South East Asia – Part 5: Blasting off from Phi Phi
Once again back is the incredible, the rhyme animal…
A balmy johm reab suor from the painfully sweltering Cambodian Capital of Phnom Penh. I arrived this afternoon after a panic-filled morning in Siem Reap but that’s another tale. I’ve just been kicking back in a hammock by the Tonle Sap river, reading, sipping iced coffee and convincing the local Khmer that I’m Brian “B-Rok” Littrel of the Backstreet boys. Sigh…if only.
We pick up the tale as I’m blasting off from Phi Phi, destination: (shudder) Bangkok followed by Chaing Mai in the North. Now don’t get me wrong, it’s not like Bangkok is all that bad, it’s just that every imaginable place on the entire planet is far, far superior. But I mean, relaitve to the methane and ammonia filled atmosphere of Venus, it’s a hell of a nice city.
I was lucky enough to have met a lovely German girl, Christine, on the bus back from Phi Phi so I killed time in Bangkok with her, dicussing movies, relationships and all things Hasselhoff. (Warning to public: Knight Rider movie currently in development stages. Seek shelter)
I also met up with a couple of cool Canadian chicks from Richmond (Michelle and Heather) for lunch and we suffered through the worst possible service outside of a Paris cafe. If I could have read the collective minds of the staff I’m confident they’d all have been thinking the same thing, “pay the bill and get out, round eyes.” Hey, all part of the fun.
This was followed by a frenetic quest for visas (see folks, it takes some time to procure Cambodian, Laotian and Vietnamese visas so I had to get it done before I left) and means to pay for said visas (they ain’t cheap). I finally got it sorted out with the unfortunate catch of having to return to Bangkok in seven days to pick them up. “Super” says I, “one can never be accosted by enough transsexual freaks.”
After a shockingly comfortable night bus, we were unceremoniously dumped at a hostel in Chiang Mai called Nice Place, run by an affectatious little chap named Tony and a high-cheekboned lady-boy, Tinar.
Now just an aside on the oft-mentioned lady-boys ( as they’re referred to here) I always assumed that this was a personal lifestyle choice and, all jokes aside, fair enough, do what you like but apparently this is not so. It seems that the parents of these people decide when the child is very young that they no longer desire a boy, they’d prefer a lady-boy so they start feeding them unnatural quantities fo estrogen and other female hormones to facilitate the transformation. Creepy.
Anyway, it’s 6 in the morning, I’m hungry, dirty and tired as a kid in a Kathy-Lee Gifford Guatemalan sweatshop but the second we get in we’re given the requisite sales pitch for their “unique, one-of-a-kind, untouristy” elephant trek. Was ever there a more tourist-exclusive event as an elephant trek? I mean, as if the local tribespeople are gearing up and riding from village to village on these things for kicks.
“Sign up for trek, get free night’s room” they continued. “Fine, fine, lemme see the damn room”, I shout back, lacking the energy or willpower to fight these hucksters anymore. Dear God! Compared to the asylum-quality slums of Bangkok this place was the bridal suite of the Waldorf Astoria. “Bam!” I Emiriled at them, “Sign me up, I’m in!”
I crumpled onto the nearly millipede-free mattress and drifted off to anti-malarial tablet-induced happyland (they give you f’ed up dreams…give it a go!) I awoke at about five in the afternoon and went to explore (roam around without apparent purpose or direction) the city. It turns out it’s far superior to Bangkok, actually very nice. There are lots of crazy markets, everything’s really cheap (if you bargain hard) there are great restaurants and tonnes to do. There’s an old part of the city surrounded by a festering moat and a new part with many guesthouses and more prostitutes than a bachelor party at Charlie Sheen’s. This is still Thailand after all.
I got to sleep early in anticipation of the next days grueling trek and got up at 8 am to meet the group. It was comprised of myself, 2 other Canucks from P.G. (no, they didn’t know you, Peter), 3 Swedes, 2 South Africans, 3 Israeli chicks, a Belgian dude an Australian and an Irish guy as well as our 3 Thai guides, lead by “Mr.” Tee.
We were then herded into the back of a pickup truck and driven to the local market to stock up on western comestibles and bargain-basement, make-you-go-blind Thai whiskey for the night-times’ festivities (partying is one of the main attractions of these treks as you shall read). They dropped us off at the first “remote” tribal village where we were ensconsed by dirt-poor Thai kids trying to sell us hand-made jewelry and weapons. These kids are ultra-cute and most of them have the big-sad-eye routine down pat so it can be tough to say no but regretfully one has to harden up to their charm quickly or risk spending half his vacation budget on throwaway crapola.
(Just a note, I’ve yet to buy one souvenier in over a month here because, as anyone who helped me move in the summer can attest to, I have way too much stuff already and I’m trying to tone down my former consumer whore ways. That and they don’t have any Star Wars toys over here)
We did some fairly intense hiking through some sparse but extremely hilly jungle before arriving at the Lasu village which was to be our home for the night. These villages consist of maybe 20 people and 3 or 4 outwardly dilapidated raised huts, one of which is reserved for trek groups. Inside our hut were laid approximately 15 toilet-paper thin mattresses with blankets and pillows surrounding a fire pit utilized to burn up plastic water bottles and various other tourist-deposited junk. These accomodations were really quite decadent compared to some of the dung-heaps I’d stayed in thus far.
After a quick shower in a nearby waterfall, I joined the group for an outstanding dinner of white-person Thai food prepared by our guides. The actual villagers would never touch the stuff themselves, preferring instead to dine on bugs, snakes, flying squirrels and whatever else they harvested in the forest. I’d have liked to try some but they weren’t offering and I was just happy to be eating after a long day.
Apres-dinner the drinking games began and the whiskey and Chang beer were flowing freely. This went on for a few hours as everyone (except the wet-blanket Israeli chicks) loosened up and got to know each other and learn about other countries outside of stereotypes. Eventually I noticed a diminutive, pock-marked Thai with a heavy sack skulk into one of the huts. “Who’s that?” I inquired of the guide. “Opium man” he returned.
Ahh, of couse. Another of the main points of these treks is for the opportunity, if one desires, for westerners to sample the poppy-derived narcotic some of history’s most famous writers, poets, scientists and artists credited for their inspiration in creating their masterpieces.
Dare I try? Now I’m not a drug guy as I’m sure most of you know. I don’t judge others and consider myself open-minded but it’s just never been my scene. However, desiring the “full experience” of the trek, I decided to pony up and give it a shot so me and about half of my fellow trekkers shuffled off into the hut and assumed the position. This is laying down on your side on mat while the sleazy “Dr. O” prepares the pipe in between his own over-indulgance. One pipe costs just over a buck and supposedly you have to smoke at least 3 before you feel anything at all so I figured whatever, three’ll be fine.
Maybe I’m super-tolerant or maybe James Joyce is just a pussy but I didn’t really get that much out of it. Granted it was tough to tell if it was the opium or the copious amounts of whiskey that was affecting me but the sum total of my seedy opium den experience amounted to a slight relaxation and some pretty Xanaduian dreams. Some of the guys who went a little nuts and had 10 or 12 pipes reported some difficulty walking but everyone seemed refreshed and ready to hit the jungle by the next morning.
On this day we were given the choice of the hard or easy routes. All the guys elected for the hard path while the ladies opted for the easier way. The terrain was much different from day one, resembling what I had always pictured as the jungle. I could try and describe it to you but you’d be better off (and who wouldn’t) renting Predator (if if bleeds, we can kill it) or Apocalypse Now (well, maybe it wasn’t that bad)
We hiked up a raging, Nile-like river ( a tiny stream) and all was going well until a mis-judged leap resulted in my somehow becoming submerged in a one-foot deep pool. This destroyed my alarm clock, last of my functional electronic devices as I’d previously ruined my CD player and camera. It also led to the rest of the guys’ repeated ridicule everytime we approached a puddle. “Careful, Ryan, you don’t want to go for another swim.” Yeah, that’s pretty fuckin’ funny.
Eventually we met up with the girls at the next village to begin (gasp) the elephant part of the elephant trek! This was another highlight of my trip thus far and I’ve become Canada’s number one elephant fan. I chose the biggest elephant (Stampy) and me and the Australian guy climbed into the ass-numbing wooden saddle/bench while the guide grunted incomprehensible commands and kicked Stampy’s ears from atop his head. It actually appeared as if the elephants were reasonably well treated although I’m sure there were things they’d rather have been doing. At one point, I motioned for the guide to make way and I spent a good half hour “driving” Stampy while seated on his gargantuan skull. It was terrific but it left me with quite an inner-leg rug burn as elephant hair is as course as steel wool.
The ride was over much too quickly and we pulled into a Karen village for the night.. This night was much like the last with even more boozing and substance abuse (although I opted out of the opium this time around) as people sang songs from their native lands as punishment for losing drinking games. I regaled the masses with renditions of O Canada (en francias), Summer of 69 and my fave, The Heart Will Go On from Titanic. Celine Dion, you are a national treasure.
The next morning was a bit of a late one and we hurredly hiked in the 40 degree sun to the side of a small river where we all boarded bamboo rafts measuring about 3 by 12 feet long, four people to a raft. For the first little while, everyone worked tirelessly to avoid falling in the presumably leech and liver-fluke infested water but eventually it degraded into the biggest naval battle since Midway with people hopping from raft to raft, struggling to muscle rival rafters into the water.
It was actually a much needed refresher as the last two days of hiking had left me dirtier and smellier than a Parisian in July. After completing the raft ride, we booked back to Nice Place aboard an even sketcheir pickup than the one that had brought us out. I think if there’s one thing I don’t do enough of back in Vancouver,it’s riding in the back of trucks. I intend to work on this upon my return.
Well, that’s it for now, I have to get back to doing sweet F.A. in the sun but like James Bond, I will return in Chapter Six: Octopenis.
Later, knaves,
-dj-
3 comments