips. “I can never go home again.”

When the staff tired of us and John’s eventually closed, we ended up in the courtyard of one of the compound’s grungier buildings, which also happened to be the permanent home of a bunch of guys from neighboring Pakistan, Afghanistan, Uzbekistan, and Tajikistan. We non-Muslims had been drinking for hours and were good and sauced. The café may have kicked us out, but the party’s heart was still beating. At one point someone handed me a guitar and I drunkenly serenaded all of Kashgar with howling renditions of rock standards. Nirvana figured in prominently. Some of the Muslim guys came down and joined us, and before I knew it I was arm in arm with a huge bearded Afghani, pledging international love, brotherhood, and world peace.

Up and Down the Karakorum Highway

I woke up to banging.

“Yo! Time to get up!”

Someone was pounding on the door. I jerked up, shook myself awake, and ran my hands through my hair.

“It’s time, boys!” It was Steve’s voice. He knocked some more. “Wakey wakey!”

Sam put a pillow over his head and groaned in agony.

“Yeah, yeah… we’ll be right there,” I shot back.

Sam was a wreck, passed out on his bed without pants, but still wearing his boxers and white tennis shoes. He had raged through the night with a handful of other travelers and was now gripped by a hangover of Nagasakian proportions. I’d taken the evening off and was glad for it; I’d enjoyed a nice, sober sleep, and so had Steve, who also had his own room and was always the earliest riser. He continued his knocking.

“Well hurry up. I’ll be down at the café getting some breakfast.”

“Sure thing.”

I kicked Sam on the soles of his Nikes and ripped the pillow from his head.

“Wake up, asshole. And for the love of God, put some pants on.”

“Urnnnngggg… huh?”

I picked up his jeans from the floor and fired them his way. They landed on his face, which helped to rouse him. In ten minutes, he had them on and the both of us were seated in the café, next to Steve, staring at the menu. Steve sipped coffee, nibbled toast, and worked on a crossword. Sam looked brain-dead and was likely seeing in duplicate, but he managed to order some eggs, and this was a good thing. We needed our sustenance, because after breakfast we were heading up the highest highway in the world.

Our driver’s name was Bao. He was a compulsively laughing Chinese man whose rank breath was an affront to all things living: it smelled like a cocktail of road kill, cigarettes, and dog shit. To make matters worse, he drove like a thrill-junkie high on bath salts. Like so many Chinese drivers, he piloted his vehicle with a surging insanity, careening down the road as if his very manhood was at stake. Bao drove as fast as possible at every moment, laying on ten-second horn blasts to warn any other motorists, pedestrians, cyclists, dogs, cats, goats, or donkeys in the vicinity that he was pushing through. He passed ore-laden dump trucks on blind curves with thousand-foot drop-offs without blinking. He screamed over mountain passes slick with mist and condensation. It seemed he had a death wish; more than once, I had flashes of twisted metal, mutilated flesh, and shattered bones. Was this all worth it? Did I really want to die on the road in one of the most remote corners of Asia?

The Karakoram Highway links Kashgar with Pakistan’s capital, Islamabad. On the Chinese side, the road starts by shooting through the arid flatland of the desert—past dusty Uyghur towns packed with donkeys, chickens, and melon carts—before climbing toward the Pakistani border. This atmospheric route jumps over the continentally dominating mass of Kunlun, Pamir, and Karakoram Ranges—all of which converge atop one of the mightiest plateaus on the planet. This area is most famous for K2, the mountain which had claimed the lives of eleven climbers just a week before our journey. We never got within eyeshot of this deadly peak, but we did manage to skirt two of her impressive sisters, Kongur Tagh and Muztag Ata—both behemoths in their own right.

The road slowly rose into the mountains through brilliant red desert hills—reminiscent of the American Southwest—and then entered a sheer gorge, down which the Gez River tumbled in a violent froth. A few pedestrian suspension bridges crossed the canyon, linking the highway with the hardscrabble stone villages on the other side. I was astounded that people were able to eke out a living in such a hostile environment. Things looked tough enough in the summer; the winters must be brutal.

Soon we were stopped at a military checkpoint—one of several on the route—involving stone-faced soldiers sporting flak jackets and automatic weapons. There were sandbags and a couple of armored vehicles on hand. With the Olympics on, security was tight, especially given that the Karakoram Highway is China’s one link to that hotbed of arms and extremism known as Pakistan. One of the men—clad in a camouflage uniform and wearing a helmet—checked our passports, along with Bao’s paperwork, before gruffly waving us through.

The road wound out of the gorge and continued to rise. At this point the elements began to punish the hapless pavement. Rivulets ran over the surface of the road like a streambed, partially washing it out in some places. Large rocks sat defiantly on the roadway, deposited there by the water flows and periodic slides.

We were now solidly in the mountains. The temperature dropped and the air became wetter, with periodic patches of mist and grey clouds pouring over the ridges and peaks. The landscape then opened up into a wide valley, with a few small settlements and free-roaming horses in the frost-scarred fields. To our left stood the fattest mountain I’d ever seen, a rocky gargantuan that dwarfed everything nearby. Its top was shrouded in clouds, and much of its rocky face was covered in snow. A few glaciers stretched toward the earth like long white fingers, the beginnings of rivers seeping from their tips.

“Kongur Tagh!” Bao pointed and shouted over the warbling Chinese tunes blasting forth from the van’s cassette player.

“Holy shit,” said Sam.

The three of us stared agog, gut-punched by the mountain’s glory.

Eventually the road entered a huge drainage full of grey runoff and glacial melt, an upper holding tank for the Gez River. Bao pulled over for a pit stop and we got out for a short break. A pack of merchants had set up on the roadside, selling trinkets and handmade rugs. “Kyrgyz,” Bao said, motioning toward them. As soon as we stepped out of the van, we were enveloped by these desperate hawkers, who buzzed around us like hungry mosquitoes. The high mountains are a difficult place to scratch out a living. No creature is immune, and this breeds desperation in all. These Kyrgyz were no exception; they were relentless in their pursuit of a sale. They just swarmed us and repeated the one word in English they had mastered: “This? This? This? This?”

In the end I succumbed to “This?” and bought two small rugs woven from yak hair, but my purchase only served to kindle the fire of the other sellers. They followed me every step I took—grabbing my arms and jostling with each other until I managed to make it back into the shelter of the van—and even then, the rabble banged on the windows and shouted while displaying their wares. These people were hard poor, and stared through the tinted glass with sad, starving hope.

After four hours on the Karakorum Highway, we arrived at Karakul Lake, a glacial-fed alpine reservoir that has become a regular stopover for travelers. Bao dropped us off at the main Kyrgyz settlement on the near shore of the glassy lake. This village consisted of a couple of dilapidated buildings and a cluster of yurts. A young Kyrgyz man met our driver and led us to a vacant yurt. His name was Sereket. He wore a filthy red jacket and black baseball cap. His features were pointy and sharp, his small black eyes friendly and smart. He spoke some English, and once we negotiated a price (meals included), he handed us the keys to our very own yurt.

“What about Bao?” I asked, nodding to our driver.

“He come back tomorrow,” said Sereket. “He stay other place.”

Bao smiled and waved as he got back into the van. He started it up and shot off, peeling out in the gravel. A plume of dust followed the dirty black van as it screamed up the dirt road toward the main highway.

“At least now he’ll only kill himself if he careens off the road,” remarked Steve.

This Kyrgyz village was an actual village—a real, lived-in place—despite the fact that they hosted tourists. It was my first time in a yurt, and it was tidy and inviting: colorful rugs covered the floor, and the rental fee included a fat pile of blankets. The yurt also contained a small metal wood-burning stove in the middle, with a chimney sprouting up through the roof. It was pleasant and cozy and looked like a good place to spend the night, but once I stepped outside, I was greeted with a less-inviting world. The village was nasty, a living garbage dump. Animal and human feces littered the ground, along with trash of all stripes—beer and soft-drink bottles, bits of plastic and paper, discarded clothing, motorcycle tires, and animal bones. The squalor was real, but contained to the area where the people lived. The natural wonder that surrounded the village was staggering in scope—goliath peaks, endless sky, a pure, glacial lake—and luckily the villagers’ hygienic shortcomings did little to diminish the area’s greater effect.

Also, like the roadside carpet hawkers, the touts were unstoppable. As soon as I emerged from my rented yurt-dominium, they converged like zombies. Dead-eyed women held up carpets and mumbled, “Yes? Yes?” Men dangled trinkets and baubles and necklaces in front of my nose when I attempted to breathe in the cold air and absorb the view of the lake. Personal space and privacy meant nothing. “No buy, no buy,” I said firmly, shaking my head. But these hawkers were undeterred: they followed me as I walked away and thrust their goods back in my face when I returned. These were the most persistent touts I’d ever encountered, anywhere. Summer is brief in the Pamirs: it’s the only time the tourists come. The villagers know this, and they milk the teat for all it’s worth, pushing their goods on an endless sales-pitch loop. They’ll even attempt to barter. One man walked up to me holding a massive crystalline geode. It was a giant hunk of geology, a dark stone broken open, with a thick purple-and-white bloom of crystals inside. It was gorgeous but looked impossibly heavy; the skinny old dude visibly struggled as he placed it on ground for my inspection.

“Very nice,” I said, leaning in.

The man gestured to me: Will you buy?

It was a brilliant, mesmerizing stone, and for a moment I savored the thought of a purchase before the practical side of my mind assumed command.

“Sorry. No, no buy. Very heavy.” I pantomimed lifting the thing.

The man then looked toward my feet. I was wearing a brand-new pair of hiking boots purchased for this trip—a two-hundred-dollar set of footwear. He pointed to my boots and then pointed at the geode, offering a trade. I looked at his shoes: they were in a sorry state, beaten to hell and hardly ideal for such taxing surroundings. Quality boots must be a prized possession in such an environment and I felt for the man, but politely walked on. After all, I needed my boots. I couldn’t wear a cluster of crystals.

At one point I asked our host, the impish Sereket, where I could find the nearest toilet. He gleefully pointed me in the right direction, without a hint of shame on his face. Now I understood that I was in China, which, let’s face it, has some of the worst toilets in the world: on this particular trip, I’d shat in open, filthy, collective troughs (just inches from other men) which were flushed out every minute or so, blasting whole cascades of crap right underneath; I’d pooed in reeking, fly-swarmed squatters, and once even evacuated into a tarpaulin-covered ditch on the roadside, next to a rotting dog carcass. Yes, I was in China—Western China—in a mountain village without running water or even electricity, let alone sewers. My expectations were pretty low… but I was still not prepared for the horror which I was about to face. The toilet—or WC, as they’re universally labeled throughout the traveling world—was little more than a shack that covered a creaky wooden platform built over a pit. Three holes were cut into the platform, with black shit towers rising out of each at least a foot above the rim of the holes. The pit below had been filled to capacity. Things had gotten so that most people forwent the holes altogether and shat anywhere in the shack they could, resulting in countless turds littering the dirt floor and other parts of the platform. You could barely walk without hitting one. I later found out that most villagers had given up on the toilet altogether, electing to crap in the field behind the yurts instead, which resulted in a veritable minefield of human excrement.

What was abundantly clear was that the WC needed a thorough shoveling-out, but no one in the village (understandably) was willing to undertake the task. In my opinion, the best course of action would have been to drench the thing in mutton fat and burn it to the ground.

Soon after arriving in the village, Sam crawled into his sleeping bag to sleep off his booze binge from the night before; Steve and I decided to take a hike around the lake. It was a great afternoon walk, though I felt myself gulping for air in the thin atmosphere. Oxygen was scarcer at such elevation, and it was difficult to get a really satisfying breath. At one point, we scurried partway up the loose scree of the mountainside to get a good view of the turquoise water below. The panorama was impressive, giving us a sense of the sheer scale of the place. Just northeast of the lake, Muztag Atta stared down. She was nearly as huge as her sister, Kongur Tagh. Steve and I sat on the rocks and gazed back, looking permanence in the face, filled with a thrilling sense of both wonder and dread.

As we continued our hike, bruise-colored clouds blew up the valley, suddenly menacing our afternoon outing. The wind sliced through our meager summer clothing and into our flesh like blades of ice; soon the clouds opened up with a frigid rain. We were stuck in the open without umbrellas or raincoats: Steve hadn’t packed any, and I’d left mine behind in our hotel in Ürümqi. Our luck prevailed, however, in the form of a villager and his horse, who, for a few yuan, offered us a ride. Steve and I mounted the grey mare while its minder walked, leading us back to the village and the warmth of our yurt.

We returned only to find Sam wrapped in his sleeping bag with several blankets on top. He was near comatose. The rain had chilled Steve to the bone and turned his mood foul. Like Sam, he made himself into a human blanket burrito and set about trying to warm up. He was soaked and shivering. Young Sereket pulled up on his motorbike and entered the yurt. He started a fire in the woodstove, which took an eternity to heat up, eventually providing a modicum of warmth. I sat down just inches away and basked in the welcome radiation of the wood fire’s heat.

Whether Sereket was determined to be a good host or just wanted to escape the constriction his mother’s yurt—which he also shared with his sister and her baby—was anyone’s guess. After he lit the fire, we assumed that he’d head out, but he stuck around, stretching out on the floor and endlessly yapping into his cell phone in whiny and guttural Kyrgyz. A girl’s voice drifted from the speaker. Sam and Steve lay in silence while I sat and sipped from a bottle of whisky I’d brought along—which, along with the wood fire, succeeded in warming my insides. Sereket chatted and chatted away for over an hour and a half, impervious to Steve’s groans of protest.

“Was that your girlfriend?” I asked.

“Yes,” Sereket blushed.

“Would you like some whisky?” I held out the bottle.

“No. I am Muslim. It is forbidden.”

“Fair enough,” I said, taking another pull.

“Are you hungry?” he asked. “Is time for dinner.”

“I’m starving…” groaned Sam.

“Not me. I’m not leaving this yurt,” moaned Steve.

Sereket mounted his dented bike and kicked it into life, while Sam and I followed on foot. We walked through the cold drizzle and over a rocky rise to the second part of the village, made up of several concrete yurts. This area was much cleaner, with little refuse on the ground and no human shit—definitely the good side of the tracks. Sereket’s mother lived in one of these more permanent structures, where she served us hot milky tea, followed by huge bowls filled with a kind of buttery Central Asian pasta. It was hearty and delicious, the type of food eaten by people living in a place that even drops below freezing on summer nights. We were also joined by his shy sister and her very new baby. I didn’t ask where the men were. His mother had a soft, gentle way, with a smile and voice that matched. Once we finished up, she laid out a few of her hand-woven carpets and tapestries.

“Maybe tomorrow,” I said, smiling.

“We’ll bring our friend,” Sam said, setting Steve up. “He is very rich.”

Sereket’s eyes glowed at the prospect.

After leaving, Sereket ushered us along the path, back to the humbler side of the village that we were calling home. Once we got back to the yurt, I was expecting him to bid us goodnight and be on his way, but again he came in with us and made himself comfortable, plopping on the floor and calling his girlfriend once again for another interminable puppy-dog conversation. I got the impression that he hung out in this yurt every day, with guests or without. After all, he had the keys.

“How was dinner?” Steve asked. His spirits had improved.

“Great,” Sam said. “You missed out.”

“I should have come. I got hungry and ended up going to the little restaurant near the village entrance, which was a mistake. It was the direst bowl of noodles I’ve ever eaten. I couldn’t finish it.”

“We were properly stuffed with some homemade, Kyrgyz stodge,” I added, rubbing it in. “His mother makes beautiful rugs. You should check them out in the morning.”

“That’s great and all,” Steve said, “but can she knit me a cheeseburger?”

He then motioned to Sereket and lowered his voice: “For fuck’s sake, does he just plan on staying here all night?”

“Maybe so,” I shrugged.

“He lives with his mother, sister, and her baby in a yurt,” said Sam. “I’m sure he’s just happy to be out of the house.”

Sereket was an oddball, with dark, clever eyes and a mischievous grin. He was motivated and ambitious, and had obviously ingratiated himself with the drivers who ferried in the trickle of tourists from Kashgar. His English was self-taught and minimal, but enough to communicate with the people who came to stay in his village. While I understood Steve’s annoyance with Sereket’s continual presence in our yurt, part of me was glad to have him around. The three of us were run down from a combination of travel, altitude, drink, and the elements, but Sereket seemed invincibly happy. He helped to cheer up our gloomy little world.

Eventually Sereket left. By this point, we were wrapped up in our sleeping bags and blankets, totally spent, craving only sleep. I heard him walk out the door into the rainy night, start up his dilapidated motorcycle, and putter away, back to the cramped confines of his mom’s concrete yurt. We lay on the ground, staring up into the dark, listening to the rain hit the woolen domed roof. The only other sound was the lull of a man’s voice floating in from the neighboring structure. Though I couldn’t understand the mysterious language, I knew it at once as poetry. It was lyrical and metric, delivered with reverence. From the frequent utterances of “Allah” and “Mohammed,” I took it to be passages from the Koran. The man was reciting holy verses to his family, before they, and we, drifted off to sleep.

*

The next morning, we had more yak milk tea and the Uyghur version of bagels back at Sereket’s mother’s place. We were joined by our driver, Bao. The bagels were incredibly thick and hard, with “the density of a neutron star,” according to Steve, who joined us for the meal. They were only rendered chewable after a prolonged dip in the steaming hot tea.

After breakfast, Sereket’s mother laid out her handicrafts and her son made the pitch; Steve bargained hard, but in the end walked away with an impressive, hand-woven carpet.

“Where do you go?” asked Sereket as we shook hands.

“Tashkurgan.”

“Oh. You meet Tajik people. See fortress.”

We said our goodbyes, boarded the van, and shot off with our mentally unbalanced driver for a cruise further up the highway through some of the most stunning country yet.

Just as we were leaving Karakul Lake we saw two Western travelers by the side of the road. They were packing up their bags outside of a yurt of their own.

“Don’t we know those guys?” asked Sam.

“Hey Bao,” I said. “Stop here.”

It was Chris and Ian, whom we had met at John’s Café in Kashgar.

I leaned out of the passenger-side window. “Howdy strangers.”

Chris was stuffing some clothes in his pack and looked up. “G’day.”

“Well sheeit,” said Ian, Tennessee twang in full swing. “Did y’all stay here last night?”

“Yeah, down on the lake shore,” I answered.

“Damn… I wished we’d have known.”

“How was it?” asked Chris.

Steve replied: “Wet and cold.”

“Same here.”

“Y’all headin’ up to Tashkurgan?” Ian inquired.

“Yeah,” I said. “We want to check out the fortress. Have you been?”

“Yeah,” said Chris. “We went up there yesterday.”

“How was it?” asked Steve.

Ian put his hand on his hips and shook his head. “Y’all can go if ya want, but there ain’t much to see. It’s just a pile of rocks.”

“It is a beautiful drive,” admitted Chris.

“Yeah… it’s nice drivin’, and all,” continued Ian. “But that fortress? It’s just a pile of rocks.”

Tashkurgan is the end of the line, the last main town before Pakistan, and an ancient trading post. The Chinese wouldn’t let us continue on without the proper visa and no doubt some other onerous permits issued by the local Public Security Bureau, the government cops who regulate travel through “sensitive areas,” of which there were many in the summer of 2008. The place is mainly occupied by Tajik people—close cousins of Persians known for their tall hats, fierce tempers, and large hook noses. There is little in the way of tourist diversions in the town, save taking in the ruins of an ancient fortress.

On the way to Tashkurgan we went through another military checkpoint, this one more sinister than the first. Again, we were all made to get out of the vehicle and present our passports and travel permits. A dour military officer questioned Bao in Chinese. I understood just one word from his response: Meiguo, or “American.” When the officer heard this, his expression turned grave. He slowly perused our documents, repeatedly looking at the photos and faces and back again, examining each stamp and visa for the slightest irregularity. Two soldiers—each clutching a Chinese AK-47—came up just inches behind our backs. The one nearest to me was a towering, broad-shouldered brute. He stood so close that I could nearly feel his breath on my neck, as he menacingly clicked the safety switch on his rifle on and off, on and off.

After about fifteen minutes we were allowed to press on. We drove along a vast, flat region, rimmed with even bigger mountains. A couple of tiny villages dotted the plains, like clusters of dollhouses against the imposing landscape. We then switched back up even higher, until the road came to a slick pass absorbed in moist white clouds. The surroundings took on an eerie, otherworldly flavor, and the road was covered with visible patches of snow and ice. These treacherous conditions did nothing to deter Bao, who pressed on at terminal speeds, chain smoking and singing along with his stupid tapes. I felt the blood pour out of my face. I looked to both Steve and Sam, who were just as scared as me. We were now screaming along the highest highway in the world, when in fact we were in no hurry to get anywhere.

Steve erupted first: “SLOW DOWN!” he yelled. “SLOW THE FUCK DOWN!”

Sam and I joined in: “SLOW DOWN!”

We all pressed our hands down in unison, making our point absolutely clear. Bao gave us a sheepish grin and lay off the gas pedal… slightly. We were paying him to deliver us in one piece, and he was putting everything at risk. He lost some face, but a lot more was at stake.

Bao managed to get us to Tashkurgan safely, just in time for lunch. I wanted to try Tajik food, but he instead brought us to a tattered joint owned and run by people he knew—Chinese—which I’m sure was the plan all along. The meal was oily and unremarkable but did the trick, and after lunch he took us out to see the fortress, driving us to the back side to avoid the entrance fee. He stopped the van, pointed, and signaled for us to get our cameras out. We obliged him and shot away.

Ian was right. The vaunted fortress was indeed “just a pile of rocks”—so ruined and rubble-strewn that it held little interest for the three of us—historical and architectural philistines that we were. After a few clicks I looked at the shots on my camera and realized there was no way to make the object come alive, so instead I pointed my lens in the opposite direction, shooting the herd of yaks grazing in the brilliantly green field to the side of the road.

You don’t have to guess which side gave me the better photo.

Ugly at the Arch

We had just arrived back into town after our jaunt up the Karakorum Highway, having dinner and beers (of course) at the Chini Bagh’s John’s Café.

We were joined by Simon, a towering Englishman we had met the Olympics opening-night piss-up. He was sinewy and bald and looked a lot like Peter Garrett from the Australian band Midnight Oil. His eyes shone wild as he carried on about a day trip he had just taken to Shipton’s Arch, a rock formation a couple of hours outside of town. Shipton’s Arch, or Tushuk Tash (“Pierced Rock”), is the tallest natural arch in the world, standing at over 1,200 feet, and located in a very remote part of the desert.

“I was just out there today,” Simon said in his lilting Yorkshire accent. “I had the whole place to meself. No one goes there. It’s spectacular. I would highly recommend checking it out.”

He showed us some video that he had shot a few hours earlier with his cell phone camera.

“See! It’s fucking incredible. I mean, look at it.”

I squinted and peered at the footage. It did appear to be a cool spot, but it’s hard to deliver the wow factor on a two-inch screen. I was skeptical, but my two companions were sold. And the next day was special: it was Steve’s birthday as well as his last day in Xinjiang. After nearly three weeks of travelling with us, he was due to fly back to Shanghai, and then on to Korea. It had been an epic trip, and we had to see him off in style.

We made arrangements to hire a Jeep and set out early the next day on the two-hour drive to the trailhead. After a little more than an hour on the paved road, we turned off onto a dried-up riverbed, where the driver switched into 4WD. We slowly worked our way up the rocky bed until we came to the stone-and-mud hut of a goat-herding family, where we were waved down by a teenage boy. Our driver—a Chinese guy in a pink polo shirt—rolled down the window and spoke with the kid in Uyghur. When they were finished, the driver told me that there was a twenty-yuan-per-person “entrance fee.”

I immediately balked. It seemed everywhere we went on this trip had some sort of hidden “entrance fee.” Plus, we were paying the café’s travel desk a lot of money for the Jeep and the driver, so the thought of coughing up extra made all of us bristle. Three weeks of hard travel had made us frequent targets for cheats, grifters, and thieves. Our patience was sapped.

I looked the driver in the eyes and said, “No fucking way.”

Whether this registered or not is anyone’s guess, but he waved goodbye to the kid and drove off.

We proceeded on for about ten minutes more until the road ended in a gravel parking area. Ours was the only visible vehicle. This was the trailhead. We got out of the Jeep and the driver pointed toward the starting point—he would wait for us in the Jeep. We thanked him and began our hike up toward the arch.

As we approached the actual trailhead, I heard the whine of a small engine reverberate up the canyon. It was the sound of a motorcycle—a dirt bike. Soon the rider came into view behind us, quickly closing the distance. It was the kid from the goat herder’s hut. He was coming… to collect his fee.

He rode his motorbike as far as it could go, got off, and broke into a sprint in an attempt to overtake us. We picked up the pace, but we saw no need to get into a running contest with this kid. He eventually passed us, and it was only then when I saw why he was in such a hurry: about one hundred meters in front of us, the canyon narrowed and steepened dramatically. A wooden ladder lay against the face of the rock. Climbing this ladder was the only way you could continue up toward the arch.

By the time we got to the Uyghur teen, he was clutching the ladder like it was a briefcase full of diamonds. He then firmly requested twenty yuan each, about three American dollars. We shook our heads and said no. He gripped the wooden ladder even tighter. It was a standoff and he had us by the balls.

We could have gone easily. We could have each just given up the twenty yuan—the cost of mug of shitty Korean beer—and been on our way, but we weren’t having it. This was the day we would stand our ground. It was Steve’s birthday. Surrender was impossible! We would draw a line in the sand and fight.

At first I tried bargaining. After a few weeks in China, I had gotten a pretty good hold on the numbers, so I had confidence when it came to negotiating a price. I offered twenty yuan for all three of us. I was sure he’d take it. I’d given him the courtesy of saying it in Chinese, which, even if not his first language, would have been easier for him to understand than English. He understood me all right, but just shook his head and held firm. I came up to forty, but the kid wouldn’t budge. He insisted on sixty and that was that. This only served to stoke our indignation—mine especially. I demanded to see some ID. After all, how do we know that he was officially allowed to collect tolls? For all we knew, he could just be some local punk ripping us off. When no official card was forthcoming, I ridiculously threatened him with the police—using my best mime skills to act out reporting him via telephone—as if they’d race out to the middle of the desert over a disputed entrance fee. He met my eyes and stood tall. Sam joined in as I stammered and sputtered and foamed at the mouth. I tried to grab the kid’s ladder but he yanked it away. I shook my finger in his face and called him an “extorting little fucker.” Following my lead, my two accomplices joined me cornering the poor kid and let loose a torrent of abuse. The boy, however, would not be intimidated. He just stared back in proud defiance and contempt.

It was Steve who caved in to reason. After huffing and puffing and thumping our chests, he yelled out, “Hey Tharp. Let’s just pay the kid! It’s my birthday and I want to see the arch.”

I turned to him in disbelief. He just shrugged and reached for his wallet.

That was that, then. We finally relented and gave this kid his nine bucks, though I did feel the need to dramatically spit on the ground when I handed him the cash, likely a grievous insult in honor-driven Uyghur culture.

What is it about righteousness that can be so all-consuming? All three of us were convinced that we were in the right and that this kid—this goat herder—was trying to rip us off, that he had seen an opportunity to squeeze some foreigners for money and was jumping at it. At no time did it occur to us that EVERYONE who comes to the arch had to pay this little tax to the locals who live on and work the land, who make and maintain the ladders. And twenty yuan certainly pales in comparison to the two hundred or more that we had to pay at other sites during the trip, sites run by hordes of uniformed, unsmiling Chinese.

After paying, we continued up the trail—scurrying up five or six more ladders—rattled by our anger and loss of face. We plotted revenge against the kid, even having a serious discussion about shitting on his motorcycle. But our anger quickly gave way to serenity because of our surroundings. We were enveloped in pure silence, save for the light breeze blowing up from the desert floor.

We ascended a canyon of red and ochre, of stone worn into gnarled, psychedelic shapes by centuries of desert wind, only to come across a hole at the canyon’s end.

As we approached the hole, we realized that we were actually on top of a mountain. On the other side of the hole was a chasm, a sheer drop of over one thousand feet.

Shipton’s Arch.

English Simon was right. It was absolutely amazing.

The arch only reveals its true size once you are up on it. It looks slightly dramatic from a distance, but you have no idea of its scale until you are right there, almost on top of it. It is enormous. It ripped the breath right out of us. We were floored. And, like English Simon the day before, we had it all to ourselves. We were at one of the most beautiful sites in the most populous country on Earth and there wasn’t a soul to be seen. Everything about the place simply blew us away, but our euphoria was soon dampened by the realization of the people we had just been thirty minutes before: terrible, terrible people.

Shipton’s Arch is in a very inaccessible part of the desert, and this is why the Chinese have yet to destroy it. They have yet to build a road and a parking lot with souvenir stands, a cable car cranking out awful pop music, and soft-drink advertisements. They have yet to pave a concrete stairway up to the top, with a fenced-off viewing platform and karaoke room. They have yet to open the sieve and direct fleets of tour buses there on a daily basis. They have yet to ruin the place.

Let the Uyghur goat herders maintain their stewardship. And please, unlike us, don’t give them any hassle when they ask for your three bucks.

Consider the alternative.

Donkeyland

Yarkand is a town dug into the sand, originally an outpost on the southern Silk Road. It sits on the fringe of the Taklimakan, a place of moving sand dunes so desolate that the Uyghur still refer to it as “Desert of Death” and the “Place of No Return.” The town itself is famous for its knives, which is appropriate: it seems like a very good place to stab somebody. Other than that, it’s dusty and unremarkable, save for the spectacle I took in when I left the bus station that morning in search of a cup of coffee:

As I exited and descended the building’s steps, I noticed a small crowd of people gathered around a cart attached to a donkey. In the back of the cart lay a horribly deformed child. His head was swollen, gargantuan, the size and color of a twenty-pound holiday turkey. His eyes glared out from deep-set sockets; his mouth was a maw of jutting teeth, and his pink tongue writhed wildly. I heard myself gasp as the blood left my head and then shot cold. The boy lay on his back and jerked and twitched, moaning intermittently. The throng of locals standing around the poor kid gawked accordingly. What I took to be the boy’s father addressed them nonchalantly, perhaps appealing to their charity, or just describing the horrific extent of his son’s infirmities. After recovering my breath, I had an impulse to snap a photo, but surrendered to the better part of my nature. Instead I rushed away, half-jogging down the street, where I ducked into an unlikely, garishly colored Chinese fast-food joint called Veary Hamburger. There I ordered an obscenely sweet iced coffee drink and sat down, attempting to erase the image of the disfigured boy from my mind by bombarding it with the radioactive combination of sugar, caffeine, and blaring pop music.

When I returned to the bus station, I found my two travel companions where I’d left them: sitting on one of the squalid building’s metal benches while staring at Olympic coverage flickering from the TV above. American swimmer Michael Phelps stood on the platform and smiled his horsey grin, while yet another gold medal was slung around his neck.

The bus to Hotan finally arrived and we boarded. Sam and I were joined by Simon, the Englishman that we’d met back in Kashgar. During the afternoon bus ride, we passed an overturned melon truck on the side of the two-lane highway. Hundreds of watermelons had been thrown from its payload and now littered the ground around the wreck. Many had burst open, splaying their gory red innards for all to see, acting as a warning to the humans piloting the passing vehicles to slow down and look out, or face a similar fate.

*

Choking clouds enveloped Hotan, covering everything in a fine desert dust. The air was a brown haze, obscuring the shiny modern Chinese buildings, as well as the mud-built Uyghur warren-like compounds—with their carpet looms, teapots, and dried dung. Even the famous statue of Mao shaking the old Muslim man’s hand was made nearly invisible by the dull screen of airborne grit, surely to the pleasure of many of the locals, who bristled at such an ostentatious display of dominance. There was dust in my hair, granules grinding on my molars, hard clumps up my nose, and desiccated wax in my ears. The simple act of breathing could cause me to cough or sneeze. The dust scratched my eyes. It saturated my clothing. It scoured the skin of my ass and made everyday existence an exercise in irritation. No wonder most everyone we saw seemed so pissed off.

Like so many of the places we stayed in Western China, the “Happy Hotel” was filthy. Despite a glowing recommendation from the guidebook, we were received with casual indifference by the Uyghur owner. Grubby-faced kids—clad only from the waist up—played in the courtyard among the buzzing flies and grime. One of them had left a sickly yellow turd in a small grate in the concrete; judging from its moistness, it appeared to have been very recently deposited. The smell of grease and human waste hung damply in the air as we paid and then waited for the owner to find the key to our room. He rummaged through his box-like, unlit reception office and shouted to his wife, who just shrugged and carried on hanging the laundry on the second-floor balcony. He eventually gave up on his quest, walked over to our room, and easily snapped the cheap metal lock off the door with a small screwdriver. The wooden door creaked open and we were finally allowed access to our new digs.

“For God’s sake,” Simon gagged.

A demonic, eye-stinging stench filled the room. It emanated from the bathroom, which was little more than a tiny sink, a broken mirror, a barely functioning water faucet, and a stained ceramic hole in which to crap. This hole must have led to some kind of septic tank just feet underneath, since it filled the air with a noxious miasma of piss and shit that smelled as if it had brewing for months on end in the blazing desert sun. The bathroom’s door acted as a seal of sorts that made the room barely tolerable when closed, but any time it was opened, a hot, nauseating blast filled the space, assaulting the nostrils, sticking to the tongue, and burning the lungs like some sort of biological-gas attack.

The room’s one window provided us with a modicum of ventilation, especially if opened in tandem with the door. It also gave the dank space a bit of light, which sifted through the greasy, dust-covered glass. Outside, an ancient bed lay in front of the window, on which was piled a heap of stained and neglected laundry. Above it, on the sill, sat a cracked egg. Its amber contents oozed down the outside wall like a waxy drip of hardened snot; it had obviously been there for ages. The fact that—over the course of weeks or even months, no one in the whole facility had bothered to clean it up spoke volumes to the commitment to hygiene at the Happy Hotel.

Hotan is famous for its jade, but unless you’re looking to stock up on the semi-precious gem from one of the town’s numerous Chinese-owned shops, there’s not much to do. We certainly weren’t in the market for any stones, so we wandered through the haze for a couple hours along the ruined sidewalks of the town, at one point pausing to watch a woman burn the hair off of a dismembered goat with a blowtorch. We strolled through a silk market and stopped at a PC room to check our email and illegally access our Facebook accounts through proxy servers. We then walked some more, wrapping our faces to protect our lungs from the dust, taking in the town around us, and above all, marveling at the multitude of donkeys.

“I find it remarkable,” Simon said, “that so many people still use donkeys as transport. I mean, this is the 21st century. China is rapidly developing into a high-tech powerhouse. Just ten minutes ago we were using computers. I sat there and uploaded hundreds of photographs from my digital camera onto Facebook, and now I come outside only to see men driving carts pulled by fucking donkeys. It boggles the mind.”

“They’re such sad creatures,” remarked Sam.

“I find them quite adorable,” admitted Simon.

“I’ve never been around donkeys until coming here,” I added. “We don’t have many in America.”

“Did you go to the livestock market in Kashgar?” Simon asked.

“Yeah, we did,” I said. “We actually priced the donkeys. How much does a healthy adult go for, Sam?”

“About a hundred and seventy bucks.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. “Wow, that’s a bit dearer than I would I have expected.”

“That’s the going rate, evidently,” I said, “pre-haggle.”

“What I loved about the Kashgar livestock market,” mused Sam, “was how occasionally a serious donkey would let loose a loud, harsh bray that kind of rallied all the lesser donkeys to a common cause. Donkeys from all around would follow suit and loudly bray in solidarity.”

“I remember that,” Simon added. “It would catch on and spread, wouldn’t it?”

“Yeah, like a brush fire,” continued Sam. “The donkey’s bray… man, listen to it. It’s a ridiculous sound… HEE-haww! HEE-hawwwww! It’s a vigorous complaint against all the yokes those poor beasts are forced to endure by our hand. It’s a moan of protest—a sound that tells us just how much donkeys hate having to toil for the benefit of humans. It is an implacable honk of slavery. My heart just bleeds for those guys. You can’t help but pity them.”

*

Like all towns in Western China, Hotan was segregated, with newer Chinese residents and the Uyghur majority living separately and rarely mixing. But with each year, more and more Chinese settlers were arriving in Xinjiang, urged on by the government’s view that large, permanent populations of Chinese in the country’s far west will act as an insurance policy to keep the province firmly in the Motherland’s fold. In my travels throughout Xinjiang, it was obvious that the Uyghurs had no love for, and little in common with, their Chinese masters.

In Kashgar, a huge television monitor had been erected in the main plaza, directly in front of the central mosque. This giant screen played Chinese Olympic events throughout the day and evening, yet was coldly ignored by the town’s residents. In any other part of the country, it would have been the site of much rooting and revelry, but no crowds gathered to cheer the Chinese athletes on, because most Uyghurs believe neither themselves nor their land to be part of China.

In Hotan, the Communist Party constructed a huge statue of Mao Tse Tung receiving Kurban Tulum, the old Uyghur man who is said to have traveled 1,500 kilometers across the desert on the back of his donkey to “thank” the great Premier for “liberating” his people, making him the only person in China to share a statue with Mao. The Uyghurs are forced to see this every day, a constant reminder of who is in control of their destiny. That statue is an insult from the east; it only serves to rub their noses in the shit, and they hate it accordingly.

The citizens of Hotan seemed to chafe under Beijing more visibly than anywhere else we had been in the region. The frustration and hostility toward China and even the tourists they brought in was palpable. As we walked the streets that day, we were subject to hot glances and hard stares. The people we passed were all scowls and furrowed brows, and I could taste their anger and disgust. The air was literally heavy with dust, but it was also heavy with the peoples’ despair, which physically manifested itself in the form of that omnipresent, grey-brown cloud.

That evening we went for dinner at a tiny restaurant. We quietly munched on skewered lamb, thick noodles in savory broth, and the heavy naang bread served up everywhere in Xinjiang. Just two tables away sat a man and his wife, also eating dinner. The man sported a black mustache and wore a white skullcap, looking very much the part of a conservative and pious local Muslim. He sat facing us, and throughout the meal he glared our way with eyes afire. He ate slowly and said nothing to his wife, boring into us with an expression of pure, naked hatred. She chewed in silence as well, in the manner of a woman well accustomed to her husband’s foul turns of humor.

The next morning, we left our room for coffee and breakfast. A fresh, glistening yellow turd once again graced the courtyard’s drain grate. After eating, Simon went back to the hotel, and Sam and I headed to the travel desk of a large Chinese hotel in the center of town in an attempt to book a flight back to Shanghai. The pretty woman behind the desk spoke zero English; this went for everyone at the hotel, and was to be expected in Xinjiang province. With my tiny amount of Chinese I’d picked up during the trip, along with the guidebook—which contained the Chinese characters for all the place names—we managed to convey where and when we wished to travel, and soon our tickets were secured.

Our flight left from Ürümqi, Xinjiang’s capital city. How we would get there was still an open question. We could travel back to Kashgar and jump on the train—a two-day trip—or take the twenty-four-hour sleeper bus through the heart of the Taklimakan. The latter was the cheaper and more practical option, despite the fact that the “beds” on Chinese sleeper buses are generally designed for Chinese-sized people. Tall Westerners such as us find that it’s impossible to fully stretch our legs on such buses, and after a few hours, what is supposed to be a comfortable ride becomes an endurance test aboard a rolling torture machine.

When we walked out of the hotel, we heard a man’s voice reverberating through the street.

Sam pointed: “Check it out.”

Across the road, a man was shouting. His cries were a high-pitched wail that seemed to erupt from the very core of his being. He was half-crawling down the sidewalk, carrying a young child in his arms. He was beyond distraught, drenched in misery and inconsolable desperation, appealing to the passersby for some sort of assistance, it seemed.

“What’s he doing?” Sam asked.

“Probably some sort of extreme begging.”

“Is the kid sick?”

“Could be,” I said. “Or maybe he just drags him out of the house to score sympathy points, like the beggar women with their naked babies on the sidewalks in Bangkok.”

“Hmmmm….” Sam pursed his lips, taking in the scene. “I wish I could understand what he’s saying.”

Puzzled by the man and his child, we walked back to the Happy Hotel to get Simon and then head for lunch.

“The smell is getting worse, I think.” Simon complained as we walked away from the effluvial complex. “I can’t stand it any longer… I can feel the typhoid taking root. This whole town is a shithole.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said, denying the obvious. “Besides, we still haven’t seen that much.”

“Well I’d like to see a restaurant soon,” said Sam. “I’m starving.”

“Okay,” I said. “What are you guys in the mood for?”

“How about some Chinese food?” asked Simon. “I’ve been eating nothing but mutton and bread for two weeks now and am well stopped up. I haven’t had a decent shit in yonks.”

“Yeah, I could do with some actual vegetables,” Sam said.

“And it would be nice to eat away from the glare of Al Qaeda sympathizers,” said Simon.

“Well then, Chinese it is.”

My pronouncement proved to be premature, however, as we soon discovered that actual Chinese restaurants were hard to come by in good ol’ Hotan. We walked around for over an hour in search of an open place serving up proper, oily Chinese grub, but kept coming up short. I would have never believed that one day I would have to look hard to find a Chinese restaurant in China, but this was only China by the loosest of definitions.

Eventually we happened upon an actual Chinese joint and were warmly greeted by the husband-and-wife owners when we stepped through the door. We were their only customers and ordered large, diving into a huge lunch of beef, chicken, and countless veggies, all fried up in heaps of oil in a big metal wok. We washed this feast down with ice-cold beer, far away from the disapproving glances of any local Muslims. For just that hour, we were back in China and glad for it.

After lunch we hiked to Hotan’s main traditional market in an attempt to flatten our now-distended bellies. The markets in the towns and cities of China sell everything, and are often the clearest glimpse into the character and soul of a place. Visiting the local market is always a must, and that of Hotan was no exception.

The market was located clearly on the Uyghur side of the tracks. The men baked bread and sold intricate carpets, while the women manned the clothing stalls. Kabob smoke filled the air, causing my mouth to gush saliva, despite the fact that I was still nearly sick-full from lunch. Men sat at tables sipping tea and smoking cigarettes, eyeing us warily as we strolled by. The narrow streets were full of jostling locals buying and selling or just passing through on donkey carts or motorcycles. This was a real, working market—gritty, multihued, and expansive—all the mystical splendor of Central Asia laid out for us to see. Simon stopped here and there to snap photographs, while Sam and I walked and turned our heads in 180-degree arcs in an attempt to fully absorb the scene. Suddenly, Sam cried out: “OW!”

He stopped and put his hand on a spot on his upper back.

“What’s up, man?”

“Motherfucker…” He bent down and picked up a rock from the street. “Someone just threw a rock at me.”

“What?”

“Someone chucked this rock at me and it hit me in the back.”

We turned around to spot the culprit, but no one stood out in the general hum of the scene.

“Did you see that?” Sam asked Simon who was just catching up.

“See what?”

“Did you see someone huck this rock at me?” He shook the stone in his fist.

“Naw, mate. I was taking photos of that hat stall. Why would someone throw a rock at you?”

“That is a very good question,” Sam said, releasing the rock, which fell onto the uneven street below.

We pressed on through the market, basking in the sights and smells, until we heard the familiar sound of a man’s howling voice.

“Isn’t that the guy from before?” Sam said. “The one carrying the kid?”

I searched for the source, and just up ahead saw a cluster of people gathered around a man who was kneeling on the ground.

“Yeah, that’s him.”

Again he screamed to the sky, calling to God Himself for comfort. He still held the boy, only as we approached, we noticed that the child’s face was pale blue and his limbs stiffened.

We were wrong: this man wasn’t begging. He was absolutely crazed with grief. He had crawled all day through the dusty streets of Hotan, screaming out to God, carrying the body of his dead son.

*

Sam and I got out of Hotan as soon as we could—that night—to be certain. We abandoned the Happy Hotel, even though the rooms were paid up through the morning, and bought tickets on the first night sleeper bus back to Ürümqi. From there, two days later, we would fly back to Shanghai and then on to Korea, our home. Simon planned to tough it out in Hotan one more day before moving east, further along the southern Silk Road, all the way the route’s terminus in the lonely outpost of Golmud. I shook his hand, wished him well, and along with Sam, climbed onto the bus and squeezed my body into the micro-bed, settling in for the long ride across the Taklimakan.

Like most bus journeys in that part of the world, it took a near-eternity to get out of town. A bus doesn’t leave until it’s totally full, and this was no exception. I noticed that there were a few empty bed/seats, and hoped in futility that the driver would press on, but this, of course, was expecting too much. He stopped several times on the way out of town to pick up more passengers, at one point pulling over to the side of the highway while he loudly negotiated a fare over his cell phone.

We waited thirty minutes for these final passengers to arrive. They came by taxi, and got out, stashed their bags underneath, and proceeded to take the last four beds, which happened to be directly above us. Each of these men sported the requisite mustache and skullcap of the truly devout.

The bus jolted into gear, beginning its lengthy journey across one of the most inhospitable places on the planet. At the same time, one of the four men above began his monologue.

In loud and theatrical Uyghur, this young man proceeded to hold court among his three peers. He talked and they listened and he talked some more. From his mouth poured forth an uninterrupted cascade of passionate, guttural language. Every few minutes one of his rapt compatriots would humbly interject or finish a thought, but otherwise it was all about this one man and his one voice.

This went on for hours, building in a crescendo. From the frequent Allahs and Mohammeds peppered throughout this ongoing soliloquy, I managed to suss out the general subject of his rant. This guy was endowed as a religious authority by his friends and embraced it for all it was worth, delivering a several-hour sermon for all of the bus to hear. As I looked up at him, his black eyes were animated and ablaze; his chest heaved, and beads of sweat formed above his mustache. The man radiated zealotry. Several times, as if to prove his piety to the rest of the Muslims on the bus, he dismounted the upper berth and prostrated himself in prayer on the ground, only to return to his perch and sing.

I tried to block out this man’s tirade, but nothing I did could stem the tide. I tried to read from a book of short stories. I tried working on a crossword. I tried to nap. At one point Sam and I attempted to drown him out with our own loud American conversation (something about J.D. Salinger, I think, since it was his stories I was reading), but quickly lost focus and energy. I then tried to really concentrate on and enjoy the fantastically violent Uyghur-dubbed Rambo IV that played several times back-to-back on the coach’s TV, but nothing could block out the endless drone of this young man’s fervor. The only thing that gave me any kind of solace was a fantasy played out in my head that involving the use of long, sharp knives.

Eventually the Imam of the Bus simmered down, and like the rest of the passengers, fell into a light sleep. I tried to snooze as well, but the cramped quarters made this impossible. The only way to stretch out my legs was to thrust them out into the aisle, but the metal edge of the bed’s frame just cut into the bottom of my calf, creating a whole new annoying pain to reckon with.

The Taklimakan basin is home to China’s state-run petroleum industry. Most of the other vehicles on the road were oil trucks. The few settlements we passed through were all drilling stations: towering metal assemblies lit up by orange orbs; alien permanence among the ever-shifting dunes. The men that work such stations must be deeply acquainted with the dull ache of isolation and loneliness.

After many hours, we stopped at a wind-beaten outpost in the middle of the wasteland. It was a truck stop of sorts. A large building stood defiant against the perpetual onslaught of dust and sand. Inside the building was a small store and dingy restaurant, along with a brothel, glowing hard against the night in white-and-red neon. A dozen or so bored-looking prostitutes lingered on couches in front of the glass storefront. I lit a smoke and watched them, squinting in the grit-filled air. Several of the girls noticed my curiosity and jumped up, revealing slim hips stuffed into hot pants or miniskirts, cleavage, and brown legs. Wobbling in ridiculous platform heels, they rushed to the edge of the glass and hurriedly waved me over. I raised my hand and waved back. They lingered at the window, smiling, and beckoning with grand, arcing gestures. I went to wave again but gave up midway, dropping my arm and releasing my cigarette, which fell onto the dirt. I snuffed out the ember with my foot, turned, and walked away over the parched ground. As I re-boarded the bus, I tried not to think about the thousands of truckers and oil workers that had been in and out of those poor, poor girls.

Epilogue

In July of 2009, less than a year after our visit, Ürümqi was wracked by five days of ethnic rioting. What exactly set it off is up for debate, though many maintain that the unrest was in reaction to the murder of two Uyghurs in the southern city of Shaoguan. Uyghurs in Ürümqi reacted with protests that quickly turned into a rampage, with mobs attacking Han Chinese in the streets; they in turn organized and struck back accordingly, resulting in blood on both sides. Chinese authorities say 197 people were killed and 1,721 injured, though Uyghur exile groups maintain that the death toll is much higher. The crackdown was swift and harsh, with the Uyghurs bearing the brunt of it: Many men were detained and some “disappeared” in the police sweeps that followed.

The rioting seems to have poisoned the climate for Uyghur-Han relations, with things just getting worse since 2009. Recently Uyghur separatist groups staged bloody attacks within China, both inside and out of Xinjiang. In October 2013, a car driven by alleged Uyghur separatists plowed into a crowd at Tiananmen Square in Beijing, bursting into flames and killing five. Thirty-eight people were injured, including foreign tourists. In March 2014, a group of black-clad Uyghur men and women entered a train station in Kunming and attacked bystanders with knives, killing thirty-three and injuring more than a hundred. A month later, a similar attack was launched in Guangzhou, injuring six. In May 2014, two cars packed with explosives plowed through safety barricades and detonated in a busy street market in Ürümqi, killing thirty-one and injuring ninety. And on October 18th, 2014, just two days before I sent the final edit of this book to the publisher, four Uyghur attackers armed with knives and explosives killed eighteen Han Chinese at a farmers’ market near Kashgar.

The situation is clearly deteriorating, which is a shame, since travelers and tourists will avoid Xinjiang out of security concerns. And this is a region that could benefit from more foreign visitors, as both sides could reap the financial rewards that such tourism brings in. I also fear that the Chinese authorities will use the recent attacks as an excuse to further gentrify Xinjiang and suppress Uyghur culture. When we visited Kashgar in 2008, I was told that the entire old town—the real heart of the city—was slated for destruction in the name of Communist Party “progress.” The Chinese are very good at bulldozing, and an agitated Uyghur population may motivate them to do it as quickly and thoroughly as possible. Never underestimate the ability of China to completely accomplish its goals, both those noble and nefarious.

From the outside, China often appears to be this monolithic, rising, unstoppable force that will soon overtake the West. Many people accept this as a given—that it’s China’s turn, that their dominance is inevitable. But traveling inside the country gives you a different perspective. Sure, you can clearly see the outward displays of new wealth and power, and they are impressive. Just how far China has come can be a shock to some visitors. This is most evident in the big cities of the east. But as you move across the country and collect a larger sample, you begin to see cracks in the edifice. You see another China, a paper house held together with the flimsiest of glue. You see a country that may be just one big economic downturn away from coming apart at the seams. It’s a place full of unfathomable inequality and deep unrest, and when you see it firsthand, you understand why the Communist Party insists on keeping things so solidly under the boot. After all, if they let up for a moment, the whole thing could unravel, and then where would they be?

90% NORWAY, 10% BANGLADESH

South Korea, 2011

Korea, Sparkling!

This slogan was recently trotted out by the nation’s tourist board, to the snickers of the more jaundiced expats on the peninsula. Over cold mugs of Cass and Hite, we shook our heads, rolled our eyes, and once again thought, Must they try so hard? CNN International was bombarded with commercials featuring lithe, leggy girl groups strutting through the streets of Seoul, while b-boys twisted, popped, and busted moves along the banks of the mighty Han River; pop star Rain flashed his six-pack abs while lauding the virtues of bibimbap in stilted, awkward English; lasers shot from atop gleaming skyscrapers and fireworks showered over packs of smiling youths who wildly danced, leapt, and celebrated the fact that not only had Korea stepped into the future, but it was now its new standard-bearer.

And you know what? Maybe they weren’t trying so hard after all. Perhaps they were right. After all, South Korea really is a land of über-modern marvels. Cutting-edge technology permeates the society in a way that I have yet to see matched in any of my other travels—and this includes visits home to America, that great land of ideas and innovation that birthed such luminaries such as Apple, Intel, and Google. Korean companies are leading the pack when it comes to hi-tech output. Look no further than their microchips, cars, computers, televisions, and smartphones, which are sold the world over. And throughout the country this stuff is everywhere you look. 3G and 4G smartphones are omnipresent; the 2G versions, which just a few years back were held up as technological miracles, are now laughed away as “grandmother phones” by anyone under the age of forty. As the most wired country on Earth, the Internet is rarely more than a spit away. Dirt-cheap PC rooms are almost always within eyeshot, and wifi is available in most public places, including the country’s trains and subways. Crazy stuff. Take that, Japan.

When I first arrived in Korea I was astounded by the modernity—by the buses, reader boards, high-speed trains, and multicolored neon signs that hypnotized me on my nightly strolls. These people are really riding the crest, I thought. Korea is a twenty-four hour gig, with decked-out restaurants, stores, cafes, bars, and clubs whose doors are open until the early morning. Some never close at all. The sidewalks pulse with throngs of well-scrubbed young folks sporting straight-off-the-rack clothes, and the streets are full of shiny, new, immaculate cars (most Koreans don’t do secondhand). In these ways and more, it made good ol’ Seattle—home to modern giants Microsoft and Boeing—seem provincial.

But despite this well-constructed veneer of modernity, you don’t have to look too far to see the older, shabbier, less-glamorous Korea. There are cracks in Korea’s glistening new pavement, with the old country oozing right back up to the surface. Despite all of the attempts at chic modernity, Korea still keeps one toe firmly planted in the Third World. Dog soup restaurants, while technically illegal, can be found serving up steaming bowls of Fido on sketchy side streets. The rivers and streams of the big cities turn into superhighways of human shit after a good rainstorm, and the reek of raw sewage often wafts from storm drains, especially during the summer months, when the punishing heat percolates the crappy brew. Impoverished senior citizens scrounge the streets and apartment blocks for scraps of cardboard and sell odd things from even odder locations. The other day I was emerging from a multi-million dollar subway station with LED monitors, glass elevators, and the obligatory wireless Internet, when there, just ten feet from the exit, sat a ninety-year-old woman selling three dead octopi and a pile of tree bark. New Korea, meet the old.

Where the old school really rears its uncouth head is in some of the local folks’ behavior and practices, both public and otherwise. People ride their motorcycles on the sidewalk and aggressively honk at pedestrians in the way. Traffic laws, while enforced more than before, are still pretty much optional, at least according to the drivers in Busan. People get drunk as hell, bellow and stagger, puke on the sidewalk, and pass out in the street with disturbing regularity. When confronted by the timid police, it’s often the cops themselves who are abused. Men over the age of fifty hawk phlegm, spit with impunity, and piss pretty much anywhere they please, especially after sundown. Forming lines has still yet to totally catch on, and hardscrabble old women jostle, push, and throw elbows in the streets, subways, and markets, with nary an “excuse me” or a glance of regret.

Yes, rest assured: rough old Korea is still alive and well, and I’m not sure whether any amount of eyelid-enhancement surgeries, Galaxy smartphones, or Angel-in-Us coffee shops will change that. Some habits are just too hard to break.

*

It was Saturday afternoon, and I stood there in the station with two buddies from Busan: Scraggs, who hails from Essex, England, and Johnny “The Greek,” who actually grew up in Ontario.

“We should ‘ave gotten our tickets beforehand,” lamented Scraggs in his southern English whine. “They always sell out early on weekends.”

“That’s all right,” shrugged The Greek. “Korean buses are pretty plush.”

“But there’s no bogs on the buses,” Scraggs further moaned. “What am I to do if I’ave to go for a slash?”

“Maybe lay off the beer this time,” I chimed. “It’s a three-hour ride. We wouldn’t want you to piss your pants. Again.”

“I didn’t piss my pants. It was just a bit of dribble.”

“Dribble my ass.” The Greek smirked. “It looked like a fuckin’ map of Antarctica.”

“Sod off you cunt.”

Scraggs had indeed pissed himself during the bus ride from Busan to Gumi the night before. The beer downed at the hof in the bus station, plus the several cans supped on board had pushed his bladder to the breaking point. As there were indeed no “bogs” on the bus, he was forced to improvise. He managed to fill two of the big cans back up with a warmer vision of their previous contents, without being noticed by any of the mostly snoozing passengers. But the timing of the withdrawal had been misjudged, resulting in massive leakage, which presented itself as a clearly visible stain of shame on the crotch of his jeans. There was no hiding it, and The Greek and I had howled as he descended the steps of the bus into the frigid December night.

We were in Gumi, a windswept town that sits at the base an imposing sheer ridge, about 30 minutes north of the city of Daegu. We were on the road, bringing The Ha-Ha Hole—our standup comedy show—to mostly foreign folks living in Korea’s hinterlands. That’s right, on weekends we sometimes traveled around the country telling kimchee and dick jokes to smoky bars full of fellow drunken expats, where we were paid in cheap beer and, on the good nights, a free hotel room. This was a hobby of sorts—a good way to break up the day-to-day monotony of teaching English conversation to half-dead university freshmen, though it could be said that the ESL racket and standup comedy are almost the same thing: you gotta entertain the troops, and you know when you’re bombing because it happens a lot.

The night before, we had gigged at a watering hole owned by a young English woman and her bleary-eyed, teetering South African husband. Like most expat bar proprietors I’ve met, he freely ignored the warnings and got high on his own supply. He was a good guy though, despite looking like he had probably killed a man at some point. It was wintertime and freezing, the kind of cold that makes your skin hurt. The place was poorly heated, and we could see the steam of our breath as we each stood in front of a half-lit Christmas tree and attempted, through chattering teeth, to deliver jokes into the mike. The fifty-person crowd stuffed into the joint was looking to have a good time and was generous in both its drinking and laughter. They were mainly from South Africa as well, evident from the preponderance of bright blond hair and violent booing when, during an improvised bit, I made the mistake of mentioning their arch-nemeses, the New Zealand All Blacks, recent winners of the Rugby World Cup.

It was a raucous night and we had now mostly slept our hangovers off, so after striking out at the train station, the three of us poured into a taxi and were ferried across town to a forlorn bus depot, where we procured tickets to get us out of Dodge. But the bus didn’t leave for three more hours, so we killed the afternoon with a much-needed soak and sauna, where Scraggs and I marveled at the maelstrom of hair springing forth from The Greek’s back. According to The Greek—whose parents come from the old country—his mother was quite fair, but his father was a real hairball, hailing “from a part of Greece where the Turks were a bit more aggressive with the raping.” The public bath hides nothing, and it was clear that he indeed took after the old man in spades. So after bathing we returned to the bus station relaxed and refreshed and got on board, ready for a safe and happy journey to the city of Suwon, a satellite of Seoul and home to our next gig.

Korean long-distance buses are generally as comfortable as it gets, with plenty of legroom and seats that recline to nearly forty-five degrees. They’ve got plentiful heat in the winter and air-con in the summer. The passengers are quiet—usually sleeping the hours away or taking in movies on their smartphones or tablets—and the buses almost always run ahead of schedule. This is due to the diligence of the drivers, who nearly always pilot the things like kamikazes heading straight to the deck of an American carrier. It’s a pure heavy metal roots medley when a Korean driver burns down the road and this driver was no exception: he was a Highway Star Hell Bent on driving Balls to the Wall.

Yeah, the bus was often approaching speeds of Mach 1 on a highway jammed with weekend traffic, but that was no bother: we were all used to it. Sure, he regularly hit the brakes with desperate, jarring stomps. This jostled the bags stashed above and sent our foreheads slamming into the seats in front of us, but not an eyebrow was raised. No one whined, spoke up, yelled, or exhibited the slightest outward sign of alarm. We were on a bus in Korea and everything was how it was supposed to be.

My first sign that this time may be different came about an hour and a half into the three-hour journey. I was listening to a mix of PJ Harvey songs on The Greek’s iPod, which he had most generously lent me, since my phone’s battery was long dead. It had been years since I had really rocked to Polly Jean, and I sat immersed, rediscovering all of those great old cuts from Rid of Me and Dry, as well as savoring her newer, more down-tempo stuff. At one point I took a break and looked over to The Greek, whose whole being was focused onto the tiny screen in front of his face. His brow was furrowed and his dark eyes made beams.

“Hey Greek, this is awesome. I’m listening to your PJ Harvey file right now. Do you know how long it’s—”

“Not now dude. I’m in the middle of this.”

“What is that?”

“What does it look like? A fuckin’ game.”

“I know that. What kind of game?”

“It’s a driving game. Take a look.”

He tilted the screen my way and went about clicking and thumbing the controls.

“I’m driving the bus.”

“Okay.”

He was driving a large passenger bus on an elevated highway in a generic city. There appeared to be moderate traffic. “Check this out,” he nodded, jerking the bus into a side lane and smashing into several cars, which flipped and spun out of control.

“Yes!” He then plowed through the guardrail, causing the bus to plummet far down to the lower level, which resulted in even more mayhem and destruction—crushing cars, motorcycles, vans, and trucks—until it finally came to a full stop. This just turned the bus into giant obstacle that other vehicles hurtling down the road, in turn, smashed into. It was a rolling snowball of complete havoc and spectacular chaos—all shattered glass, bent metal, fire, and thick smoke—depicted with realistic, violent, state-of-the-art graphics. Who knows? The programmers were probably Korean.

He turned to me with a possessed grin. “The point of the game is to destroy as much as you possibly can.”

“Cool,” I said, putting the ear buds back in. “I used to play a similar game at my friend’s place.”

He continued the game and I went back to scrolling through his massive digital library, never once stopping to chew on the fact that The Greek was crashing a virtual bus while riding on a real one. Wasn’t this just a bit odd? A brazen temptation of fate? Evidently not, because I gave it no pause: This is just what people do on buses in Korea.

It happened during the intro to a song by Strawberry Switchblade—an obscure gothic synth-pop duo from the 1980s that I was amazed he had on file. The driver hit the brakes hard. I felt my whole body sucked forward by gravity. I braced myself with my right arm, and then…

BOOM!!!

“Fucking ‘ell!” shouted out Scraggs

The brakes locked and the tires ground against the pavement, screeching for what seemed like minutes, until the bus eventually came to a halt.

“Holy shit.” The Greek turned off his game and sheepishly stashed it.

I ripped out the buds and exhaled. “We just hit something for real.”

All the passengers stayed in their seats, momentarily stunned.

“Aya! Aya! Aya!” A fat guy sitting in the back row theatrically gripped his neck in mock pain. I could see won signs flashing in his squinting eyes.

We all sat for what must have been thirty seconds, trying to figure out just what was going on. I decided to check it out for myself, so I got up and walked to the front of the bus, where I was joined by two other Korean passengers.

The bus’s lights illuminated the scene in front of us: a silver two-door car lay largely crushed. The rear looked like a smashed beer can; anyone sitting there would be liquefied. A man sat in the driver’s seat, partially enveloped by a white airbag. The bus driver was outside, shouting to him.

The three of us in the front were joined by a few other passengers, who like me now understood the fact that not only had the bus hit the car, but that it had pushed it a hundred meters down the road—devastating it in the process—until it came to rest next to the guardrail. They shook their heads, sucked air through their teeth, and exclaimed:

“Oh my!”

“Is he okay?”

“That looks bad.”

“Is anyone else in the car?”

After a minute or two, the car’s driver emerged from his seat, shaken, shocked, but apparently unharmed. The back of the vehicle had received the brunt of the damage, and you can imagine our collective relief when the bus driver poked his head in the bus’s door and told us that the dazed man had been the only occupant.

*

Korea’s efficient, modern side was the first to show its face that night, as emergency services were on the scene within minutes of the collision. The police arrived first and directed traffic around the scene. The paramedics were next, strapping the car’s driver onto a gurney and whisking him away. Bringing up the rear was the wrecking crew, who dragged the totaled car off the road with amazing focus and speed. We marveled at their professionalism. They really had their shit together. I got the feeling that they had done that sort of thing a few times before.

The bus was damaged but drivable, and the driver managed to limp it down the highway and off an exit near the city of Cheonan, following the wrecking truck. He then pulled the bus to an area near the off ramp and told us all to wait for a few minutes, that a new bus was on the way. The wrecking crew deposited the smashed car next to several other dented husks. It must have been a dangerous stretch of highway. Wrecked car storage? Nothing was being left to chance, but what impressed me the most was the pace of the operation. Procedures had obviously been put in place and at this point we’d be able to make the show with time to spare. Bravo, new Korea.

But here’s where the baton gets passed.

The new bus arrived, with a fresh new driver. It seemed that the bus company was keeping up its end of the bargain and guaranteeing the rest of our journey with speed and safety. We exited the old bus and walked in a line past the first driver, who chain-smoked with trembling hands and stared out into the night, his eyes black pits. He looked like he needed a hot shower, a massage, and about three double pours of whisky. He was traumatized and stank of regret. I pitied him.

Once on the new bus, a policeman boarded and asked if any of us needed to go to the hospital. We all declined. He then passed around a clipboard and asked for contact information of anyone who planned to visit the hospital later. This was everyone’s chance for a payday, and about half the passengers bit. The three of us passed. We were fine and we knew it.

The cop bade us adieu, and now it was time to get on the road. We had a new bus and a new driver and would be able to make Suwon only an hour behind schedule. After all, the show must go on.

And then he boarded the bus. Him. He sat in the seat, clicked his buckle, and turned over the engine. He engaged the gear, pulled onto the ramp, and gave a quick honk to the new driver standing next to the old bus, who smiled and flashed a thumbs-up before we poured back onto the busy highway. That’s right, the same driver who had crashed the bus would be completing the route. He would go on to nearly rear-end another car and shower us with apologies, but he would see the night out. Of course. This is what happens when buses crash in Korea. There are no debriefings, no reports to be filed, no rest for the visibly shaken operator: just the continuation of work. Suck it up, ajeosshi: you’re finishing your shift. People do not miss work in old Korea. They grind it out. They endure. How do you think the country went from being one of the poorest in Asia to one that now walks in stride with some of the wealthiest in the world?

Hard fucking work. That’s how.

Sparkling, indeed.

GLIMPSES OF SUMATRA

Indonesia, 2012

The “Marriott Hotel” stood across the street from the Mesjid Rayja, Medan’s alabaster and green-tiled central mega-mosque and easily the tattered town’s most majestic structure. Our fourth-floor room was only six bucks a night—a bargain even by Indonesian standards. Any similarity to its more glamorous sister hotel ended at the name, however. The crumbling stairwell was dark, narrow, and precipitous. The walls were painted puke green and cracked in spots, evidence of the many earthquakes endured over the years. If another large rumbler were to strike, I doubted that the building would stand… but what did I know? It had obviously survived many before. Perhaps Allah was looking out.

After cups of tar-like coffee, we walked outside—stifling even in the late morning—leaving behind the cluster of sad hotels and guesthouses adjacent to the mosque and setting out into the interior of the town. The two of us immediately became a spectacle. Strangers waved and shouted from moving cars and motorbikes. Men hungrily ogled Minhee, my wife, despite the fact that she had used a scarf to cover her shoulders and head. Vendors in front of the mosque stared without shame, pivoting their heads like vultures as we silently strode by.

A crazed woman in filthy rags came staggering toward us from behind a bus stop. Her insect eyes threatened to burst from their sockets as she growled, mumbled, and thrust her filth-caked hand out for cash. Her hair was a frizzled nest of snags; rodent-like teeth jutted out at all angles. I gasped as she approached, feeling the wind knocked out of me; I couldn’t bring myself to give her any money. I just wanted to get away. Minhee gently surrendered a 5,000-rupiah note that was in just as bad of shape as the woman, who snatched it away with her talon-like fingers and scurried off.

Getting about on foot in Medan was a dangerous endeavor, strictly Walk at Your Own Risk. The sidewalks, when they existed at all, were death traps. They were built a meter or more over runoff channels, and in many spots the concrete was missing altogether, creating an obstacle course of potentially leg-snapping gaps that surely must have taken their toll on the locals. The result was a populace that generally avoided the sidewalks, electing instead to stick to the sides of the roads, which were already crammed with cars, buses, motorbikes, and trucks.

“This is dangerous,” I said. “I suppose it’s a good thing that booze isn’t readily available. Can you imagine walking around here at night, drunk off your ass?”

“You,” Minhee said, sticking her finger in my chest, “would die.”

*

“Seven years ago we had many visitors,” Anne said, “but after tsunami and earthquake, very few come.” I was sitting at a table in the empty restaurant on the one road that circles through Tuk-Tuk, the village perched on the peninsula that sticks out into Indonesia’s largest freshwater body, Lake Toba, like a broken thumb. I sipped from a cup of grainy, strong-as-hell coffee and tried to write in my notebook, but Anne wasn’t having it. In fact, anywhere I went in Tuk-Tuk it was the same: restaurants and guesthouses with nary a customer, and owners who were so happy for some business that they plopped down next to me and flung friendly questions my way.

Want be left alone? Forget about it.

Lake Toba was created by a volcanic explosion some fifty thousand years ago, and is surrounded by green and grey highlands that rim its deep waters like a bowl. In the middle is Samosir Island, a rock escarpment that rises like a gnarly spine, with enough flat land for some farms, villages, and the former tourist magnet of Tuk-Tuk. The lake is well above sea level, and as a result a welcome bit cooler than the sauna that makes up the lowlands of Sumatra. The mornings are usually sunny and hot, but by late afternoon grey clouds pour over the mountain ridges and light rain drizzles down, imbuing the surroundings with a moodier tone. Wind streaks over the hillsides and agitates the surface of the lake, creating thousands of small, frothing whitecaps; any thought of the pounding sun is immediately laid to rest.

Tuk-tuk looked like a backpackers’ haven. Scores of guesthouses offered cheap accommodations with lakefront access. Open-front restaurants served up thick curries, pizzas, banana pancakes (of course), and the omnipresent nasi goreng (fried rice) and mi goreng (fried ramen noodles). The local Batak people were all smiles, welcomes, and happy greetings. As Christians, they drink alcohol, sell the hell out of Bintang beer, and are just more relaxed than the rule-burdened Muslims who make up Indonesia’s religious majority. The place was beautiful, and as laid-back as anywhere I’ve been in Laos, which really sets the standard for chill. It was easy on the wallet, the eyes, and the soul. The question was, where were the people?

After talking to a few locals along with some seasoned travelers, three things essentially killed tourism in Tuk-Tuk and Sumatra in general: the first was the Bali bombing of ‘02, in which over two hundred Aussies (and others) died and made Indonesia officially dangerous in the eyes of the Western world. The next thing was the Boxing Day Tsunami of 2004—along with a couple of subsequent deadly quakes—which turned the word Sumatra into a synonym for tragedy. The final straw was an inexplicable government decision to reduce tourist visas from three months down to one. Most tourists hit Bali, Lombok (most famously for the Gilis), and then Java. Sumatra has always been a bit farther down the list: with only a month to spend in the country, most travelers are now giving the island a pass, whereas before, they’d include it on the itinerary.

This dearth of travelers was obviously taxing on the locals. Many of the larger hotels built in Tuk-Tuk had been shuttered entirely. Only the smaller places could afford to stay open, and I was struck with a sense of eeriness as we strolled around the partially abandoned tourist enclave, trying to imagine the place booming with guests. The ghost-town vibe was welcome by us, though: Tuk-tuk was quiet. After all, who likes crowds except for the people profiting off them?

Like most Batak people, Anne was Christian. Church spires poked up all over the region, and the restaurants and homes of the locals were often adorned with huge golden crosses and colorful, graphic depictions of Christ in his agonized glory. Perhaps it was a reaction to floating in a sea of Islam, but these people were seriously Jesus’d up.

I asked her directly, “How is it living in a Muslim country? Do you guys get along with your neighbors?”

“Generally no problem,” she replied. “But now more Muslims are coming. Before not so many, but now…” She shook her head and raised her eyebrows. “They are not so friendly, you know. Always like this with the Christians.” She stuck her arm away from her body with her palm up, a literal representation of at arm’s length. “You know, for Christmas, we give our neighbors food that we cook. This is our tradition. The Muslims they take the food, but they never eat it. They just throw it away… if they give us gifts we take them and eat, but they throw away. And if a Batak woman marries a Muslim man, we never can see her again. Muslim family doesn’t even allow her to go see her family, to go to wedding…”

“That is too bad,” I said. I mentioned how her Muslim neighbors were probably not trying to be rude by throwing out the food they received, but just following the rules of halal, but this did little to assuage her skepticism.

“Let’s just hope that, despite your differences, you can continue to live peacefully, side by side.”

She nodded her head in agreement.

“And let’s really hope the travelers come back again.”

With that she smiled and laughed.

“Yes, yes. Let us hope. In the meantime, are you hungry? Nasi goreng?

*

The bus station in Parapet was empty and neglected, with just the odd minibus lurching in to drop off or pick up a passenger or two. The place was lined with two-story buildings that boxed in the unused expanse. The ground floors housed a handful of woeful businesses, while the upper sections were home to people, as evidenced by the laundry hanging from the windows and terraces. The concrete was ancient and cracked, with weeds sprouting up wherever they could. Chickens and emaciated cats roamed freely, along with packs of wild children who looked more feral than the animals. I passed some time wandering about and playing with these kids, who squealed and shrieked while I chased them over the rotting ground.

After a short ferry ride from Tuk-Tuk, Minhee and I were met at the dock and driven to the Andilo Nanay Travel Company, which maintained a small office in the dilapidated complex. The décor of the room looked as if it had not been changed since 1981, with a bare concrete floor and paper peeling from the walls, revealing sickly beige underneath. Everything was covered in a yellow film, the result of tens of thousands of cigarettes puffed down over the ages. A handwritten fare chart barely clung to the wall, advertising prices that were at least a decade and a half old. A giant cross hung next to a late-‘70s-era illustrated poster for Indonesian Airlines. A tourism ad for Canada—a glacier-topped mountain and pristine lake—hung above the forbidding entrance to the back half of the building. Could this decaying office actually transport me to the Great White North?

We sat on a hard wooden bench that was as comfortable as an inquisitor’s torture chair. Minhee smoked and played Angry Birds on her smartphone, while the only other waiting passenger—a ponytailed Batak dude sitting next to us—sang along with tunes warbling from the speaker of his mobile. Audioslave figured prominently. Evidently Chris Cornell was huge in Indonesia. Who knew?

He turned off the music. “Where are you going?”

“Bukittinggi.” I replied. “You?”

“Padang.”

“That’s a long ride.”

“Yes. Twenty-four hours.” He shook his head. He then got up and walked to the counter, behind which sat a dark-skinned man in a jacket and blue stocking hat. They spoke a few lines in the local language, and he sat back down.

“The bus is late,” he said.

“I know. It was supposed to come at four. It’s now seven thirty.”

“He said it is coming… maybe twenty more minutes.”

Minhee broke in: “He said the same two hours ago.”

The young man noticed the ink on her hand.

“Cool tattoo.”

“Thanks.”

He rolled up his sleeve, revealing some mighty designs etched into his own skin.

“Wow!” Minhee went in for closer inspection. “Those are great.”

“I am a tattoo artist. I am heading to Padang for a job.”

“Really? Cool.” She bent down and examined his work close up.

“Twenty-four-hour ride?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“Tough gig, man.”

He smiled and laughed.

“Can’t they just fly you down?”

“No no. I must pay my way down.” He pulled a clove cigarette out of his pack, lit up, and exhaled. It seemed Indonesia was a nation of committed smokers. “If I spend money on an airplane, then I have much less in my pocket when I return to Lake Toba.”

He took another deep drag and then asked, “Why aren ‘t you flying? This bus trip is not so good. Most foreigners avoid it.”

“We’re masochists,” I replied. “I actually like to see the country from the ground. Gives you a better perspective.”

“Liar,” Minhee cut in. “You just don’t like spending money.”

She was right. I shrugged, yawned, and tapped out a beat on my leg. The young man extinguished his smoke and fired his phone back up, singing along to “The Rooster” by Alice in Chains. We sat there for another thirty minutes before a filthy orange-and-white bus finally pulled up out front and jerked to a stop.

“Here it is,” said the young man, rising from hard bench. “Are you ready a long ride?”

*

Bukittinggi lies in the shadow of two active volcanoes, with a third just an hour down the road. The people are living on what can only be described as a powerful piece of land, but they do their best to drown out the rumblings of nature with manmade blare. Our room was on the top floor of a guesthouse located on the busiest corner in town. It was one of the cheapest available, and placed in the midst of a vortex of sound: a cacophony of car horns, bus engines, and motorbikes swirled through the windows and bounced off the plaster walls. Five times a day the call to prayer blasted forth from the loudspeakers of the local mosque. This all added up to create some serious sonic assault. After some initial resistance, we surrendered. We were exhausted from the bus ride and it was useless to resist. We just lay on the bed and let the clamor envelope us. We gave in to the racket and then embraced it. To quote the late poet Steven Jesse Bernstein: “More noise, please.”

*

After a solid week in Indonesia it hit me: the teenagers were badass. Many of them in the cities and towns dressed in Converse-style sneakers and skinny jeans and wore Exploited and Ramones T-shirts. They all smoked cloves and seriously dug punk rock and metal. The first sign was in a PC room in Medan, where my screensaver was a logo from the legendary band, the Descendents; the bleached-haired kid who ran the shop blasted furious punk from his computer, while he and his tattooed, pierced friends sang along in English.

My heart soared.

During a solo trip to the market in Bukittinggi, I was shadowed by a pesky college kid who peppered me with the usual curious questions: ”Where are you from?” “Where do you stay?” “How do you find our town?” At first I was annoyed and assumed he was on the make. I tried to brush him off, but he stuck to me undeterred, and after a few minutes I realized that he just wanted to practice his English with a foreigner. So I warmed to him and lobbed some back his way. When I asked him about his favorite kind of music, without blinking, he replied, “Grunge! I love grunge!”

“Really?”

“Yes, I love Nirvana! They are best. Also Soundgarden and Alice in Chains! Seattle bands are number one.”

“Well, I’m actually from Seattle.”

“You… you are from Seattle?”

“Yes. Not only that, but I’ve seen all of those bands you like. I love grunge too!”

“You have seen Nirvana before Kurt’s death?”

“Yes, many times.”

“Oh! How lucky you are!”

He kept with me as I wandered the market in search of some towels, asking me details about the shows I’d been to, about my grunge past. I was amazed that my hometown music had penetrated so deeply in the world. He was equally awed to meet someone who had walked in the presence of his musical heroes.

He proved himself helpful, eventually leading me to the towel stand, where I purchased four for a steal. As I was thanking him and saying goodbye, he unleashed a confession.

“My dream is to start my own grunge band, right here in Bukuttinggi.”

Just the thought of it made my mind explode in a fountain of glory. My hope in mankind was, for a fleeting moment, restored. “Rock on, sir,” I said, vigorously shaking his hand. “Rock on.”

As I walked away I gave into the urge to turn back once more. The young man stood at the edge of the market waving goodbye. I responded by flashing him the devil horns with my right hand.

*

After an hour of following our guide, Mr. Coin, through the patch of jungle that fringed the town, we walked out of the trees and into the wide expanse of the river, over white stones and driftwood snags. The sky had blackened and now opened up in a thick downpour. Minhee and I donned our rain gear but Mr. Coin pressed on through the deluge, getting drenched in seconds.

“I am used to it,” he said. His accent was strange—more European than Indonesian—the result of having learned English from a Dutch couple living in town.

As we approached the river, we saw that there were plastic bags everywhere: a rubbish-covered wasteland. They blanketed the surface of the rocks and were pinned underneath; they lay scattered over the sandbars, tied and twisted around the shrubs, logs, and other wood that had been brought down by the river’s high water. And this wasn’t in just one spot. As we walked on through the downpour—past a group of semi-wild buffalo, past a family of villagers netting small fish for the tropical-fish trade—it was obvious that the bags polluted this whole stretch of river, as far as the eye could see. The place was a trash dump, and my stomach twisted at the sight.

“Twenty years before, no problem,” explained Mr. Coin. “People they just use basket, but now at the market”—he pointed upstream—“they use the plastic bag. The people throw on ground and it comes to the river.”

“Has anyone tried to clean this place up?” asked Minhee, her face obscured under the hood of her pink Hello Kitty raincoat (she loathed the thing, but it was the only one available in her size at the time).

“Yes, a few years ago some German visitors they come and try to clean the river… but no good.”

Good God, I thought. If the Germans can’t organize a cleanup then we’re all fucked.

The rain eased as we made our way into the canyon proper. Mr. Coin took off his shoes and performed the multiple fords barefoot. I surrendered mine to the elements and splashed in each time fully shod, with tiny Minhee clutching hard while I carried her piggyback.

“There, there—look,” said Coin, pointing to some trees at the top of a cliff. “They are migrating north to the big national park. They stop here. You are lucky to come at the right time.”

I saw them at once, clusters of huge flying foxes hanging upside down from the limbs of the trees.

Mr. Coin grabbed a large piece of river driftwood and hauled it over to another. He brought it down with all of his strength, banging the wood together repeatedly. The din echoed off the sheer canyon wall. Nothing. He did it again and then, cupping his hands around his mouth, let loose a cry from the bottom of his gut:

“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”

With that, one of the flying foxes, now disturbed, took to the air.

“Look!” Minhee cried.

Mr. Coin continued banging the wood, and I joined in with a howl of my own.

Soon the one flying fox was joined by another, and another, and then another, until, within a few seconds the whole narrow strip of canyon sky was filled with these massive winged creatures, flying to the other side in search of a new resting place. We craned our necks back and looked straight up, the rain stinging our eyes but failing to spoil the strange, magnificent sight.

We climbed out of the canyon and walked through a village toward the main town. Mr. Coin pointed out the unique architecture of the wooden houses, which mixed the local Minangkabau style (high peaked roofs that look like buffalo horns, intricate carvings) with that of the traditional Dutch (narrow windows, double doors). Dogs barked as we passed most every home, an anomaly in Muslim Indonesia.

“They keep them to hunt wild pigs,” said Mr. Coin. ”When the pig is killed, the dogs get all the meat.”

”Call me next time,” I said. “I’ll give the dogs a hand.”

It was now twilight and the rain stopped. The low light refracted through the remaining clouds, bathing the village in subdued hues. Minhee lingered behind, snapping close-up photos of the myriad flowers in bloom. Everything was wet. A muezzin suddenly called out from a small mosque just a hundred meters away. Several men shuffled in and removed their shoes. His song was joined by others—from both the village and the neighboring town—one by one, until the melodies of ten prayer calls resounded throughout the rice fields, trees, wooden houses, and into the canyon below. The haunting cries of the multiple muezzins blended together into one narcotic chorale, ushering in the pouring darkness.

We were now on a cable footbridge, a good fifty meters above the river. The daylight had nearly expired, and Mr. Coin and I sat on the rickety, swaying structure, smoking in silence. Minhee—uneasy at such heights—looked on from the safety of the other side. I sat there, soaked and chilled, and let the smoke warm me inside.

“A few years ago I went to Jakarta to live with my brother,” said Mr. Coin. ”But I hated it. The city is not for me. Here is my home. This valley and this river. Here I will live and die.”

I nodded and looked to the sky, where a single flying fox glided on, making its way north.

*

There we were, packed into yet another tin can of a van which rattled and screamed down the road away from Bukittinggi, hell-bent for Padang. The driver was up to the usual shenanigans that I’d come to expect from anyone behind the wheel in Indonesia: being a suicidal dick. He honked and passed on corners and tailgated and tore down the way like a cat set aflame, making us all privately come to terms with the fact that we could die at any moment. And guess what? We almost did. Death pounced upon the road that day, just meters ahead, but luckily for all of us, the Reaper’s scythe narrowly missed its target.

I’ve seen the aftermath of plenty of landslides, both in Southeast Asia and back home in the rain-soaked Pacific Northwest, but never had one come so close to killing me. Just twenty seconds later and our seatbelt-free vehicle would have been crushed under a boulder that nothing short of Superman could have moved. This gigantic rock was accompanied by a deadly a mass of dirt, brush, and smaller stones that, if they hadn’t fallen on us directly, would have at least knocked the van off the narrow road and into the roaring river gorge below.

The road was now blocked, and traffic was quickly stacking up on both sides of the slide. We slipped out of the stuffy van for fresh air and a photo op. At this point a posse gathered around the obstruction and attempted to clear what they could. I pitched in for a moment, but when it came time to move one of the huge rocks, it was obvious that no amount of pushing or grunting or heaving-ho was going to make a lick of difference. This boulder was a real hernia-maker and there to stay. The only hope of our van reaching its destination would be to clear a path around the slide; otherwise, we’d have to grab our packs and start walking in hopes of flagging down a ride on the other side. However, the locals were more industrious than I originally thought. After a lot of standing around and smoking and arguing among the four or five self-appointed bosses, the cops showed up. It was then that everyone got down to business, clearing just enough space between the debris pile and the edge of the road to squeak a vehicle by, one at a time.

Being one of the closest vehicles to the landslide almost got us crushed, but it also guaranteed that we wouldn’t have to wait hours for our turn to drive around the slide. Eventually our chance came, and our driver, properly humbled by this act of God, gingerly skirted the minivan around the dirt and rocks and drove the rest of the way to Padang like a proper, responsible citizen.

*

Tin Tin was a bare bones joint sitting between the highway and a rocky scab of a beach near the village of Bungus, just south of city of Padang. The road was dangerous—constantly rumbling with giant trucks carrying petrol from a local refinery. Oil is big business in Sumatra, though like everything else, the local folks taste very little of the pie. A few palm trees shaded the area in front of the guesthouse rooms, and the beach itself was littered with old soda bottles and other rubbish. A few plastic bags floated listlessly in the murky water like half-dead jellyfish. I felt deflated: we had traveled very far to get to the edge of the great and mysterious Indian Ocean—a new destination for both of us—and it kind of sucked.

Our room at Tin Tin was cheap, and we got what we paid for. The sheet was stained with brown splotches of blood and the bathroom was tiny, containing a spigot, an ancient squatter, and a plastic bucket of water. The walls were splattered with dried shit—which even managed to get itself caked into the recesses of the water bucket’s ladle. It was everywhere. A previous guest had evidently suffered from an atomic bout of diarrhea, and a disgusted Minhee did her best to scrub away the evidence. It’s amazing to witness the aftermath of a truly volcanic bowel explosion; doing so in the tropics gives you a real appreciation as to just how much havoc the local bacteria and food can wreak on a visitor’s digestive system.

The night we attempted sleep, but we were mercilessly attacked by endless sorties of nasty black mosquitoes. The room was thick with them—the worst I’d encountered anywhere—but the owner saw no need to erect a net. Minhee woke up in a berserker rage at several points during the hellish evening, slapping and stalking and killing as many of the dreadful little beasts as she could, but doing so was like trying to stop the ocean’s tide; the room’s window didn’t properly seal, so one by one the bloodsuckers kept storming in. No amount of clothing or DEET could deter these equatorial skitters, and in the end I just surrendered and allowed myself to get bitten. It was only later that I found out that malaria is alive and well in West Sumatra. We moved to the slightly more upscale guesthouse Carlos the next day, which, along with hot water, had mosquito nets in all the rooms.

*

The fishermen worked Bungus beach every day, save Friday afternoon, when they were away for rest and prayers. They stoically clutched ropes and hauled in the massive nets at barely perceptible speeds. These were hard-looking men with coffee skin and deep lines around their eyes. They stared out to sea while pulling in the lines, always with clove cigarettes dangling from chapped lips. Sometimes they talked and joked, but mostly they toiled in silence. Their catches were meager, usually just a few clusters of small silver fish. Often globs of unwanted jellyfish were included in the harvest. One time they brought in a stingray and sliced off its stinger straight away to avoid injury; I’m sure the creature was later eaten.

Every day I watched them bring in their hauls, took a few photos, and shared smiles and a few smokes. These were poor fisherman getting anything they could from the sea, and I was a comparatively rich tourist in their world, but there was no real separation between us and them. There were no walls to keep anyone out, and no locals hawking goods that none of us wanted or needed; no one was in your pocket. Bungus was a real place where real people went about their business. It was a working beach. A few visitors came and went and spent some money in the local economy, but folks didn’t change it all just to cater to us. No one got shut out. There was something exceedingly honest about the place, and despite its shortcomings, I grew to like it for that.

*

“Hey girl! You come in!” A passenger door opened. ”Come in car!”

Minhee ignored their request and quickened her pace. They continued their lines.

“You China girl? Ni-hao? Japan? Konichiwa? Come on girl! Get in car!”

At this point she broke into a full sprint with the black sedan keeping pace. When she came upon the dirt alley leading to our guesthouse, she ducked down it and made a go, quickly reaching the bungalow and locking herself inside. Just when she thought she was safe, she heard the three men approach outside.

“Hello… Hello girl… You come out.”

They walked to the door and jiggled the handle. Minhee heard them rustling outside and caught the shadow of one them trying to peer in the window. She crouched on the floor, breathing as little as possible, attempting invisibility.

They stayed outside for fifteen minutes, smoking, lingering, and periodically calling out to her, before they finally gave up and took off.

I got back an hour and a half later—warm and buzzing—full of beer. Minhee had barricaded the door the best she could, with a chest of drawers and a chair. After clearing away the furniture and letting me in, she sat on the bed, silent, shaken, and dark. I had stayed behind at the Bungus Café with a fat Englishman and his Thai girlfriend, laughing, swapping travelers’ tales, and downing bottle after bottle of Bintang, Indonesia’s crappy national beer. I’d let her walk home alone, well after dark in a country where scores of men eye-raped her on a daily basis. I’d failed both my wife and myself, and vowed to never let that happen again.

*

We climbed away from the river, up through a small rubber plantation before eventually entering the park. But we weren’t the only ones. We were joined by many other groups. For the first time, I felt like we were firmly on the tourist trail. We were doing the one thing than anyone who comes to Sumatra must do: we going to see the orangutans.

In front of us was a pack of forty Indonesian college students who shrieked and screamed with each step they took into the forest. Most of them were young women who squealed and laughed as they snapped pictures of each other; they were oblivious to the fact that they were frightening away any wildlife in the area. I rolled my eyes and sighed and briefly dreamed of owning a machine gun.

“Don’t worry,” our Swiss companion, Christine, said. She’d lived here before. ”They’re just a day group. They’ll be gone soon enough.”

And she was right. We followed our guide, Kinu, and a few of the others (along with their groups) down a barely perceptible path, and soon the students were out of both sight and earshot. My muscles loosened as the clamor of human voices disappeared. We were now surrounded by the true sounds of the jungle.

We pressed on into the forest, usually within sight of another group. It was a Saturday, and a lot of folks were out. It seemed that everyone got the same trek. I don’t think there were too many variations in the itineraries. The sheer number of other human beings was disconcerting. Constant crowds are my least favorite thing about living in Korea: whatever you want to do, at least ten thousand other people want to do it too. While there were no more than a hundred of us in the jungle that day, it was enough for me to question whether coming out had been a good idea.

Despite the slightly crowded conditions, things began to look up, animal-wise. We soon heard the doleful cries of a howler gibbon, and followed its lament until we could spot its white form atop a palm tree. Nearby was also a troupe of mustachioed Thomas Leaf Monkeys, who paid little mind to our presence. Our guides—having seen it all before—lay back on the damp ground and puffed on clove cigarettes while their clients shot away in an orgy of photography.

Less than an hour later we came upon the first orangutan, crouching on the muddy path as one of the guides pointed him out. He was a large male, nesting just above the trail, and paid little heed to the pack of wildlife paparazzi snapping away underneath. After capturing our fill of images, we moved on and soon came across a mother and her baby, hanging from a vine high above. I took off my pack and stepped away to get a good shot. The orangutan suddenly dropped down the vine with startling power and speed and tried to make a grab for the bag, but the one of the guides picked up a stick, yelled, and chased her back up before she could reach her booty.

*

“Jackie was pet before,” Kinu filled us in. “She just wants to hug people. She is spoiled.”

Minhee joined a group of young European trekkers who aimed their cameras for the best shot.

Jackie was the star of our jungle camp. She was a semi-wild orangutan whose fuzzy-headed baby clung to her as she clung to tree limbs, looking down at us with huge, pitiful eyes.

“I want to hug her,” Minhee said.

“Do not,” Kinu warned. “She will hold you for more than one hour and she is too strong to break the hug.”

After a bone-cleansing swim in the cool, clean waters, the late-afternoon rain came, and we all ducked under the shelter, watching Jackie as she improvised a rain hat from the numerous jungle leaves nearby. She took the opportunity to come down out of the tree and attempt to join us under our tarps, but was quickly chased off by a stick-wielding guide.

“We cannot let her get used to people,” Kinu said. “Even though she was a pet before, we must treat her as a wild orangutan.”

She hung around camp until just before sunset, when she finally slunk off into the dark of the forest to sleep.

Jackie was back in the morning, and joined us as we took our coffee on the boulders alongside the rushing water. She ambled among the rocks, baby clinging to her side, while she hammed it up for more of our photographs. This ape loved people and soaked up the attention with gusto. Each attempt to chase her away only resulted with the needy orangutan slowly making her way back to the encampment, where she could bask within camera range at the awe she instilled in the cluster of Westerners compulsively snapping away. Jackie had grown up in captivity, and despite living for over ten years in the wild, it was clear that she identified more with humans than her own kind. She just couldn’t help herself, and surely was hoping to be once again led out of the huge, lonely jungle.

*

“Tsunami.” I said. “I want to see tsunami.”

Syahrul nodded his head, kick-started his dented-up bike, and headed into town.

As we putted along the open streets of Banda Aceh, I could plainly see just how much of a sitting duck the city is when it comes to ocean-borne catastrophes. The ridge of highlands that makes up the spine of Sumatra ends abruptly many miles before the sea, and Banda Aceh sits on a wide, flat plain. There is little high ground to speak of—almost nothing to mitigate a sudden, catastrophic ocean swell. A tsunami would blast into the city unchecked, and that’s exactly what happened on the morning of December 26th, 2004.

Banda Aceh was obliterated by the tsunami. Over 170,000 were killed—many of them women and children—since many of the men were out to sea, fishing at the time. To give it some perspective, only about 150,000 people live in Banda Aceh today. And it shows. In contrast to the other cities in Sumatra—which are positively writhing with human activity—Banda Aceh seems much more sparsely populated. The streets are wide and largely free of traffic. The air is clear and the whole place lacks the stifling yoke of exhaust present in other Indonesian population centers. Banda Aceh was easily the nicest town we visited. After the tsunami, international aid money poured in and the city was well rebuilt. It was spiffy, modern, and clean—the very opposite of Medan or Padang.

Syahrul slowed down in front of a side street.

“Ship! Ship!” He shouted, pointing.

We pulled off and before long I could see it: a huge metal ship, deposited there, more than a mile from the harbor, by the wave. A park of sorts, complete with wooden walkways affording the best views, had recently been constructed around the boat. Because it was early in the morning, the “park” had not yet opened, but a rudimentary memorial sat right next door. Minhee and I climbed out of the sidecar and looked at the massive wall of photographs, all of which documented the disaster in grisly detail. We saw the mud and destruction and photo after photo of bodies. Some were laid out and covered up, but most were caught up in the debris, twisted and crushed, swollen black and blue and putrid yellow. Almost no shot was without at least one corpse. It was only then that the scale of the catastrophe hit me true. I could smell the rotting flesh through the pictures and knew at once that Hell itself can manifest itself right here on earth.

I impotently put ten bucks in the donation jar and got back into Syahrul’s sidecar with Minhee. Syahrul pointed to the ship and, with his best charades, acted out his part in the tsunami.

I was sleeping that morning. Sleeping. Then the wave hit. Everything went upside down. I was swept from the house. I grabbed onto a tree and held with all my strength. I was almost washed away, but I held strong until the wave subsided. I lived… but the rest were gone. All ten members of my family were dead.

Ten. His splayed-out fingers spoke the number with chilling clarity.

Syahrul’s eyes were hard, yet beneath the veneer of toughness was a wasp’s nest of pain. My own eyes stung with tears that I did my best to repress. I looked at this man—a man who was no longer our driver—but another human, another person who knew love and loss and was doing his best to connect, to let his story be known. I nodded, cinched my lips, and gave him a weak pat on the shoulder.

What else could I do?

Our next stop was about a fifteen-minute ride from the big ship. This was another boat—a fishing boat deposited on the roof of a house. This site had been preserved as a memorial as well, complete with a tourist kiosk selling packets of local coffee beans and T-shirts. As sad as all of these sites were, the sheer absurdity of a boat on top of a house managed to bring a twinge of a smile to all of our faces. There was something, well… almost silly about it.

And even more bizarre, according to a placard in English, was this: not only did the wave deliver the boat, but underneath the hull they found a massive crocodile. I felt the urge to laugh, but was cut short when I read this permanent reminder, carved by hand into the cement, just feet in front of me:

Don’t Broken

26 December

2004

08:27

*

We held each other on the tiny bed. Sunlight sliced through the open window in diagonal shafts. The ceiling fan spun rhythmically while a breeze rustled the curtain. We relaxed and quickly drifted into a deep, hallucinatory sleep—the kind blissful napping that is only achieved during travel. After nearly two hours, we were awakened by the song of the muezzin: it was four o’clock on a Friday afternoon and time for prayers. His amplified chants rang throughout the neighborhood and echoed off the stained walls of our humble room. We opened our eyes and gazed out over the tin roofs of the city, a wash of grey, white, red, and tropical green. Thunder clouds amassed nearby, and the air was moist and cooler than before. The muezzin called us from our dream, only to bring us into what seemed to be another, and for that moment I remembered exactly why we had come.

GOLDFISH IN THEIR ZOOS

Cambodia, 2008

The Long Road to Kratie

I shouldn’t have eaten the curry. I should have just let it be. It was nasty stuff—putrid, watery, and unnaturally green—like some sort of chunky algae bloom. The chicken was undercooked, and shards of stringy bamboo floated in the swamp of a sauce. I should have taken the whole thing out back, behind the fetid shack containing the joint’s kitchen, and poured it onto the ground for the village’s free-roaming pigs to slop up. I should have just gone to bed unfed and hungry. After all, the human body can go weeks without any food at all. What was one night? I’d be fine. Despite some lean times in the past, my pampered American ass had never known real, prolonged hunger—yet ten hours without a bite and my body was in panic mode. I was ravenous and that was that, so I sucked down every last oily drop.

It was now two days later and my intestinal tract was in a state of civil war. I was nauseous and fevered and the spigot had opened wide. Hot blasts—explosive, violent, and unpredictable—rumbled forth in unstoppable volleys from deep within my bowels. I was sweaty, weak, unshaven, and filthy. I had been wearing the same pair of olive shorts and faded green Seattle Supersonics T-shirt for over a week now, ever since my backpack—containing the rest of my clothes, along with three hundred dollars cash—had disappeared from the belly of a long-distance bus. My one pair of underwear had since been abandoned in a guesthouse trash bin. I was in a state. For all of her tropical emerald splendors, Laos—Southeast Asia’s sleepiest country—had treated me roughly. It was time to get the hell out, so I boarded a white minibus that trundled across the border and into the realm of her tough little sister, Cambodia.

The road south was a moonscape of craters and potholes, punctuated by large, loose stones. The going was slow and bumpy, constantly rocking and jostling the poor bus’s chassis, not to mention its unfortunate cargo of passengers. I settled into the seat and gripped tightly, shuddering with each groan of the vehicle’s frame. Every crevasse in the road sent shockwaves through my ravaged body and agitated the liquids within. I then felt the furnace ignite: Old Faithful was ready to blow, but alas, there was no toilet, no bucket—nothing on this dwarf of a bus. I’d have to ride it out. So I locked my jaw and endured each bump in grim silence, focusing my thoughts into one mantra that echoed throughout my being over the next two hours of rutted road hell:

Keep it clenched. Keep it clenched. Keep it clenched.

The need to release came in waves, which prompted all the muscles in my body—not just those at the gate—to flex and tighten as I staved off the overwhelming pressure. The old bus shook and shuddered as it groaned down the calamity of a road, while I just concentrated on breathing and keeping the gasket sealed. It took every reserve of willpower and discipline, but I eventually managed to gain control. I only hoped—not just for my sake, but also that of my fellow passengers—that I could maintain this upper hand. The alternative would be catastrophic.

We rolled down the dusty track through desiccated rice fields. It was the middle of dry season, and the lush Cambodian countryside was now painted shades of brown. The air was grey and hazy from the farmers slash-burning their fields. Buffalo stood in the dusty paddies, some tied to posts, stupidly staring as we passed by. At one point we reached a small settlement; the bus pulled off to the side, stopped, and the driver opened the door.

Salvation.

I grabbed my small green bag containing my valuables—the only thing that hadn’t walked away during that fateful journey in Laos—and made my way off the vehicle. We had stopped in front of an open-air wooden shack selling some bottled water, canned drinks, cigarettes, bags of chips and cookies, as well as other snacks. I guessed this was what passed for a truck stop in Cambodia. We were suddenly set upon by four teenage girls carrying baskets of white boiled eggs on their heads, which they quickly brought down for our perusal.

“You buy-eee? You-buy-eee? You buy-eee?” they pleaded in a singsong chorus. I ducked away, weighed down by more immediate and pressing thoughts. I looked to the man sitting behind the drinks table. He wore shorts and sandals and puffed away on a cigarette. He stared back with bloodshot indifference.

“Toilet? Toilet?” I pleaded.

He pointed to a cardboard sign tacked on a support beam near his head. It read, WC, followed by a crudely drawn arrow pointing to the left.

“Thanks,” I nodded, and headed off.

“NO! NO! NO!” The man was on his feet as I turned back. He held out his palm and slapped it with his other hand.

Of course. There is no such thing as a free shit in Southeast Asia: pay to spray.

“Okay okay. How much?” I hissed.

He jerked his finger back toward the sign. I had missed the fine print, scrawled tiny underneath: 1,000 RIEL.

I took out my wallet and peered inside. I had a small wad of Lao kip and some US dollars, but no Cambodian riel. I had neglected to convert any cash at the border.

His eyes bulged from his sockets as he growled again for money.

“Lao kip? Lao kip okay?” I asked.

“No no no no.” He waved the bills away.

“Uh… dollars? American dollars?”

“Dollars yes!” His hand became possessed with renewed vigor.

I fingered through my greenbacks, looking for a dollar bill. Twenty, twenty, ten—no! Shit! Twenty… please—okay—one dollar!”

I handed him the wrinkled note and he made change, returning a crumpled fistful of nearly worthless riel.

I fled without a “thanks” and headed toward the toilet, feeling a steamy gurgling inside. It was on. Another sign directed me around the side of the building, where things got very muddy. I slogged toward the rickety out structure on which a WC sign had been nailed, taking care not to step in the most treacherous bits. Scrawny chickens clucked, scratched, and pecked at the edge of the muck, while their terrorized offspring scurried and screeched at the sight of me. A fat black pig grunted just feet away. Clumps of its dark shit punctuated the even darker mud.

When I finally reached the haven of the lone toilet stall, I grabbed the crude wooden handle and gave the door a yank. It moved a half inch then stopped. It was latched from inside.

“For fuck’s sake.” I mumbled, squeezing my ass cheeks together with the strength of an Olympic wrestler.

I shuffled my weight and looked to the smoky sky. “Please please please please please.”

My eyes went back to the door in a search for movement. Nothing. Okay, okay. No problem. I figured that another one of the bus’s passengers must be inside, so it couldn’t take too long. I drummed on my thighs and rocked in place as I waited for him to emerge.

“Come on come on come on come on come on.”

No one emerged.

My patience exhausted, I knocked on the door. “Hello? Hello?”

I could hear some shuffling inside, followed by an audible but unintelligible response.

“Hello?”

Movement.

“Please. It’s an emergency!”

More movement.

I knocked again. This was met with a garbled yell, causing me to step away.

I stood in agony for three more minutes. I sighed and grabbed at my hair. I growled deep in my throat. I moaned and spit. I looked to the static door and imagined laser beams shooting forth from my eyes, turning the thing to ash in a matter of seconds.

“Jesus cunting Christ.”

I approached once more and slammed with an open palm.

“HEY! HEY!”

Again, I was met with human voice, but again, I couldn’t make out what it was saying. Was it even language? It sounded like some sort of groaning. Whoever was in there was my only hope.

I banged again, harder.

“OPEN THE FUCK UP!”

Nothing.

I waited for another minute, or two. The situation was now untenable: it simply could not go on any longer. I looked down at my feet, at the wet earth. Surely I could just squat, right there, and release the boiling contents of my bowels onto this already filthy mud. It must have been done many times before.

Fuck it.

I thumbed the loop of my belt and began to yank it out of the buckle, only to be startled by a prolonged, loud—

HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNK!

It was the minibus. I looked over to the road. The little white bus had begun to pull out. The driver—along with most all of the passengers—was looking my way.

HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNK!

He angrily waved for me to come back on board. I was holding them all up.

“NO NO NO NO NO NO!”

HONNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNNK!

I slunk back onto the bus, defeated, demoralized, and ready to murder. I had yet to unleash the volcano simmering in the tubes of my ass, and it was another two hours’ rugged ride to our destination. I gingerly sat back down in my seat and cursed our animal state. Why is so much of life dictated by base physical needs? Eating, breathing, fucking, itching, hurting, pissing, and shitting? All of these things form a kind of tyranny that none of us can escape, and I was now locked away in its harshest gulag.

As the bus began to pull onto the road, I threw my gaze one last time toward the rickety outhouse. The door suddenly burst open and out staggered a man—a wretched, ugly man—steeping in obscene amounts of booze, or worse. He was heinously dirty and clothed in greasy, stained rags. His hair was long, matted, and wild, and a wispy beard sprung haphazardly from his chin. His eyes were empty black holes, and he swayed from side to side in a half-assed attempt to stay upright. The guy probably didn’t even know what country he was in, let alone village or toilet, and he had the appearance of someone in the wicked throes of a six-day gas-huffing binge. Who knows? Maybe that’s what he was doing in outhouse. Whatever the case, I was shit out of luck.

Backwater

The town of Kratie—appropriately pronounced “Crotchy”—is a rotting and neglected burg built up on the muddy banks of the Mekong River. After several hours of enduring a slow grind over one of Asia’s worst-maintained roads, we had made it—or, more importantly—I had made it. The village was saved! The dike managed to hold back the sea! A catastrophe was indeed averted, and as soon as the bus pulled into that sad little station, I jumped out and broke into a near-sprint (as much as could be allowed), looking for any sign reading “Hotel.” I frantically stumbled along the town’s crumbling sidewalks, scanning the streetscape for any hint of shelter, and lucky for me it, didn’t take long before my wish came to fruition. There it was, like a golden palace in the clouds, above which sang a host of harmonizing angels:

KRATIE HOTEL

I shot through the front door and slapped my passport on the counter.

“How much for your best room?”

“Fifteen dollars, sir.”

“Done.”

I grabbed the key and limped up the stairs to my fourth-floor room—this hotel’s version of a presidential suite. Upon opening the door I was greeted with a cavernous cell—high ceilings, two beds, and a couple of paintings depicting glacial mountain scenes—so Khmer! The artwork in Southeast Asian hotels is always a random mish-mash: shots of Norwegian fjords, sultry African women, and glossy photographs of soccer players or Italian sports cars. It’s rare to see a painting that actually reflects the local scenery, say, of a boat floating down a palm-tree lined river, elephants frolicking in a jungle pool, or renditions of tuk-tuks making their way down steamy, crowded side streets.

I tossed my small green bag onto one of the beds and made straight for the bathroom. My shorts were off before I even got to the door and I was on the toilet like the finalist of a high-stakes game of musical chairs. As soon as I felt the first trace of the cool seat on my cheeks, I let loose, blasting the white ceramic bowl with the strength and velocity of a fire hose. This was a pure, concentrated cascade that reverberated around the room with sonic intensity. It sounded like TV static followed by bursts from a large-caliber machine gun. I was astounded: never had I heard fluids leaving the body with such ferocity. When nature wants to expel, she does it something fierce. I was a human pressure washer, and was glad that I shelled out those extra bucks for the extra-strength, triple-engineered toilet. This was the first in what would be many unholy volleys that night, so I was putting it to the test.

The relief I felt after that session went straight to the center of my soul. I was still weak and pukey, but for the first time all day I could relax my muscles, which ached from spending hours in a constant state of tension. I took the opportunity to take a quick meander around central Kratie, which was a crowded town. I felt eyes upon me as I strolled through the streets looking for a pharmacy. Tuk-tuks and motorbikes slowed down to take me in. Across from the hotel was the town’s central market; the ancient black roof looked like it would cave in at any minute. An army of small motorbikes was parked outside in uneven lines and jagged clusters. Rain-stained streaks wept down the sides of buildings and huge patches of black mildew bloomed like cancer. The whole place reeked of provincial decay.

After buying some much-needed water, I found a small pharmacy that consisted of one counter underneath a flickering fluorescent light. A short, chubby woman sat on a stool and addressed me in Khmer. I looked at her, pointed to my asshole, rubbed my stomach, shook my head and said, “No. No.”

She knew the gig right off, got up, and handed me a packet of six stupidly huge white pills.

Sorted.

The City

My room had no windows, just concrete brick, painted over white. I had locked myself in. The hot shower rinsed the scummy film of sweat and tuk-tuk exhaust from my much-thinner body (fifteen pounds shat away in a matter of days!), and though I was now clean and reborn, I felt jittery. I can’t go out there. The thought of leaving this air-conditioned lair, of creeping down the stairs through the lobby, past the fake plants, past the girl at the check-in desk, through the little bar, and stepping over that threshold into the baking street was simply too terrifying to consider. Once you tear yourself away from the insular safety of the hotel, it’s on. You’re raw meat among the hyenas. Last time, I had been followed for blocks. The beggars flock to the hotel entrances—they know where to get their meals. Many of them are missing limbs and at least one doesn’t even have a face—just a melted slag of burnt brown skin. Filthy kids hold out grubby palms. Mothers thrust crusty-faced infants in your face and moan, “Muh-neeeeee. Muh-neeeeeee.”

No no no. I can’t go out there.

I looked down at my new possessions, neatly folded and laid out on my bed in an obvious attempt to quell my fears. Organization. I got my shit together now. There was the small green bag that I hadn’t lost, containing my camera, passport, cash, and journal. And then there was all that wonderful new stuff: three T-shirts, two pairs of shorts, underwear, socks, swim trunks, a toothbrush, toothpaste, razor, towel, sunglasses, and a maroon-and-black North Face backpack. A knockoff? It sure felt legit—all good cloth and firmly sewn seams. I soaked it all in and felt my pulse slacken. A quick trip to the city’s famous Russian Market, fifty bucks shelled out, and I was back in business. I may have been pacing and paranoid in a windowless cell in Phnom Penh, but at least I was clean and secure. I got my things back.

I gulped down the lukewarm remnants of water from a white plastic bottle and sat on the edge of the bed. I chucked the bottle into the wastebasket and held my head in my hands. My heart thumped hard in my chest. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Yes, I was calmer, but leaving the room was still not an option. I was in fucking Cambodia—the land of Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge. The shit that had actually gone down in this place was too terrible to contemplate. Everywhere I could smell the ghosts. The whole population had been traumatized. Just look around and it was plain to see in everyone who was old enough to even remember glimpses of that time. Desperate, blank stares—a collective state of shock. The scar was so deep and cut so roughly that even now, thirty years later, despite the peace, open borders, and booming tourism—despite all of that—the nation’s psyche had barely begun to recover.

In a desperate search for distraction I turned on the TV. Full cable—yes! This wasn’t some backpackers’ cave, but a real shiny hotel with hot water, sheets, and HBO. Nice. I lay back on the bed and flipped through the channels, settling on CNN. They were playing a program about Flight 93, interviewing family members of the folks who were on board that day. A wife described her final conversation with her husband before he—along with other passengers—stormed the cockpit and took the hijackers out. I was engrossed and felt an incoming tide of emotion well up from my gut. I attached myself to each word, and imagined myself on the plane that day. Salty tears. Could I do that? Could I call my wife and tell her that I loved her, knowing that it was all over? Could I rush blade-wielding fanatics, armed only with a service cart and fatalistic determination? Would I ever be able to muster such courage?

As the credits rolled, I clicked the remote and the screen went black. I listened to the hiss of the air-con and filled my lungs deeply with the cool air. I repeated this several times, and it seemed to do the trick. I grabbed my bag, picked up the key, reached for the door handle and got the hell out.

*

S-21 used to be a high school. Once the Khmer Rouge took over, they turned it into a hall of horrors. Thousands of political prisoners were sent to S-21 for “interrogation” and almost none lived to tell about it. Most were questioned, tortured, and then taken out to the Killing Fields just out of town, where they were “smashed.” This Khmer Rouge euphemism for “killed” wasn’t off the mark: in order to conserve ammunition, most prisoners were clubbed to death rather than shot. This is how over 17,000 sent through S-21—overseen by infamous comrade Duch (appropriately pronounced “douche”)—met their fate.

I spent two hours walking through the old school building and surrounding grounds, observing the unwritten rule of total silence. The place has been turned into the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, a testament to the tragedy that Cambodians endured during those four terrible years in the late 1970s. Aside from the few surviving objects—leg shackles, an iron bedframe that served as a torture rack—the most haunting thing about the place was the photographs: thousands of black-and-white shots. All of the prisoners were photographed before the questions began. I could taste their fear. It was obvious that they all knew their fate. Confession of their “crimes” meant death; so did denial. And death would neither be quick nor merciful for any of them. Death would only come after prolonged and deliberately inflicted agony.

When I left the grounds of S-21, I was surrounded by beggars and children selling books. Wherever tourists go in Phnom Penh, the book-hawking kids follow, with their knock-off copies of Lonely Planet and pretty much every other English-language tome written about Cambodia. It comes as no surprise that Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge dominate the collection. The day before, I had made the mistake of perusing the goods but not buying; this provoked the ire of the nine-year-old girl running the show, who pummeled me with a foul-mouthed torrent of hate: “Fucking asshole goddamn motherfucker shit fuck you!” she spat, stomping away while shooting me the finger. I avoided such abuse this time by picking up three.

The horse pills that I’d bought up in Kratie had done their work. The tide had ebbed, and I felt the most human I had in days—physically, at least. But the sight I had just taken in had shaken me deeply. It reminded me of the time I was in Germany and visited the Dachau concentration camp. It is one thing to study genocide—to watch the films and read the books and hear the accounts of the survivors. These things are all useful, disturbing, and necessary, but to visit the scene of the crime is another thing altogether—to see the gas chambers and touch the ovens with your bare hands—to walk amongst the spirits and absorb the horrible history. This is a humbling and overwhelming thing. Your extremities tingle in horror and you feel useless in the face of such incomprehensible death. So yes, my curry-poising was abating, but now my soul felt sick.

I needed beer.

My hotel was located on Phnom Penh’s riverfront, which was home to many other lodging establishments, not to mention scores of bars and cafes. It was the more upscale travelers’ area: the backpackers were consigned to a series of dilapidated guesthouses surrounding a rank, sewage-filled lake on the other side of town (the lake has since been drained and the hostels razed). My hotel, The Palm 2, was owned by a long-haired American expat and his Khmer wife. There seemed to be a lot of Americans in town, at least compared to other cities in the region. I sat down at one the outdoor tables in front of the entrance and ordered an Angkor beer. Once the beer arrived, I cracked open one of my newly purchased tomes and began to read.

I finished my beer quickly and flagged down the owner’s wife as she walked by the table.

“Hi. Could I please get another?”

“Okay,” she nodded, glancing down at the cover of my book, which featured a black-and-white photograph of Pol Pot.

“That man,” she said, looking me in the eyes. “He killed my sister.”

She walked away before I could respond and brought me a new beer without another word.

After about twenty minutes of learning about the childhood of one of the 20th century’s most infamous killers, my ear began to hone in on the conversation at a table across from me. Four aging white guys were downing beer, smoking, and regaling each other with tales of their exploits. Three of them had swollen, fat stomachs. Their ringleader was a balding white-bearded dude with a nasal Aussie twang. He looked like a sunburned Santa Claus.

“Yeah, she was a lil’ beauty, I tell ya… firm lil’ tits, peach of an ass… gorgeous lil’ thing.”

“Was this at the uh… the place over north of the river?” inquired a squat American with thick glasses and a very un-ironic mustache.

“Yeah, that’s the one mate. Well that night I must’ve popped two Viagras, cuz I was rarin’ to go. I fucked that girl in every hole in her body and then shot my wad straight all over her face—including those pouty lil’ cocksucking lips of hers.”

“There ya go, mate,” replied a withered, dentally challenged Brit. He sucked on a hand-rolled cigarette. His forearms were a mosaic of cheaply inked tattoos.

“But the way the pretty little thing wiped the spunk off, ya figured she’d been at this game for at least five years. I’m tellin’ ya mate, she was all about business. She even licked a bit off with the ol’ tongue.”

“Didn’t even blink, huh?” asked the rapt American, his adenoidal accent giving away his Chicago roots.

“Dead-eyed stare, mate. I reckon she liked it. Best meal she had in ages!”

They four of them exploded in laughter and clanked their bottles in a celebration of mutual scumbaggery. I had heard about the shamelessness of the expats in Cambodia—they are generally considered to be the worst in Asia (and that’s up against some stiff competition)—but doubted the veracity of some of the stories. Well, here was a whole flock of the shitbirds right in front of me. Existence confirmed.

I put down my book and headed back through the bar/lobby to have a piss, as well as to give my ears a rest. Sitting at one of the tables was a guy with scraggly reddish hair and wire-rimmed glasses. His eyes were fixed on the television on the wall. A soccer match was on.

“Come on ye mighty Reds!’

I took my leak and came back out.

“Good game?”

He didn’t take his eyes from the action on the field.

“Not so bad. We’re up one-nil—go on Gerard! Give it to ‘em!”

The midfielder shot and missed.

“Fook!” He sipped his beer and looked my way.

“You like football?” he asked.

“Sure. Sometimes.”

“That’s funny. I didn’t think you Yanks liked sah-kerr,” he mocked, drawing out the final r-coloring in a cheap attempt at an American accent. “The beautiful game is just too complicated for your minuscule brains. You twats prefer to watch a load of tubby cunts run around the pitch wearing helmets and pads, stopping every twenty seconds for McDonald’s adverts, as if you lot aren’t fat enough already. Shite game. End of.”

I laughed, but wasn’t going to let him off the hook.

“What’s with you insecure Brits? Always attacking a game of pure strategy and velocity that you simply don’t understand? What’s the matter, does your pussy hurt because you don’t have an empire anymore? Or maybe it’s your jaw muscles that are sore from having your collective mouths permanently wrapped around the stiff dick of the USA?”

“Well you got that one right, Yankee Doodle. It’s Thatcher and her minions started that shameful business—the wizened old fascist whore.” He finally turned my way, looked at me, and held out his hand.

“I’m Neil.”

“Chris.” We shook. “You English?”

“No way. I’m not English, I’m Scouse. I fookin’ hate England. Load of bellends.” He punctuated the last word with a disdainful sip of his beer before cracking a naughty grin.

“Ah, from the fair town of Liverpool.”

“And don’t ya ever forget it: home of the Fab Four and the greatest football team to ever walk the earth. How’d ya know that, anyway? Most Yanks can’t even find their own nobs, let alone a city-state on the globe.”

“Let’s just say that I’ve had a run in or two with a few of your kind.”

“‘My kind.’ Great. So ye know we’re the most hospitable and charming people in the world.”

“So I’ve been told… by other Scousers.”

“What better authority could ya ask for?”

He finished off his beer, and continued: “You hungry? I’m famished. Could use with a bit of scran.”

“Yeah, I think I can eat, though I’ve been a bit under the weather, if you know what I mean.” I rubbed my abdomen for emphasis.

“Uh-oh. A bit of the ol’ Delhi-belly got ya down? Gotta watch the dodgy curries in this part o’ the world, mate.”

“You should have told me three days ago. Anyhow, I’m on the up and up and think I’m finally ready for some grub.”

“Right. Let’s go then. You like Mexican food? Boo-ree-tos and the like?”

“What do you fuckin’ think? It’s our national cuisine”

“Sound. I know a good place down the road.”

“What about the game?”

“It’s a replay, watched it yesterday. Ends in a one-one draw.”

“Oh, the excitement!”

“Shut it, ya tit.”

The chicken tacos were the first solid food I’d had since Satan’s Laotian curry. I had to work a bit to get it all down, but that had more to do with the touchy state of my stomach than anything else: I could eat, but food had yet to be delicious again. However, the tortillas were made of corn and fresh cilantro was liberally sprinkled on top of the white meat, which was succulent and nice. Who knew that you could get decent Mexican in Cambodia?

“Not a bad feed here,” Neil said, finishing off his burrito. “For a full-time vegetarian, it can be difficult to get satisfactory victuals on the ol’ backpackers trail, unless you want to live solely off banana pancakes, muesli, and other such crap hippy fare. For those of youse over on the carnivorous dark side, it’s a much easier road. I hope you enjoyed your two tacos made from the flesh of real, murdered animals.”

“They were damned good, if you must know.”

“I must. And this salsa’s hotter than the surface of fookin’ Venus. Time to cool off with an ice-cold lager. I believe it’s your round, ya whopper.”

“‘Tis indeed.”

As I sauntered up to the bar to get a couple more cold bottles, I felt the subsonic thump-thump of hip-hop pumping forth from what must have been an extremely amped-up car stereo. This was a sound I was well acquainted with, having spent some years in one of the sketchier neighborhoods of Los Angeles. A shiny black Mercedes-Benz SUV rolled up and stopped in the middle of the street, right in front of the open-air restaurant/bar. The driver’s-side door swung open, blasting us all with pure bass and the agitated keyboard line from 50 Cent’s “Candy Store.” A thin, middle-aged man emerged from the car and ran around to the other side, where he opened the door for the passenger, a smartly dressed, well-fed Khmer in his late 20s who must have been the son of a politician, gangster, or both. Cambodia is a country where the line between government and organized crime is blurry at best.

With the music kicking, the car’s engine running, and both doors open, the young Khmer and his minion walked straight into the establishment, making a beeline for the bar. I could plainly see pained and fearful looks on the faces of the bar staff as the two approached.

The young Khmer walked up next to me and leaned back on the bar, taking in the scene. A Westerner in a Denver Broncos baseball cap stood just feet away, waiting for his drink. The young Khmer stared his way, pointed to his head, and barked, “Hat!”

This confused the white guy, who looked over and mumbled, “What?”

“Hat!” The young Khmer aggressively motioned to his head and then down.

“Huh?”

“He wants you to take off your hat, mate” chimed in Neil, who watched from our table nearby. “And if I were you I’d do it, quick-like.”

The white dude meekly complied, grabbed his drink, and slunk off.

The young Khmer glanced at Neil and then back to me, slightly smiling as he nodded in approval.

“You friend?” he asked.

“Uh… yeah.” I replied.

“You and… friend…you like… tequila?” He made a quick drinking motion with his hand.

“Uh, sure… thanks.”

“Come. Drink.”

I waved to Neil, who stood up and came to join us.

The young Khmer shouted to one of the men behind the bar, who reached to the upper shelf and grabbed a bottle of Patrón.

“Patrón? Wow. You can’t get good tequila in Korea.” I remarked.

“Never heard of it,” snipped Neil. “I generally think tequila is shite.”

The bartender lined up three clear shots, which we took down together.

“Good, yeah?” said the young Khmer, laughing.

“Oh baby.”

“Well, I stand corrected. That is smooth stuff,” said a smiling Neil. The young Khmer patted him on the back.

“Patrón is some top-shelf shit,” I said. “It’s really meant to be sipped, not shot, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Under further orders, the bartender poured three more.

Our host raised his glass and shouted, “Jul mouy!”

I attempted to repeat the toast: “Ju… jul…”

“Jul mouy!” he instructed.

“Jul mouy!” I repeated.

“Cheers, big ears,” joined in Neil.

After downing our shots, the young Khmer reached into his pocket and produced a roll of US bills the size of a baseball, something straight out of a mafia movie. It fit in nicely with the rap music still blaring from his Benz. He peeled three twenties off the top and paid the bill, which was more than most Cambodians make in a month. He then began to address his sidekick in their own tongue. Though he wasn’t shouting, we didn’t need a translator to know that the words were less than complementary. He then turned back to us and switched to English.

“Him,” he pointed to the older servant. “He so stupid. So fucking idiot.”

The young Khmer then took his hand and proceeded to rake it over the face of the older man, mauling his lips, nose, and eyes with his open palm. He finished by mockingly slapping the man’s now-flushed cheek, while gently laughing through gritted teeth. The lackey endured the humiliation in silence.

The young Khmer suddenly changed the subject: “You like smoke? Ganja?”

Neil glanced my way and raised his eyebrows. “It’s not like we have much of a choice, now do we mate?”

I shot Neil a hard look.

“But if you’re offering,” he continued, “I’m sure we’d be more than happy to oblige,”

The young Khmer whipped out a bag of weed and expertly rolled up a joint right there at the bar. We sipped our beers and looked on with a mixture of fear and awe. Within a minute he had finished his handiwork—a perfectly rolled cone spliff. He lit it up and puffed away, exhaling several clouds of blue smoke, which hung in the sticky air, illuminated by the lights of the bar. He then handed it to Neil, who graciously accepted.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, attacking the spliff with the nonchalance of a master.

“Here,” the young Khmer said, tossing the bag of dope onto the bar in front of me. “You keep. I go.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Welcome to Cambodia,” he said walking away. The old boy followed him back to the car, which was still running, along with the heavy thump of the stereo’s hip-hop beat. They got in and closed the doors, and the driver gunned it, peeling out in the street and blasting off into the dark of the Phnom Penh night.

“What an absolute nipple,” Neil gasped, burning spliff in hand.

I just shook my head and sighed.

“Tomorrow morning, la’. What do you say?” He took a deep drag off the joint. “I reckon it’s time to leave this pit of vipers.”

“Sure thing, dude.”

Big River, Bigger Lake

The boat chugged north along the Tonlé Sap River, which runs low during the dry season, forcing the pilot to navigate into the deeper channels in an effort to avoid scraping the bottom or worse. Though we had seats in the general cabin below, Neil and I elected to ride on top of the Russian-made craft, taking in the much-needed fresh air and Cambodian countryside as we glided through the churning, brown water. The punishing light of the early morning flooded the villages and fields and overwhelmed our retinas: shades were a must. I dangled my feet over the side and looked at the sun’s angry reflection on the water’s surface. The muddy river looked like my brain felt. After the Mexican bar, Neil and I had hit the town hard, jumping in tuk-tuks and drinking at several bars, until ending up on the balcony of a sketchy expat watering hole overlooking the old French streets, only to be herded inside when gunshots rang out just a block away. The combination of the last night’s lager, tequila—along with only three hours’ sleep—had me feeling positively retarded. Neil was still drunk, though now asleep, splayed out atop the craft with plenty of his pink and freckled British skin exposed. The man was a sunburn catastrophe in the making.

After a couple of hours on the river, the boat made its way onto the Tonlé Sap Lake, which is the largest in Southeast Asia. Here, the river broadens out into a massive inland freshwater sea, which doubles its size during the rainy season. Even though it was the driest time of the year, the scene was immense, with the horizon disappearing, reminding us that we were out alone on this murky, gargantuan, smooth-watered mass.

It took a couple of hours to cross, and when we came to the other side, we entered a narrow channel that funneled us toward the dock at Phnom Krom, the disembarking point some eleven kilometers outside of the town of Siem Reap. Much of the surrounding village was floating, with homes, restaurants, schools, and even a medical clinic built on bamboo platforms that bobbed from the wakes of the many boats that cruised by. As we approached the dock, things took a nastier turn, as we were slammed with the reek of garbage, human waste, and what must have been ten million rotting fish. Neil and I tied scarves over our faces and I suppressed my desire to gag. As I took in the settlement, I was overwhelmed by the absolute squalor. Filthy, pantsless children played in the muck at the water’s edge. Plastic bags, bottles, clothing scraps, and other trash lay strewn about, picked over by chickens and rooted through by a few of the omnipresent hairy black pigs. The habitations on land were all built on stilts to allow for flooding during the rainy season; they were constructed from bamboo, with massive tropical leaves acting as roofing, though some of them were at least partially uncovered, leaving the unfortunate residents at the mercy of the tropical elements. It’s as if Phnom Krom was the literal asshole of Siem Reap, where the half-digested by-products from the tourist heaven were all shat out for the desperate to pick through and the great lake to absorb.

“Some lovely properties around here,” observed Neil, adopting a posh voice. “What do you Septics always say? ‘Location, location, location!’”

“I’m told that this neighborhood is on its way up. Get in while it’s hot. A year from now the cost of land here will make Hong Kong blush.”

“Look around, though, mate. It’s sad to see what gentrification does to a place.”

“Yeah, I know. This village used to be authentic. Check it out it now. I’m told that they’re puttin’ in a Starbucks next week.”

“For fook’s… but what can you do? Progress, la’. There’s no stoppin’ it.”

I closed my eyes and guffawed. Sometimes laughing is the only way to vanquish the overwhelming tide of horror.

*

Siem Reap is a tourist boomtown, carved out of the jungle in the shadow of the great Angkor temples. Siem Reap literally means “Defeated Siamese,” a nod to the old Khmer empire that once vanquished their neighbors to the west, dominated the region, and built some of the most amazing structures known to man. And these structures are the very reason for the boom. Angkor Wat and the surrounding temples is one of the biggest tourist draws in all of Asia, bringing in over two million visitors each year and flooding the town with cash. The result has been a flurry of construction: guesthouses, restaurants, galleries, and shops—along with golf courses, resorts, luxury hotels, and spas—have sprouted up everywhere. It’s a massive money grab, and the Khmers are out to get as much as they can. As a result, development in Siem Reap continues at a speed freak’s pace. They got a good thing, they know it, and there’s a fevered rush to get a slice of the pie.

Some tourist attractions are famously overblown—good for a photo op and a postcard—but in the end just a chance for the locals to squeeze you for all they can. And while the Cambodians in Siem Reap are always on the hustle and won’t hesitate to put their hand in your pocket, Angkor Wat and the temples that surround it don’t disappoint. Instead, they blow away expectations. For twenty bucks a day you are allowed to explore some of the most beautiful and awesome structures ever erected by human beings. They are imposing and alluring, massive carvings and crumbling buildings from what seems like another dimension, situated in a fantastical forest. And these aren’t sterile museum pieces, but actual stone ruins which visitors may hike around, scramble up, and climb over (to the dismay of many archeologists and preservationists). The ticket to Angkor is an all-access pass: there are few “No Entry” signs, high fences, or roped-off areas. Almost nothing is off limits, and as a result the visitor gets a hands-on, personal experience unmatched by most any other ancient attraction in the world today.

Neil and I discovered the Angkor temples over three days and soaked in the splendor mightily. We hired a tuk-tuk driver named Vanna to chauffeur us around the complex for the duration. He was a smiling, chubby guy who picked us up at our guesthouse each morning and offered his services for our nighttime adventures as well, constantly trying to lure us to the “Chicken Farm,” where he insisted that “pretty girl is many.” Each time we politely declined, but it never stopped him from bringing it up an hour or so later. I imagine that he got a nice kickback for delivering customers to the brothel’s gates.

One downside to visiting the temples at Angkor is that the site has become a victim of its own popularity. The place is especially a big hit with huge package tour groups from other Asian countries, who descend on the complex like locusts to a cornfield. This isn’t to say that every temple is overrun. It’s more a matter of timing. At times, you may have a whole ruin to yourself, or just share it with a few other travelers. Other times, you’ll hit a site only to have six tour buses rumble in and open the spigot, releasing hundreds of Chinese or Korean tourists who then rush forth in a mad crush, bellowing and screeching to each other as they wildly snap photos and take video of the whole experience. For the crowd-averse, this can be a deal-breaker, transforming the ancient sanctuary into a river of jostling humans who have more interest in recording the moment on their digital devices than enjoying it in real time.

Neil was one of those people who couldn’t stand too many others of his kind. I saw this on day three when we pulled into the legendary Angkor Wat, our last stop of the day, just before sunset. We had gone there on the morning of the first day—in a headspace that guaranteed that the sight of the temple’s layered, conical towers would enchant us to the core. The symmetry of the building is too perfect; its beauty is pure and undeniable. It’s also unknowable—ethereal and otherworldly—as if each stone was put in place by aliens or supernatural beings. The mystery draws you in with magnetic strength; it’s nearly impossible to look upon Angkor Wat and not be compelled to enter.

Vanna drove the tuk-tuk out of the forest and into the broad clearing where Angkor Wat sits. I saw Neil’s face drop when he observed the fleet of buses parked in front.

“Those things are an abomination,” he growled.

Vanna pulled to the side of the road and we got out for a better view. Packs of people crammed the stone causeway built over the temple’s moat-like surrounding lake. A constant stream of tiny figures poured in and out of the main structure from both sides, like aphids. The place was mobbed.

“It’s fookin’ well overrun,” grumbled Neil, shaking his head.

“Whaddaya do?” I shrugged and made my way toward the complex. When I looked back, Neil was still standing there.

“You coming?” I shouted.

“Not a chance, la’. I don’t feel like being elbowed two hundred times by a load of grannies stinkin’ of kimchi and who knows what else. Knock yourself out. I think I’ll have a bit of a kip in Vanna’s love palace, here.”

Undeterred, I pressed ahead. Crowds or no crowds, I was determined to ascend the steps of Angkor Wat one more time. I couldn’t help myself. After all, it may have been my last chance, because we all know that one day they’re going to rope the whole place off and keep the hoi polloi at a safe distance, while only the rich and well connected will be allowed in. Until then, I’m climbing the fucker, every chance I get.

Tour du Cambodge

It was our last day in Siem Reap, and we were done with the temples. Vanna putted up to the guesthouse while Neil and I took down the remnants of breakfast in the open air restaurant.

“Today tuk-tuk?”

Neil looked at me, as if to say, You tell him. I stood up and approached him with the bad news.

“Uh… not today, Vanna.”

“When you go away Siem Reap?”

“Tomorrow. Today’s our last day.”

“No tuk-tuk?”

“No. We’re gonna rent bicycles today.”

“Bicycle? Oh… bicycle no good. Today very hot. You take tuk-tuk?”

“Nah, mate,” Neil chimed in. “We’ve been sitting on our arses in the back of that thing for three days now. We need a bit of exercise.”

“Oh…”

The words stung Vanna, who lowered his head in dejection. He’d obviously been counting on one more day with us and was gutted to lose the fare.

“Thanks though,” I said. “We’ve had a great time and will recommend you to any of our friends who come here.” I shook his hand and smiled. This seemed to cheer him up a bit.

“Me too my friend. Me too good time.”

“Cheers, la’,” Neil said, still sitting at the table and sipping his tea. “You’re the finest tuk-tuk driver I’ve ever had the pleasure to ride with.”

“Thank you… thank you so much…”

“It’s been a real pleasure, Vanna,” I said.

“Thank you. Very thank you… so… tonight… Chicken Farm?”

After breakfast, we rented the bikes—fixed-gear jobbers with plastic baskets on the front—and hit the road, hoping to explore the non-templed surroundings. Despite the swelling tropical heat, it felt good to pump the pedals and get my body moving. Neil was right: while we had spent a fair amount of time scrambling around ruins, much of the last three days was passed inhaling gas fumes in the back of Vanna’s tuk-tuk.

At one point a sign caught our eyes: Siem Reap Zoo.

We stopped our bikes.

“A zoo in Cambodia. Now this has gotta be interesting.”

I looked to Neil, who sighed and said, “I’m almost afraid to go in, but some things just must be seen. Besides, the horrors we’re likely to witness just may convince you to finally become a vegetarian.”

We turned off the main road and pedaled the bikes down a narrow, dusty dirt track. We locked them together in front of a small building with cracked yellow walls. A few women sat listless on the floor under a ceiling fan, watching a Thai soap opera dubbed into Khmer on the television in front of them. The show featured a pretty young woman crying over a bandaged man lying in a hospital bed. We had to summon one of the women to come sell us tickets, which were two dollars each. She was mightily annoyed to be interrupted during such a crucial point in the drama’s storyline. The tickets turned out to be a good deal, though, since they came with a guide, in the form of a young girl—around nine years old—who accompanied us the whole time. She barely spoke English and was just as grumpy as the older women in front of the TV.

We walked past the main building and immediately came to a cage. It was now time for the little guide to shine. She halfheartedly pointed and said, “Monkey.”

She was right. The cage contained a pair of grey macaques and their baby, which clung to the mother and periodically suckled from her tit. The male macaque was nasty and mean, surely made aggressive and psychotic as a result of his confinement. He jumped onto the cage, screeched, growled, hissed, bared his fangs, beat against the metal, and looked into me with primal hatred. At one point, I let my camera bag get too close and the monkey grabbed and yanked at it with all he had. I pulled back—putting all my weight into it—resulting in a full-on tug-of-war that I eventually won, which must have only served to add to the beast’s bitterness and frustration.

The girl then led us to another cage. Again she pointed and said, “Monkey.”

This monkey had a bright red swollen ass, like some sort of flesh orchid in full bloom.

“Yikes.”

“Looks like a rather vicious case of the ‘roids,” Neil quipped.

It did look painful, though I am told such colorful displays signal when a female is ready to mate.

Our apathetic guide just nodded toward the next cage and muttered, “Bear.” And bears they were: small Asian moon bears. They were penned up in a criminally tiny enclosure and just turned their built-up hatred onto each other, compulsively pacing, snarling, and fighting while we looked on. It was a miserable thing to take in, and erased any good feeling their inherent cuteness may have elicited.

Neil looked at me and shook his head. “I’d like to set these poor bears free and throw the owner of this travesty of a ‘zoo’ into that cage. He’s the real fookin’ animal.”

I sighed and walked on.

The zoo contained a small aviary housing different tropical birds, which was easily its best feature. The hornbills were most impressive, dramatic and regal. Another cage contained a couple of giant flying foxes, which hung upside down in the heat of the day. I had never seen such creatures up close and was momentarily awestruck. They were all fur and translucent skin. There is something very compelling about large winged mammals.

We digested most of the zoo in about thirty minutes, though one exhibit caught my eye on the way out. There, in an algae-infested aquarium, swam a handful of small bloated orange fish. A hand-painted sign above spelled it all out in both English the curvy Khmer script: Goldfish.

Just to be sure, I confirmed it with our guide.

“Goldfish?”

She shook her head in the affirmative, pointed, and—without a trace of emotion—repeated, “Goldfish.”

After the glory of the zoo, Neil and I mounted our bikes and headed back toward town, turning onto the main road that goes out to the increasingly busy airport. Our goal was the Western Baray, a large reservoir constructed during Angkor times and still the largest lake in the immediate area. It was now scorching and we desperately wanted to cool off with a swim.

The airport road was actually one of the country’s main highways. Trucks and buses barreled by—sputtering blue diesel fumes and kicking up dust—making the going hard. While central Siem Reap was made up of small guesthouses and some exclusive resorts, an astounding number of huge hotels lined the side of the road. We must have ridden by at least twenty. Several of these behemoths were currently under construction, with ground being broken at even more sites. We deduced that this was where the bus tourists were housed. This suspicion was confirmed by the myriad Chinese, Japanese, and Korean restaurants also open for business.

After nearly an hour of pedaling, we turned off of the highway and onto a dirt track, making our way out to the Western Baray, whose waters awaited us.

We soon approached the large manmade lake and saw that there was a small island in the middle containing the ruins of a temple. A handful of boats ferried some tourists there from a landing, but aside from that, we saw no foreigners. A little village had sprung up around the boats, with a swimming area and a muddy beach in front, on which Cambodian families lounged under tattered parasols. Some other Khmers splashed in the shallows and floated on fat black inner tubes. Neil and I stopped off at a vendor and drank a couple of cans of cold orange soda before continuing on. As the only Westerners, our presence was already attracting too many stares, and we wished to find a more secluded spot for our swim.

We remounted and continued down the dirt road that rims the lake. After twenty minutes we rode through another village. Some children played outside the huts and a couple of dogs gave us token barks, but aside from that, we attracted little attention.

“Let’s ride a bit further and jump in up there,” suggested Neil, pointing to a quiet spot about half a kilometer past the village. We pedaled on through the heat until we arrived at what seemed to be the spot. We pulled over, locked our bikes together with the metal chain supplied by the guesthouse, and descended the steep dirt embankment.

Once down, Neil reached into his cigarette pack and produced a joint that he had rolled back in the safety of his room.

“This should enhance the experience of an afternoon dip,” he smiled, lighting it up, puffing hard and inhaling deeply. As he relished the joint, I could see the weed immediately take its hazy effect. He grinned stupidly in the sun, taking his time to finish it off.

I clumsily changed into my swim trunks and waded into the cool lake. The water appeared clean, though my feet sank well into the gooey mud that made up the lake’s bottom. Once I was deep enough, I plunged in head first, followed by Neil, who had removed his glasses, hardening his features. Once I popped to the surface, I switched over to my back, languidly floating, belly up. I was perfectly relaxed, with the Cambodian sun’s rays hitting my skin and radiating through my body. Neil too was blissed out, sighing, laughing, and finally shouting, “This is fookin’ boss!”

The lake was shallow, and even as we swam farther out from the shore, our feet could touch the bottom. At one point, I stood and sank into the mud with the water only coming up to my mid-chest. It was then I noticed the figures of three people ambling along the embankment from the village. They were coming our way.

“You see that,” I pointed.

“Nah, mate. I’m well blind without my specs.”

“It appears we got company.”

“Yeah?”

I felt the pinpricks of paranoia creep into my skin.

“They’re walking this way.”

Neil too caught the vibe.

“Well I’ll be fooked if I’m going to float out here with my all my scratch and purple passport just lying there for the taking. I’m not about to be done in by some local crew of scallies.”

He at once made for the shore.

As the trio approached Neil got out of the water and greeted them.

“All right lads. Out for a Sunday stroll?”

They appeared to be three teenage Khmer boys. I waded in closer and took them in.

“Hello,” the oldest replied.

Neil began to awkwardly engage them in a conversation.

“How are you?”

“I fine thank you.”

“You boys from around here?”

“Around… here?”

“Yeah, are you locals?”

“Local?”

“Yeah. Do you hail from yon local hamlet?” he nodded toward the village.

“Sorry… I can’t English…”

“Sure you can. You just did. Okay. Let’s keep it simple then: Where. Are. You. From?”

“I from Cambodia.”

“Is that right? Never would have guessed, mate.”

“Where… you from?” inquired one of the younger ones.

“Well it’s funny you should ask. I’m from Liverpool. It’s in England. Ever hear of the Beatles?”

Neil launched into an a cappella version of “Help!” which caused the boys to break into huge smiles and giggles. They seemed happy to practice some English, but my gut told me that they were after something more than a free bankside language lesson. I stood and waved to them, letting my presence be known, all the while eyeing them like a raptor. I soon noticed that the youngest of the three, positioned highest up the bank, was slowly inching toward our bags. While the others tried to engage us, this boy crept closer and closer to the goods. When I came in nearer and looked directly his way, he stopped, only to resume his slow trajectory a few seconds later. Thinking myself hip to the setup, I tramped onto the beach and up to the bags, insuring that the kid wouldn’t try to make a dash.

Neil kept up his ambassadorship as I eyed them with utter suspicion: good cop/bad cop. The only thought pounding through my mind was this: What is their motive? Were these just bored local teenagers, curious about the two tall Westerners swimming near their village? Surely they had seen plenty of other foreigners, as the nearby temples were crawling with them… but it was possible that not too many outsiders ever made it out this far from the protective womb of the town. It took a bit of effort to get there. The longer I watched, the more I became convinced that these kids were just looking for a chance to rob us. Was this really what was going on? Or was I possessed by anxiety, amplified by a fat dose of racism? Were my thoughts just Western prejudices applied to truly friendly people? Or was I being justifiably cautious? After all, I had been the victim of theft less than two weeks before, and I wasn’t about to let it to happen twice.

To stoke my suspicion, they weren’t moving on. The two near Neil now sat on the ground while the young one near me squatted, perhaps ready to make his move.

Neil looked up my way: “I’m thinking that now may be a good time to leg it.”

“Sure thing.”

Neil walked up to me and the bags. We hastily threw on our shoes, and he put on his glasses.

“Goodbye,” we waved.

“Goodbye,” they replied, now standing.

“Goodbye” I said again, as we hiked up the embankment.

We got to our bikes and unlocked them as fast as possible. Sweat ran down my face, onto my lips, and into the corners of my mouth. Once I had just begun to remove the chain, I heard a thrashing of brush. The three boys had now also scurried up the embankment and stopped in the middle of the dirt track, blocking it, putting themselves between the village and us. They stood and faced us, not saying a word.

The oldest boy then let out a whistle and shouted something in musical Khmer. Almost simultaneously, we heard more sticks and twigs snapping. Two young men suddenly emerged from the thicket behind us, cutting off the road in the opposite direction. Their faces were covered by black balaclavas. One held an axe, the other a machete. They shouted back to the trio, who responded in turn. Neil and I sat on our bikes and listened to a rapid conversation that neither of us could understand. I gripped the handlebars tightly and looked wide-eyed to Neil, whose own pupils were the size of dimes. We were out alone in the bush in Cambodia and surrounded by armed locals.

We stood frozen between the two groups, straddling the bikes and eyeing each other for any kind of hint as to what to do. After a moment, the two masked guys with weapons brushed past us and joined their comrades, who then gave us a final wave, and began strolling down the road to the village. They shot us a couple of parting glances, but otherwise paid us no more mind. Neil and I watched their figures shrink as the five of them sauntered down the road, still blocking our path.

“Fookin’ hell,” Neil gasped.

What had begun as heightened paranoia had now bloomed into near panic. My mouth was cotton-dry; sweat stung my eyes and I could feel my heart thrash in my chest. Despite this specter of fear, it appeared that the danger had now passed. We had two choices: avoid them by attempting a several-hour ride around the whole lake in punishing heat (with no water), or head back their way and through the village, hoping for the best.

“We’ll have to ride through them,” I said.

“Go on then,” Neil said, lurching forward on his bike.

So we pedaled toward the pack, hoping that they’d let us pass unmolested. And that they did. As we approached, they parted without a hassle, giving us friendly waves and even more goodbyes. We returned the courtesy and then hauled ass back toward town.

On our way back out toward the highway, we saw other Khmers on the dirt road. Several of them also carried axes and machetes and covered their faces. It then occurred to us that these were no thieves, but field workers returning to the village to take refuge from the deep afternoon heat. They were clearing brush. The scarves covering their faces protected them against the brush and dust; the machetes and hatchets were being used as tools, not weapons.

“They could have done us in if they wanted,” laughed Neil over a beer back at the guesthouse. “We were at their total mercy.”

“Indeed.”

“And shitein’ it at that.”

“Yup,” I admitted, shaking my head and sipping from the cold bottle of lager.

Neil did the same and then shot me a look.

“You know, you’re not so bad for a Yank.”

“Wow. Thanks for the backhanded compliment. Let me return the praise: You’re decent enough… for a Scouser.”

“You got that right, la’. Don’t mess about with the lads from the ‘Pool.”

“Those kids should have been worried about you jacking them. That reminds me: I need to check my stuff before I leave. I want to make sure that nothing’s walked away, if you know what I’m sayin’.”

“Good policy, mate. You wouldn’t be the first dozey backpacker I’ve ‘ad off.”

“You sketchy motherfucker…” I took another swig. “Hey, here’s one for you, Neil: What do you call a Scouser in a white track suit?”

He hesitated a moment, raised his ginger eyebrows, and replied, “The bride.”

I laughed immediately, causing streams of carbonated beer to shoot up into my sinuses and turn my chuckles into snorts.

“Jog on, nob-end,” he said, making a jerk-off motion with his hand. “I’ve only heard that one seventeen thousand times before.”

“Well, you can’t blame me for trying,” I said, recovering my breath.

“Like fook I can’t.” He took another swig. “Anyway, look me up if you ever get over to the ‘Pool. I’ll show you all the boss spots.”

“I just may take you up on that offer, duuude,” I drew out for effect. “But first I gotta get out of Cambodia.”

“Well there’s a bus to the Thai border from here every morning. It’s a rough ride over a poxy road, but it’ll get ya there. I’m thinkin’ of catching it tomorrow. Care to join me, la’?”

“Screw that,” I said, finishing off the bottle of Angkor. “This time I’m flying.”

BIG IN JAPAN

Japan, 2006

Tokyo is just one of those cities. It burns in the imagination. It’s a beacon of hi-tech possibility, the embodiment of a fantastic future built up in an ancient, enigmatic land. I’d heard firsthand reports raving about what a mind-blast the place could be. I’d seen it in the movies. I’d read about its multi-layered contradictions and straight-up weirdness. Despite the fact that I’d been essentially living next door for over two years, I’d managed to resist Tokyo’s charms, but enough was enough: it was time to finally sneak over and see what all the fuss was about.

My timing was great. Skerik’s Syncopated Taint Septet just happened to be in town. This group of Seattle-based musicians is headed up by my old friend and legendary tenor saxophone player, Skerik. The septet is made of up five horn players, a drummer, and a Hammond B-3 organist (my real-life distant cousin, Joe Doria, coincidentally). They play what can most accurately be described as “punk trance jazz”: deeply layered, heady music delivered with plenty of volume and attitude. They’re both technically tricky and groove-oriented, yet manage to never lose themselves in jammy masturbation. Their sound is much like Tokyo itself: cool, complex, and humming with vitality. The members of the septet are nothing short of top-notch musicians, and I leapt at the chance to join them for a couple days during their brief tour of Japan. This was my chance to see some old faces, soak up some deep tunes, and delve into one of the most iconic and mysterious metropolises on the planet.

The airport bus cruised down the highway and then twisted through the sardine can that is the city. Neat wooden homes gave way to buildings that often had only inches between them. The city’s planners utilized every bit of available space. The streets crawled with shiny silver and white Toyotas, Hondas, and Subarus; compact toy-like minivans; buses; and sleek, vintage-style motorbikes. Packs of briefcase-toting salarymen ambled along the sidewalks in long grey overcoats, and young people pedaled fixed-gear bicycles in the afternoon sun that sliced down through the canopy of high-rises. The city was alive and jamming, yet impossibly orderly. So Japanese.

The bus eventually deposited me in front of the hotel housing the band, the Curelian Tower—a 44-story behemoth in both size and price, located in the city’s hip Shibuya district. The massive, dark structure looked like a malevolent star cruiser. I expected it if to blast off for Alpha Centauri at any time. The $400-a-night rooms were well out of my budget, so after touching base with Skerik, I set out on my own to try and find a place to stay that wouldn’t require me to surrender the entire contents of my bank account, a pound of flesh, or my left nut.

*

Shibuya was Tokyo as I had always envisioned it: pink and white pulsing neon signs; throngs of young, insanely fashionable people sporting furry boots, leopard-print pants, incandescent tights, leather coats and miniskirts, giant sunglasses, as well as the full spectrum of brightly dyed hair; shoebox sushi joints packed in next to pachinko parlors; used record stores that radiated cool; ridiculous, syrupy pop music piped in from all directions over speakers on the street; wide intersections with diagonal crosswalks and rivers of walkers; shops composed entirely of Hello Kitty swag. Shibuya had it all, I thought. Well, almost all. It had everything, except for what I needed right then: a hotel. Shibuya, it seemed, was the place to see and be seen, but not to sleep. Lacking a guidebook and having done zero research before leaving, I wandered the throbbing sidewalks searching for the word HOTEL. Given the amount of Technicolor signage on display, this was a vertigo-inducing exercise. I took in nearly two hours of clothing stores, curry shops, phone outlets, chic bars, and cafes staffed entirely by young women in maid outfits, but not one hotel. With the exception of the extravagantly priced Curelian, there seemed to be no lodgings at all.

After stopping for a perfectly poured Guinness at the most authentic Irish pub I’ve visited outside the Emerald Isle, I came upon what seemed to be my salvation: a whole city of hotels. Love motels, to be precise. I exhaled a sigh of relief, and, carrying my small pack, trudged over to the twinkling cluster of neon accommodations.

“Room? Room?”

“Hai, room. Yes.” The old man behind the desk nodded. I gathered that we had probably reached the limit of his English.

I pointed to the placard on the wall. It advertised two rates: one for three hours, and another labeled Stay. I took the latter to be the full, all-night rate. “Stay?” I asked, pointing to the selection. “No! No stay! No stay!” He shook his head and waved me right off in a manner that can only be described as distinctly Korean.

“But it says ‘Stay’,” I whined. “Right there! See?”

This happened at each place I approached. Stoic refusal. Not one proprietor would rent me a room for the night. It was early Friday evening, and it seemed that they were all determined to cash in on the deluge of short-termers sure to arrive later for their weekend trysts.

Demoralized and out of luck, I hissed and gritted my teeth, knowing that I’d have to take my search elsewhere. The refrain “Remember Pearl Harbor!” echoed in my skull as I stomped down the sidewalk. No, I was not proud of my jingoistic impulses, but it just so happened to be the 7th of December and the infamous attack loomed large in my mind, amplified by the unwelcoming surroundings.

After three hours, I was spent. I was overwhelmed by blinking lights and giggling schoolgirls and songs about happy sunshine candy when I stumbled upon it—what I had actually wanted all along: SHIBUYA CAPSULE LAND.

Manna from heaven: a fabled capsule hotel.

Capsule hotels are a uniquely Japanese phenomenon, though I’m of the opinion that the rest of the world would do well to adopt them. They’re a cheap and practical way to lodge travelers, especially in big cities where space is at a premium. They are actual hotels, but instead of individual rooms, each customer is housed in a 1 x 1 x 2 meter capsule. Sure, they’re a bit claustrophobic and approach nowhere near Western standards of privacy, but if you just need a clean and comfortable place to sleep, they do the trick. Inside the capsule is a bed with a pillow, sheets, and blanket; a small television, radio, and headphones; a reading light; a fan; and a pull-down screen that seals the whole thing off. They are stacked two high (with little ladders heading up to the top tier) and are most often all white, giving the structures the look of a late-’60s science-fiction film set.

Shibuya Capsule Land contained about twenty-five to a room; the hotel occupied several floors of the building, and like most in the country, was available only to men. In addition to the capsule itself, I was given a key and a locker where I could stash my bag and clothes. Inside the locker was a set of cotton shorts and a shirt that would act as my pajamas, along with a thin robe. On another floor were showers and a full sauna, along with sit-down cleaning stations much like those found at any Korean public bath. All for less than forty bucks US—a steal in central Tokyo. Pleased with my luck, I showered, changed clothes, and headed off to meet the band.

The gig was in a club attached to the Curelian Hotel, which probably explained why the band was being put up in such posh rooms. I doubt the promoter was paying for such digs out of pocket. After all, this was a relatively obscure psychedelic jazz horn combo, not the Rolling Stones.

As I walked into the club, I was greeted by Joe Doria, the organist, who was getting a cocktail at the bar near the entrance.

“Holy shit. Am I seeing what I’m seeing?”

“Cousin Joe. I have come for The Taint!”

Skerik’s voice was next: “The Tharp has arrived, burrowing into the cybernetic bowels of the Curelian Homeworld!”

He stepped down from the stage (already bathed in subdued, moody lights) and locked eyes with me. His always seemed to be forcing themselves from their sockets, eager black orbs just ripping with energy. That, combined with his thin, angular build, gave him the look of a birdlike reptile—the last of the winged dinosaurs.

“Are you ready to get down with the muthafuckin’ Taint? This rendezvous in Tokyo is happening for a reason, brutha.”

He looked the same as always: cropped hair; dark T-shirt and jeans; red sneakers; and a long, wispy, Satanic-looking soul patch. The guy never seemed to age. I’d known him for fifteen years and he didn’t look any older than the first day we met.

I stood chatting with Skerik, Joe, and baritone saxophonist Craig Flory as the crowd filtered in. This wasn’t some polite jazz crowd in sports jackets and ties, but rather a group of very casually dressed young people. Much of the audience seemed to be under the age of thirty. Many had long, matted locks and scraggly facial hair. Their clothes were baggy and loose, composed of earth tones.

I turned to Skerik. “I had no idea you guys were so big with Japanese hippies.”

“Yeah man,” he confirmed, eyes afire. “They can’t get enough of us.”

The musicians soon took the stage and picked up their instruments. For a couple of minutes they blew some notes in one final warm-up, and then silence. Applause and cheers let loose from the crowd as the seven musicians stood nearly frozen, waiting for Skerik’s lead. The music started quietly, slowly, with just one horn, then two, then three. It took time building up, growing into a swirling crescendo of woodwinds and brass. Before long, the organ gurgled and buzzed and then screamed; the drums rumbled, popped, and crashed, locking into a hypnotic cadence which entranced everyone in the room. They swayed and moved in unison to the rich, ethereal sounds pulsing in the air.

I stood there, sipping a Heineken and closing my eyes, soaking up the septet full and proper. I had seen these guys many times some years back. I had even taken the stage with them on occasion at the behest of Skerik as the character “Cranberry,” a British drug casualty who’d seize the mike and launch into incoherent, MDMA-fueled diatribes. So I had a history with this band and had always thought they were great, but this took things to a different level. Though they were playing jazz, it didn’t feel like jazz. It was jazz that rocked, jazz without the wank, jazz played from the nuts, with wicked, expertly crafted arrangements. Add a Hammond B-3 that sliced into your flesh, and you had some very potent stuff.

The highlight of the show was the song “Go to Hell, Mr. Bush,” which was also the name of the tour. This was just two years into W’s second term, and the anger and disgust among many Americans (not to mention the world), was real and palpable. The song featured New York-based alto saxophonist Briggan Krauss, who seemed to channel all of our anger, frustration, and sadness through the valves of his instrument. The notes shot out like needles, with the rest of the septet working in perfect unison backing him up. The moment was transcendent. Along with the rest of the crowd, I lost myself in the music. I was totally absorbed, feeling the vibrating waves of sound prickle my skin and impact my viscera. This hadn’t happened in a very long time, and probably never at a jazz show. My eyes slickened with tears and the hair on my arms stood at attention. The audience was silent and rapt, allowing those few minutes to approach the sacred.

After the gig I stole away with Skerik, Joe Doria, and Taichi, the Japanese promoter. Like many Japanese, Taichi was quiet and incredibly polite, with long hair, glasses and a blue stocking hat to protect from the cold night air. We walked down a narrow side street, and ducked into a quiet bar that Taichi knew to grab a couple of beers. Still reeling from the show, I showered the trio with praise.

“Thanks, man,” said a smiling cousin Joe. “This is so cool you’re here. Who would’ve guessed that we would meet up in Tokyo, cuz?”

“The Tharp emerges from the mists of the war-torn peninsula,” added Skerik. “Embedded journalist with The Taint!”

“Hahaha, yeah, crazy stuff,” I said. “I’m just around the corner these days, so it was no sweat. Thanks for making this happen, Taichi. None of us would be here without you.”

We toasted our Japanese host.

“I just do it for music,” he said, choosing his words slowly. “I saw Skerik before when he came to Japan and I thought, ‘I love his playing. I must get him back.’ So I did it. I’m making no money from this tour. Seven musicians is a lot! But this is okay…” He clutched his beer with both hands and smiled. “I do it for the music.”

The conversation turned to the nature of music and the business surrounding it. Skerik has been a professional musician all his adult life. He’s toured the world and played with some really heavy names, but at the end of the day he was playing music for the exact same reason Taichi was promoting it.

“I don’t do it for the money, man. I don’t. Sure, I got bills and rent and a daughter to support, but I’ve never been about chasing the buck.”

“Hear hear,” chimed in Joe, raising his glass.

“And I’ve turned down some big gigs, man. You know I played with Roger Waters a couple years back?”

“Yeah, I heard that,” I said.

“He was coming to Seattle and they were hiring guys regionally because their regular guy had passport issues.”

“True story,” Joe chimed in.

“Somehow, through the grapevine, someone recommended me. His A&R guy from Columbia Records called me and asked if I’d be interested. ‘Sure,’ I told him. Then Roger’s tour manager called and asked me who my favorite sax players were. I said ‘John Coltrane and King Curtis’ and I think that did it. I was offered the gig. The next day there I am, playing the solo from ‘Money’ for 30,000 screaming Pink Floyd fans. It was a rush. Classic rock, baby! Waters loved it and invited me to join him for the full tour, but I had to turn him down.”

I was floored. “You told Roger Waters to go fuck himself?”

“Not in those terms, man. The gig was fun and paid well of course, but I already had a commitment to record with some friends of mine. I love Pink Floyd’s music, but I wasn’t going to abandon these guys who I’d promised to make a record with, even if it wasn’t going to pay anything as close to as much as touring with Roger Waters. I have friends who do that, who chase the buck, and they hate themselves for it. I’ve been lucky enough to pave my own way and play only the music I like. It’s not always lucrative, but here I am, still doing it.”

“And you can look at yourself in the in the mirror each day without throwing up,” said Joe.

“Amen,” I replied.

Later that night, I returned to the cramped confines of Shibuya Capsule Land. When I checked in, I had seemed to be the only guest, but now the place was full, teeming with tipsy businessmen who had missed that last train home. I changed into the T-shirt and shorts and crawled into my capsule, pulling down the screen to complete the cocoon. I switched off the light and lay on my back, looking up into the dark. The smell of whisky, BO, and beer hung in the air, and I could hear my Capsule Land companions cough, rustle, and clear their throats. To the pod on my left, other, less wholesome sounds emerged: a rhythmic stroking, accompanied by a low, prolonged moan. I sighed to myself and just lay there, willing him to make quick work of his self-pleasure, but he continued on and on. Finally, I had enough. I clicked on the light, grabbed the headphones, and stuffed the buds in my ears. I then plugged them into the little radio and turned it on, scanning the channels for some music, anything to block out his ecstatic grunts and carry me away.

*

At 8 a.m. sharp, a woman’s voice blared from the loudspeakers of Shibuya Capsule Land. Sleepy-eyed and hung-over men roused, shuffling off to the shower in their cotton shorts and robes. I didn’t need to understand Japanese to know that she was kicking us out. Capsule hotels have a lockout policy between 9:00 and 5:00 daily. During this time the staff cleans the place top to bottom, readying the pods for yet another onslaught of liquored-up suit-and-tie men. I had an hour to perform my ablutions and get the hell out.

I quickly showered with the herd before heading to the sauna, immersing myself in the communal bath. The room itself was quite impressive—one hot pool, one cold pool, and a steam room to boot. The pools were lined with immaculate stone slabs. Three other men joined me, soaking in the steaming bath with their eyes closed. Like a Korean sauna, we were all nude, though thankfully none of my Japanese companions made any overt effort to check out my junk. They were wholly concerned with their internal lives, sitting motionless in the nearly scalding water, oblivious to the pink foreigner among them.

Clean, relaxed, and refreshed, I made my way to the locker, where I dressed, threw on my black overcoat, and grabbed my bag. Other men milled about in their underwear, brushing their teeth, shaving, cleaning their ears, and splashing themselves with the cheap aftershave and cologne supplied by Shibuya Capsule Land. Nobody spoke—it was all about morning business. One older dude propped a saggy leg up on a bench and proceeded to apply a blow dryer to his undercarriage and rather substantial bush of pubes.

I walked out into a bracing morning wind. It was almost winter and the air was sharp—that piercing chill found throughout Northeast Asia during the cold months, when Siberian winds whip down and punish the region. I buttoned the top button of my jacket, grabbed the straps of my pack, and made my way toward the Curelian, where I was to board a van with the band and head to Nagoya for the night’s gig.

A few blocks into my hike, I realized that I was famished— in need of a good feed that would impact the wallet as lightly as possible. I passed a Lawson, a minimart ubiquitous in Japan that offers a variety of cheap, ready-to-eat fare—but decided that I needn’t go so ghetto. I wanted real food, something cooked to order, that hadn’t been sitting under a radioactive lamp for the better part of the morning.

I soon came across a small restaurant, where the unmistakable aroma of deliciousness poured forth. When I poked my head through the door, I saw that the place was packed full of Saturday breakfasters getting down on bowls full of noodles, rice, and various kinds of katsu—breaded, deep-fried meat cutlets, which the Japanese have basically perfected. My mouth gushed at the prospect, so before I knew it I was inside, staring down a wall-sized machine made up of large buttons displaying Japanese writing. A coin slot and change dispenser were boxed and mounted to the side: an auto-order restaurant. The machine also contained a lit-up menu, with both pictures and names of the vertiginous array of items available. I didn’t know where to start. I just stared at the motherboard like an infant, rocking back and forth, autistic-style, just praying that someone would take pity on my gaijin ass. My wish was soon granted in the form of a man in his late fifties. He walked through the door and saw that I was caught in a kind of holding pattern of desire and complete helplessness.

“Can I help you?” he asked in clear, calm English. His eyes twinkled with kindness.

“Yes. Please.”

“Do you know what you’d like?”

“Yes.” I was craving a Japanese dish I’d had before: breaded pork cutlet with sauce and an egg on top. “Do they have katsu-don?”

“Of course. Just put 700 yen into the slot and push this button, here.”

I dug some coins out of my pocket and slid them into the slot, just as the man directed. I then pressed the button for katsu-don, and the machine spat out a slip of paper with a number on it. I thanked my savior as he ducked out the door, and I grabbed a seat at one of the automat’s small tables. Soon my number came up, and I happily tucked into the hot bowl of rice, pork, egg, and sweet/savory sauce.

*

The show in Nagoya was organized by some kind of hippy art collective and held in a warehouse on the city’s edge that also doubled as a sculpture gallery. It was a larger, better-attended affair than the gig at the Curelian Homeworld. About three hundred young Japanese crusties showed up, resplendent in dreadlocks, baggy brown trousers, piercings, and flowing cotton dresses.

The room had been specially set up and decorated for this show, and you got a sense that these kids had been waiting in anticipation for some time to hear Skerik and his septet do their thing. The Japanese are known to be extremely receptive audiences. American musicians who tour Japan are often amazed at just how great and attentive the crowds can be. The Japanese appreciate good music and show it the respect it deserves. They really know how to listen. In addition, the promoters and venue owners are renowned for taking care of their musicians. That certainly was the case with Taichi and the folks working with him. The band seemed satisfied. The only complaint so far was with the van driver, who compulsively sped and tailgated like an asshole.

“Traffic accidents are the number one cause of death among musicians,” Skerik said on the highway that day. “It’s no joke, man. I’ve known people who have died. We spend so much time on the road that our chances of getting in a wreck are way higher than anyone else’s. I always tell the driver to slow down.”

“No doubt,” added Earl, the drummer. “There’s no need to drive like a fool. It’s just not worth it, man. We’re really not in a hurry.”

The band played two sets that night to a sweaty crowd who spun and grooved with every beat of the music. The organizers even set up a liquid light show on an overhead projector, which beamed the colorful, psychedelic swirls onto a screen at the back of the stage, ’60s “happening” style. The band was even more confident and together than the night before, relaxing into the tunes and playing around a bit more loosely with improvisations outside of the arrangements. Briggan once again stunned the house with his solo in “Go to Hell Mr. Bush,” and by the end of it all, the musicians and the generous crowd were aglow in that happy exhaustion that only comes after live music is created in front of an audience who truly gets it. After the final note resolved, it was all smiles, hugs, and handshakes. Good vibes all around.

*

I woke up the next morning dry-mouthed and groggy. My first impulse was to puke. My toxic head hissed. Empty cans of Yebisu and Sapporo beer littered the nightstand and table next to my bed. We had invited a couple of female septet fans back to the room after the show for some sudsy nightcaps, but I don’t recall things getting too wild—just chatting and drinking a couple of beers. Why did I feel like I had downed a whole bottle of rotgut tequila?

“The Tharp arouses from his Rip Van Winkle slumber to survey the damage from twenty years before!” Skerik emerged from the bathroom in his robe, toothbrush in hand. “Can you believe those chicks had boyfriends?”

“Yeah, man. I thought rooming with the rock star would at least get me to first base. What are you good for?”

He laughed. “It ain’t as glamorous as it looks. They were cool anyway. How are you feeling?”

“Like shit.” It was then I noticed that my throat burned. I hadn’t smoked any cigarettes for several weeks. “Oh man, I think I’m sick.”

“Hung-over?”

“No. Sick sick.”

After a perfect breakfast of soup, fish, rice, and noodles, we stuffed into the van and headed back toward Tokyo. Our driver, having been admonished the day before for his recklessness, drove with reassuring sanity. My sore throat had now blossomed into a full-blown body ache and I was wracked with chills. It felt like the flu. I craved more sleep, but was stuck in an upright sitting position with no space to stretch out. I quietly endured, sipping from plastic bottle of water and watching the green, mountainous countryside zip by outside of the passenger window. Japan is a crowded nation but still manages to keep large areas of forest intact. The scenery reminded me of home. As we approached the city, we pulled off and marveled at snow-covered symmetry of Mt. Fuji, standing guard south of Tokyo.

I bade farewell to Skerik and crew in the lobby of the Curelian Homeworld. They were finished with their dates and due to fly out the next morning. I was now on my own and had time to kill. All I really wanted to do was lie down and ride out this damned fever, but Shibuya Capsule Land wouldn’t open its doors for several more hours. It was time to wander.

I had no map and pretty much zero knowledge of the city’s layout (aside from the immediate area surrounding Capsule Land). I could barely think and felt the sickness of the flu burning in my head, throat, and joints. Just walking took effort, but once I was moving, things seemed to get easier, so I fixed my eyes on the largest thing I could see and made for that: the clusters of silver skyscrapers that make up the Shinjuku business district.

It was early Sunday afternoon, and most of the offices were shuttered. The streets of Shinjuku were mostly empty of people as I plodded around, snapping photos of the American-style buildings that stood glimmering in the late-fall sun. I bought a cup of coffee to go, and now pressed ahead into the labyrinth of Shinjuku Station, said to be the busiest in the world. The station is more than a transportation hub: it’s a mini-city in itself, stretching above and below ground, home to restaurants and stores and clothing shops. I found some rental lockers and stashed my bag; free from the burden of my pack, I exited the station and headed into a shopping district specializing in electronics. I rode up on escalators and down into the bowels of buildings selling flat-screen televisions, DVD players, smartphones, laptop computers, notebook computers, video game systems, stereos, and speakers. I was surrounded by colors, flashing lights, peppy digital music, character voices, and glowing pixels. In my semi-delirious state, I felt like I was inside a slot machine. I bought nothing; I just looked and walked.

After the electronics bazaar I came upon a whole street of sex shops, with pink dildos, ball gags, gimp masks, handcuffs, packaged worn panties, pocket pussies, and thousands of DVDs specializing in every preference, kink, and perversion under the sun.

I eventually crossed into the famed Harajuku district, where I saw giant, lit-up billboards featuring huge-eyed anime girls in miniskirts and skin-tight swimsuits, and teenagers walking the street in full cosplay regalia, done up as their favorite characters from manga comic books. I pressed on, walking in a feverish stagger, pulled forth by the strange magnetism of the place. At one point I came into a small plaza, where I heard live music echoing up from the concrete and off the building sides. An all-girl rock band played three-chord pop, and all four members were dressed as cats.

In my woozy state, this kaleidoscope of stimuli rattled my brain and caused my knees to buckle: sensory overload achieved. I felt drugged and needed to sit and eat, so I shuffled into a brightly lit restaurant done up in garish shades of orange. Pop music blared in a manic, never-ending loop. I was immediately greeted in enthusiastic synchronized chirps by the all-female staff; it was as if the restaurant itself was a kind of cybernetic being, half machine and half alive, there to force us all to be happy whether we wanted to or not. Grinning involuntarily, I pointed to my preferred selection on the huge menu exploding behind the counter, and was soon served a bowl of savory/sweet Japanese-style curry over rice. Depleted of all energy, I greedily devoured it in a matter of minutes. It was insanely delicious.

Now that my belly was warm and full, I became drowsy. I glanced through blurry eyes at my watch. It was 6:00. Capsule Land would be open! I paid the bill and was up and out the door. Not even the psychotropic bells and whistles of Harajuku could keep me away from my now-beloved sleeping pod.

After I retrieved my bag from Shinjuku Station, it took me over an hour to find Shibuya Capsule Land. I didn’t know my way back, so I just roved the streets, scanning the cityscape for something familiar, anything I could use as a bearing. At one point I thought I may have to give up and find another place to sleep, but Capsule Land wanted me, it seemed, and suddenly, to my left, it appeared yet again.

I checked in at once, put my clothes in the locker, and slid my aching limbs into the hot bath, which I now had all to myself. I listened myself breathe as I relished the pool’s intense, radiating heat that acted as a medicine of sorts. I had never had a soak that felt so right. Soon I was crawling up the ladder and pulling the screen down on my warm little capsule, where I exhaled and collapsed into a black, delirious sleep.

*

My fever broke during the course of that sweat-drenched night, and the next day I emerged remade. Rested and cured, I said goodbye to Shibuya Capsule Land, promising to return one day. It was hard to leave that strange little hotel, but it was my last full day in the city and I wanted to see another section of town. So I got the address of a backpackers’ hostel near Ueno Station from a random Internet search, and by the afternoon—with the help of a kind young woman in Shinjuku Station who assisted me with deciphering the rats’ nest of the Tokyo train map—I managed to track the place down.

The Ueno Hostel was spacious, clean, and quiet as a morgue. And at around thirty bucks, the price was right. Like any excursion to Tokyo, this outing had been brutal on the bank book, so I booked a bed in one the hostel’s dormitory rooms as a money-saving measure… and grinned when I discovered that I was its sole occupant. In fact, I think I was the only guest in the whole place.

I passed the afternoon by reading and scribbling in my journal, and after a dinner of ramen topped with thinly sliced, succulent pork (The Japanese dial this in. It destroys all other facsimiles.) at a nearby noodle house, I once again put one foot in front of the other and trusted it to lead me somewhere cool. I knew this would be an easy, fruitful endeavor, since pretty much everywhere in Tokyo, so far, had been deeply, satisfyingly cool.

This part of town was much more subdued than the prismatic mania of Shibuya and Shinjuku. Traffic was sparse and the sidewalks nearly empty. The past couple of days had been like an acid trip, and the comparatively tranquil surroundings were a now welcome respite from the previous madness.

It wasn’t as if I’d arrived in a ghost town, though, and it didn’t take long before I’d sniffed out a boozer. The place was small and warm, with a large mirror behind a stained pine wood bar. I stepped in out of the biting air, only to be greeted by the Pixies’ “Debaser” pouring forth from the speakers. I liked the joint immediately, sat down, and ordered a Sapporo on draft, which was delivered to me with a thick, creamy head. Beer in Japan is served no other way.

A couple sat next to me, smoking cigarettes, quietly chatting, and sipping clear liquor on ice. They appeared to be in their late 40s and, judging from their flushed faces and the fact they were both sliding off their barstools, happily drunk. I sipped my beer and dug the music, content to just sit there and chew on my thoughts.

“Excuse-uh me,” said the man, turning my way.

“Hello.”

“Where are you from? America?”

“Good guess.”

“Have you evuh drink-uh the shochu?

“Soju? I live in Korea, so yeah.”

“No. No Korea soju. Japanese shochu.”

The man politely got the attention of the bartender, and soon I had a full glass tumbler in front of me.

“Go ahead. Drink-uh. Is very good!”

I sipped from the glass and felt the liquor trickle down my throat and warm my insides. It was fresh, clean, and incredibly smooth. There was almost no bite from the alcohol, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there. After the first few gulps I knew that this was very strong stuff. And the man was right: it bore little resemblance to the Korean version.

“You like?”

“Yes. I like.”

“Ahhh… good. This is my wife.” The woman smiled and squeaked out a friendly “Konichiwa.”

“Konichiwa,” I replied.

“So sorry, but she can’t-uh speak English.”

“That’s okay… I’m the one who should be speaking Japanese.”

The man smiled and shifted back toward his wife, who puffed on a smoke while he lovingly murmured in her ear. After a few minutes she snuffed out the cigarette, signaling that it was time to go. He paid the bill and staggered up, helping his unsteady partner slip into her coat. He then zipped up his, swayed my way, and held out his hand, which I grasped in a warm shake.

“Enjoy your time-uh in Tokyo.”

I offered my thanks and watched them head to the door. Crisp air penetrated the room as they opened the door and exited into the darkness. When I turned back around, the bartender placed a new glass of shochu in front of me. He nodded to the door and gave a quick, knowing bow.

After stopping in at an empty sushi restaurant where, along with fatty tuna belly, I was served a thick slice of seared horse meat on a ball of rice (explosively awesome, to my amazement), I strode the streets—which were abandoned like the hostel and restaurant—once more. I could hear some nearby traffic and even caught glimpses of a few cars, but for the moment I was alone—seemingly the only person outdoors in this city of twenty million. The wind barreled through in wicked gusts, announcing the full brunt of winter that was just around the corner. I was full of sushi and through with drinking, yet not ready to return to the empty hostel. Something else pushed me on.

The urban scene opened up as I came to a wide river, the Sumida, Tokyo’s lifeline that empties into the famous bay that shares the city’s name. Black water coursed toward the sea, reflecting the thousands of city lights like stars. A stately bridge spanned upstream, and what looked like a tour boat cut up the current. A couple of seagulls circled above, their squawks mingling with the ripping wind.

I watched the boat as it chugged its way closer. I could see people standing on the deck, which was lit up by long strings of white Christmas lights. Their laughs carried across the surface of the water and echoed off the concrete. They were celebrating: it was a floating party on the river. As the boat slid by, I began to make out traces of music pulsing from inside the cabin. A band was playing: piano, drums, bass, and horns. Jazz.

The wind picked up, numbing my face and slicing through my thin overcoat. The warming effect of the shochu had long worn off and I decided I’d had enough. I had seen Tokyo; she had tossed me around and worn me out, but she didn’t disappoint. As the boat slipped away up the river, a saxophone wailed, and then faded. As I turned around, pointed myself toward the hostel, and began the hike back, I finally understood what all the fuss was about.

THE WORST MOTORCYCLE IN LAOS

Laos, 2007

It was a 100cc Chinese make—a glorified scooter, really—the type of four-speed bike ubiquitous throughout Southeast Asia. The horn was burned out, along with the electric starter and both turning signals. The tires were bald. Neither the speedometer nor the gas gauge functioned. The silver-dollar-sized mirrors looked as if they had been ripped from makeup compacts and attached to the bike with safety pins, spinning freely on their mounts like reflective whirligigs. The black paint job was ancient and covered in deep scratches. The handbrake didn’t work at all, and the footbrake felt as if it was attached by a worn-out rubber band. Despite its many flaws, this particular motorbike held one advantage over the one other to be had in town that day: it started.

Finding It

I had been traveling for nearly twenty-four hours: a night bus from Bangkok to Vientiane, an overpriced tuk-tuk to the bus station, followed by an eight-hour local that dumped me off in the rotting ex-colonial town of Thakhek. I’d come as part of my greater sweep through southern Laos. I’d visited the northern part of the country the year before, but this time wished to explore its quieter and less-visited southern half. I was seeking isolation, natural beauty, and adventure, and southern Laos seemed just the place to find it.

I got the idea for a specific bike trip from a certain guidebook, the same guidebook that every Western tourist clutches like a Gucci handbag as they wander along the dusty streets of a new town like a lost pet. The book mentioned doing “The Loop”—a three- or four-day motorcycle excursion out of the town Thakhek. The book said the trip takes you through beautiful and remote country, and that it could be done on a 100cc bike. But was this really possible? Could you actually ride one of these glorified mopeds into the hills of southern Laos? Could you pilot them down rocky dirt roads, through mud villages, across rutted tracks and rice paddies? The book recommended the trip, or at least mentioned it as a possibility. But had the writer actually done it himself?

Foggy-eyed and hungry enough to eat my own shoes, I staggered off of the local bus and had the rare pleasure of being left alone. No touts swarmed, no children hawked photocopied versions of the guide book, no cyclo drivers chased me down the street shouting “Mister! Mister! Where you go?” A woman and her children, sitting nearby, halfheartedly regarded me, but their attention was better held by the sticky rice and yellowish roast chicken they pecked away on. After a few minutes, a tuk-tuk rolled up; I got in, and the driver took me to the Thakhek Travel Lodge, the one guesthouse that served the few tourists passing through this otherwise neglected burg.

The Travel Lodge was a compound of sorts, with a dirt courtyard in front, complete with nightly bonfires. I checked into the shockingly cheap hostel-like dormitory room and proceeded down to the fire, where I chatted with some fellow travelers, downed several bottles of ice-cold Beerlao, and feasted on laap, which is Laos’s national dish of ground meat, onions, and rectum-searing chili. Before I knew it, I was nodding off on the bench in front of the fire, and blearily made my way up to my bed.

After a lager-induced black sleep, I took a cold shower and made my way downstairs for breakfast, which consisted of a noodle soup that had to be ordered twice. This phantom-dish phenomenon plagued me the whole trip, but my patience always endured. It was Laos, after all, where time moves as if it’s encased in a thick gelatin. Laos is also a communist nation that has only recently opened up for visitors, and the people just aren’t used to capitalism, especially in the south, where the tourists are few. Food and drink orders are often met with a panicked look of utter confusion—the proverbial deer in the headlights before it meets its end on the grille of a Mack truck. Bills are glacially tallied with looks of semi-despair, as if the people adding them up are working out impossible calculus equations or attempting to decipher ancient runes.

The colonial French had a famous saying: “The Vietnamese plant the rice. The Cambodians watch it grow. The Lao listen to it grow.”

Thakhek is a provincial capital, so despite the ramshackle ambiance, there are some large administrative buildings in town, imposing and looking the part of bastions of communist authority. I walked along the main street toward the big river, past pharmacies, dark garages, and tire shops; past women grilling chicken and selling boiled eggs; past young men lounging on their motorbikes and daring each other to try out their English on me. Most of the buildings were low, with faded paint that was cracked or peeling off. The closer I got to the river, the more dilapidated the buildings became and the more the street became a mixture of paved parts and red dirt patches, as if the town itself was slowly falling into the brown waters of the Mekong. Chickens ran free, and dogs—many with mange so severe that it hurt to take in—lay next to trash mounds and broken concrete on the roadside.

The guesthouse was currently out of bikes for hire, so acting on a tip from the owner, I tracked down SV Rentals, the go-to place for rental vehicles in this part of the country. The company was located in a massive garage near the riverside. Inside were numerous cars—including two brand-new shiny Hummers—along with some heavy construction equipment, and two sorry-looking 100cc motorbikes.

“Hello,” I greeted the frightened young man behind the counter. “I want to rent a motorbike.”

He looked with bewilderment.

“Motorcycle?” I pointed to the bikes. “Vroom-vroom.”

He nodded his head and presented me with a note, evidently from the guy responsible for renting out bikes to foreigners: Dear Sir or Madam, Today I family out of the town the go. Rent motorbike to leave passport with man and taking key. Sorry to problem.

After choosing the one bike that ran, I handed over my passport and around $30 in Thai baht and was off, cruising down the cracked road of Thakhek and joining the locals, most of whom were riding much nicer-looking machines. The bike purred between my legs and shot down the road with confidence. I was certain I had done well, despite the cosmetic challenges of the thing. Sure, it’s ugly and old, but it runs, and that’s all that matters.

The first thing I did was stop into the nearest garage to get my spinning micro-mirrors tightened. Little did I know, this would be the first of many Lao mechanics’ garages I would pass the time in over the next three days. I would experience a real-life Zen of motorcycle maintenance, emptying my mind while watching Buddhist after Buddhist labor over my sad machine.

Day 1

The road heading west out of Thakhek was two-laned and mostly paved—a luxury in Laos—a country with some of the worst infrastructure in Asia. I opened up the bike and took in the scenery. To my left, a turquoise river snaked up the valley—deep cool pools tempted me to stop the bike and have a refreshing swim, but I had just begun the journey and wanted to get some kilometers under my wheels. The road wound through farmland, mainly rice paddies containing fat water buffaloes or groups of malicious-looking black goats. Monumental limestone karsts shot up on either side of me, looking as if they had been crammed through the earth by immense, all-powerful hands. The scenery was stunning; its magic entered through my very pores. I breathed deeply and absorbed the surroundings with joy, reminding myself that this was exactly why I had come back to Laos.

After about thirty minutes of riding, I came upon two other Westerners on 100cc bikes. I’d met them over breakfast while waiting for my no-show noodles. Their names were Inga and Steve, a couple of Belgian backpackers who had decided to take on The Loop as well. Inga sported tattoos and bleached dreadlocks, displaying a hard edge against Steve’s laid-back and smiling demeanor. I would pass them several times on the trip, only to be overtaken by them each time I broke down on the side of the road or in a village. We became unwitting companions: all out to conquer The Loop on woefully underequipped machines.

I hit my initial setback in the town of Gnomalat—the first real settlement I came across since leaving Thakhek. My footbrake barely worked in the first place, and I noticed it getting weaker each time I pressed down. This, of course, was of great concern; that brake was the only thing between me and certain death by water buffalo collision or a nasty plunge into a ravine. Just after I crossed a small bridge while leaving the hamlet, it failed entirely. The pedal went straight into the dirt of the road. I gingerly guided the bike back into the dusty town and stopped at the first mechanic I saw, located in a dirt-floored shack at the bottom of a steep embankment. It took both of us to work the bike down the narrow path and into his shaded shop.

The place was littered with grease-covered motorcycle parts, tools, and cigarette butts. The mechanic did some adjusting on the brake pedal and replaced the actual disk while his compatriots stood around, smoked, and commented in sing-song Lao. When he was finished, he demonstrated his handiwork with authority—pushing down on the brake and smiling at me when the wheel firmly stopped.

“Okay? Okay?” he said.

“Okay,” I responded.

Fifteen minutes and two dollars later, I was once again crossing the bridge and now blazing out of town, heading down a ruler-straight stretch of road which shot up to the Nakai Plateau. My day’s destination was the actual town of Nakai. So I stopped to check the guidebook map to see how far I had to go, and once satisfied that Nakai was only an hour or two off, I happily jumped down on the kick-start to continue on my way.

Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

Again. Again. Again.

The bike refused to start. I kicked down on the starter ten more times with no results. I then slipped it into neutral, ran the bike along the road, hopped on, and tried a pop start. Again, nothing. After several more attempts, I gave up, cursing the sky and beginning the long, sweaty push back into Gnomalat.

As I toiled underneath the afternoon sun, Inga and Steve—the Belgian duo—putted up.

“What is the problem?” Inga asked.

“The bike died on me. Now it won’t start.”

“Have you tried to push start it?”

“Yeah yeah yeah. I’ll take it back into town to get it looked at.”

Steve smiled. “I’m sure they can fix it there. Everyone rides motorcycles in this country.”

“We’ll see you up the road,” said Inga.

They beeped their horns and rode off, leaving me to my long haul. Luckily, just a few minutes later, a local man rode up and gave me a push by placing one of his feet on my passenger’s peg. I then popped the bike into gear and managed to get it started, albeit with greatly diminished compression and power. My helper smiled and rode away, and I crawled the bike back into the town. As I came upon the bridge, I pushed down on my footbrake, which then failed exactly as it had before, in the same spot even. But this time the pedal went straight into the ground and then kicked back up—right into the flesh of my leg—ripping open a bleeding gash, rimmed by a nasty bruise.

The bike then died. Again.

Covered in sweat, dust, blood, and vexation, I watched three people roll up on big, well-outfitted dirt bikes. They appeared to be Westerners.

“You are having some sort of problem?”

From the sound of his accent, I figured him to be French. Laos is full of French people, smoking, gesticulating, and basking in the ever-fading glow of their former Indochinese glory.

My savior was indeed French, as were his two companions, and he gave me a push back to the mechanic the bottom of the hill, where we once again handed the bike back over for further work.

“What are you guys doing in Laos? Traveling?”

“No… we are working here. You know, up the road they are building a large dam. You will see the trucks if you ride up there. We work for a French company that is helping to make this dam.”

“Oh, really? I just thought you were checking up on the state of your former colony.”

“Yes,” he smiled. “There is that too.”

As we waited for the mechanic to replace my one of my sparkplugs and once again take on the pesky footbrake, one of the Gallic Trio started her bike and shot off down the road into the town, quickly returning with two cold, glistening bottles of Beerlao. We passed the bottles around and drank, the cold delicious beer a welcome addition in my parched mouth. One wonderful thing about the French is their ability to enjoy good drink and food, even in the most uninviting conditions.

Before I knew it, the French had departed, and I was back on my bike, which now ran with full force and gusto. I crossed the bridge for what would be the last time, and sped straight up toward the Nakai Plateau.

As I climbed up the rise, the semi-paved road gave way to rough dirt and rocks. According to what I had read and those I had talked to, it would stay this way for the next 80 kilometers or so. This slowed my progress, as I had to watch out for large and sharp stone shards protruding from the roadway. I had also entered a construction zone, since every two minutes a cement or dump truck—coming from or going to the dam site—blasted by, kicking up enough dust to bury a small town. I wrapped my scarf around my face and firmly placed my sunglass around my head, braving the huge rust-colored dirt clouds that regularly obscured my view and took over the whole road. A red and white sign warned me in Lao and English of the obvious hazard:

BEWARE THE TREUKS IN-OUT

I climbed further up the plateau, switching back through lush jungle, punctuated by small rice and tobacco farms. Despite the onslaught of trucks, I was making good progress and the bike was running well. Even the hated footbrake felt as if it might hold for the rest of the trip.

Eventually the road stopped winding and climbing, and I rolled into a proper town, or what passes for one in remote Laos. Was this Nakai? Had I reached the day’s goal? The roads were dirt and the whole place was covered in reddish dust. It had the feel a frontier boomtown—a result of the work the dam project had brought, to be sure. As I entered the town I noticed a large billboard with writing in both Lao and English:

Welcome to Oudoumsouk

I once again checked the pitiful map supplied by the guidebook, and was unable to locate any town called Oudoumsouk. Believing I had yet to reach Nakai, I pressed on down the stony dirt road.

It wasn’t until it was after dark and a good twenty kilometers up the rough track that I realized my mistake. The night before, around the campfire at the Travel Lodge, an American I met was loudly carrying on about his recent trip on The Loop. I was a bit drunk, more than exhausted, and not paying him the strict attention probably warranted.

“Once you get to the top of the plateau,” he said, “you’ll come to Nakai. Only the locals call it by another name. This happens a lot in Laos. The government has its official names, and the locals have theirs.”

So it was now dark and getting quite chilly, and I had overshot my town by over an hour. The next real settlement was at least sixty kilometers further down a dangerous and unforgiving stretch of road. I would have to turn back.

When I rode back into what I now thought to be Nakai, I was badly in need of some food and beer, not to mention a place to stay. I didn’t see any guesthouses in the town, though I knew that there was at least one. What I did see, parked outside of a small restaurant, was a fully decked-out 350cc Yamaha dirt bike. Most locals rode little 100cc’ers like the one under my ass, so I quickly surmised that this bike must belong to a foreigner.

I parked my bike and walked into makeshift restaurant. A Westerner sat alone at a table. He was decked out in dirt-bike armor and busily typing away on an expensive-looking laptop. This was in a place lit by a fluorescent light bulb and with a dirt floor. I approached and discarded formalities.

“Where’s Nakai?”

“You’re in it, man. You’re here. Now sit your ass down and grab a beer.”

His name was Don, and he was American. Like me, he was an expat, but instead of shivering in Korea and teaching English to college freshmen, he spent most of his time on his sailboat in Malaysia. Don was living the dream. He had made enough money to pack it all up, wave goodbye to his friends, buy a boat, and sail halfway around the world. He was in his mid-fifties and sported a dirty blond ponytail, which, with his dirt-bike getup, took a good fifteen years off his appearance.

I ordered that beer and Don immediately set out to show me his laptop. Using state-of-the-art satellite technology, Don was able to log on to the Internet in the most undeveloped areas of Laos, in places where some people had never even seen a computer (this was a few years before the proliferation of wifi). But the real reason Don brought such equipment along had little to do with email or checking his stocks: He was making maps.

“Maps?”

“Yeah, man, I make maps. You could call it a hobby, though I hope to cash in on it one day. I spend four months out of the year riding through Cambodia, Laos, and Vietnam, filling in the map using GPS.”

“Sounds cool.”

“I’m telling you man, no one has even begun to do this stuff. All of these little villages and dirt tracks, I’m plotting them all within thirty feet. I’ve been at it for years now. I’m currently working on the whole of the Ho Chi Minh trail.”

“You sound dedicated.”

“I am. It’s all I do when I’m not kicking back on my boat in Penang with my Malaysian girlfriend. You know Cambodia?”

“Yeah, I’ve been there once.”

“Well get this. I’ve FINISHED mapping the whole country. Cambodia’s done, man. Finito.”

“Wow.”

“So what the hell are you doing all the way up here in Nakai?”

I told him about The Loop.

“Where you headed to tomorrow?”

“Lak Sao.”

“You’re gonna try to make it down the rest of this road, all the way to Lak Sao, on a 100cc scooter? You’ll never make it, man! I’d turn my ass back if I was you.”

“I know I can do it. These little bikes are tougher than you may think,” I replied.

“Listen, man, that road is a massive construction zone. This dam project is a big deal. It’s being financed by the World Bank. The road is nothing but potholes and rocks and dirt and dumptrucks roaring by every thirty seconds. And that guidebook is telling backpackers to come ride up here? They’re out of their fucking minds.”

We let it rest at that. After a hearty dinner of rice, soup, and impossibly tough mystery meat, Don and I drank a couple more beers, and then he showed me the way to the guesthouse, a sprawling complex around the corner from the restaurant. It was mainly being used to house workers on the dam project. I got a room and fell into a deep sleep.

Day 2

When I left the guesthouse in the morning, Don’s bike was already gone. He was probably halfway to the Vietnamese border, mapping dried riverbeds and counting chickens. I was hungry, so I stopped at a restaurant with a sign in English, usually a strong hint that their menu will be in the same tongue. I was lucky—I could indeed read the menu—so I ordered a bowl of noodle soup that did not take two hours to get to my table. It came right away, actually, as did the two cups of thick coffee that charged me up for an uncertain day’s ride.

Day two on The Loop started like day one, with breathtaking scenery, a happy motorbike, and the full-body thrill that always comes with cruising down the unknown road in an exotic land. I passed through more rice fields and thick forests. The trees cast their cool shadows over the road and the truck traffic was minimal. The morning sun warmed my back, and everything was bright and good. Of course this bliss was doomed to end, and it did so abruptly, in the form of a large rock in the middle of the road.

Crack!

My back tire hit it with full force, blasting out all of the air and kicking the rock straight up into the chain, which responded by jumping from the sprocket. In less than a second, my peaceful morning cruise was transformed into a roadside stall-out in the middle of nowhere. So I did what I had learned to do the day before in such situations: I grabbed the handlebars and pushed. Within ten minutes, I forced the bike into a tiny village called Ban Nongboham. The area was dotted with these villages—clusters of wooden, thatched-roof huts—surrounded by fields with crops. All of the buildings are built on stilts, as the rainy season is serious business in these parts.

As I strained into the village, I came across an open-faced hut with a woman inside. She stood behind a dusty counter with some rudimentary goods for sale: a few cans of orange Fanta, some pink rolls of toilet paper, glass bottles containing gasoline, and unidentifiable foodstuffs packed in plastic wrappers (nuts? dates? insects?). The woman smiled and addressed me loudly with the all-purpose Lao greeting:

“Sabaidee!”

“Sabaidee!” I replied, as I always did. As I rode through every village on this trip, the people—adults and children alike—would briefly stop whatever they were doing, wave, and hit me with their best shout-out.

The woman immediately followed her greeting with a litany of Lao, unconcerned with the fact that I couldn’t understand her. Surely any foreigner who would ride a motorcycle into this part of the country would be at least semi-facile in the language, she seemed to assume.

I just pointed to the tire and then pointed to the chain, shaking my head as to indicate a problem. She understood at once, and shouted to a little boy who meekly peered our way from the other side of the road. She motioned to the boy and then to me, ordering me to follow him. Even though I didn’t understand the words, the intent was clear, and for a moment I convinced myself that I could actually understand the language, a self-delusion that I commonly fall into when confused in Asia.

I tailed the kid deeper into the village, past a line of huts. Hairy black pigs rooted in the dirt. Chickens of all ages clucked and ran in terror as I approached. Trash littered the ground, along with half-burnt pieces of wood and dried cakes of cow shit. This village was poor. It lacked both running water and electricity. It also seemed to lack men, as the only people observing me were women, a few of whom held infants to their breasts. I figured that the men were probably out in the fields—either that or they had recently been rounded up by government troops, taken to a deep part of the forest, and shot. I began to harbor serious doubts that my motorbike could be fixed. These doubts were soon assuaged, however, by the arrival of The Mechanic.

The Mechanic was a man, though one unsuited for farm work. He was deformed, with shriveled and useless legs. He had matted long hair with bits of wood and grass in it and wore an old army jacket so filthy that I had an impulse to yank it off and burn it. He got around on his hands, which seemed longer and broader than usual, but perhaps this was only a result of him ambling about on them for a lifetime. He looked like he was in his early thirties, the perfect age for a prenatal victim of Agent Orange, which the US government mercilessly sprayed over this part of Laos throughout the Indochina War. The Mechanic looked at me, flashed me a smile, lit a cigarette, and made his way to my bike for an inspection. By the look on his face, I could tell that the fix would be no problem, and he was soon barking orders to the gang of bored-looking boys who had gathered around us to take in the action. One boy scurried up a ladder and into a hut, reappearing with a burlap bag filled with some tools. The Mechanic quickly got to work, ripping off the tire and tube, locating the leak, and patching it up. At one point—when his kid helper couldn’t locate the extra tire patching—The Mechanic climbed up the ladder and into the hut, using only his arms and doing so with the confidence of an expert. He came back down with the patch tube and finished the job.

He easily re-railed the chain, and even tightened it up a bit with his wrench. When the bike was ready to go, I paid him his fee—one dollar—thanked him, and went on my way.

The next stretch of road was the most isolated and beautiful on the Nakai Plateau. The villages disappeared, and soon I was riding through untouched jungle. The traffic was light, and I made a steady pace down the rough road. My goal for the day was the town of Lak Sao, the last stop in Laos before the border with Vietnam. Within an hour, I was crossing the Nam Hin Bun, which stretched out below me and reflected the noon sun. A new bridge was being built about half a kilometer up, and soon, within a year or two, the river would be dammed (or should I say “damned?”), and much of what I had seen would be underwater. Ahhhh, progress. The words of Edward Abbey, whose seminal work Desert Solitaire I had completed just days before, rang in my head: Our modern industrial economy takes a mountain covered with trees, lakes, running streams and transforms it into a mountain of junk, garbage, slime pits, and debris. My blood cooled as I pondered the future for this beautiful corner of the country.

Soon I came upon Inga and Steve again. Like me, they were coated in dust.

“You made it!” Steve said.

“Not without difficulty, but here I am. Where did you guys stay last night?”

“Nakai. We found a small guesthouse.”

As I went on to tell them about my troubles the day before, their eyes widened with incredulity.

I rode with the Belgians for a while, but their pokey pace was a bit too slow for my liking, so I gave them a wave and cranked up the throttle.

I had crested the hump and the road began to wind down from the Nakai Plateau. The endless barrage of trucks making their way up and down was now taxing. Every two minutes saw a new truck grumbling by, often at lethal speeds. I rode through Saharan dust clouds and was nearly forced off the road by coffee-jacked truck drivers rushing to make their deliveries in time. As I coughed up dirt and picked dust nuggets from my nose, I thought of a clean shower and hot meal awaiting me in Lak Sao. My fantasy was soon interrupted, however, by another flat tire. The Mechanic had only patched the tube; there were no new ones in the village to sell me. I at once regretted my need for speed. The velocity of progress and stress of the road was just too much for the tire to bear, and the patch failed. So I again pushed the bike down the road, soon passed by the Belgians, who could only laugh and look on with sympathetic eyes.

Soon I was off of the plateau and into a village. This village was the most developed settlement since Nakai. It may even have had electricity. I pulled off at the first mechanic I spotted; he changed and inflated the tube with Teutonic efficiency. It took no longer than ten minutes. This is the terrific thing about breaking down in Laos. Everyone rides 100cc bikes for transportation, so even the most primitive village has someone who can fix them. Let us give thanks to the invention of interchangeable parts.

After stopping for a brief swim in a cool river, I caught up with the Belgians and accompanied them into Lak Sao. Though Laos is a tropical country, we were now firmly in the highlands, and once the sun was obscured, things quickly turned cold. Lak Sao is a stopover point on the way to and from Vietnam, so despite the rugged frontier feeling of the place, there are plenty of good places to stay. I got a huge room in a guesthouse in the shadow of an imposing mountain. It even had warm water, though it only stayed warm at the lowest pressure, which was nothing more than a trickle. But warm was warm, and I spent the greater part of thirty minutes feeling like I was getting peed on.

After cleaning up, I took a wander through the town, which is located at a crossroads with a main paved route. The worst part of the journey appeared to be over. The rest would be over smooth, sealed roads. I wandered through the market, past stalls selling clothes and food. Meat sat out on tables, unrefrigerated, shining in the periodic bursts of sun. One stall featured several gutted rats and what appeared to be a guinea pig. Lak Sao is located in a mountainous and unspoiled part of the country, and much of the local wildlife was evidently available for consumption at this market, but in recent years there has been less and less to eat, as the hunt went on unchecked. Just rats and pets left, it seemed.

I joined Inga and Steve at the main restaurant in town, aptly named The Only One. We sat at one of two tables located a small patio near the entrance, bundled up against the chilly wind. The menu was vast, containing your usual array of fried rice, stir-fries, soups, and curries, along with a dish bizarrely named dish that leapt out from the menu: BOILED THE FURNITURE OF BUFFALO. Despite my curiosity, we went with the chicken and fish.

The restaurant was the busiest in town, offering refuge from the mountain chill for the many visitors passing through. At one point a group of four Laotian men in suits walked in the door. They had the confidence and air of Communist Party officials. They were joined by a young woman, who stepped outside to make a call on her cell phone. As I looked at her features, I took her to be foreigner—definitely northeast Asia—confirmed right after when I recognized the language she spoke as Korean. When she finished her call I addressed her in her native tongue.

“Annyeonghaseo?”

“Annyeonghaseo?” she replied, curtly.

“You are Korean?” I continued.

“Yes.”

“I actually live in Korea. In Busan.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes. I like it very much.”

“What country are you from?”

“America.”

“I see.”

It was only then that I noticed a little red pin on her lapel, displaying the all-knowing face of Kim Il-Sung. She was from the North. She turned away and re-entered the restaurant before I could say another word.

Soon a man rolled up on a big dirt bike. It was Don, my map making drinking buddy from the night before.

“Man, oh man it’s a cold one. Care if I join you guys?”

He had been all the way up to the border, which is at a high elevation, and was too chilled to continue with his ride. A biting wind cut down from the mountains that day, making motorbike travel a ball-chilling affair. He sat down with us and we ordered more food and more beers, continuing our impromptu party well into the night. We were eventually joined by three Aussies who rode in on dirt bikes, as well as a group of about forty elderly Dutch people from a tour bus staying the night on its way to Vietnam. To see a true trailblazer such as Don and this herd of package tourists in the same room truly represented the two extremes of Southeast Asian travel. By the end, aided by countless bottles of beer, I had made friends with them all. And after nearly falling asleep at the table, I said my goodbyes and stumbled back to my room though the pitch black of the town.

Day 3

The morning proved to be even more frigid than the night. The wind had intensified and I could see my breath, a phenomenon I hadn’t counted on for this trip to the “tropics.” I put on my pants, two T-shirts, two button-up shirts, and my sweater, and proceeded to zip down the road, savoring the smooth surface and quick pace. The dirt track was behind me, and once again I was on an unbroken, hard-sealed surface.

Like the two previous days, the ride started out perfectly. I was winding through wide valleys punctuated by colossal mountains. It was dramatic country, reminiscent of scenery found in the American West. I made it about an hour down the road—which was pretty typical for the trip—before I hit my first patch of trouble: there was a large dip, and I was heading back up a pretty steep grade. I had the bike opened up at a good speed, when the engine suddenly started to scream. A terrible high-pitched noise wheezed from the engine. I lost compression and a lot of power, and then the bike just died. I had luckily cleared the top of the hill and just coasted it down, pop-starting it near the bottom. This managed to fire the engine back up, but now it sounded weak and unwell, and I was now getting less than half the power I was before. This was also accompanied by a thick blue smoke belching out of the tailpipe. I was burning oil.

I chugged up a big rise and began to coast it on the other side, spying a village below. I pulled into the gas/mechanic hut and had them get a wrench to check the oil. The cap was so encrusted with petrified dirt that it was impossible to unscrew by hand. The mechanic—an ancient geezer with a baseball mitt of a face—undid the cap and peered into the smoking oil chamber, which was now totally empty. He shook his head and pointed.

“No,” he said, displaying the extent of his English.

I bought a liter of oil which he poured back in. He then pushed down on the kick-start with his hand to pump it through. As he did this, a full stream of oil oozed out of the engine casing. He did it again and looked closely. There was a massive crack. The bike had been leaking oil for a long time and I hadn’t spotted it. One of the men who now gathered around mimed a rock jumping up and hitting the casing, causing the crack. The mechanic threw up his arms and now shouted, “NO!” Evidently, I was fucked.

I looked up the empty road to the small mountains in front of me. I estimated that I had seventy or eighty kilometers until I hit the main highway taking me back to Thakhek. From there, it was another ninety to the town. But within twenty kilometers was the town of Ban Na Hin, which was the site of another dam and gateway to the seven-kilometer-long Kong Lor limestone cave, a popular backpacker stop. Surely this town would have a more sophisticated garage. If I could get the bike there, I thought, I could have the leak patched and still possibly make it back to Thakhek.

So I bought five more liters of oil, started the bike, and putted it down the road and up the mountain, blowing fat ribbons of smoke out the back like the loser of a WWII dogfight. Once the smoke cleared up, I knew my oil was gone, so I’d pull over and pour in another liter, praying that I had enough lube to get me to the next stop.

And I did. Soon, the town of Ban Na Hin appeared. It lay in a verdant valley at the base of a mammoth mountain. I coasted down and wheeled it into the first mechanic’s shop I saw; in this case, he was a young man in his very early twenties. It took an hour for him to replace the casing, and it set me back twenty bucks, no small repair fee in impoverished Laos.

The oil leak was now fixed, but I was afraid that the damage was done. My fears were confirmed as I rode out of the town, spewing smoke oily smoke and feeling the bike struggle to do its most basic job. On level roadway, I was fine. The bike sounded sick but it still went. It was only when I tried to climb the mountain out of the town that the bike bogged down and died on me once again.

So I turned it around, hit neutral, and allowed gravity to do its work. I had not gotten very far up, but enough to where I was picking up significant speed on the way back down. And it was here where I was revisited by a previous demon: the footbrake failed yet again, only now my wounded bike was screaming straight down the foot of a mountain.

Luckily, I did not die, nor was I even hurt; I managed to get the bike down by putting it into low into gear and zigzagging back and forth along the road. This slowed me down enough to reasonably pop-start the thing. From there, I limped it back into town back to my ace mechanic.

This mechanic was more enterprising than the first one who had fiddled with the brakes. He at once busted out the welder and went to work, fixing the brake problem once and for all. When pressed down with my foot it felt solid and firm. I knew it would now hold.

So it was back out of town and up the mountain. This time, I just kept the bike in first gear, and it did not die. It climbed, gaining a bit of speed, the engine running with basic competence. At the top of the mountain was a turnout and scenic vista, indicated by a sign. I stopped and scanned the landscape. Limestone spires rose straight into the sky from tops and sides of surrounding mountains, creating panorama of rock towers. However, this fantastic scene was marred by a thick blue haze hanging in the air. It was the dry season, the time of year when the farmers burned their fields. This was going on all over the country, covering the land under a choking layer of smoke that irritated the eyes and burned the nostrils.

At this point, I closed my eyes and attempted to block out the scenery. The surroundings now were secondary; my entire will was focused on maintaining the health the bike’s engine, which was growing worse by the kilometer. I was still moving forward, going, but I could feel the power weaken and the engine’s croak intensify. At one point I even ran out of gas, but managed to push my rapidly dying machine into a village for a fill-up. By the time I made it to the road to Thakhek, the bike was in its death throes, barely moving. Undeterred, I took a left on the two-lane highway and opened up my throttle all the way, which, in fourth gear, added up to what must have been no more than fifteen kilometers an hour. I pressed on like this in foolish desperation before the bike finally died, this time for good.

*

The last eighty kilometers to Thakhek were covered in a Japanese pickup truck. After the bike’s demise, I stuck out my thumb and secured a ride from local man whose name I never got. We loaded the metal carcass into the back of his truck and rode together in silence. Even if we had spoken each other’s language, there was nothing to say. The look of defeat on my filthy sunburned face, combined with the husk of the machine in the back, said all that was needed.

They took the bike back at the rental agency with little hassle. The English-speaking man was there in person this time—no note necessary—and though he was shocked at the state of both the bike and me, he handed over my passport and I handed over his keys.

“This bike is no good!” I said. “It leaks oil.”

“Hmmm…” he chewed on his lip. “We fix before.”

I guess I unfixed it.

Back at the Travel Lodge, I related my war stories to those present at the campfire. I sipped my Beerlao and described gory detail after detail. The pack of travelers gathered around me listened on in with a mixture of pity and awe.

Late in the night, as I wobbled from the beer, Inga and Steve rode in, looking defeated. I had not seen them on the road that day.

“We tried to ride out to the Kong Lor Cave,” Inga said. “But Steve got a flat tire. We were almost ten kilometers into the countryside on a tiny dirt track with no villages around at all to get it fixed.”

“So we pushed it back to the town with the dam and had it done there.”

“By that time, it was getting dark, so we just rode back.”

“Well, it could have been worse.” I shrugged. All the Belgians could do was laugh.

When I tell people about the trip, about the plague of breakdowns, most lament my awful luck. What had I done to deserve such a lemon of a motorbike? How had I accrued such lousy traveler’s karma? I choose to look at it another way: the mechanical failings, the engine trouble, the string of obstacles—these forced me to stop along the way in places that I would have hardly glanced at otherwise, blazing on down the road. I spent time in these villages and got a glimpse into the lives of regular people going about their days. The problems on the trip made me sit back, relax, and slow down, which is great, because Laos is a country best viewed in first gear.

MOSCOW ON THE SOUTH CHINA SEA

Vietnam, 2013

In F. Scott Fitzgerald’s short story, “Babylon Revisited,” Charlie Wales returns to the Ritz Bar in Paris after a many-year absence. The bar is empty and his old drinking buddies are nowhere to be found. The party is most definitely over; Paris of the early twenties, with American expats guzzling away countless carefree nights, is gone, never to return. For Charlie Wales, coming back is a bittersweet experience at best.

It’s never easy to return to a place you once idealized. The incongruity between your memory and what you actually see can be too much to take, a dizzying dissonance that sours your insides and makes you grab for the nearest railing. It’s like your friend’s son who was a cute little boy ten years ago and who has now grown into an acne-plagued, apathetic teen. The kid used to love you but times have changed. Your old tricks and charms are of no use; he’s simply moved on and no longer wants anything to do with you.

But places, as well as people, change. Some travelers get caught up in the silly fantasy that their traveling experience is or was somehow that much richer and more original than the next guy’s—as if they have some sort of monopoly on backpacker cool. It reminds me of the archetypical hipster (so despised these days) who rolls his eyes when you mention a certain band that you like, only to sigh and mutter that he was into them “way before they became big.” This sort of snobbery and one-upmanship goes against the underlying reasons why many of us travel, but it doesn’t stop this phenomenon from being widespread. I remember being in Thailand some years back and drinking a few beers with a seasoned Aussie traveler. When I told him that my next stop was Cambodia, he launched into a tirade about how he was there in the mid-‘90s, when you could “buy bricks of ganja in the Russian Market.” He described the permissive, anarchic nature of the place “back then,” but how everything had changed, and now the whole country was “overrun with yahoos.” Was he including me in that generalization?

To be fair, Mui Ne wasn’t some pristine, undiscovered Eden when I first showed up some eight years ago. This long stretch of beach girding a bay beneath a sleepy Vietnamese fishing village had already made it onto the map. Some hotels and resorts had been built, along with the open-air seafood restaurants and kitsch-filled gift shops that inevitably accompany such development. Middle-aged European travelers and hard-core kitesurfers had already arrived, and without a doubt there were those who revisited then and complained that the place had already gone to hell.

But at risk of sounding like the “been there and done it all” traveler douche: the Mui Ne of eight years back was a different place. It was much quieter, with less traffic rumbling down the one road that connects the fishing village with the small city of Phan Thiet, and as a result, with the rest of the country. There were fewer cars and buses, and no proper taxis. The streets were dark at night, with just the odd unlicensed motorcycle taxi zipping around in search of customers looking for a ride and maybe a cheap bag of weed. Many local families still lived on the shore and fished the waters from round boats woven from thin strips of wood—literally floating baskets (a few are still left, but their days are surely numbered). There were far fewer overbuilt resorts and hotels crowding the water’s edge. There were fewer people and less commerce, and of course it was cheaper, but one factor looms high above the rest with regard to now and then: there were practically no Russians.

*

Our double-tiered sleeper bus pulled off the barreling chaos of Vietnam’s Highway 1 and rolled through Phan Thiet. The first things I noticed were the many new ATMs. Eight years ago, there were none to be seen; it was a strictly bring your own dough affair. The whole of the town gleamed more brightly than before (I remembered it as a drab place reeking of rotting shrimp), and I could see many new cars on the road. The bus eventually left the confines of the town and crossed through the fish and shrimp farms situated on its edge, chugging up the large rise that separates the town from the narrow beach leading to Mui Ne. We could see the big cemetery on the hillside and the concrete spire of the war memorial at the top. Below, to our right, was the South China Sea. I looked to the left, to note what kind of new development had gone through since my original visit. I cringed as I saw a sign for a golf resort—easily the most loathsome sign of “progress”—followed by a complex of half-built holiday homes. The project appeared to have been abandoned at least a year ago.

As we rode on into the tourist area along the beach, I noticed the many shops, restaurants, and tourist agencies on side of the road advertising exclusively in Cyrillic. This seemed strange.

“Wow,” I said, turning to Minhee. “There sure are a lot of signs in Russian.”

She raised her eyebrows and shrugged, as if to say, Why should I care?

I kept my eyes on the roadside, taking in every sign we passed. A few were in Vietnamese, but the majority was still in Russian.

“Maybe this is just the Russian area of the beach,” I said, hopefully.

“Who knows?” Minhee said.

“Well, I don’t remember a lot of Russians last time I was here.”

“What about those guys underneath us?” she said, switching to Korean, making sure they wouldn’t understand. She slowed down to make sure I did. “I think they’re Russians.”

I focused my ear onto their conversation, and the tones growled forth were most definitely Slavic in origin. Oh, shit. The Russians aren’t coming. They’re already here.

And that they were. My naïve hope that the Russian tourists were confined to just one area was shattered as we pressed on into the heart of the tourist strip: there were even more signs in Russian, easily outnumbering any in English and even giving those in Vietnamese—with all of its strange accent marks and vowel addendums—a run for their money. It was clear that the Russians were more than just a significant group in Mui Ne. They had taken over.

Russia and Russians were very much on my mind at the time, as I had just finished Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina and Gary Shteyngart’s much more contemporary Absurdistan. I love heady Russian writers and studied the Russian drama masters in college. In many ways I have a great love and respect for Russians, especially their contribution to the world cultural canon. Their weighty influence cannot be denied, and I tip my hat.

But… (Oh-uh! After the disclaimer, his true bigoted stripes come out) I am a child of the Cold War, indoctrinated and mind-forged during the hardline years of Ronald Reagan’s America. And while I never remember being overtly taught to hate Russian people, I don’t recall any great love being kindled for them, either. I also can’t help but wonder if all of that propaganda I was subjected to boiled my brain and turned me for the worse. I’ve met some great Russians and swapped stories and drunk to the happiness of both nations, but for me and many other Westerners, there is still something alien about them, despite our obvious cultural and racial similarities. Often, when I pass by groups of Russians in Korea or anywhere else, a distrustful reptilian voice often hisses in my head:

Fucking Russians.

I know this is a racist or at least hyper-nationalistic instinct, and no, I’m not proud, but from the expression on many of their faces, I can’t help but think that they’re thinking the same of me.

After scoring a palatial hotel room for a great price, Minhee and I walked down the strip toward the area of beach where the flurries of kitesurfers gather to do their thing. Mui Ne is a world-class kitesurfing destination, with calm, warm waters and plenty of tropical wind blowing in. She wore a pink button shirt, jean shorts, and fake Ray Bans, the powerful breeze blowing her long black bangs across her face. We strolled in the late afternoon hand in hand, passing Russian after Russian after Russian. Some were leggy blonde beauties holding hands with young, cut Adonises, while others were older bulky women, walking with hulking, furry-backed men stuffed into tiny Speedos. Many of these men were always shirtless; most were wondrously obese. They seemed to revel in displaying their distended guts and man tits. Their shamelessness almost commanded a kind of respect; these fat guys were there to enjoy themselves and out to impress no one, practically daring you to make a snide comment or give a look askance. And nearly all of them smoked, all the time, even while standing in the shallows of the sea or pool.

The food had changed as well. Sure, I spied a couple of Russian restaurants, but as we came closer to kitesurfer central, which acted as the kind of “downtown” of the tourist strip, I noticed that the usual “point and pick” barbecue seafood places near the beach were a much different beast. Sure, there were more of them than before, but they also had been altered and pumped up—made more “extreme.” Not only were the usual fresh fish, clams, prawns, and huge lobsters available, but the whole menu selection had taken a bizarre turn toward the exotic: live soft-shell turtles languished in tanks, along with snakes, frogs, eels, and whole crocodiles roasting over coals on the spit. These were smaller creatures—not the behemoths that inhabit the waters of the Nile or Australian billabongs—but crocs nonetheless. Was this freakish, reptilian turn of culinary events the result of all of the new Russian visitors? Or was it the Chinese, who were also now out in force? Was the supply creating the demand, or was it the other way around? This was anyone’s guess, but it was clear the days when a simple grilled barracuda, a handful of scallops, and a few spring rolls fit the bill were far behind.

After an hour of walking, we reached the kitesurfing beach. The sun was low in the sky and the late afternoon wind blasting mightily. We took off our shoes and looked out at the hundreds of kites gliding through the air. They were attached by thin cables to wetsuit-clad humans who gripped the guides and rode boards that sliced through the surface and the waves. The more accomplished kitesurfers captured big gusts and were lifted high off of the choppy water, only to come down in a smooth, effortless descent.

“That looks like a kick in the pants,” I said to Minhee.

“Sure. Looks fun.”

“I’d love to try it sometime.”

“No way. You are waaaaaay too clumsy,” she said, slapping my shoulder. I couldn’t disagree, but still…

We turned away from the kitesurfers and headed into a little restaurant right on the beach. I ordered a green Saigon beer while Minhee sipped from a fresh lime juice and lit up a cigarette.

“It’s lovely here,” she said.

“Yeah,” I replied, remembering the Mui Ne of eight years back.

“What’s wrong?”

I whispered, “I wish there weren’t so many Russians here. They’re everywhere. Look around. It’s madness.”

“Who cares?” she whispered back. “Why shouldn’t they enjoy themselves here? Their country is so cold.”

“Yeah yeah yeah… I know… I… I just…”

I eyed a Russian family sitting near the bar. The pretty blonde daughter sat with her brother, twirling her hair, swinging her coltish legs, and looking more than a little bored. Their mother drank and smoked with her husband, a giant balding man in too-short shorts and an open button-up shirt, revealing a dense carpet of a chest hair underneath. He reminded me of Tony Soprano. He noticed me staring and glared back with icy menace.

I quickly looked away.

“Never mind,” I said.

International travel is new to Russia, and they’re embracing it for all it’s worth. And why shouldn’t they? And why should I be surprised if some of them seem bereft of manners? The nouveau riche rarely travel well, so I shouldn’t have been surprised at the boorishness displayed by some of these new visitors. I should have been more surprised at my own. But probably at least seventy percent of all tourists in Mui Ne are now Russians, and were it any other group in such dominant numbers—Koreans, Germans, Swedes, or even Americans, God forbid—I’d have a similar gripe.

So why are they there? It is a beautiful, chilled-out spot, but that doesn’t explain why thousands of have descended like it’s summer in the Crimea. I imagine Mui Ne was spotlighted in whatever equivalent the Russians have to the Lonely Planet guidebook, though I’m told that destinations all over Southern Asia have turned into hotspots for our Slavic brethren. Their country, while traditionally powerful, has had a long grind, with the idea of international travel and leisure time being alien to the vast majority of their population. It’s now their time in the sun. Literally.

Whatever the reason, the Russians are in Mui Ne en masse—eating, drinking, smoking, singing, laughing, and displaying acres of skin for all to take in. They’re spending their newly minted cash as if neither it nor the oil that produces it will ever run out, and you can be sure that they don’t give a damn whether this American likes it or not.

*

By the next day I had reasonably given up on my anti-Russian obsession. It was certainly not worth poisoning our travel time. I’d just have to give them a wide berth and that was that. That evening, I was sitting in my room, relaxing in my T-shirt and shorts as a fat tangerine sun crept down the horizon. The doors to the expansive terrace were open, and from my seat I could see palm trees, the roofs of the seaside village’s many hotels and guesthouses, and just beyond that, the wind-whipped sea. The walls of the room were painted white and reflected the light, bathing the whole space in evening radiance. I was in pure vacation chill-mode, sipping from a glass of 333 Beer with a fresh lime squeezed (limes are pretty much unavailable in Korea so it was a treat) and floating inside. My wife lay on the bed next to me. She wore a tank top and cutoff jean shorts and supported herself on her elbows while mastering the latest game on her smartphone. The ocean air blew through the open terrace door and the many cracked-open windows, making everything smell salty, clean, and good. At that particular moment, I was a content man.

What was most amazing, however, was the scene unfolding on the laptop screen in front of me. As I sat there, savoring my beer and relaxing to the fullest, I was group-chatting on Facebook with several friends. Two were in Korea, one was in Miami, I was in Vietnam, and the other was floating on a riverboat somewhere in that great muddy delta that makes up much of the nation of Bangladesh.

My friend who was chatting from his berth on a Bengali riverboat was my old travel companion, Sam—frequent character in this book and the guy I had originally come to Vietnam with those eight year earlier. Back then, we had chosen Vietnam because it seemed pretty cool, off-the-path, and hard (compared to Thailand, at least, where everyone seemed to go). But things had changed. He described his time in Bangladesh up that point, using words like “insane,” “full-on,” and “mental.” His companions and he were going upriver, straight into the heart of a country that sees almost zero tourism. I am told that the nation is so bereft of visitors that it’s impossible to even buy a postcard. I read on with more than a bit of traveler’s envy as I tasted the real adventure that he was embarking on. And here I was, in a beautiful room, cold drink in hand, feeling very pampered, soft, and ordinary. Vietnam—once so exotic—now seemed old hat. I may as well have been on Waikiki Beach sipping Blue Hawaiians and watching the hula show.

Travel is often compared to a drug, and though it is a cliché, the analogy is a strong one. Traveling, like a mind- or mood-altering substances, is often exhilarating; it gives you a rush, and can be absolutely addictive. And like drugs, the more you do, the bigger dose you require to hit that special receptor in the brain—the place that made the experience feel so good the first time. In a way, you’re always chasing that first hit.

Your first big travel experience is kind of a gateway trip, and often you feel like you have to outdo yourself in subsequent adventures. Maybe you bust your cherry by touring Europe. After that, you try Thailand, and then decide to get crazier with Indonesia. Then it’s India, and Nepal, and then you go harder—into the ‘Stans of Central Asia—until that’s not enough, so you head to Africa, hitchhiking your way from Cairo to the Cape. What may seem like an alien world to some back home is has now become incredibly pedestrian, so you chase out the less visited, the more dangerous, the more extreme. That is why my friend was riding in a cramped boat in Bangladesh, and right there, sitting in a high-ceilinged room on the coast of Vietnam, I also understood why.

SMOKIN’ JOE

Thailand, 2006 - South Korea, 2013

Like any great legend in Busan, this one was discussed over meat.

“Joe fouled religiously,” said K. Three of us sat for dinner at a packed restaurant specializing in Jeju Island pork, surrounded by the sounds of bellowing voices, clinking of glasses, and the pops and hisses of sizzling meat. K was an old friend, as well as the ringleader of the Busan Bangers, a group of basketball devotees that gathered three nights a week to shoot some serious hoops. K picked up the green bottle of soju and unscrewed the cap. “He even had his own a T-shirt made that read, Hacker.”

“But he’d call his own fouls,” added Gino, as he flipped over several strips of the deep-pink and fatty oh-gyeup-sal on the grill in the middle of our table. Gino was a well-known musician in town, but could also hold his own on the court. “Yeah he was hacky, but at least he was honest about it.”

“He’d come in hard with the elbow,” continued K, smiling with pure Hoosier heartland earnest. “My friend Bruce used to call it ‘feedin’ him the ol’ chicken wing.’ Heck, sometimes he’d foul you twice in the same play.” K filled our shot glasses with the clear liquor.

“But he kind of had to,” added Gino sympathetically, carrying on with his cooking duties. “He was an old dude. It was one of the only ways he could compete with the young guys.”

“Cheers!” I said. We brought our glasses together. I quickly took mine down.

“He didn’t view it that way,” replied K. “When called on it, he’d just say, ‘Hey, man. I’m known for my defense.’”

“Is that what he called it?” Gino laughed, knocking back his shot.

“Yup,” K said, downing his. “But his fifteen-foot jumper was money in the bank.”

“And the dude always hit his free-throws, which is how we determine who gets to play in each game. So guess who was on the court every damned time?”

K chuckled, leaned back and said, “Well you know, he had a basketball hoop at his place in Thailand, along with a concrete driveway. He practiced for hours every day when he was back. For him, free throws were pure muscle memory. He just couldn’t miss.”

“And he didn’t miss too many games, either,” added Gino. “When he was around.”

“No he didn’t. He was one of our most reliable guys for years. He’d almost always come out when he was in town, giving me a heads up via his girlfriend’s cell phone—he never owned one, you know. The message would simply say, in all caps, JOE WILL PLAY. “

*

It was late afternoon when our plane touched down in Chiang Rai, a town in northeastern Thailand located in the famed Golden Triangle region, named for its once-prolific opium production. These days, the poppy fields have been mostly eradicated in Thailand and Laos—with only the plantations in Burma continuing with large-scale cultivation—but the moniker remains. The Nok Air flight from Bangkok was cheap and short, and when Steve and I walked out the main door of the town’s tiny airport, Joe was there, waiting for us. He stood next to his little Toyota with his arms crossed, leaning just slightly on the driver’s side door. His was the only car in the expansive parking lot.

“Welcome to Chiang Rai,” Joe said, shaking my hand. His grey hair was tied back into a long, bushy ponytail, and his large dark eyes spoke of his Italian background. “Yeah man, I’m really happy to have you guys,” Joe continued, helping load our bags in the back of the old compact car. “I don’t really get too many visitors here, and sometimes I get a little stir-crazy, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, thanks for the invite,” replied Steve. “It’s good to have some on-the-ground intelligence.”

“Yeah, I’ve been living up here for years, so I know my way around pretty good now. I’ll be giving you boys the grand tour, don’t you worry.”

Joe worked in Korea but lived in Thailand. He was employed by a university in Busan but sent most of his cash back home to Chiang Rai, which was also home to his Thai wife and two kids. He owned a small house right out of town in the countryside, and his monthly remittances allowed his family to live a fairly affluent life, by Thai standards.

His wife was his second; he’d been married years before to a lawyer in California and even had two kids with her, but after they divorced, Joe split the States and resumed his lifelong vocation of wandering.

“You’ll like Fatima,” Joe said, driving down the two-lane road away from the airport. “She’s a good mother and an even better cook. You know I took her out of a bar?”

“Yeah?” I asked, taking the bait.

“Yeah, man,” Joe replied. “She was a bar girl in Pattaya and I was in the market for a new wife. So I walked into the joint, and asked the mama-san, ‘Who is your best girl?’ The mama-san pointed to Fatima, so I paid the bar fine, took her with me, and married her a couple days later. Scout’s honor, man.”

Steve was impressed: “Well, it looks like it’s worked out.”

“Damned right it has,” Joe said, keeping his eyes on the road. “We got a good arrangement… I mean, she knows all about my Korean girlfriend. I told her a few years back, I said, ‘Listen, Fatima… you’re a great wife and mother, but I’m just not interested in having sex with you anymore.’ And what do you think, she says? Get this, man, she says, ‘That’s okay. If you need a girlfriend, I can make a couple of calls!’ I don’t think a man can do much better than that.”

“Not really,” I added.

“No he can’t,” continued Joe. “It’s good for her, too. I work in Korea, send her cash every month, and she lives well down here, man. It’s cheap livin’. And plus, I’m out of her hair for several months a year, which is no skin off her back, I’m sure.”

“Whatever works,” Steve said.

“Yeah, some people may think it’s a bit weird. I’ll admit: it isn’t everyone’s bag, but different strokes for different folks and all of that… I’m a pretty happy man.”

He turned off the main road onto a dirt track.

“Well, here’s the palace.”

We pulled off onto the paved driveway and Joe parked under a little carport constructed to protect his Toyota from the ravages of the tropical sun and rain. A basketball backboard and hoop sat atop a metal pole nearby.

“That’s my baby,” Joe said with pride. “The kids around here think I’m some sort of a god. There aren’t too many Thais with a regulation-height basketball hoop on their concrete driveways, man. You guys up for some hoops tomorrow?”

“Sure thing,” replied Steve.

Fatima came out to greet us as we stepped out of the car. She was a short, plump woman with dark skin and that lighthouse smile that so many Thais seem to possess.

“Welcome,” she said.

“Thanks for having us.”

The kids stood in front of the main door, obviously ordered out by their mother to greet the rare visitors. The boy was tall and handsome and must have been about seventeen. He looked more Western than Thai, with his father’s strong jaw, cheekbones, and sinewy build. The girl was a few years younger and quite shy.

“This is my son Jacob,” said Joe.

“Nice to meet you,” said the son in fluent-sounding English.

Joe eyed him with pride. “He’s finishing high school this year and is going to ship off to the States to join the navy. That’s right, this draft-dodger’s kid is gonna join the military… hehehe.” Joe slapped him on the shoulder. “But I told him that he really has no choice if he wants to go to college. His old man just doesn’t have the bread to finance such a venture. Do you even know how much out-of-state tuition costs these days?”

“A lot,” Steve confirmed.

“My brother was in the navy,” I said, attempting to encourage Jacob.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said. “Eventually I’d like to work for the State Department, so some military experience won’t hurt.

“I’m impressed,” I said.

The timid girl gave us a weak wave after we greeted her.

“Her name’s Sarah,” said Joe. “She’s pretty shy, plus her English has a ways to go.”

As we walked into the house, we were greeted with the mystic aroma of Thai food on the stove. Sweet and spicy flavors penetrated the air, and my mouth flooded in anticipation.

“Fatima has prepared a welcome meal for you guys. Fish curry soup? I hope you’re okay with it.”

*

The next day, after humiliating myself on Joe’s driveway basketball court (his shot from the line was indeed deadly), we boarded the little blue Toyota for a driving tour around the region. What struck me was how nice the roads were, even though we were in one of the poorer parts of the country. Thailand’s infrastructure basically works, with a system of sealed roads that would make some of the more rural states back home blush. The town of Chang Rai was modern, with cash machines on every corner and plenty of wizened old European expats settling in for late-morning retirement beers. We could also see signs of prosperity from the other vehicles on the road. We saw a lot of SUVs and brand-new Japanese pickup trucks that day, which is the vehicle of choice in Thailand.

As we pressed north, we stopped off at a large stone stupa that was over a thousand years old. Steve and I couldn’t pass on the opportunity to pick up a few tapestries done in the northern Thai style that were hawked by some women just next to the structure. Next we visited a museum dedicated to the history of the Golden Triangle, but the only thing that stuck with me was a famous photo from the sixties of a group of US GIs holding a fifteen-foot Mekong catfish. We drove by an immense golden Buddha statue that had been purchased and erected by a “Burmese drug lord,” according to Joe, and after lunch we pulled off to the side of the road and climbed an observation post overlooking the confluence of the River Ruak and the molasses mass of the Mekong.

“You are now looking at the actual Golden Triangle,” proclaimed Joe. That’s Laos over there, directly across. See those burnt-out fields? Those used to be opium poppies, man. Acre after acre of them. But the Lao government has decided to start playing nice with the international community, and now they’re all gone.”

“We’ll be going there the day after tomorrow,” I said.

“Don’t worry. I’ll take you to the proper border crossing. A few years ago a couple of dumb European hippies attempted to swim across the Mekong down there, into Laos.”

I looked onto the big river cutting its swath, defining borders. The early afternoon sun reflected off the chocolate waters with luminous intensity.

“One of ‘em was shot dead by a Lao border guard. Right through the back, man. The other bozo had the good sense to turn back.”

“Ah, shit,” said Steve. “There goes our plan to swim to Laos.”

“Over there, on the other side of the Riak: that’s Myanmar, or Burma if you feel like calling it that. See those green fields. Those are real poppies, man.”

“What, they just grow them openly?” Steve asked.

“Sure, man! What’s anyone going to do? Besides, the government isn’t even really in control in these parts. Half the country is run by drug thugs and warlords. I’ve been there.”

My interest was piqued. “Really?”

“Yeah, man, really.” He lowered his voice. “Dig it: A few years back I went to Yangon and bought ten grand worth of emeralds and smuggled ‘em back to the States… in my ass. Unloaded them for quadruple the price. Good bread, but some sketchy stuff, man. I was in and out—one time. I’m not in the mood to tempt fate, if you know what I mean.”

“I’ve always wanted to go there,” I said.

“Well, you can go today if you want.”

“Really?”

“Sure, man. There’s a crossing just twenty minutes from here.”

Steve looked at me and then shrugged: “Why not?”

“Cool, man. Let me take you.”

Tachileik is a Burmese border town just down from meeting of rivers that makes up the heart of the Golden Triangle. It lies across from the Thai town of Mae Sai, and is open for foreigners as a day-trip destination. Most people just pop across to get that exotic MYANMAR IMMIGRATION stamp in their passport and to have a peek into a country that, up until recently, was little visited by outsiders. These are the reasons we went, in addition to the fact that if anyone ever asks you the question “Do you want to go to Burma right now?” you emphatically answer “YES.”

“Here’s the deal: you pay the border guard five bucks US, and they’ll stamp your passport as well as give you a slip of paper that acts as your temporary visa. It’s good just for the day, and you’re not allowed to leave the actual town of Tachileik. There’s not so much to see there anyway, but have a walk around for an hour or so, and then you can tell all your friends that you’ve been to Myanmar.”

Joe parked the car and pointed us toward the border crossing.

“There it is. You got your passports on you?”

“Yup,” Steve said.

“Aren’t you coming?” I asked.

“Nahhhh, man. I’ve been many times before. You guys have some fun.”

Steve and I walked with our little backpacks toward the border, assaulted by the afternoon sun which had now cranked the heat up to an angry sizzle. I was greasy with sweat and parched in the throat. I could also feel the effects of fatigue setting in, amplified by the tropical oven around us. When I looked over to Steve, I saw that he felt the same. We were crossing into Burma and already pissy about it.

The Thai guards quickly stamped us and waived us through. We strolled over the “friendship bridge” that spanned the trickle of a stream between the two nations, and soon found ourselves on the Burmese side of things. The officers wore pseudo-military, olive-green uniforms, and scanned the pages of our passports with bored, bloodshot eyes. After a lengthy perusal, my gatekeeper sneered my way and held up the fingers and thumbs of his right hand.

“Five dollars!”

My Lincoln was ready to go, and I handed it over at once.

Kachunk! I had my stamp.

Joined by Steve, I walked into Burma.

We were assaulted by a pack of touts as soon as we crossed the threshold. They were lying in wait, like leopards that hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“Postcard?”

“Cigarette?”

“DVD?”

“Bag?”

“Water? Drink?”

“Cigarette?”

“DVD?”

“Bag?”

“Postcard?”

This was repeated on loop—over and over again—as the touts locked step with us and buzzed like a swarm of gnats. They never gave an inch of ground, following us as we made our way down the little road that led from the border and funneled us into a sad market.

Steve looked my way: “Well THIS sucks.”

“Yeah…”

The market sold assorted goods—CD players, TVs, electronic toys, blankets, cookware, and clothing—but none of it interested us. It could have been a market anywhere in Asia, full of things that neither Steve nor I had the slightest need for. But the vendors jumped to their feet when they saw us approach with our mob of hangers-on, motioning to their wares with the intensity and desperation that only oppression and crushing poverty can produce. Everybody wanted a piece of us, and glared our way with needy vampire eyes. And the harder they tried to sell, the more determined we became not to buy a thing.

And we didn’t.

“Fuck this,” said Steve, brushing away the hand of a man clutching a leather wallet for sale. “We got our stamp. Let’s go back to Thailand. This is just… sad.”

“I have never agreed with you more, sir.”

And with that, we turned around and left the forbidden mystery of Burma.

*

Fatima laid out the spread once more that night with a savory, fiery green chicken curry, lime soup, and the wide fried-egg noodle dish known as pad see ew. Steve and I washed down the huge feed with a couple bottles of Singha, and then sat up with Joe while he held court.

Smokin’ Joe wasn’t a drinker, but as his nickname suggests, he liberally blazed weed. He smoked often and mightily. He was essentially a hippy—a long-haired child of the sixties and early seventies who was always in search of the mellowest of grooves and it should come as no surprise that pot gave this to him. When Joe smoked, he relaxed and opened up; for him, it had none of the dulling, stupefying effect that it has on some. It seemed to help him focus, even.

He loaded his pipe, lit the bowl, and took a long deep drag. I could hear the dried-out Thai dope crackle under the heat of the flame. He exhaled a bluish cloud and said, “This isn’t so easy to find these days. Things have been pretty dry since the crackdown in 2002.”

“The crackdown?” asked Steve.

“Yeah… in 2002 the Thai government and police declared war on drugs—and we’re not talking like the fake ‘War on Drugs’ back at home. These guys were not fucking around. The cops hunted down known drug dealers all across the country and executed them, straight-up. There was no trial, no due process… just a bullet through the head, man. Over 2,000 people were murdered. There was an international outcry over it at the UN. Heavy stuff, man. Ever since then the weed sellers have been a lot more discreet, if you know what I mean.”

Joe sparked the lighter and took another deep hit. He exhaled and leaned against the door leading out of the kitchen, tapping on the side of his pipe, lost in thought. Outside, a chorus of frogs and insects struck up their symphony. Joe looked up toward the ceiling with those big dark eyes for a nearly a minute, before carrying on.

“Did I ever tell you guys how I drove the old Hippy Trail?”

“You’ve mentioned it before,” said Steve, “but I’ve never gotten the details.”

“Well I did it. I drove from Paris to Kabul—that’s Afghanistan… twice, man. I did it two times. Totally overland. You couldn’t even dream of doing the same trip today.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Paris to Kabul? Through Iraq and Iran?”

“Sure as shit, man. But let me tell you how I ended up in Europe in the first place.”

Steve cued him: “Weren’t you a draft-dodger?”

“That I was. The Vietnam War was raging at the time and guess what? Old Joe’s number came up. That’s right, man, Uncle Sam wanted me to pick up a gun and go kill me some Vietcong, but I’d be damned if I was gonna go along with such a plan. So I decided to skedaddle.”

“To Europe?” I asked.

“Yeah. Fuck Canada, man. They were sending people back at that time. It just wasn’t safe. And my parents, thank God, were on my side, so they sprung for a plane ticket to Sweden, where, upon landing, I requested political asylum. And guess what, man? They gave it to me! They let me stay! They set me up with an apartment, a job at a bakery, and even bought me a brand-new suit.”

Steve couldn’t believe it: “They. Gave. You. A. Suit.”

“Yeah, man, and a nice one too. Good fit, but at the time I wasn’t so much one for wearing a suit and tie. Hell, I’m still not, if you know what I mean. Now there weren’t too many American draft-dodgers in Sweden at the time. In fact, I believe that I was the only one. So, as you can imagine, I became a bit of a cause célèbre. I got invited to parties with politicians and filmmakers and met a lot of nice blonde Swedish girls, who were every bit as lovely… and horny… as I had been led to believe.”

“Wow,” I just nodded and waited for more.

“Sweden was great. I had it made there, but the problem was I was kind of trapped. I couldn’t really leave the place, and moreover… there was no good acid to be had. It wasn’t like California, man. We were the LSD capital of the world, and suddenly I found myself in a cold Scandinavian country with no real heads and nothing decent to drop. So I took it upon myself to rectify the situation.”

“What?” asked Steve. “You made acid?”

“Nahhh, man. I had a dealer buddy of mine from L.A. send me a bunch. In a Tampax box… but I got busted.”

“How?”

“Customs, man. They checked that shit out, and before you know it I went from golden boy refugee to convicted criminal. They sent me to prison.”

“What’s Swedish prison like?” I enquired.

“Let me just tell you this,” Joe said. “If you ever have to go to prison, it should be in Scandinavia, because they are some enlightened souls. It was only ‘prison’ in that you couldn’t leave… or more like you weren’t supposed to leave. There really weren’t any guards. It was more a luxurious work camp. I had my own small apartment, and would work a few hours every day cutting wood. But I had clean clothes, hot food, and everything I needed provided for me.”

Steve asked, “So how long was your sentence?”

“Three years. But after just one I got restless. I’m like that, man. I got some itchy feet and can’t be penned up. So one day, after serving about a year on my sentence, I just walked away.”

“It was that easy?” I said.

“Yeah… there were no barbed-wire fences or guard towers. The whole thing was pretty much run on the honor system. Crazy, yeah.”

“Yeah, crazy.”

“So eventually I make it down to West Germany and am hanging out in Hamburg. I stay there for a few months and really got it going on. I’m dealing hash and got a nice apartment and a brown-haired German girlfriend… I’m in my early twenties and loving it, but it all went crashing down, man. I got busted by the German cops for hash possession and deported back to Sweden!”

“Ah man!” I said. “Tough break, Joe.”

“Yeah, but I deserved it, man. The Swedes were good to me and I fucked it all up. So I went back to Sweden and served out the rest of my sentence… by now it was ‘73, and I still couldn’t go back home, so I decided to hit the Hippy Trail.”

“I’ve heard bits and pieces,” I said, “but never really knew what people meant by the ‘Hippy Trail.’”

“Well,” said Joe, taking another puff off the pipe and exhaling. “You, sir, are talking to the right man. The Hippy Trail refers to a popular route connecting Europe and Asia that was traveled by a certain group of young, dope-smokin’, long-haired freaks in the ’60s and ’70s. It started in Paris, went through Istanbul and Turkey, and then crossed Iraq and Iran. It then branched off in a few directions, which lead either to the beaches of Goa in the south, or Katmandu, Kashmir, and Kabul up north. People went to these places because they were beautiful, dirt cheap—you could literally survive on pennies a day—and had the best hash on the planet, which was pretty much sold openly in those days. This Hippy Trail was a brief flash of beauty which has since been erased by war and religious bigotry, but it DID exist… it was a real, doable thing… and I ran the fucker twice in a ‘66 Citroën.”

Steve sighed. “That must have been just amazing.”

“It was, man. It was. It was, by far, the coolest thing I have ever done. But it wasn’t without its dangers. Cops would shake you down. One time I got arrested in the middle of Iran—this was the Shah’s Iran, mind you, full of brutal, nasty pigs—they caught me with a nodge of hash and threw the both us in the jail in the middle of fucking nowhere… me and my old lady at the time. Iran is a big, empty country in places. It reminds me of Nevada, all desert and mountains and open space. Luckily I was able to bribe the night guard, or who knows how long I would have rotted away in that cold cell…”

“You got lucky,” Steve remarked.

“Yeah I did, man. But I wasn’t so lucky once I went back to America.”

“When did you return?”

“‘75, during the Ford administration. I had been told that it was safe to go back, that Ford was going to pardon all of the draft-dodgers, but… that was some serious misinformation, man… because I was arrested and thrown in L.A. County jail as soon as I got off the plane. That’s right, L.A. County. This was a world away from my cushy little cell back in Sweden. This was REAL jail. I was locked up with rapists and murderers. These guys were animals, man… and you know what?”

Joe’s face darkened.

“My first week there, I had to suck a guy’s dick. Mexican dude.”

“Why?” asked Steve.

“Well, it was pretty simple. He grabbed me and said, ‘Suck my dick, or I’ll kill you.’ So… I sucked his dick, right then and there. I didn’t really consider the alternative at the time. In fact, I still don’t.”

Steve sighed. “Wow.”

“Yeah, hard times. But I managed to secure protection from a black gang. My parents sent money to my prison account, so I was able to buy them enough cigarettes to guarantee that I’d never have to take another dick in my mouth for the rest of the time I was in lockup. These guys were big and black and didn’t take shit from no one, man.”

“Good guys to have on your side,” I said.

“Yessirree… well, I stayed in that jail until Jimmy Carter was elected in ‘76. On his first day in office, he pardoned all the draft-dodgers, which included ol’ Joe, here. I was a free man.”

He looked both of us in the eyes and smiled: “I bet you’ve never heard anything quite like that before, now have you?”

*

The next morning, we repacked our bags and threw them into the back of his Toyota. After some goodbyes and a few photos with the family, we pulled out of his concrete driveway and made our way north toward the border with Laos.

“You guys in any sort of hurry?” Joe asked.

“Nah, not really,” Steve said. “We plan on staying in Hoixai tonight and taking a boat to Luang Prabang in the morning.

“Good,” said Joe. “Let’s take a little detour.

Soon we were off the main road, heading up a dirt track into the nearby hills. The jungle immediately enveloped us as the little two-wheel-drive vehicle strained and groaned up the rutted dirt road. Tree branches slapped the windshield and scraped the sides and roof of the compact car.

“It’s good you came now,” Joe said. “In the rainy season, this road is impassible. Just a giant mud track, man.”

Underneath the canopy of trees, the dirt retained a lot of its moisture, and it still rained periodically during the dry season, resulting in some residual puddles and mud patches through which Joe gingerly piloted the vehicle.

“Where are we going?” I finally asked.

“There are some hill-tribe villages up this way. You could take the tour with the thousands of other tourists, or go on Joe Excursions instead! I’m tellin’ you man, no other farang ever head up here. What you’re gonna see is pretty pure stuff.”

Eventually we came down a dip in the road and climbed back up again. At the top were some locals getting down with some serious labor. A pile of logs lay stacked on the side of the track. The men were hauling the logs down an adjacent path into the nearby village.

“Looks like they could use a hand,” Joe said.

Before I knew it, I was underneath a heavy piece of freshly cut timber, helping to tote it down the slick trail the cluster of houses. Wood smoke hung in the air as we approached the tiny village. Chickens ran free and pigs rooted in the dirt. Children stared from entranceways of the huts as we passed, finally depositing the wood at a small construction site where the men were erecting a new house. We repeated the trip three more times, until all the wood had been ferried into the village from the road.

“These are the Akha people,” said a winded Joe. “They emigrated from China about a hundred years ago. They’re a pretty common ethnic group in this area of northern Thailand.”

The men in the village wore jeans and T-shirts and to me were nearly indistinguishable from any other Thais I’d seen, though they seemed a bit smaller and darker skinned, as all country folk in Southeast Asia tend to be from working outside their whole lives. The women, on the other hand, wore the distinctive clothing that identified them as Akha—black tunics with brightly colored bands sewn on, and headdresses adorned with silver studs, baubles, and beads. They watched on from a slight distance; one glanced up while nursing her baby, shyly smiling at these three foreigners suddenly pitching in on the new construction project.

We lingered in the village for about twenty minutes, snapping a few discreet photos while Joe made small talk with some of the men in broken Thai. I’d never visited a “minority village” before and had read about some of the pros and cons. At the very least, I didn’t want to fall into the objectification that so many of us are guilty of when visiting such tribes—the “look at the quaint people here for our photo-taking pleasure” syndrome. The good thing was that, like Joe had said, this particular tribe wasn’t generally visited by outsiders. They were off the tourist circuit. As a result, the village hadn’t been gussied up for our pleasure. It was a bit shabby, with plenty of plastic bottles and other refuse scattered about the place, and some of the residents looked like they could do with a bath, or at least a change of clothes. It was a real, lived-in place and not a museum piece; we were greeted with no traditional dances or women hawking jewelry. No one asked us for any money at all, unless you count the guy offering to sell us some opium as we walked back toward the car.

As we made our way back to the main road and pressed on north, Joe made another detour, this time to a natural lake rimmed by tropical forest. Clouds had now moved in, obscuring the sun and bathing the body of water in morose shades of grey. We passed by a small guesthouse and observed a few small houses on the lakeshore, but otherwise the place remained in its beautiful, natural state. Joe stopped the car and we got out.

“I love this place,” he said. “But take it in while you still can. Because what you see is going to be gone in a year or two. They’re going to put in a multi-million-dollar vacation housing development that is just going to destroy the place as we know it, not to mention make it off limits for all the local people… gates, guards, the whole kit and caboodle. This is happening all over the country. All the good land is getting snatched up by big money and being turned into luxury bullshit. It’s not just Thailand—it’s the story world over.” He looked down and shook his head and then gazed out at the glassy water. “I’m lucky to have seen it while I could, because man, this is not the world I want to live in. They’re just ruining everything.”

We silently got back into the car, and thirty minutes later we were at the border. An immigration station flew the Thai tricolor, with the Mekong River surging behind it.

“There she is,” Joe said, pointing to the radio tower and settlement on the far bank. “The People’s Democratic Republic of Laos.”

“It’s interesting how pretty much any country with the word ‘democratic’ in its title is never anything of the sort,” remarked Steve.

“Ah man. You guys are gonna have a great time,” Joe said. “I wish I could come with you.”

“You can!” I said. “You have your passport?”

“Yeah, but I gotta get back to the wife and kids… I just can’t up and leave right now. But I really wish I could.”

“We’d love to have you,” said Steve. “I guess I’ll see you back in Korea.”

“On the court!” Joe said, pantomiming a free throw.

“Be well, Joe.” I wrapped him in an embrace.

“You too, man. Let’s hang out together in Korea sometime.”

“Sure thing, Joe. Sure thing.”

There was virtually no line at Thai immigration, and soon we were stamped, ushered through, and aboard the wooden longboat to take us to across the river. As we chugged away from the shore, Smokin’ Joe stood up on the embankment and waved, his grey ponytail blowing in the afternoon breeze.

*

Gino took the last piece of pork from the grill, dipped it in some samjang, and wrapped it in a sesame leaf. “No one knew he was sick. None of us.”

“It wasn’t his style to let on,” said K. “At the end of the day, Joe was a very private guy who did things on his terms.”

“I should have put two and two together,” continued Gino. “When I went to visit him in Thailand—just before I headed out to Nepal—I thought he looked even more gaunt than usual. And he wasn’t eating any of his wife’s amazing food. He’d just have some yogurt. When I asked him about it, he just said he had stomach problems at the time.”

Gino popped the wrapped pork into his mouth and chewed.

“You know he was a no-show at his own going-away party?” said K. “Well, he was sixty-four years old, which may as well be a hundred and ten for an English teacher in Korea. The university finally sent him packing, but he had money saved and a big pension, so none of us were too worried. Joe always landed on his feet.”

“An extremely adaptable man,” Gino noted.

“So I organized a going-away party for him and invited all of the Busan Bangers, since those were pretty much the only people he knew in town anyway. But I noticed, the week before, that he didn’t show up to ball on either Wednesday, Friday, or Sunday, which was unlike him, because I knew he was still in town. So the day before the party, I texted his girlfriend who responded with the following words: Joe left Korea last night.”

Gino laughed. “Classic. But making a fuss? That just wasn’t Joe’s style.”

“No it wasn’t,” said K. “But he did come back two months later to collect his pension money and grab the rest of his things. And get this: he showed up for ball. He was obviously tired, thinner than usual, and sluggish, but he showed up. JOE WILL PLAY. And he did. He played. But that night…” K leaned in and looked hard into my eyes. “That night was the first time in fourteen years of knowing the guy that Joe looked old. And it was the last time I ever saw him.”

Joe died on Valentine’s Day, 2012. K was informed via text message. Joe’s daughter sent the news to his Korean girlfriend, who forwarded it to K, who then passed it on to the Busan Bangers, as well as me. It took everyone by surprise.

“He had pancreatic cancer,” said K, “which is one hundred percent terminal. Once you are diagnosed with it, it’s not a matter of if, but when.”

“But he never let on,” said Gino, as the server took away the blackened grill and bowl of dying coals. “He told none of us. There were hints though. You know, when I visited him in Chiang Rai we were up one night, in the kitchen, talking. I told him about my plans to visit Nepal and hike the Annapurna trek… he became very excited and went away for couple of minutes. When he came back, he handed me a photograph that he’d taken of Annapurna in ‘74. It was a gorgeous picture, capturing the whole mountain on one of those rare sunny days when most of it is visible. He said, ‘Take it. I want you to have it.’ So I did, and not only that, I used it as the cover shot for my record.”

Gino reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of his recently released CD, Annapurna. I examined it. On the front was a brilliant color photo of the famous mountain, taken and given to him by the man himself.

“Well there’s not just that,” K remarked, lowering his voice. “It’s rumored that Joe had a massive stash. Something had to get him through those long stretches here in Korea. Some say that before he left the country, he bequeathed it to a worthy recipient.” He shrugged and held up his hands, palms out. “Mind you, I know nothing. This is just an unconfirmed report, but I think it’s safe to say that Joe’s legacy lives on to this day.”

“It’s out there,” said Gino. “Somewhere…”

“And that’s exactly the way Joe wanted it,” added K.

This news warmed me up inside. I felt a strange satisfaction that Smokin’ Joe had imparted his hippy ways onto others, even well after death. After all, Korea could do with a bit more grooviness.

Smiling, I reached for the check.

PUBLICATION CREDITS

Cobra

- Published as “Eating Snake in Saigon,” Monkeygoggles, May, 2010

- Published as “Eating Snake in Saigon,” Road Junky, March, 2011

Into the Wild West

- Portions published as “From Shanghai to Kashgar: Crossing China along the Silk Road,” Homely Planet, September, 2009

- Portions published as “Three Ugly Americans Go to Shipton’s Arch,” Monkeygoggles, October, 2010

Glimpses of Sumatra

- Portions published as “Into Sumatra,” Haps Magazine, March 2012

Big in Japan

- Portions published as “In Japan with the Muthafuckin’ Taint,” Homely Planet, December, 2006

Moscow on the South China Sea

- Homely Planet, January, 2013

The Worst Motorcycle in Laos (Winner of the Solas Awards Men’s Travel Gold, 2008)

- Traveler’s Tales, February, 2008

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This book has been ten years in the making, and it would never have happened without the help and support of tons of people along the way.

First I’d like to thank my editor Marshall Moore, along with the rest of the team at Signal 8 Press. Next up is Steven K. Feldman, whose sharp eye and spot-on instincts helped along several key pieces, even though he was paid only in chicken and beer.

I’d also like to thank the people who supported and published some of these essays early on, including David Wahl and Geoff Carter at the much-missed Monkeygoggles, as well as the folks at Road Junky and Travelers’ Tales. The same goes for Bobby McGill and everyone at Haps.

Much of what makes this book are the people in it. Friends became regular characters, and I am deeply indebted to the following folks: Sam Hazelton, David Scraggs, Johnny Ioannidis, Kenneth May, Gino Brann, Stuart Driscoll, Skerik, Joe Doria, Matt Rafferty, Scott Knackstedt, English Simon, and of course, Joseph Louis Avallone, whose spirit hopefully lives on in the final chapter of this book.

I’d also like to thank Kevin Hockmuth, John Bocskay, and Scott Evans for acting as soundboards, comrades, and confidantes over many a beer throughout this process. I also owe a special thanks to Mike Laveck for his last minute sharp eyes. Thanks, too to the ragged crew at Sweet Pickles & Corn for putting forth some damned good writing.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my family back in the States for their continual love, support, and encouragement of me as a writer.

Finally, I’d like to thank my wife, Minhee Kim-Tharp, for her ideas, advice, love, built-in bullshit detector, and endurance of my neurosis throughout the hills and valleys that come with writing a book.