“Fourty”, I said with a wink. He nodded. After a quick reassuring squeeze of my knife, I tossed my bag in the Egyptian taxi bound for the armpit of Cairo. The cabs final destination was a location on the fringe of downtown and the slums, where the nights are untamed, dark, dingy, cheep. It’s a place where the white boys don’t roam.
The cab driver, like most in the third world, brought up an awkward conversation dealing with sex. I ceased his banter by telling him the cost of my hostel room. (which was $2.66)
“Impossible! NO hotel in Cairo under 50 Egyptian Pounds!($9.35)”
I put my overused, cocky, I know everything look on my face and attempted to bet him half the cab fare. We shook upon it, but I knew he was confused about the word hostel and would never pay up.
At one look at me, the guy at the front desk called over his companion who could translate into English.
“22 pounds. Own room,” his interpreter said.
“Anything cheaper?” I inquired.
“With 6 person. 14.25 pounds.”
“I’ll Take it!”
I entered a dorm room filled with loud men yelling in Arabic and they were instantly silenced. “Hi”, I said weakly, to break the silence. They just stared.
“Crap! What the heck am I doing!” I thought, “Of course, the one very important phrase I forgot to ask the cab driver was a greeting! What am I going to do… Damnnit, I should’ve paid the extra 2 bits for my own room.”
I just stood there in the doorway, staring into the five sets of blinking unbelieving eyes. Finally, an older gentleman stepped forward. He was heavy set man with a round sweaty face, his blank slightly open mouth changed quickly into a smile and with a strong English accent, he offered some relief.
“Welcome, where are you from?”
Not realizing I’ve been holding my breath, I gasped, “California!”
“Aww, Hotel California!”
I’ve been saying California the entire trip to ease ideas of USA’s terrible foreign policy and Bush’s war mongering in Iraq and my California crutch leaves foreigners with thoughts of surfing, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Hollywood, Arnold Schwarzenegger, and as he just mentioned the hotel you can check out from but never leave.
Further discussion with this guy reviled that this dormitory was mainly used by students attending the local university and generally tourists like myself never come this far outside town, although, I don’t remember much of what he said… as I was focused on remembering a word that sounded like ef-en, which is Arabic for lock. There were lockers in each room perfectly sized for a bag as large as mine, but I didn’t have an ef-en lock, and it was getting ef-en late.
The man at the front desk said, “say ef-en to him.” Then pointed to a scraggly man across the street, hidden in the shadows like a drug dealer. I approached cautiously with an expectation of getting murdered or handed drugs, but I did as exactly instructed. Without a glance my way, change of expression, or any words, the scraggly character pointed down a dark empty corridor and my ef-en feet feebly followed his filthy ef-en finger.
“Crap! What the heck am I doing!” I thought, “Damnnit, I should’ve paid the extra 2 bits for my own room.”
The alley led me to a plump kid covered in dirt. “ef-en?” He looked up and smiled with the whitest teeth I’ve seen in this country. He shouted ef-en! and grabbed my hand dragging me further down the dark alley. At a wild run he would make random turns down different corridors, knocking me through crowds of people, and and occasionally turn and shout ef-en! I had no idea where he was ef-en taking me or if I would be able find the ef-en way back.
It was an hour later when I stepped triumphantly through the hostel doors. I now had a lock and a full belly of street food.
That night I sat on the top bunk of my bed and answered questions from the boys in the room using some of the English speaking men as personal translators. The questions were mainly the same as that of the cab driver: What are the women like in America? Sex? Dating? and anything related to topics concerning relations. Recalling information absorbed from sitcoms and books with Fabio on the cover, I would tell long descriptive tales of my made up sex life. Most of the boys just listened with big watery eyes and some occasional called others into the room to listen. Word traveled fast and by the end of the night I was talking to more than 15 guys packed into the tiny room. Talking about sex to a crowd of men, this must be what diplomacy is.
“Glad I didn’t pay the extra two bits for my own room.”
June 2nd, 2008
Greece’s rail network is dilapidated because the rugged terrain is more easily traveled by buses not excepting eurorail passes. Not realizing this, I dawdled about town and missed my infrequent southbound train.
The town of Patras extends from the sea up one mile to the top of a dry Mediterranean bush mountain, where a fort stands in vigil. This was going to be my home for the evening but every road that dead ended into the hillside, looked like it would give me access. But when I approached the actuality of it, was a 8 foot triple barbwire fence, with no way around. It wasn’t possible to slug my 18kg (40 lbs – just had it weighed) backpack over sharp metal 8 feet off the ground, in midday, without drawing attention to myself. I had to find another way.
The only access was through a old mans backyard… and there he was. A short, fat, old funny looking, bald man, who’s silver hair reached back like the head of a cobra. His large eyes were covered by years of wrinkle buildup, leaving only the two beady remains. I pictured him wearing a fedora and carying a violin suitcase.
“Yep he’s ex-greek-mob,” I thought.
He was struggling with brooms to shift large sheets of corrugated metal on his half finished carport. I smiled as I walked by, thinking of him gunning people down and taking territory for the Greek Don. He saw my smug tourist look and my large backpack and said, “Hallo!”… I returned him a ‘Yasu’ and offered him help with the roof in hope he would let me camp in the backyard.
“Jus a minute! Jus a minute!” he said and thought to himself. It started me, not because he stopped to think, but the way he shouted just a minute and repeated it twice, as if he had turret syndrome. “Not outside! No. Stay inside. I haf a e’tra room. Nece batchlor paed!”
Turns out he is a Greek slumlord maniac.
“COME, Come! Follow me! Follow me!” he shouted excitedly as we descended a flight of stairs into the basement and then another into the deeper darker sub-basement. Like a journey through the earth, it was musty and damp I half expected to dodge stalactites hanging from the ceiling. We finally reached were the magma was and he traverserst over to a narrow corridor, walked all the way to the end, flung the door open and said, “Your room! Bachelor paed!”
Exactly as I expected, solid concrete box with a crapper in the corner, sink, bed, and no windows. I thought, “Oh goodie! When does my cellmate arrive so I can get rapped, shank him with a widled down mess hall spork, forcing me into the Arian brotherhood for protection, where ultimately my ass gets tossed around like a baseball for membership fees.”
“Looks good,” I told him.
“You have book to read?” I noded and he disappeared into the dark corridor, door slamming behind him. I carefully studied the room. The walls were painted bright white with one torn wallpaper accent wall, of some generic flowers and stripes, the wallpaper was once pink but now was a faded yellow. In the center of the wall was a tacked up colored paper plate for a wall hanging, as I approached, it developed into stuffed striped jackalopes from a child’s television program called ‘The Fimbles’. They were creepy little devils and the Dr. sussian background made them seem that much more ominous. The bed was firm, but in a good way, which I enjoyed. The pillow was a rectangular chunk of styrofoam that condensed as much as a block of granite and was twice as sharp. The crapper flushed by reaching inside the tank and pulling up on the stopper. Good thing was, access inside the tank was easy; the lid was missing. Hanging on the sink was a toothbrush, shampoo, warn underwear, and a leather belt. I wondered about the last person who was in here and why they left their belongings behind, when George, that was his name, burst through the door with a can of Amstel Beer and a platter of vegetables and bread dipped in olive oil.
“You are hungry,” he demanded and I was.
He dropped the platter on the bed, asked what time my train was leaving and again, if I had books to read, then disappeared as fast as he came in.
I read a frighting, deep, section of my book before bed. It was about the main character. He carelessly knocked up a girl and is forced into the streets of New York searching for an illegal back alley abortionist. He failed and she was forced to find her own. I had nightmares.
In the morning, George knocked on the door. I told him to come in and in he did, he flew in. His large hands holding coffee, cookies, and a bottle of brandy.
“Goud start to a day!” he shouted. He poured the brandy into a shot glass he brought out from his pocket. ”Hafe some!”
“I don’t want to drink alone, have one with me.”
“I already ded. DRINK! Drink!” he laughed as he poured me a second one.
I told him yesterday I would help him a bit more on the garage before taking off at noon. Every time something worked out right he responded with a crazy wine and smile. ”Goud ‘s Gould!” Sometimes he would go into some yelling frenzy about a key and one hundred euros. I never understood, but nodded accordingly, sometimes adding a ‘that’s not fair’. We worked for about an hour before he stopped.
“Jus a minute! Jus a minute!” he huffed. “You work to hard. Les rest and eat.”
I had no objections, but couldn’t help thinking that this isn’t be the same nervous, wild George? Laziness overtook him and he was like a collapsed bridge. The bottle rocket of George had popped, but he had been making a large pot of vegetable chicken potato stew. It tasted alright, but then he produced this gorgeous brick of the BEST FETA I’d ever tasted. I made up my mind to spend another night helping out this nut and finishing this great block of cheese.
“Goud ‘s Gould!” he exclaimed and poured me another glass of wine.
“Sure is,” I thought, licking my lips… staring at the cheese.
May 31st, 2008
The day shot off with a bang when I traded a used Italian version of Dante’s Inferno, purchased for a euro on the street, for two deep rich down to earth novels. The kind that make you feel insignificant and hadn’t accomplished anything in your life. But then there was that feeling, again. A deep, woozy and uncomfortable felling. Like a foreign insect, trapped withing the bowls of my stomach, and laying devilish eggs that turn into swarms of ravage flys. I killed those bastards with a swig of leftover jagermister.
But, in a night of the living dead sort of way, the flys returned as I boarded the farie to Greece. It took the remaining bottle to fully drown them all… but it also killed my inhibitions.
After storing a backpack, I then wondered the ship like an overachieving eager child solving a labyrinth. Upon reaching a corridor with rows of hotel style bedroom doors, I remembered a story a buddy had once told…
“He was aboard a cruise ship. Bound for some distant exotic place, when he locked eyes with a gorgeous Spanish girl. She didn’t speak a word of English, but it didn’t matter, because she spoke the universal language of love. One thing led to another and he had a place to sleep for the night.”
With this tempting thought in my head, I searched the rows in a fanatic mechanical way, almost maddeningly but…. There she was, a suitable candidate. She was tender, soft, and sweet and smelt of lavender. I could tell she dyed her hair and her makeup was semi-messy, but messy in a cute precious kind of way. Her mannerisms made me fell young again like I was magically transformed into a giddy child. Yes my friends, I found my match. A 75 year old woman, fumbling with her key card.
“Can I help you with that?” I said, in the most tender voice I could muster.
“I just loathe these things,” she sighed in her strong English accent.
“Good,” I thought, “She speaks English. Now I don’t have to try seducing her.”
Thinking that made me laugh out loud, semi-startling her, but I wiped it from my memory and smoothed on the charm.
“Les see what we can do,” I said, “These things are always a pain.”
We tried putting that flimsy card in every direction; bent it in certain spots; even preformed a trick my mother used a the supermarket to get warn credit cards to work, by putting it in a plastic bag. Nothing would get that door open.
“Let’s go to reception so they can figure it out,” I then smiled and poked out my escort elbow and she took it and grabbed her bag with the other. “Here, let me take that from you.” and she reluctantly handed it over.
Turns out the card we were swiping was her meal voucher and her matching door card was safely in her purse, I looked at the card again for any indication of a meal ticket and saw none. Except for a few lines of text they were exactly the same.
“Are you thirsty?” she said, “I want you to meet my husband.”
Knowing perfectly well there was only two twin beds in her room, like a packet of sugar, I dissolved my hope into a glass of jack and coke she purchased for me. We took a seat with three elderly people, her husband and another couple. I smouzed for a little while with these English folks. Then, as they say, excused myself for the Lou.
“Yes!”I exclaimed as I saw the shower in the bathroom and took one immediately. The water was freezing and I felt stumbly when I exited, most likely my overuse of bug killer, but at least I was clean.
I found the younger crowd up on the top deck bar. I bought a German beer and joined a rowdy mixed group of Australians and Americans. They were studying at some university in Italy and heading to Greece during there off week. After nervously introducing myself, I replied with a reverse form of a joke from the movie, Dumb & Dumber.
I exclaimed, “Austria, huh? Gudintah… ince, thrice… hassieustervald!” (the only semi-German sounding words I could come up with at the time)
The joke received mixed reviews… mostly pity laughter.
I answered the usual crap travel questions, “where you from, how long you been traveling, blah blah, etc.” Then, I reconfigured a story told to me by an actual Aussie I met in Florence, but changed key words, like his name and made them my own.
“I was in Melbourne a a pretty fancy dinner party. My buddies where there, this wild guy from the bush that would always speak his mind, some others I didn’t know, and these three beautiful foxy ladies that nobody seamed to know. The guys were a bit apprehensive and kinda wanting to impress these hot women. So, taking the lead, my buddy spoke up and told a story of a crazy woman he met at a party. She wouldn’t leave him alone and was trying to pick up on him all night. He added of course – ‘its wasn’t that she was bad looking, or anything. I simply didn’t have a thing for her personality. So I gently had to let her down and tell her I didn’t like her, she went off crying… ‘ He then made a point of saying how bad he felt about the situation. Then looked to us for some support. We looked at these beautiful girls and shook our heads in reassurance… This wild guy chimed in just then… “AWW! F#@k ‘dat, mate! I wou’da smoked ‘eh. Done ‘eh rotten!”
The beautiful girls looked grossly appalled and we tried best as possible to keep in our laughter, but he most likely just blown his chances and ruined our chances as well.
I finally had the laughter I was looking for at the beginning and I settled down. After about 30 minutes of chit chat I felt comfortable, as if I was amongst an old group of friends. I began telling another tale about how I almost was killed in Chico by a drunk maniac. (I love telling this one because it makes me feel animated and it’s a true story.) During the middle of the story the boat started rocking just a bit too much… and I said abruptly, “Excuse me for a moment.”
The flies weren’t dead and they wanted out. I rushed for the side of the ship and let them fly. I just hung over the sea with a green face for what seemed like a hour. “So much for a bed,” I thought as I swung my head over the rails for the last time and slept on the cold hard deck.
May 29th, 2008
Yeah thats right, I’m going to briefly talk about the movie Highlander. If you would like to skip this, just scroll down until you reach the bold line about Mark and if your not familiar with the movie consider watching it. (Its quite good for a 1990′s semi sci-fi action drama.) However, the usa network (same folks that brought us the award-winning series Monk, played by Tony Shaloup) created a Highlander series that was fantastic, even without Sean Connery. Then again, you listening to a guy who owns the first three seasons of Battlestar Galactica. NERD ALERT!
Ok so I see we lost 90% of our readers — Let me explain. There is a class of humans locked in a epic universal challenge. These so called humans can live forever, with but one weakness; death by decapitation. Upon their decapitation all their power, and the powers of those they killed will be transfered to the killer. Throughout time battles have been won creating very powerful people, but in the end, there can only be one…
Whoops lost the remaining 10% — Mark would have stopped me from writing this… Oh yeah, there is my point!
Mark has gone home to California.
Mark is like Sean Connery in the movie. He paved and prepared me for the path of world adventure, gave me the opportunity, and just like Sean… left me without a companion and fellow traveler. No he didn’t die, but he changed his final departure date and flew back to California a few days ago.
I’m not fully qualified to tell you his reasoning behind this, complicated as they were, one would need a human psychology doctorate in order to begin to devolve. So, feel free to ask him yourself and maybe you can find the answer your looking for… but all I know is he found his.
To tell you the truth I envied him when I boarded the train to the south of Italy. I too was a little homesick. Friends and loved ones faces blurred through my mind in a Los Angeles beaming highway fury. Clawing the landscape has left dirt between my nails and having a place to actually call home, and feelings of settling have already started a foundation… Living like a bum these past few months, with much excitement and many worries., has taken a few years off my existence.
But these feelings instantly vanished as I found my next makeshift home! A vacated haunted mansion at the top of a hill overlooking the city of Salerno on the famous Almalfi Coast of southern Italy. As Robin Leach would say…
With four stories, roof access, and over 20 rooms… this haunted gem boast not only ghosts but fine beach style living fit for a young homeless pauper. Valued at the price of free, as long as you don’t mind the sheets, chains and moans.
The white ghastly beast hung four stories high, on a small cliff side surrounded by trees and a clashing orange building fence, even the color contrast had an hypnotic effect that drew me to it. The bottom floor was all boarded up as if to keep whatever lurked in its confined prison, but there was a bit of scaffolding on the side… where I made my intrusion. Dust scattered, the entire place was gutted but I couldn’t tell if it was a complete renovation of just being hatched.
I carefully and quietly chose a room near the scaffolding, in case a quick exit needed to be made and naturally, the one with the best seaside view. As the sun set on rooftops, I boiled watter for tea, yawned, and swiftly prodded the dust into a pillow.
As I lay shifting restlessly, I heard the sound of footsteps and seen movement amongst the shadows made by the orange low glow of street lamps. I rose from bed, stuck my head around the corner from a spot in the shadows, I carefully checked for visitors. Nothing. It was most likely my vivid imagination but I felt just then: this house had vibes, bad ones.
Even in sleep my body was restless, left and right sides of my mind were racing and just like all the other times, my logical side was losing. I fell into nightmares. They were some of the most terrifying I had ever experienced, jerking me awake and making me breathing heavily. The one I could remember had gleaming bright lights that blinded me as stark white faces looked away from me into the pasty white scenery, as I would attempt to approach to get a better look, ghastly amounts of blood would soak clothes, sheets, and floors; white dissolved into red. Then with a loud “wham” the faces shot around, they were disfigured and bloody, no smiles… just piercing eyes of people I couldn’t recognize.
After two nights of noises and dreams, the last straw fell, making me leave my private mansion. At witching hour, I awoke, looked around and saw nothing. Defensively, I rolled over so my back was against a wall and starred into the room, more importantly the doorway. There I lay apprehensively, sometimes tossing my head upwards when hearing creaks and other sounds in the room above me. The room felt dense and hard to breath. Then finally I relaxed after what seemed like an eternity of stillness and my eyes closed.
Just then, whispers of inaudible hot breath flowed through my ear. I let out a loud “whaa!” and sat straight up and scurried against the wall in fear.
I left early the next day… and only looked back, once. Clouds gathered from behind the mansion and it rained for the next few days. During my hikes through the coastal mountains, the rain felt sticky, like saliva from the condensing warm breath of a mansion coaxing somebody into its dry grip. I never returned.
May 24th, 2008
The blue sky and sunshine almost made me forget the frigged north blown showers that pummeled my makeshift shelter. The well-warn blue tarp protected against the poring rain, but the night air was so cold my breath would instantly condense on the inside, soaking my sleeping bag. After awaking in a strong knotted fetal position, the rest of the morning was spent warming myself beside a pond on a sunlit bench, cradling warm tea, watching the ducks, and attempting to dry my possessions. This utopia, however, was short lived and I had to meet Mark for an early morning train ride further south.
We departed to train around 2:00 PM and wondered the new city of Rotterdam in search of a hostel for Mark and an alley or park for myself. The dorm Mark chose had free luggage storage and a much needed clothes dryer in the downstairs basement. I programed the dryer for Sahara and left for local homeless hangouts to ask around for good sleeping grounds, but on my way I came across the perfect spot in some nearby city garden. Then, returned to Mark’s hostel to check on the status of my clothing where I found trouBle with a capital “B”. Yes my friends, that “B” was a full bottle of Bacardi Rum in another hostel guests hands. He invited me to sit and watch some television and indulge in a few drinks of his Bacardi.
I was one cup short of finishing the bottle with my new companion before Mark wondered in to join us. Realizing there was not enough booze to go around we decided to head out and find a liquor store. In most cases my small body is more than capable to handle this volume of liquor, but because of the absence of food this day and my lack of sleep the night before; this wasn’t going to be one of those cases. I completely blacked out shortly after leaving the basement…
In my entire life, I have only blacked out for this length of time, once. In the safety of my own home in Chico — I was dared to finish a yellow tinted toxic bum wine, that literally turned your mouth black, called Thunderbird. The alcohol caused me to end up naked upon the lawn of an identical looking house, half a mile away from my own. But that is a story for later.
… so I awoke in a weird sleepwalking state down the side of a sidewalk, recalling a dream of me as a ninja running along the rooftop and hopping into the street. At first it was quite normal and relaxing, moonlit stroll along a city landscape. Then, I slowly started recognizing that this walk was real and not a dream. I wasn’t sleeping… How did I get here? Where is my backpack? Why is it night time? And most importantly, where the heck am I?
I desperately plunged my hand into my pocket and searched for a map, thankfully, it was there and allowed me to navigate my way back to the city center and to Mark’s hostel. Along the way I encountered a couple of Asian backpackers trying to locate a place to sleep and told them to follow me.
We pressed the front buzzer and the night watchman answered. Using the couple as a distraction, I rushed downstairs into the basement to grab the backpack I left. It was missing! Not knowing what room Mark was staying in I regrettably had to ask the night watchman.
“Get out of here!” he said.
“I just need to talk to my buddy and find my backpack. His name is…”
He interrupted, “I’ve already kicked you out once tonight!”
“What!?”
“Get out!” he screamed and thrust me out the front door and locked it with a sneer.
Totally confused, I had no choice but to stand outside until he finished signing the Asian couple up for a room. He then opened the door allowing me to speak. After much persuasion, he forced me to sign up for the night. Knowing full well that at the start of the night I only had 10 Euros, I told him that I couldn’t afford to stay. To prove my point I pulled out my wallet to show him, but it was bursting with over 50 Euros. Flabbergasted I payed the dorm fee and walked upstairs to find Mark.
“Hey Mark! Do you know where my backpack is?”
“Did you get my note?”
“No.”
“I gave you a note. Your backpack is right there.”
Needing to find out the entire story I dumbfoundedly walked down into the lobby to ask the night watchman what happened.
“I found you asleep in the kitchen and asked if you were staying here. You just got up and left without saying a word.”
Mark and I attended the complementary breakfast after a restful nights sleep. We agreed he would tell me the entire story during breakfast. We walked into the dining area where quite a laughing few guests reconignised me, and a few came up and shook my hand. “What the hell happened last night, mark?” I asked.
(For your consideration — Even though we insisted on the web site maintaining its PG-13 rating, we both concluded that there would be no other words to describe my actions other than that of, complete asshole. Sure, we contemplated a substitution for the word, jackass but it didn’t convey the complete lack of immorality and disrespect for others that I encountered.)
In the words of Mark here is what happened that day…
Will be continued in the next article. When he bloody writes it! Hurry up Mark!
May 10th, 2008
“You know this area of the park is a meeting place for gay men,” coaxed the smiling police officer, “After dark this place is a red light district for men… Are you gay?”
“I… don’t think so,” I responded. Then, thought to myself… was he joking, trying to get me to leave the park.
“Then you better turn around and join your FRIENDS under the bridge.”
“Sure thing officer!”
Join my friends? I had an idea what friends he was referring to; large groups of tourists who flock into the park to shroom. He probably was referencing, a lame diving maneuver into the bushes to avoid his spotlight. As for the gay men? He must have been joking because I slept in the park the previous night, without “incident”. Although, I did fall into a few cheap bottles of wine, passed out, and hadn’t been awakened by the late night traffic… the sounds of honking on the Hearshey highway.
But, sure as the crap in India, I rounded a corner and saw the equivalent of a broadway production. It was a well lit long stretch of drivable dirt… The left side: was a large moonlit pond lined with small grasses and shrubs, silhouetted with large weeping willows. The right side: had a dark background of deep bushes, each partnered with its own green park bench and overhead streetlight. Under each overhead lamp stood a male figure, for or five in total. The first was very ominous looking; could have been the fear of my virgin behind or the fact that this man towered a full 14 inches over me, or 15 inches while wearing his standard issue prison shoes. His dark face was twisted and wrinkled under the street lamp, looking like a bulldog eating an infant. As he span and snarled in my direction, my heart stopped but my feet kept moving swiftly. (Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t scared of his sexuality. More-so, why this man is out in a park at dark, the idea I could be raped, after all the majority of rapes are committed by men, scares me.) His lit cigarette stare burnt into my soul and I felt used as he eye humped my petite frame and lean backside.
“Sure it may look fresh,” I thought, “but it’s mutton; old, gray, and badly beaten from arduous dirt road bus rides…. Wish I stayed oogling scantly dressed women in red lit windows, along the canal of Amsterdam’s redlight district.”
(Amsterdam has the best marketing scheme I’ve seen the entire trip. The worlds oldest profession right next to the milk at the supermarket, brilliant!)
After the man had finished feasting,I passed the bush where my bag resided. I glanced over trying to determine how best to sneak back into my sleeping spot. After reaching a dark zone outside their range of view, I quickly ran up to the fringe of dark and light, hid behind a tree trunk, and gathered reconnaissance.
My bush was in between a large rose garden and the well lit strip where the men hung like gallery paintings. The only light was moving and generated by a skinny man riding a bicycle. I couldn’t just waltz up to my bush because I would have been backlit and my figure could have been viewed by others in the dark area. In order get a closer look, I crawled along the path, carefully hiding every time the bike light would shine in my direction.
There were two stationary groups and one or two singles heading away from both groups, towards each other. I wondered, “is this where the action happens or just bargaining, before heading elsewhere. (Sorry ya’ll… I wasn’t going to go over and find out.) A few others where sitting in benches just 20 feet away from my bush.
Just then the bike headed my direction on the zig-zaged path. I quickly crawled back to my tree on the fringe and waited until he turned back so the light would disappear. Too many pearling eyes in the garden. I would have to swiftly and quietly crawl for 30 feet, with only shear hope that nobody would walk around that bush. Just then another man appeared into the well lit area and sat on the bench… Yep that’s right, I had one man in a bench behind the bush and another in front, both 20 feet away. After the quick crawl, rest of the operation took 40 minutes of slow, exhausting, statue-like movements and moments of careful breathing.
Once in bed I could finally relax. JUST THEN the question was answered, (the one apologized to you earlier in the story) through a dreadful sound. The answer, sometimes the action does take place here.
“Wait! What if they use this bush!? What if I snore!?”
I knew it was going to be a long knife clutching night. Regardless of my thoughts I awoke safely to park services plucking trash from outside my bush. Hope things are quieter when I return, in order to sleep tonight.
April 14th, 2008
“They DRUNK like anything!” warned the gueshouse owner in his thick accented Hindi announcer voice. “They will rips off all your clothes’s and you will be naked!”
“So,” smirked mark arrogantly.
The shopkeeper smiled stupidly then said, “So… I will laugh at you!”
Mark quickly responded, “Then I will dance for you!” Shaking his hips in a manner only Stephen Dolloff would approve.
The warning was concerning the rowdy Hindu holiday of Holli. A Hindu god approved festival of color, which translates to a city wide gathering of Indians with an excuse to start drinking at 7AM and throw toxic staining chemicals at each other. (The gods also say to celebrate their holiness by pissing, crapping, and throwing garbage in the streets.)
Even though I had been bed ridden for five days of — jockeying the porcelain pony, swabbing the poop deck, taking a deuce, fishing for brown trout, making mud pies, doing John Sheehan’s paperwork — caused by the dysentery received from contaminated left hand prepared Indian food, it would have been a big injustice to our readers if I didn’t attend. (Plus, I needed a story. Lying in bed for five days doesn’t produce many tales… unless you want to hear about record breaking for most greased lightning bowel movements in a 24 hour period.) luckily for us, Shiva descended from the heavens the next day and clogged my drain, allowing me to join in the Hindu celebration.
We searched for hours the night before to find some Holli booze. All the liquor stores were closed and it appeared illegal to sell booze the day before the holiday. All the searching wore me down. So, I gave up hope of drinking like a Hindu and trotted broken-heartedly back to the guesthouse. On the other hand, at great risk to himself, Mark searched on and walked up the dreary stretches of back alley society to find a dirty bottle dealer. He followed a tout offering “hash” into a dark crap filled corner.
“Dis is black market,” said the brown stained dealer.
Mark rolled his eyes, “Sure, whatever… Do you have whiskey?”
“Yeah man, no problem.”
The tout gathered his assistant and they all started bargaining over a large plastic bottle containing some sort of golden mixture, with the largest text belonging to the expiration date. Being the only white object within half a mile of this part of town, Mark was followed by two police men, who broke up the circle. Mark was forced to go his separate way but lucky for us, the transaction had already been completed and he caressed the bottle under his shirt.
I was arranging colored chemical dyes in order of toxicity when Mark burst through the door coveting his prize. The “crack” of the cap released an alcoholic odor making both our stomachs churn.(If we’re putting chemicals on us… might as well put chemicals in us…) Then we both took a mouth puckering, involuntary head shaking shot.
The next day we hoped for a large breakfast as we wondered into the guesthouse restaurant. CLOSED. So, I pilfered some eggs from the kitchen, Mark grabbed his previously ordered large beers and we returned down to our room to mix our paint. Dawning our war paint, we could think of no other way to celebrate an Indian holiday, than to dress up as Indians… the Native-American kind.
Mark “Ugly Duckling”Leonhart (named because of his full hobo black beard and ugly facial paint, adding to the fact he wouldn’t drunkenly turn into a beautiful swan this day) and Brad “Beaver Dam Pants”Bodenham (named for the quite obvious reason of the immediate self-conscious ability to fill pants with logs, to be used primarily for defensive purposes) left the guesthouse with color filled containers and disappeared into the smoke filled noisy city.
There were no tourists or women out this day because the stories were quite clear… white people and women were going to be attacked and preyed upon by the drunken mobs.
The previous night huge trash bonfires were burned signaling the start to the madness, leaving huge grey smoldering ash piles in the street and remanints of smoke in the air. Through the haze like wild dogs, packs of dark figures pranced about to the deafening rah-rah music played over the loud speakers. Their faces were unrecognizable because the silver facial paint and masks of color that signaled the ranks. Various colored splashes marked the road like splattered patches of blood. With whiskey filling our bodies, we walked confidently whooping and shouting like savage Native-Americans.
During our first encounter with a gang of drunken men we were greeted with hugs and “happy Holli” which is the common phrase used this day. The next wild pack appeared very calm at first, then attacked and pounced… we scared them with splashes of paint but they managed to rip my shirt and drop my pants completely to the ground. I stood there for an instant then shouted a war cry and did a few pelvic thrusts, shaking my family jewels about wildly. To which they replied “happy Holli” and then gave hugs all around. Truth be told… there was no danger to white tourists. Shirt ripping is customary. So, we got just as rowdy as them dumping paint and ripping shirts as well. Although, they were very obsessed with seeing our bait and tackle; It’s good thing we arn’t shy. At one point Ugly Duckling was surrounded by 20 Indians and forced to dance to the music… Naked. It wasn’t at all swan like.
After getting dowsed 50 or so times, and having your now blue penis eyeballed by over 100 Indians. We both headed back to the guesthouse and up to the restaurant… the entire staff was drunk and failing to make food for the 10 or so guests waiting. I didn’t have time to wait for food (plus they just screw it up anyway). So, I hopped into the kitchen and started making myself some food. The drunken staff started giving me the guests orders and I became unofficial highly praised chief for the day. You can call me Chief Beaver Dam Pants! (Yes, I was completely blue and dangerous in the kitchen… but a quote by a young Israeli girl pretty much sums it up –”This is the best Spanish omelette I’ve had since coming to this country!”)
Ugly duckling just watched and shook his head in the same manner as my mother… then passed out.
March 24th, 2008
The words “corrupt bastards” accidentally fell from my mouth at the border crossing from Thailand into Cambodia. Every head from the border security personnel spun around faster than the band Dead or Alive. Mark’s eyes grew bigger than bill gates pocketbook, as he bit his own tongue, in hope I would bite mine. The sound of a pin drop singly filled the now quiet void, I mumbled something about US politics and they turned away.
Mark and I have been avoiding being totally ripped off for the entire trip. Sure, we pay the white boy tax for food, tickets, rides, and rooms in every third world country. Hell, we even expect it. But what we weren’t prepared for that day, were the streets to all be one way, the scam way…
After sleeping in a Bangkok bus station, we arrived at the edge of Thailand on a morning bus, pretty exhausted. Now, the easiest way to cross into Cambodia is to take a motorized taxi thing called a tuk-tuk from the border town to the border crossing a few kilometers away. Forced to pay the “fixed white-boy price” of $2.00 for a 50 cent ride and we were regret-ably on our merry way. As usual, the non-English speaking woman driver made several attempts to pawn us off at so-called “tourist agencies”, which we quickly thwarted, causing her to give up and actually take us to the border. In my experience most tuk-tuk drivers were absolute pros, probably because they all think they are Indy car drivers — darting about at eye-tearing speed, shifting lanes into narrow corridors without looking, while repeatedly cussing out other drivers. This amature drove like a snail. Which, caused her engine to be under-revved and it broke down halfway to the border. For about ten minutes, she fiddled around the engine like a dirty blind man feeling up smurfette. (sorry, just wanted the visual) Her failed attempts caused another experienced older driver to stop and fix it for her. It took him about a half a minute, to fix her mistakes, and get us running again. So, after an extended 30 minute ride five kilometers down the road, we were at a border gate.
Right before the border was a gate and roadblock. There were three men sat, with common Cambodia visa application forms and a table to fill out the information. Other tourists were sitting filling out the information, so we sat. After reviewing the form and what the men had to say, we deduced that this was a fake post and continued walking further down the road. They followed, yelling at us “No go this way yet! You need VISA first!”, not leaving our side until we reached the real border.
We changed our Thai money at the border for Cambodia’s semi-currency, the US dollar, which was going to purchase our 20 dollar Cambodia visa’s. After getting our Thailand exit stamp, we marched into Cambodian immigration to purchase our visa’s and enter the country. (Oh BTW… I hate paying for visa’s — We’re going to charge you for spending money in our country. It just sucks.)
“40 dollars for each visa,” said the official brown suited immigration officer.
“uh… shouldn’t it be 20 dollars each?” we responded calmly.
“No, this border is 40, others are 20.”
“But it says 20 dollars right at the top of the visa.”
“Nope 40 dollars.”
“Fine… here you go.”
“NO, pay in Thai baht.”
“What? This country uses dollars, We have dollars…”
“Baht only!”
“Isn’t this Cambodia?”
“Yes.”
There was only one stand to change money and they charged a much higher commission than anybody outside the border, most likely in cahoots with the officials. Getting ripped off by a government official left a sour taste in our mouths and we both thought, “Angkor Wat better be fantastic.”
The Cambodian border town was a real (excuse my french) shit hole. Most people warned us to not judge Cambodia by this town. What they forgot to tell us was, there is no real form of public transportation anywhere, its all private. After walking around town for an hour or two, we finally got the scoop from a local who lost his job because the government shut down the regular bus station. I couldn’t quite understand the reason why, but it sounded immoral and corrupt to me.
Speaking of corrupt, the only road out of town is in no better condition than a back country bumpy dirt road, worse than most dirt roads in Plumas county. (The road up Mt. Huff is a breeze compared to this thing.) Most other main highways throughout Cambodia are now paved. Why not this major thoroughfare you ask?. We were informed that the road is kept in terrible shape because an un-named airline pays the government large sums of money, in order to influence more flights out of Thailand.
Hopping in a taxi with a bunch of locals on Mr. Toads Wild Road, proved to show how insane this country is. We didn’t ask how much the others paid, but I’m sure it was absolutely nothing as our 16 dollars purchased the entire cab. Paying for everybody’s taxi was no problem for us. The problem came when they only kicked us white boys out of the taxi before reaching the town center, forcing us to ride with a tuk-tuk driver to a hotel of his choosing.
Which actually lead to the only good thing this day… To our surprise, his choice, was actually a fantastic, very nice, affordable, centralized guesthouse.
March 15th, 2008
The contest for building the best robot brought in all sorts of competition to a gray city like environment. Top engineers from around the globe, arrived to showcase their best designs for the venue.
I stumbled wildly out from a dark alley, feet were moving but they felt heavy, arms were comatose, body was sluggish and swaying drunkenly; I was completely out of control and not quite myself. The third person view exposed me as Will Farrell, dressed in a white lab coat. “Go to hell!” I commanded a small street urchin, realizing even my voice was throaty with a hint of whine, just like Will’s.
On the way to the competition, I knowingly gathered bits of wire from the street, hunkered down at a truck-stop and impetuously assembled an electronic creation, hiding it under my coat.
“It was a device of the grandest design,” I thought with monomaniacal grin. “Sure to win me the competition.”
My bulky self arrived carrying a heavy covered bulge. I sat in a small plastic school chair on stage and carefully waited my turn to speak. The announcer pointed and I stood, brought out the device from under my labcoat with blinding speed, revealing a huge ticking time bomb! The crowd gasped… except one small boy.
“They want you to have a job substitute teaching,” said the small boy watching the spectacle.
“OK!” I said excitedly, dropped the bomb on stage and walked off.
The gleaming wide eyed children seamed to shudder when I entered the classroom. One kid asked what my name is. (This is where I experience what it is like to be insane.) I had no idea what my name was… then a thought bubble appeared above my head. Making the sound of a slide whistle as It projected my father, calling me a “bitch” and beating me.
“Uhhh… my name is Mr. Bitch.”
After much laughter from the students, a girl asked me how long I would be here teaching. Yet another slide whistle and a thought bubble appeared showing a birthday cake with some fat girl blowing out candles shaped like the number 16.
“16 fat girls”, I replied.
The classroom sequence kept repeating: A child’s question, followed by a random thought bubble, finishing with an obscure reply.
What are you going to teach us? — Pretty dwarves in dresses.
Why are you dressed in a lab coat? — MST3K (mystery science theater 3000) rocks!
As if a small amount of time passed in a photo montage, I was magically whisked away to an underground car park, surrounded by my stolen cars. Mark, and some very skinny shady Burt Reynolds look-alike thief, and I (remember I still look like Will Ferrell) were looking at a very cartoonie map of my hometown of Quincy (like the colorful maps at a theme park) and plotting our routes to transport my stolen cars to a different location. YES… we would transport the cars through Gullpie ranch road. The thief hopped into a car, Mark and I into another. We drove behind the thief through the car park and to the exit. He took a wrong turn and headed into downtown Quincy.
YOU IDIOT! Stay off the main road! That way goes past the police station!” I screamed to him from the other car.
He stuck his mustached face out the window and laughed, “No cop can catch me! YEEE HAWWW! Petal to the metal good buddy!”
We had no choice but to abandon him and turn the opposite way, So, after a few seconds of driving Mark made a call from his cell phone and I had a bad feeling and didn’t trust him.
“This map is terrible, we are lost,” he said. “I’m calling for directions.”
“That bastard must be calling the police,” I thought paranoidly.
“Yeah, they said our turn is around here some where.”
“Dirty stinking backstabber,” I mumbled inaudibly.
“There it is… but something’s wrong. The Gullupie Ranch sign has changed!”
The regular rectangular sign measures 1m x 2m, and has the words “Gullpie Ranch” in large brown letters with a friendly cream colored background. The other off shooting roads, have quaint carved wooden signs with cutesy names like “Willow Branch Way“. Now, the words “Gullpie Ranch” were crossed out with ominous red letters saying “Decrona Drive“ and the wooden signs were replaced by ruff metal ones repeating “Decrona Drive“ on every side street.
(For those of you who have no idea what Decrona is… I will give you some insight to my days before leaving Quincy. I was courting a nice Capricorn with the last name Decrona, who’s father is the Lt. police officer and chief of the local SWAT team. Kind of a scary guy for a derelict like me. — So, in order to not lose face, I called this girl and told her the dream. Then, asked if she wanted me to change the name or hide some details. She said, “It’s funny, go ahead and tell the dream.”)
Baffled and feeling double crossed by Mark, we drove up the road until reaching a large dark spooky house on a barren red clay hill. I scurried out of the car (no longer Will Ferrel but myself again). Ran up to the large front door of the house and threw it open without knocking. Within the doors there was a very odd series of doors with different ways of opening. (Like MST3K) Some would slide with a whoosh when pressing a button, others would open like clunky gates with a creak, but every door had some sort of mechanism that I could manipulate to release the door. After 6-8 doors I ran into a room with hundreds of dorm bunk beds. The boys that occupied the room were all shirtless, with shaved heads, speaking what sounded like German amongst each other. I backed out of the room slowly trying to figure out what was going on… an army of young German boys. I got to find my Capricorn! I finaly reached the living room. There I saw her covered with gray dust, forced to build a massive 6 foot gray brick structure, that resembled a large brick oven. The father was drinking a tropical umbrella drink in an easy chair, reading the newspaper. I grabbed her hand and she stopped working.
“We got to get outa here,” I said quietly, so the father wouldn’t hear me. “Something weird is going on.”
She simply stood there and blinked unknowingly as if brainwashed.
“Come on. Let’s go!” I pleaded.
I looked into her eyes, the windows to the soul, they cast a dull a glossed over, blank, foggy stare back at me. She was gone. My efforts were futile and I released her hand.
“Goodbye,” I whispered into her ear.
Then, exited the way I came in, through the many doors of the odd German concentration camp. Never looking back.
March 4th, 2008
As you read this post, keep this thought in mind…
A mandatory capital punishment in Malaysia, which is a sentence of public death by hanging, applies to murder, drug trafficking, treason, and waging war against Yang di-Pertuan Agong (the King). For minor offenses another torture is implemented, consisting of a public beating with a rattan or cane, causing permanent scaring of the buttocks.
It was dark, I awoke to shuffling leather shoes on hard concrete. It wasn’t always shuffling — sometimes the click-clack of a prostitute’s stiletto, rummaging of a rat in a rubbish bin across the gap, or just the sound shadows make, would leave me restless. Either way, I would continuously shake off the disturbances with a few quick squeezes of my knife and drift back into dreamworlds in the dark alley.
Mark found me asleep on the street the following morning and with a soft shake said, “We have a room for tonight.”
I showered, rinsed Kuala Lumpur’s street filth off my body, and scrubbed back-in the middle class white boy. Mark was asleep on the bed, so I ventured off to see some of the Malaysian sights. (Like those twin buildings from that movie with Catherine Zeta Jones, where she does all those sexy maneuvers to dodge laser beams, while an aging Sean Connery watches from across the room and drools.)
Looking dumb-faced into a map, a local woman came over and asked if I needed any help. Most locals that speak a bit of English, love using it and will most likely ask you the same questions. (Where are you from?, How long have you been here?, etc.) It turns out, her sister is going on an exchange program to San Diego in a few months. So, after asking me loads of questions relating to California she finally says,
“My family is all home for new year. It will be good if you talk with my sister. I don’t know what she need to know and I bet she have many question about California. Can you go with me and meet my sister?”
#1 – DON’T GET INTO CARS WITH STRANGERS
So, I got into her car… which was parked down the road at a convenience store, and we headed for her uncles house in the suburbs about 15 minutes away from town. Her niece answered the door submissively, asked if I wanted anything to drink, shown me to the living room, and introduced me to the uncle. The three of them exchanged a few words in Malay. Then, I was informed the sister left for some kind of work errand at the hospital and would be back shortly. The two girls disappeared to gab in the kitchen, and I started a conversation with the uncle.
We talked for about 30 minutes before he eventually said what his job was… He was the head dealer in a local casino’s VIP room, but he also arranges games for clients on the side. For instance, just this morning he helped some clients set up a game of gambling Mahjong, which he then makes tips from the winnings. He said he made 500 dollars in tips this morning, because his client won quite a lot of money. After telling me what happens differently in a VIP room, verses commercial tables, with different games, (poker, blackjack, etc.) He asks.”Would you like to know some tips for blackjack?” I agreed and promised not to tell anybody his tips.
Thinking the tips would deal with more strategic betting for certain cards and percentages of outcomes, I was sorrily mistaken. It was his way of cheating so his clients were almost guaranteed to win. In the middle of the uncle’s teaching, he received a call from a client wanting to set up a game of Mahjong at the casino. He told the client to come over to his house first, because they have a guest from visiting from california and he would like him to meet me.
The silked shirted client walked in with briefcase in hand. We talked for a bit about his job dealing with diamonds…
Then the uncle asked, “Would you two like to play a few quick games of blackjack, before we leave for the casino.”
“Lets play mahjong!” said the client.
“I don’t know how to play mahjong,” said I.
“How about blackjack?” questioned the uncle, with a wink.
“Ok, just a few games,” said the client reluctantly.
#2 – DON’T GAMBLE.
I shuffled the cards, the client split. During the uncle’s dealing of the cards I questioned the him about the differences between commercial games of blackjack and the VIP version we were going to play, to show the client that I wasn’t previously trained in this game. The uncle gave me a signal showing he was going to help me win, after all he did loan me the 200 dollars to be in the game.
#3 – DON’T GAMBLE WITH MONEY YOU DON’T HAVE… EVEN IF CHEATING.
After quite a few sweaty hands I was up to a winnings of about of 5,000 dollars. The client signaled that this would be the last hand so he could go play mahjong. Everybody agreed. The cards were delt… since the client was bunker this round, I could see his top card, a King. He didn’t call blackjack according to the rules, therefore his bottom card couldn’t have been an Ace, the most had was 20. In my hand was jack and five… but with the help of uncle, I knew the next card dealt to me, a six, putting me at 21. I asked for another card and bet modestly.
The client pulled out his black briefcase, banging it loudly on the table, and flipped the metal latches. He pulled out a three inch bound stack of hundred dollar bills…
“I bet 50,000!” he exclaimed.
Having never seen that much money in real life, I thought… this can’t really happening, doesn’t this sort of thing only happen in movies. Sweat started dripping off my already moist forehead.
#4 – DON’T BET OUTSIDE YOUR LIMITS
Sure I’m in… then accused him of bluffing. He asked if I was good for my money.
I lied, “Yep, It will pretty much max my entire bank account but I can cover it.”
“I want to see your money. You’ve seen mine, it’s right there. Where is yours?”
Here comes trouble… I looked to the uncle for help, he asked to speak with me outside, to set up some sort of arrangement. After looking at my cards outside, he exclaimed that we won. The uncle knew I didn’t have any money and he said it would take a few days for him to arrange the funds. We would have to postpone the game a “few hours”, so I could go to a bank.
We all placed our cards in envelopes and into a safe, along with his money. The key was given to the client and he left for the casino until we called him to come back in.
#5 – DON’T HANG AROUND AFTER SCREWING SOME HIGH ROLLER OUT OF $50,000
(I’m going to actually follow this rule)
“So what… like you switch the cards later, huh?” I alluded to the uncle.
“What do you mean Mr. Brad?”
“Is there even a sister?”
“Yes… is there not trust here? Beacause if there isn’t trust and respect we can’t continue.”
“Can I talk to her?”
“I’ll call her.”
A Malaysian girl answered the phone. I asked her where in California she was exchanging to, she heavily hesitated and kept saying she must go to work. Then, finally spouted Santa Clara, or Santa Barbara or San Jose… “OK thank you,” I said. “See you later.”
“OK… hey, I believe you… sorry… I just get freaked out worrying about so much money… plus I just met you… you know?”
“Since there isn’t trust I am going to cancel the game,” he said. “I think that would be best for everybody. We’ll just say you had to go and don’t have time to get the money. My client will understand, so all I will be out is my 200 dollars which he will give back.”
“Yes, that is probably best.”
On the drive home the sister kept saying how sorry she was, because her sister didn’t show up and we all could meet later. Without hesitation on my part, we arranged to meet the next day for breakfast at 9:00 AM at a neutral territory of KFC across from the bus station.
After being dropped off near the bus station, I ran through it, for fear of being followed to my hostel. I woke Mark, told him the story and seriously considered changing my appearance. (Almost shaved my beard) Fearing for my life we purchased bus tickets for 9:00 AM the next day. We left Malaysia after 32 hours, it would have been 12 hours earlier but our room had air-conditioning so we decided to spend the night.
I will never know what lay in wait for me at that KFC… but it wouldn’t have been pleasant.
February 18th, 2008
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