Archive for March, 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
