Katie's Girly Guide to SE Asia

tourist

BYO splenda (I had to steal Equal from the airport)

Forget handshakes and cheek kisses, practice greeting and thanking people with the wai/sompeah. Hands together in prayer position, bow your head.

You spent your enitre life becoming the assertive female you are today but you have to leave a few of your tactics behind. It's degrading to look an older man in the eyes. And as much as I love to tease the Mormon boys at home, I wouldn't even think of making eye contact with a monk.

The Diet Coke sucks. Europe>America>Asia

Don't go to the red light district without a guy. It's not that you're competition for the working ladies, but your presence is an unwanted distraction from them.

Some domestic airlines have those squat toilets. Better hold it til you're on the plane.

SE girls love bright colored eye-shadow, sometimes in two-tones. Have fun with crazy make-up.

Tuk tuk drivers will try to take you to their buddies silk shops, gem stores, etc. They get a cut for just having you walk through the door. Negotiate a price before you get in the vehicle and clarify "no stops."

mani/pedi @ Bangkok airport - $10
facial - $20
best massage I found @ Wat Pho Massage school for an extra 100 baht - still only $8/hour

Do not bring a lot of clothes. You will shop, I promise.

Same Same Different

kept a running list of strange sights in se asia...

• deep fried cockroaches
• teeth for sale at street market
• monks hitting up the ATM
• four people on one moped, wait there goes five! mom, dad, big sister and two twin babies
• baby on lap on motorcycle
• 4-way ladyboy catfight
• live eels for sale
• shrines in restaurants, chic clothing stores, on taxi dashboards, parking garages
• cups of coffee and bowls of rice left at shrines so spirits stay satiated
• two-headed ponchos for driving with passenger on moped in rain
• older women with rotted teeth from eating beetlenuts (a stimulant) all day and all night
• curry for breakfast
• rice for dessert
• children playing with bugs, then eating them
• muslim woman wearing head scarf, miniskirt and flipflops
• being careful not to point your toes at buddhas, sitting with legs folded behind
• bargaining at chic clothing stores
• wearing string bikini in islamic country
• sitting next to man in thong speedo in islamic country
• six-foot monitor lizards
• man taking monkey for walk on leash
• enormous meals served on one-hour plane flights on various se asian airlines
• Tiger Balm (active ingredient: menthol) used to treat chapped lips, sore muscles, wounds,
• fractured limbs and aids in digestion by rubbing topically on stomach
• elephant-crossing street signs
• woman stroking phallic statue for fertility
• stray poodles
• people who live their entire lives on floating villages
• pork-flavored waffles for sale
• 2 year olds who know how to beg on the street (seen this in Mexico, too)
• Hmong hilltribe children with colorful hats made to disguise them as flowers, hiding them from dabs, or ghosts
• no one kissing in public
• monks checking out girl in short skirt
• car crashes without anyone arguing afterward

Sex-Rated

Back in Bangkok. I love this city and its circus-like ways. It is at once exhilaratingly fun but also has a dark side, a certain je ne sais quoi. Trying to understand it is fascinating.

I went to see kickboxing. I watched the last four competitions. I expected blood spurting from mouths and fighters collapsing to the ground unconscious. But it was more elegant. Each match is begun with a little ritualistic dance. One boxer does a little crane-like pose in the middle, flapping his arms and the other dances around him. I imagine this has two purposes: places are sacred here, belonging and inhabited by named deities who must be acknowledged and shown deference. Also, it must calm the boxers a bit, clearing their minds.

The men are young. Thai people look young to me in general but these are teenagers it seems. They are extremely lean and chiseled. As flexible as they are quick and strong. Well-balanced. They kind of dance around each other, bouncing one knee to seem like they are going to kick. They watch each others' legs. They kick quick and efficiently, too fast for my camera's speed. They get each other in a lock, face-to-face and jab each other repeatedly with their knees. The last fighters are much more talented than the first. You can see the progression of the learned boxer as the night goes on. In the world of fighting, kickboxing is not so brutal or pretentious but more elegant. That said, I would not want to be in the way of one of those powerful kicks!

I took a tuk-tuk to Patpong afterward. The red light district. Bars of half-naked girls doing nameless x-rated things. I will not go into details. I want to tell you about the girls I met. I am not curious about this scene, it is vulgar to me personally, but also simply a matter of supply and demand attracting perverse mostly-male desires. When I am traveling, and I want to understand what motivates a city to become itself. Disclaimer: There is nothing truly naughty in this entry, only my attempts to research a culture I do not understand.

I was approached by four girls at once. Female flirtation is much more pleasant than male to me, they touch your arm or your knee and you feel no fear as you would if a male entered your space in the same way. Voices cooing, they are beautiful creatures. I told them I like men and they stopped, two deciding to sit and hang out with me at the bar. They have stage names--Anna and Li--but tell me their real ones as well. I ask them simple questions like how long they have been working in this part of town, etc. Li looks 16 but tells me she is 24. The other Anna is well in her thirties. Anna wants to know what it is like to date in America and I give her details. Li is shocked when I tell her I'm not looking for a husband at this point but am more focused on studying. I ask if they make good money here, if they girls get along with each other. No and no. They are mostly looking to meet a farang, the word for the ex-pat white male, to sweep them off their feet. The thai sex worker's version of Prince Charming. How is my presence perceived here? I got my answer when one of their colleagues threw a banana at me. Okay, time to go. I left Li and Anna a big tip for their time. I cannot stay in these bars for long. As I said, their obviousness is vulgar to me.

I headed back across town to Khoa San Road, more my scene. I'd planned to go to a club in Patpong known for its decent electronica but I couldn't stay around all the sex. Bleh.

I have a Mai Thai in one of the more laid back place with a view of the backpackers getting harassed by frog girls and drunk kids chowing down on phad thai from the street vendors. I'm sitting quietly next to two thai women who smoke and slip thai whiskey into their cups from a bottle kept in a purse. One starts talking to me and eventually I join them.

They are sex workers, both in their 30s, preferring to work in a less scandalizing environment. They are really cool ladies, named Ah and Ming. They own a bar together just outside of town and it being a Monday night, they are away from the bar trying to meet farangs. I hung out with them for a while, not sure if my presence is helping their cause or if they just want to chat with an american girl. At one point, Ah leans over and says "clear chair, clear chair." A white guy checking the table out is coming over and my bag was occupying the fourth chair. I pick it up and he hesitates and walks away. They tell me that they would never date a thai man. "A woman has to look out for herself. Thai guy don't make enough money." I nod. It seems falling for a local guy limits their potential to be the girlfriend or even wife of a farang, who comes baring euros or the ever-falling american dollar and a promise for a priveleged life.

The Farang
There is a common conversation foreigners have in Thailand and se asia, "Look at all the old white men with the young girls!" This is a "poor little things!" sentiment. I don't know though.

I am a feminist to the core but not in the stereotypical sense. Every person should have the same opportunities to become the person s/he wants to become. This is the feminist ideal people ignore in favor of hairy legs and bra-burning. I like being feminine and girly and it is my choice to be this way. Women can be lawyers, politicians doctors or sex workers or stay-at-home moms. These are all ambitions that I consider equal. Just as I want to be a doctor and express my femininity, I want the woman next to me to fulfill her dreams to have the picket fence and recipe box and play-dates. How fortunate to be born an woman in a culture and age that allows these options.

I automatically give this farang, this white man, dirty looks. One morning at breakfast in KL, one sat down with me and we talked. He has an apartment and second life in Bangkok, leaving his failed marriage and grown children in the UK. I tell him I think that Bangkok has a dark side that I don't understand and I feel bad that so many women have limited opportunities for education and rely on men like him to bring them happiness. He doesn't like me. This is not a bad man. He has his second apartment in Bucharest where he cares for Romanian orphans. That is another entry though. I will tell you that he pointedly told me that the romanian orphans are two-years ahead of america in their primary education. This conversation was heated. Anyway, he spends several months a year in Bangkok, his play-city. The farang told me that he thought his presence awarded these woman a way out of the society they were born into.

Most people don't realize it but the thai sex worker industry is kept going by 95% THAI male clients. I believe these stats are for the female workers and not the ladyboys though. The ladyboy customer is largely white males from the west and Australia.

So sitting with Ah and Ming, I learn that they don't want to leave Thailand. They've never been farther than a few hundred km outside of bangkok. But they want a white boyfriend to take care of them here. The farang is a common fantasy here, achieved by lucky few.

Ah tried to tell me that she considers her occupation as her right and asserts this is her life choice. I smile. She is talking to the right girl. Sometimes I go into a preachy mode--something I hate about myself--but the few things I believe in, I believe strongly. I start telling her that we are on the same page. I tell her that it's her body and her chosen career and that there should be services available to her to get regular testing, medication should she need it, childcare, etc. I don't shut up for a long time. Ah and Ming are smiling and they ask for my email. I am friends with thai sex workers.

I asked how much they make in a night on average. It varies, as does the fake fendi in thailand which foreigners pay anywhere from 30 to 300 baht. Once a British guy gave Ming 300,000 baht, about 270 USD. This was huge. The price drops considerably if she likes him or sees the potential of him becoming her boyfriend. They don't have a pimp. They work together, looking out for each other. The bar is an investment against aging. When climbing age means falling dollars, the bar will be there.

It's late and I take off to go to bed, feeling a little enlightened about the many ways the world's women look after their own.

Chiang Mai Chang

chang = elephant = brand of thai beer Elephants don't like to be pet--it's annoying to them. But they love taking baths to cool off and they love the feeling of bristles scratching their thick skin. The preserve encourages bathtime because it sends the volunteers home with a feeling that they've bonded with these creatures and will be more likely to return, tell friends, leave donations, foster an elephant. Baths are also a good way to check for wound, parasites, etc.

The elephants at the Elephant Nature Preserve only eat, play and sleep.

Notice the matouk/handler on her head!

After this baby took a spill, two of her aunties came charging forward to check on her. Soon her whole family had gathered to assess the damage. The aunties charged one of the volunteers nearby taking pictures, as if she blamed him and wanted to scare him.

Chiang Mai is a city surrounded by a moat. It's considerably calmer than Bangkok but still has the sex workers and is famous for its night bazaar that blankets many city blocks. I stayed in a guesthouse that was the former safe-haven for an opium warlord. Chiang Mai would normally be a peaceful place to visit but I awoke every morning at 4:30 to roosters cock-a-doodle-do-ing. These were roosters from hell. They went on until they were hoarse and then kept going, screeching late into the morning. But you don't want to read about roosters, you want to read about elephants.

I wanted to see elephants. They are my second favorite animal, right after cats. There are elephants camps outside and around Chiang Mai that let you ride them, watch them put on a little show, have them paint a picture for you. Looking at the pictures made me feel kind of bad for the elephants. That can't be comfortable, carrying around tourists on a little platform. By chance I walked by an office advertising an elephant preserve. They take you out to spend a day feeding and bathing elephants that were rescued from the more abusive industries in thailand, from landmine accidents in Cambodia, etc. The cost of your tour supports the non-profit Elephant Nature Park. More my thing.

I learned a lot about these wonderful creatures. They taught us how to tell the difference between Asian and African elephants. In zoos around the globe, you'll typically find Asian elephants. They're more docile. They also have larger brains and stronger memories, giving substance to the phrase, "an elephant never forgets." Cartoon elephants are usually African, with their larger ears and longer tusks.

Elephants live well into their 70s. Mothers are pregnant for 22 months and twins are naturally aborted purely because of their size--the womb can't support two. Babies stay close to their mothers for the first 4-5 years of their lives. They reach sexual maturity at age 13. Males go into musth once a year, a physiological time that allows them to appear dominant to the rest of the pack and able to get chicks. The excess testosterone also makes them very aggressive.

They have a matriarchal society, the eldest female ruling each family. Families stay together their whole lives. Males sometimes go off on their own, especially in musth, mixing up the gene pool.

Elephants are just like people: gay and straight, friendly and aloof, monogamous and promiscuous, hard-working and lazy, sweet and naughty.

In Thailand, the attitude towards the elephant is a bit of a contradiction. They are considered sacred creatures and, at the same time, abused in the logging and tourist industries. "Elephant begging" on the streets of Bangkok is a huge problem. A handler walks around, selling food so tourists can feed the elephants and take photos. This gives charm to Thailand--it's fantastic to see these creatures wandering around the streets at night--but it is also illegal and quite abusive. Elephants don't have great vision and the bright lights damage their eyes. They also hear much better than us. They can hear each others low frequency groans for 100km away, humans losing this perception only 10km away. So the wild traffic noises and music of the discos in Bangkok are frightening. When you see these animals swaying--it looks like they are dancing--it is actually a sign of stress. The worst part: they are often doing double shifts, working day and night. The preserve I visited an elephant who is a recovering amphetamine addict. These animals are drugged to make them more interactive with the tourists.

There is a tradition here developed by certain hilltribes in the north. It's called the pujaan. When an elephant is three years old, they take it from its mother and chain it into a wooden stall. For three days it is deprived of food, water and sleep. When it objects, groaning or trying to kick, they poke it with sticks that have sharp nails on the end and tight chains which cut deep into its skin. I watched a video. After these three days, the animal is left bloodied and hopeless. The hilltribe people, believing differently than mainstream Buddhists, see this as a necessary evil. They consider elephants dangerous creatures and believe you must break its spirit. Lek, the woman who created the Elephant Nature Park, believes that this brutality is actually responsible for the few cases of the elephant charging at people and killing its handler. They can pick their handler out of a crowd of hundreds. These are smart and emotional creatures. They do not forget.

Another old tradition maintained across all of Thailand is having one elephant and one handler. This handler, called a mahout, trains the elephant and becomes his/her companion for a long time. There are gentle and brutal mahouts. Traditionally the mahout uses a hook, sharp enough to pierce the elephants' skin, using punial methods to train the elephant. Lek, the woman behind the preserve I mentioned earlier, does not let her mahouts use hooks. Though this is scary for many of them at first who believe elephants to be dangerous, it turns out that the elephants actually trust the mahouts more and therefore, they are safer in the long run. Lek has them train the babies at the preserve to give kisses, sit, etc, with a reward system to prove that it is possible to use gentler methods in training these great beasts. I got kissed and didn't want to wash the dirt off my face that night! (I did though, don't worry.)

Let me tell you about this Lek person. She was born into a hilltribe in northern thailand, the granddaughter of a shaman who looked over the pujaan. It is actually a religious ceremony where he sacrifices chickens, burns incense, chants. She saved a man's life when she was a child and as a gift, her people gave her an elephant. Thus began a life-long love affair.

National Geographic went up with Lek to get video footage of the pujaan. She taped her own copy and gave it to some friends in the business, telling them they couldn't release it until after the national geographic show aired. Lek's copy fell into PETA's hands and they came to thailand, scandalizing it. PETA's tactics involve kind of a shock and guilt approach to raising awareness. PETA told tourist to boycott thailand and this supposedly hurt the industry for a while in the early 90s. The thai government blamed Lek and called her a traitor. Today she can still not get financial funding or even register as a non-profit charity in her own country, though the park is registered in the US, UK, in many European nations. She was already rejected by the hilltribes having denounced their pujaan and left years earlier. But now the media was too much. Someone in the logging industry put a hit on Lek. She was luckily friends with one of thailand's princesses who helped her go into hiding. Lek had friends care for her elephants. However, someone gave a cyanide pill, killing her favorite baby.

The president of PETA found out about this and resigned. She and Lek are good friends today.

The good that came of the baby's death? An anonymous businessman asked Lek what she needed to continue to care for the elephants. Her answer: land. He asked if she had a spot in mind and she did. Today, it is the Elephant Nature Park.

The Elephants
There are 30 at the preserve right now but only a handful belong to Lek. Their owners send elephants to Lek when they are too small to work, or on maternity leave or when they are sick and need time to rehabilitate.

Lek's elephants include Jakia, an middle-aged female who is blind in both eyes. She was used in the logging industry and they forced her to work through a pregnancy. One day at work she gave birth on a steep hill, the newborn fell, plunging to its death. They kept working her that day. She protested violently, attacking her mahout who poked out her eyes in return. Lek heard about this and bought her. Now she is a foster mom to the babies at the park.

There is a female elephant with amber eyes, considered beautiful and good for breeding. Her previous owner locked her in a pen with a male in musth. He attacked her for two day and broke her back. The loggers kept working her as well. Now she lives at the park and spends a considerable part of the day in the water, the weightlessness relieving some of her chronic back pain.

An eight-year-old elephant born in the wild but lost its mother is named Jungle Boy. He has two tusks, very long for an asian elephant. The older females think he's the cat's meow.

The males have a hierarchy of their own, determining who get the ladies. If one goes into musth, he slides into the number one spot. The second at the park went to a very tall elephant, thought to be possibly the tallest in asia. He had his current girlfriend with him the whole, who stands in his shadow adoringly. When she stepped away to eat, a park volunteer pointed out to me that his ex-girlfriend had approached him in her absence. Elephant melodrama.

The female elephants have started to produce milk for their foster babies, though they haven't given birth. Herds developed around each of the babies and they have formed five families. Raising a baby is of the "it takes a village" philosophy.

One of the elephants, described to me as "the cheerleader" of the park actually struts when she walks. I would like her expect that they also call her "part-time mom." She's given birth to a young girl whom she leaves with her aunties all day while she is strutting about in front of the males.

There is a favorite elephant named Hope who is an eight-year-old male. He plays tricks on all of the elephants, sneaking up behind them to scare them. The park volunteers put a bell around his neck to keep him from pissing off the other elephants.

I loved watching the babies nurse and play with old tires that serve as their toys. They like to tease the dogs at the park, poking them with their trunks.

I can see myself bringing my children back to this park one day. You can stay a week if you like and work at the park, washing fruit and making banana-ball treats for them. Gardening and cleaning. This is ideal for kids. Afterwards, I would go spend another week relaxing on a beach here. So many things in life to look forward to.

elephantnaturepark.org

The Many Faces of Eggplant

Took a thai cooking class today. The intructor Meow (I know, cutest name ever) took me on her motorbike to the local market and we wandered up and down the isles playing name-that-vegetable. This pic on the right is an eggplant! I learned lots of new things. Like, Thais consider the flower on the banana tree a delicacy. Often, those funny chewy things in soup are actually coconut or banana tree bark. They cut the whole tree down and harvest every part of it. Also, the favorite chili pepper here is the Bird's Eye Chili. Small and red with faint green streaks. Look what I made! I know it's not that pretty but I still wok'd my ass off!

clockwise from the top
1. red curry with eggplant and pumpkin
2. cashew nut chicken
3. phad thai with shrimp
4. stir-fried morning glory leaves
5. sweet and sour chicken





mango sticky rice,
green papaya salad

Tabloids

Quick story...

One night in Kuala Lumpur, I am headed home around 1am after bar hopping to a couple trendy little spots I'd wanted to check out. Found some good ones. I think my hotel is just around the corner to I start to cross the street. I notice a guy, also crossing the street, with a tight hot pink shirt, expensive haircut and nice shoes. Awesome, there's probably a gay bar nearby! So I follow this guy across the street just to get a peek at where he's headed. He's on his cell phone and seems to make no notice of me. I am incognito. Right... So he stops in front of a bar and is still talking on the cell. Hmm, this is not a gay bar. It is an upscale wine bar with a glass facade and a selection of imported cigars that many business men and women seem to be enjoying. I am looking inside and all of the sudden he is standing right next to me.

"Iknewyounotknowwhereyougoing!" What? He is standing right next to me, speaking to me but I can barely pick up a word he is saying. He continues, "Ihjoeirj;oidfj;erhqawfgfojidf;aldkjdfwop--saw you--lskdrldksfj;aoiww;irtj;weirjtwsro--followed you!" I stare at him blankly. Wait, he is following me? So I try talking to him but he is speaking so fast. I think I must sound like an American cowboy to him, provincial. I discern that he is Brazilian, moved to Thailand to compete as a kickboxer, has lived in Phuket for the past four years, has moved to KL to open a bar with his friend.

Now his accent makes sense. It's English spoken with a Portuguese pronunciation and a slight Thai accent but more with Thai speed. Thais string words together so that one sentence is spoken as if it is one word. Thaisstringwordstogethersothatonesentanceisspokenasifitisoneword. And that one word is spoken fast!

So kickboxer, eh? I'm going to hear some stories. I sit down and order vodka. I tell him I've sliced open cadavers so don't hold anything back. But his phone rings. He starts talking...could be any language at this point, I give up. And he's still talking. I notice that he has magazines he was carrying on the table and I grab one. It is an English translation of a Malay tabloid. Not gay, really? I am flipping through it. I learn that the Black Eyed Peas are touring Asia and everyone loves Fergie's legs. How could you not? I also learn about some Asian pop stars. There is an article about a young woman named Xeng. "Though known for her great number of fashion mishaps, she is proud to be the new spokes model for the clothing line Soda. 'I just try to stay positive and nothing can hurt me,' Xeng said.'"

This is fantastic!!!! I am sucked in, sipping vodka at some random bar in KL--nevermind the Thai kickboxer who is still on his stupid phone--and I am loving this trashy magazine. US Weekly and People are like film before technicolor compared to the superficial-ness of this magazine. I read it cover to cover, there is only ice in my glass. I shove 20 ringgets under my glass, stand up and grab the rest of the kickboxer's magazines. I figure if you invite a girl to a drink and talk on the phone the whole time, she should get to take your magazines. I catch his eye and in one movement, give him a little wave and hail a cab. I am down the block in two seconds, headed to my guesthouse.

The cab stops and there is banging on my window. "This your friend?" the driver says? I see a pink shirt with muscles bulging out of it, muscles that say 'I care more about my workouts than my friends or family.' I tell the driver, it's okay to unlock the door. I slide the magazines down in between the seat and the door beside me.

Kickboxer gets in and is talking at the speed of light and I don't understand a thing. "I'm tried, I'm going to bed," I say. He keeps talking and all I got was, "OhIhatemyfriend!!" So I just repeated myself, "I'm tired, I'm going to bed." He apologizes (I think) and I have the cab pull over again and drop him off.

The cab driver looks at me in the mirror as we drive away. I read the magazines on the plane the next day. They were gloriously indulgent.

As Much As You Like (la deuxieme)

Back in KL. It's nice to be able to pronounce the street names without hesitation. The guesthouse clerk greeted me with, "Welcome back, Miss Katherine." Oh, I should tell you that they often call me Miss Davenport here, the concept of a middle name not completely understood. If I disappear off the face of the earth, you should look for me under this surname as well.

Anyhoo, in my guesthouse, I was telling the new arrivals on where to go out this weekend, what time to arrive for the Petronas tour and what kinds of Malay food to try. What should you try in Malaysia? Pie Tie, little crusty pastries shaped like a top hat, into which you stuff shreaded veggies and pour rich sauces. Also, try the laksa, a spicy soup with a coconut milk base in which you'll find shrimp and noodles and other treats.

I got up early and waited in line to see the Petronas towers with other tourists, in turbans and short-shorts, in Hawaiian shorts and saris. This is what I love: the intense mix of people gathered together in one city. Right now I'm writing about the tourists but this holds true for KL's residents as well.

Notes on Race and Religion taken from the Back Seat of a Taxi
KL is not convient to walk around, though I did a bit. It's impossible to avoid hopping in a taxi every now and then so I asked the drivers about racial tension, which is a tangible but not uncomfortable entity here. The cab drivers told me there are there are three main groups. Disclaimer: I am going to write in large generalizations here, so beware. I really don't know what I'm talking about. The native Malay Muslims (whom have a special name but I forgot it) are considered a bit privileged. There are the Indians who practice Islam, Christianity and Hinduism. Then there are the Chinese, whom one driver assured me, up until recently, held the best jobs in the economy because they are hard-working and encourage their kids to do well in school. He also mentioned they drive a hard bargain as shop-keepers. (Russell Peters, anyone?)

I read that this cultural combination is due to Malaysia's history as being the top exporter of spices for most of the second millinium. The trade route went from Malaka, a port town just north of KL, to India, to Italy and eventually to Portugal. The Chinese gained control of this port by offering military protection. Portugal wanted a way around this taxing trade route and sailed to Malaka, fought, won, gained control of the port and built a fort. The Dutch came in and destroyed the Portuguese fort. Indian Muslims bought Islam to Malaysia, the dominating religion that persists today. Eventually, the British gained control and the Malays resented and rejected the Christianity that was forced upon them. I believe one British entrepreneur wound up taking an interest in Singapore which they turned into a bustling port city.

One driver told me that because the Malay Muslims were suffering large numbers of unemployment, the government set up some sort of a program in the 70s that sounded like affirmative action. This program is still effect today, though this Christian Indian driver felt that it was completely unnecessary because the Muslims hold all the government positions. Hmm.

The Cure for AIDS
I thought nothing of it when the man who picked me up from the airport my first night in KL that first night told me that a Malaysian doctor had found the cure for AIDS. I thought he must have read an article wrong. But what a scary misconception! Then, it happened again. The driver who drove me through the Malay market mentioned the same thing upon learning that I am a medical student and gave me articles to read that he kept laminated on his dashboard. The doctors name is Dr. Ananthan Krishnan. I couldn't read the story since it was written in Bahasa Malay but he gave me the run down.

You must understand numerology. According to your birthdate, you calculate a series of numbers that belong specifically to you. The driver said that the act of repeating these numbers in certain tones strengths strengthens your immune system. I told him, that though I've only studied Western medicine, I find this a frightening conviction to tell people that you have a cure for AIDS. I believe it will make them participate in more risky behavior, perceiving AIDS as less of a threat. "Yes, it's wonderful news!" he replied.

HAART therapy with protease inhibitors seems to be making progress--maybe we can even do some gene therapy work with CXCR5. But there is no cure for AIDS, not yet. I might visit a tarot card reader out of curiosity but I respect this retrovirus' power too much to rely on any cure that is purely spiritual and not strongly scientifically-based.

Another driver told me about this later and I stopped asking them. This is too scary for me to hear more about. Apparently, Dr. Krishnan is already well-respected in India and is invited to China to speak at several medical institutions there. In looking over his articles, I found advertisments in which he promotes his own line of OTC meds, treating everything from diabetes to depression.

The Tallest Twin Towers in the World or Great Heights
I eventually went on the Petronas tour. From afar, the towers are truly impressive, elegant. On the tour, they sit you in a movie theater and show you a 3D movie about Petronas' contributions to the community and devotion to keeping the environment clean while drilling for oil. I sort-of bought it. After taking the elevator to the skybridge, an Indonesian man, here in KL on a work visa, asked me to be in all his pictures. I smiled sweetly.

I mentioned to another tourist that you can see the towers from anywhere in the town. He replied, "Ya, they are very tall, no?" And I felt stupid about my remark. In fact, they were the tallest in the world until a few years ago. Now, Taipei holds that record. On the official Petronas tour, they do specify that they are still the tallest twin towers in the world. Oh, right.

Later that day, I went to the Menara KL, another sight-seeing tower here that is overshadowed by it's architectually superior rival Petronas. You can actually go up higher in the Menara towers so I took a bunch of pics. Tourists scream while sliding down a zip line at its base.

But later that evening, I had a drink at Luna, a posh roof-top bar with an infinity pool. From the cushy seats of Luna, you can view the Petronas Towers and Menara KL lit up at night--stunning really--and drink a Lychee martini at the same time. As far as high-altitude views go, Luna wins in my book. A couple sent over a second drink to me. What a nice thing to do for a girl traveling alone.

Credit Card Gasps for Breath
Upon exiting the Petronas tour, you wind up in a shopping mall. This mall give the Beverly Center a run for its money. It is southeast Rodeo Drive with a little Melrose in the mix. Everything from Gucci to Zara. From Mango to Marc Jacobs. Even a discount shoe store, a la DSW. I am drawn into stores by some force undiscovered by today's top physicists. I tried on a skirt at Kookai and told the sales woman I loved it but the price was a little too high for me. She offered a lower price. I told her I'll take it for 60%. She agreed. Wait a sec!!! Bargaining at Kookai Paris?! This is awesome. I buy the skirt and decide to try my luck at Prada. Bargaining is frowned upon at Prada. But it worked at Mango. I'm stoked. I walked out with three new pairs of Malay shoes to add to my wall of shoes (this is my art) in my Brooklyn apartment. I had to give myself blinders with my hands to exit this mall. And I'm usually a boutique kind-of girl.

The Single Girl at Berjaya

A British couple sits in one of the fine dining establishments at the Berjaya resort on Palau Tioman, an island in the South China Sea, just off the east coast of Malaysia. It was used in the Film South Pacific, playing the role of the mythical Bali Hai.

The British woman looks up from her plate and frowns. She sees a young woman dining alone, legs crossed in wedged high heels, bright red lipstick leaving a mark on the stemmed water glass. The gush of pity reaches this young woman from across the room and she smiles. For she has played that role on so many occasions: the girlfriend at the island resort. Flowing dress, shelled necklace, cutting strange vegetables carefully on her plate, smiling affectionately at the boyfriend who remains unburnt by the sun due to her attentive reapplications of SPF30. Now, she's neither happy nor sad to be alone, but quietly content.

In the mornings, she slathers orange marmalade on her toast, so thickly that it slides off and down her fingers. When the waitress is not looking, she feeds butter to the wild minx cats off the dull blade of her knife. They are pleased to let her scratch their chins and intrigued by the bikini strings that hang invitingly behind her chair.

She boards a boat, tank on, to dive the reef surrounding Tioman, protected by environmentalists and a tax of $2 US that everyone pays upon arrival. Before plunging backwards into the seawater, she says a small prayer for her left ear that still hears at 80 percent. She descends slowly out of respect for this ear.

The bottom is clear and decorated with electrically-colored fish. The divers immediately see a black-tipped-fin shark and she eagerly swims towards it when it shies away. There are squid, octopus, sea slugs galore. A small silvery fish nips at her knee and she bats it away. When it returns for a second bite, she laughs out loud into her regulator, a cascade of bubbles erupting behind her. A green sea turtle, motivated by these strange pale creatures with goggled eyes and long limbs, decides to swim along with the divers a while. She wishes she had an underwater camera.

On shore, she borrows a kayak--choosing the hot pink one--and drags it into the sea. She paddles around small uninhabited islands that orbit Tioman. Behind one, hidden from the shore, she stops paddling and lies back in the Malaysian sun. There is graffiti written on this island's rocks in an alphabet she cannot read.

Upon returning to her room, beneath which lives a six-foot monitor lizard, she catches a waiter leaving a birthday cake in the mini-fridge. Delighted, she hugs him making him take an uncomfortable step back. She has told no one it's her birthday, but the resort has seen her passport. Later, she'll eat cake with a spoon straight from the box, sitting cross-legged on the bed, while watching BBC World. She'll learn of the rising numbers of nazis in Serbia and recognize the streets of Belgrade in the background, streets she walked down just over a year ago. She will eat cake and feel nothing.

She lies by the pool, wet hair matted to her forehead. She is drowsy from taking Loratadine for the mosquito Anopheles has launched her bloody attack at Tioman. Though medical school teaches Loratidine does not cross the CNS border, she can assert that it does--at least in quadruple doses. To her right, sleep a Spanish couple. To her left, Russian, Swiss, German and British couples carry on a jovial conversation in English. Bhangra Knights blares at half-volume on her ipod and she reads a novel by Lahiri. The unforgivably bold curves of her body turn a rosy gold. She has to apologize when she misses a question addressed to her. Flipped onto her stomach, the other sun-bathers do not see the earphone in her left her.

"Is it true in America you cannot drink until the age of 21?" the Swiss man asks. "Yes," she says gravely. "Even at the discotechs?" asks the German woman. And when she asserts this is true as well, they all shake their heads in disbelief.

A cabana boy sits on the edge of her lounge chair and asks whether she'll be at the beach bar tonight. She replies "I don't think so" flatly and gathers her things. A purple sarong and pair of havaianas lie abandoned on the beach while she swims the shore's length through the metallic grey-blue South China sea.

Her evenings are spent on the porch--bottle of deet close at hand--sipping chardonnay and reading. She is her mother's daughter.

Today, she goes on a snorkeling trip. Realizing it is only dads and kids on the boats, she keeps a t-shirt on modestly. She takes out her camera and a little red-haired girl comes over to give picture-taking advice. She hands her camera to the little girl who takes several crooked pictures of the shore. The young woman compliments the girl on her artistic eye--both share a distaste for symmetry. In the water, the fish are plentiful but she makes a note to go snorkeling first next time, diving second. Just then, a magnificent thick leopard-printed eel slithers by. This is her life at this moment: weightless, gliding through warm and cool currents, ever-so careful not to scrape the coral reef, for this is its home, and she is merely a guest.

As Much As You Like

Kuala Lumpur is the Urban Outfitters of SE Asia. Cool, eclectic, edgy and fun. I am having a ball. This city is just my style.

I went to the Islamic Art Museum yesterday which was breath-taking. The building's architecture is modern and clever. I was once told that the key to designing a world class museum is to create contant intrigue. What lies beyond that corner?! IAM does just that and houses intricate replicas of mosques from all over the world: India, Iran, North Africa, China. There is an impressive collection of artifacts. From flamboyant jewelry to colorfully scripted Qurans, from tapestries to daggers with jeweled in-lay. I considered punching through the glass to steal a dagger. They were that cool. I walked around thinking that the intricate and patient artistry of Islamic art makes modern painters like Mark Rothko look like children playing with finger paint.

Next, I went to the bird park by a lake, Tasik Perdana. "The World's Largest Birdpark!" the sign exclaims. I took pictures of creatures with crooked beaks and funky hairdos. I am not a paranoid person but I swear a peacock was following me around for a good six minutes.

Outside, I was trying to figure out what to do next and I met an older Indian man who recommended the Batu Caves. He offered to drive me and of course, turned out to be a cab driver. I spoke with him for a while and finally agreed.

The Batu Caves are a limestone wonder accessed by 272 steps. It is said that the god Murugan lives here. My cab driver/tour guide Kris, tells me that he is the god of medicine and that he will guide me through school. I should have come here earlier this summer to visit you, Murugan. Later, I read that Murugan, one of Shiva's sons, is the god of war. Ah well! There is a MASSIVE golden structure of him before the caves. Apparently the Muslim government was opposed to the building of a Hindu god of this size but eventually the Hindus won.

Kris, an older man, was excited that I was asking so many questions and he climbed the 272 stairs with me--something he said he has not done in a long time. There are little temple pit-stops along the way. At one, he instructed me to take off my shoes and we headed over to one of the temples and stood in front of a religous man working there--I don't know what you'd call him. He was burning incense and kept candles going in the wind. This man told me, "Pray!" And so I bowed my head and prayed. He touched white ashes to my forehead and chanted. Perhaps it was placebo, perhaps the cave air, but I felt lighter afterward.

Kris and I wandered into the caves depths. "You will have Murugan's blessing now. He must have been shocked to see a pretty white girl visit him today!" One day each winter, hundreds make the trek up to the caves in a ceremony called Thiapusam. They each bring him a small cup of milk so that they will have his blessing. There is a famous story about an Australian tourist who joined this ceremony one year and prayed to Murugan to cure his mother's cancer. Ten years later she is still in remission and the Australian tourist returns each year to participate in the ceremony and give his thanks.

When I ask the cab drivers how much my fare costs, many have replied, "As much as you like." Do they want to appear humble and protect the image of KL in the eyes of foreigners? Do they know that Americans over-tip and want to see how much I offer? I probably end up giving them too much because I don't want to rip them off and then they come off looking humble. Hmm.

KL is known for its night markets. That night I had a taxi drive me through Kampung Baru, the Malay market, which is too spread out to walk around and enjoy. It's mostly people eating soup and noddles at plastic tables. Then I got dropped off in Chinatown, which is super-bright and circus-like. I felt harrassed and looking at fake designer bags makes me a little sick to my stomach because I think of slave children forced to work in a dark warehouse somewhere. I was told that you can get five watches for 14 ringgets here--about $5 US--but that they will all stop telling time before you get home.

Today, to contrast, I headed into Little India. They sell dates and little goodies tucked into banana leaves. The air smells of spice. Saries and rugs along side the designer handbags and watches. The market winds about little roads and reminds me of the Casbah in Morocco--turn around the wrong corner and you will be lost for a week! At one point, I realized I was the only woman I could see not wearing a headdress. Don't worry, I had my hair covered and tucked into a big chapeau I bought here. This was a more pleasant experience partly because the men harrassed me less here--not at all actually. Or maybe it's just because it's Ramadhan and they are too malnurished to make catcalls.

It's good timing actually because I am here during the final week of Ramadhan and everyone is gearing up for the big celebration afterward. You see women shopping up a storm in the evenings in prepartion. Traffic is also quite bad for this reason. My other experience with Ramadhan was with a Muslim ex-boyfriend. I recall how pouty he was during the day and how I wouldn't call him back until after the sun went down and he'd finally eaten and lightened up.

One man here told me, upon my inquiry, that the police actually fine you if you practice Islam and are seen eating in a restaurant. You can get around this by getting take-away and eating at home but it is absolutely illegal to eat in public. Christians and Hindus are of course exempt.

Okay, I have more to tell but I'm sick of writing. I'm going to go get a drink. Ciao.

Typhoon Lekima vs. Indochine

I came to the north of Vietnam to do two things: kayak through the caves in Halong Bay and float down a river in my conical hat and trek up to the Perfume Pagoda. Sounds cool, right? Not so cool when there is a typhoon and it forces you to stay in town for three days.

Actually, the typhoon is quite tragic. As of now, 23 are dead. Lekima is a class one typhoon. As usual, I believe global warming is somehow behind it.

So I was a good little tourist. I went to see the Water Puppet show. I went for an early morning jog around Hoan Kiem Lake. You wouldn't believe how many senior citizens were out doing their tai chi! I went to the Ho Chi Minh Museum and Ho Chi Minh himself. He had his body embalmed and his mausoleum modelled after Lenin's in Moscow's Red Square. Strange when you consider that Communism recommends cremation as a way of preserving land.

I did the walking tour past the street markets. In Hanoi, the shopping is quite segregated. There is a spice street, a tin street, a bamboo ladder street, a paper street, a shrine-accessory street, a sweet potato street, a silk flower street, a chinese lantern street...I could go on. I went to the food market and took pictures of live eels for sale, hearts, brains, snails. I didn't inquire if any of the meat is dog. It's probably quite prejudice of me to have those thoughts at all.

I went to the Temple of Literature and finished the book I've been reading about Hmong culture, The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down. The title is what Hmong people, who are a tribe in Loas and north Vietnam, call epilepsy. The book goes into Western medicine's flaws in dealing other cultures' explanations for illness.

Then I went to the Museum of Ethnology and looked at pictures of the Hmong and other 51 tribes in Vietnam. I climbed up into the life-sized replica homes they have built in a huge garden and took pictures.

I finally learned how to cross the street in SE Asia. The first week I just waited for a local to cross and tailed him/her. Here is the trick: you feign confidence, pick a steady velocity and go for it. The motos and cars part around you as the Red Sea parted for Moses. I feel as Indiana Jones must have felt (if he were real) crossing the ravine by walking through air.

Accidents happen frequently--I saw two myself in the three full days I was in Hanoi. People fall off their motos, brush themselves off, get back on and drive back. In America, this would have caused a half-hour screaming session. Not so in Hanoi where Buddhist ideals of forgiveness govern everyday life. You wouldn't ever dream of blaming the at-fault driver for his/her actions. There are largers forces in the universe at work.

I ate roll-your-own spring rolls on the street. Vietnamese eat 10-12 times a day. Little meals of soup, noodles, rice, fried things in banana leaves. The sidewalks are lines with mini-cafes where diners sit on tiny plastic stools and drink Bia Hoi, or fresh beer. There are hundreds of brewers in the region and they sell for about 10 cents a glass. Light and not too bad, actually.

My last day, I had seen EVERYTHING. So I did what any crafty American girl would do. I walked around, drank lots of Bia Hoi and shopped my heart out. I bought chopsticks with albalone inlay, a silk cocktail dress for $10 US (this is the land of the silk worm), silk "lucky chickens" to hang in my room, some gifts, etc. Don't worry guys, I stimulated Vietnam's economy to the point that they have forgiven us for the war. Actually, I probably spent about $30 tops.

Then I went back to my hotel room, had a dance party and took pictures of myself in my concical hat.

I left a day early for Malaysia since there was nothing left to do. Vietnam, we will have to rendez-vous again so I can kayak your Halong Bay.

I went out in Kuala Lumpur my first night on the Asian Heritage Strip, a new area with lots of chic venues. The women here wear thick eyeliner and metal high heels. I found the clubs let me walk right in without paying a cover so I went to all of them. Found a fantastic club called Maison that had pretty great house DJs. The men kept offering me brown-colored drinks. No thank you, I'm on a rohypnol-free diet. My wrists and forearm are covered in dark blue stamps. I'm impressed KL. I intend to check out more tonight.

The Color Red

One night in a bar in Hanoi, I was having drinks one night in a bar with some Australians. I told them my name was Fifi and that I was visiting from the Big Apple to find inspiration for my career as a singer/songwriter. Sometimes I get tired of explaining the concept of Caribbean med school.

The aussies asked what it was like to be an American in Vietnam. Two of them work here and mentioned they are treated differently until they clarify that they are not from the US. I don't have a good answer. It is a war many regret--in his memoirs, McNamara admits that America's involvement in Vietnam "was wrong, terribly wrong."

"We were in it too, you know," one aussie told me. "Yeah but you weren't dropping B-52s and experimenting with chemical warfare," I replied.

My father enlisted in the Vietnam War and I am exceedingly proud of him. I don't know as I'll ever do anything that brave in my lifetime. He was fortunate to be placed as a spy in Ethiopia, because he spoke excellent French. It might be this fortune that makes it possible for me and my brothers to be here today.

I have read Karl Marx and The Lenin Anthology--well, at least excerpts when writing papers in undergrad. Socialist theory is a beautiful thing on paper. I visited the Ho Chi Minh museum and was struck by his quotes. I took pictures of his words because I want to remember their gracefulness. In the mid-20th Century, America was a country motivated by fear of the Soviet Union and China threatening our seat as the world's hegemon. Eisenhower's "domino" theory of the southeast nations succumbing to communism and threatening even Australia. McNamara also wrote, " We totally underestimated the nationalist aspect of Ho Chi Minh's movement. We saw him first as a Communist and only second as a Vietnamese nationalist."

One of my greatest flaws: I am not very patriotic. The US government has made so many poor decisions in the past 50 years and has faced several other embarrassments--Nixon, Clinton's over-dramatized scandal, tapes of our soldiers torturing captives in Iraq. How do I trust our leaders? I always stand up for my country when I am abroad, I'll note. Admit your mistakes, apologize, move on.

The War museum is in Ho Chi Minh City. They call is "The American War" here. I'm told that in it lie fetuses mangled and killed by Agent Orange. They show videos of the protesting monk who set himself on fire. The televised images shocked the whole world and kicked the war protests into overdrive.

I went to the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington DC with my family when I was 12. It remains a powerful black image in my mind today. So many lost lives. My father found his friend's name on the wall.

In the Nagel household in California, we Tivo the Jim Lehrer News Hour each evening. At the end of each hour, they show the names and pictures of the soldiers who died serving their country in Iraq. They are 19 and 21 yo kids. Every night, my father holds a moment of silence in their honor.

The Funky Monkey Adventure

I arrived to Vietnam late last night and my guesthouse was less than ideal. It was much farther from the town center than I'd been told and my shower floor was covered with muck. First thing this morning, I headed out to find a new place to stay. I had the guesthouse clerk mark its location on my map--I can show you the fat black dot he drew--and noted that the sign on the door said "Funky Monkey." I walked two blocks and hopped on a moto that took me to the city center in Hanoi and stopped in the poshest travel agency I could find. I found a fancy-shmancy new hotel for $10 more a night. So worth it!

The travel agency got me a cab, so I could grab my belonging from the guesthouse and relocate. I pulled out my map and showed the black dot to the cab driver. He spoke no English, I can mispronounce three Vietnamese words.

We arrived at the location of the black dot. This looked familiar...I walked here this morning...but the hotel was nowhere in site. It was right here, I swear! I grabbed a pen and wrote the words "funky monkey" for the driver and he phoned a friend. Soon we were halfway across town and in a neighborhood I didn't recognize. He stopped in front of a bar named, Funky Monkey. I couldn't explain to him that I wanted to go to a hotel, not bar. I pulled out my room key which did not have the guesthouse's address on it. Why didn't I grab a business card?! I had the taxi drop me off at the mysteriously vacant site where I thought my guesthouse was and I began hiking up and down streets. Oh, did I mention it was pouring rain? I was soaking wet, mud splattered up my calves, the ink from my guidebook map running down pages.

I had an idea. An Australian girl I met at the hotel this morning (who was arguing with the guy behind the counter for ripping her off) told me she was headed to Ho Chi Minh's grave today. I hopped on another moto and told him to head to the mausoleum. It was already closed for the day at noon. The Aussie was nowhere in site. I had been searching for my guesthouse for two hours.

I went around to all the cabs lined up and found one who spoke English well. I explained my predicament, totally embarrassed. He understands and I sit in the front seat and we comb the streets of Hanoi. I must have seen every street in the city! Finally, I was about to cry--and I rarely cry these days. He told me we should stop and have lunch. I realized I didn't eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning and agreed. At lunch, Mi'hal my driver (spelling botched, I sure, but I called him Michael mistakenly for the first hour) was on the phone the whole time. He put the phone down and asked me if I am married. YES. Soon, his friend arrived and they spoke Vietnamese for quite some time. The only words I understand are "funky monkey." Then they were both on the phone and finally the friend was smiling and then they were both smiling and then it was finally explained to me that they have a friend who owns seven hotels named "Funky Monkey." I get the lunch bill and we go to meet this friend.

He showed up half an hour later and I showed him my black dot. He told me that that location was closed three years ago and he can't help me. "You should go to the police station and see if they reported you missing." It was 3 PM and I knew this was futile. Again, we combed the streets and this time the friend was in the car as well. I know them all now, I will never be lost in Hanoi. Eventually, Mi'hal told me that it was time to go to the police station. I was so mortified that I would have to explain to the Vietnamese police that I don't know where my guesthouse is. I was convinced that is was a mirage.

A moto driver cut off the taxi and we swerved. The friend yelled, "funky monkey!!! FUNKY MONKEY!!!" What the hell? I looked up and sure enough, right before us was my guesthouse with "funky monkey" clearly written on the door. I screamed with delight. Its name is actually Garden of Eden. Do not stay there.

I ran up the three flights of stairs and threw everything in my bag in 30 seconds. I tossed ten US dollars on the counter along with the key and dumped my bag in the cab's trunk. On the way to my new hotel, I started giggling uncontrollably in the backseat. Soon Mi'hal and his friend were giggling with me and we had to pull over. I took pictures of us laughing. I look terrible in them. Mi'hal put and arm around my shoulder and said to me, "You know we are friends for life now?" We are all having dinner together later this week.

Think I earned some ditz points today, Mary? At least 1000, I'd say.

Encounter with an American Ex-Patriotess

I go to see aspara dancing, unique to the Angkor region in Cambodia. I feast on fish stew, bamboo shoots and papaya while doll-faced Khmer women twist their wrists and ankles to drums and bells.

I notice the woman at the table next to mine is stunning, a Winona Ryder with sharper angles. She hears me thank the waiter and says, "It's unusual to meet an American woman traveling alone in Asia."

J, I will call her, is from Chicago, but has lived in Palo Alto, LA, Manhattan, Florence and currently resides in Hong Kong as an advertising exec. She invites me to a drink at Hotel de la Paix.

The lobby is the most modern I've seen here, lined with statues baring the all-knowing Angkor smile. In the outdoor restaurant, guests dine on beds suspended from the trees by vine-like ropes around a small pond. We enter the bar which changes color throughout the night. From mandarin to plum to cherry blossom pink. An exhibit of hanging oblong woven structures reminds me of Ruth Asawa's work at the de Young in San Fran. We lounge on black and white silk pillows, drinking gin and tonics to ward off mosquitos. In her flowing black dress, J kicks off her sandals and appears to be in her natural habitat.

J tells me of her marriage and divorce, about loving the discipline required to train for a marathon, of her sister's picture perfect lifestyle in contrast to her own, about the man she just broke up with and sent back to his wife and two children in the states. She describes night she fell asleep and woke up in tears. I tell her that though I am ten years younger, I too have known these nights.

I ask about her work and she explains to me the asian luxury market. In America, we define ourselves by finding something unique first. Our creativity is praised. But the Asian woman strives to meet the uniform requirements that equate luxury. She must carry this handbag, hobble around on those heels, etc.

"It seems like an assault on female individuality," I remark.
"Maybe, but it also makes consumer choices much easier." And she goes on to explain that the buyers are nouveau-riche and don't know how to spend their money. Hence, the flashy logos everywhere.

"What Louis Vuitton's worst fear is," J says carefully, "is what will happen when people wake up and realize 96 percent of the population is carrying his handbag!" How can luxury be considered luxurious when it is attainable by anyone?

Another thing she tells me: "I have yet to see an Asian woman act sexy. They are wearing miniskirts and stilettos and yet they are not sexy. A woman can be beautiful, cute, pretty, edgy here but she does not exude sex appeal." Given Asia's over-population, I assume our Western eyes must be missing something.

I ask if she plans to stay here or move back to the states. "You know, it really could go either way," she says. "If there was an opening in Buenos Aires, I would go there." Excellent idea.

I am beaming at the glimpse of her lifestyle and tell her so. We talk more about her marriage and I ask if she feels jaded by relationships. "It's not that," she says. "I've reached a point where I no longer feel marriage is necessary. But recently, I've really wanted a child. I don't have the same desire to give birth and have my own genes running around like many women do. I would adopt. I've had my adventures and now I feel that if I can make someone's life better, and it will make me happy, I should do it." This is the best reason I can possibly think of to have a child.

We talk of our shared desire to abduct a Cambodian child. J has actually looked into it. You have to be 40 to adopt a child here. She has only a few years to go.

It is late and time to part ways. The image I would like to leave you with is this:

In that restaurant, met two headstrong American women with their own bank accounts and university degrees, each having traveled half-way around the world on her own. On stage, in layers of silk robes, pancake makeup and heavy jeweled crowns, young women dance for a small sum. It's likely that they have never traveled out of this region and will probably never leave Cambodia. Afterwards, while we lounge at a five-star hotel with cocktails, they are working the bar, flattering and caressing the older overweight white men with thick pocketbooks, trying to supplement their income. It is merely chance that I was born an American woman and not Khmer. This I will never take for granted.

I heart Cambodia! <3

Cambodia is an eerie beauty that seduces. Her grey sky accents the mystery of its temples and poverty in the streets.

When walking through town, I heard soft bells and drums. Soon I learned that this is how the amputee population in Siem Reap makes a living. The musicians are all victims of the three to seven million landmines left in the rice paddies and forest. Mines were the weapons of choice for the Khmer Rouge forces, a socialist terrorist group that envisioned a pure Cambodian race and sought to rid the country of chinese, vietnamese, muslim cham and hilltribes in the late 1970s. The mines were designed to maim, not kill, thereby causing economic burden for the government.

The Khmer children are quite beautiful, small with heart-shaped faces and dark almond eyes. Begging is an art form here. Late one night, a little boy came up to me, held my hand lightly and began to sob. I brought him a several other children into the 24h convenience store (yes, Cambodia is more convenient than Grenada) and told them each to pick something from the shelves. What did they all reach for? Milk formula, most likely for their little brothers and sisters.

The temples are more poetic than I can ever be. What I will tell you: they are supernatural beings themselves, simply majestic. I spent two days tuk-tuking around to each of them and hiking through their labyrinth walls of red clay dirt and tangled vines. This is where Tomb Raider was filmed. I am a blonde Lara Croft armed with a camera. My pictures say the rest.

I took a boat ride past the floating village en route to Battambang. This is Siem Reap's version of a ghetto, occupied 80 percent by Vietnamese. I asked my tuk tuk driver, Lam, to go with me and bought him his ticket which cost one third the price of mine. I wanted to ask him some questions. First about his family. Lam is the second of eight and from a village north of here. Did he go to university? "No, too expensive. But we pay my sister to go. She youngest." The government doesn't subsidize education, nor does it provide loans. We floated past houses on the water with families of 8-12 inside, swinging on hammocks with children playing on the floor. There is no front wall to these homes; their lives are completely on display for foreigner like myself to observe. I watched Korean tourists take pictures of me in my boat and suddenly felt very uncomfortable taking pictures myself. What a violation of privacy I committed.

I asked Lam if he's ever been out of Cambodia. Oh yes, he told me, he's been up north (where he's from), to Phnom Penh and to Battambang lots of times. All of these places are in Cambodia. He asked me if I went to Thailand. "Do you have any baht?"he asked. No, I don't, I said. But I have US dollars. "You American?" For two days he thought I was British.

We drifted past a floating grocery store, a mechanic, a church, several schools, a hospital. These structures are buoyant on old tires, barrels and stacks of pipes. A few years ago the Vietnamese government built a basketball court near the school. It is fenced in so the ball isn't lost to the murky water. The court is packed with children. I asked Lam why the Vietnamese came to Cambodia, which is considered a poorer country. He shrugged and told me that they pay the government for ID cards. I couldn't seem to get an answer to why they've relocated. I did read that Cambodians call Vietnamese youn, or "savages from the north." Possibly those living here are outcasts in Vietnam? Does Vietnam have a caste system I'm unaware of? I have yet to find out.

We ended up in Lake Tonle Sap where locals are paddling around selling waffles and fruit and soft drinks to the tourist boats. I bought a banana and asked Lam how the pollution affected his profession as a tuk tuk driver. Again, he shrugged and said people were masks. Many people do. In addition to the typical non sterile hospital masks people sport, some wear designer cloth ones with hip designs. I'd also like to note that you do not need a license to drive a motorcycle here. As in Thailand (and I'm guessing everywhere in se asia), you see whole families of four and five riding one moto or someone balancing a huge load of cargo on their bike. Traffic is never boring.

I asked Lam if the children begging on the streets were part of the slave trade. "What is slave?" he asked me. I tried to clarify. "Do people buy and sell the children?" He laughed. "No, they just poor!"

"You know the American actress Angelina Jolie?" I asked. Lam nodded. "What do people think of her?" Lam smiled and said they like her a lot. "I mean what do they think of her adopting a Cambodian child and taking him to the United States?" Lam shrugged and said,""She should have got a Vietnamese." Is that a green light for the adoption of Cambodian children? Don't worry Pop, I intend to fly back to the US alone.

"You want to see Crocodile farms?" Lam asked me.
"Yes, I would love to see the crocodile farms, " I replied.

Sompeah

Siem Reap, Cambodia is the jumping off point for visiting the temples of Angkor. These structures are of another world. Dating back 800-900 years, the temples have been consumed by the jungle and are considered to be of contemporary style. Their artistry has been likened to that of Versailles and Notre Dame. Built to honor gods, for kings wives or possibly as mausoleums, there exact purpose is unknown.

White Night

I am on Koh Samui, an island off the east coast of southern thailand. I came here to attend the Full Moon Party which was last night. As a self-proclaimed international party connoisseur, I felt I needed to add this experience to my repertoire. I slept all afternoon both today and yesterday on the white sand beach.

Last night for dinner I had fresh basil and tomatoes with spicy tofu. I have decided to mostly stick to mostly fish and vegetarian dishes to avoid eating dog and other peculiar meats. A thai guy came over and introduced himself as Joel, or whatever the thai version of that may be. He's from Chiang Mai and running a tour down here. He invited me to go camping in the forest tomorrow. I told him my few beach days were precious to me. Soon we were hanging out in hammocks drinking Mai Thais and he told me he'll show me around in Chiang Mai when I go there in a few weeks. I am so excited to have a thai friend! Then he starts talking about his ex girlfriend and reaches for my hand and asks me to take a walk on the beach with him. Damn, so much for a thai friend. Annoyed, I got up and decided it was time to go to the party.

At midnight I took a speedboat to Koh Phangan, another island, to attend the party on Haad Rin beach. Above the speedboat motor, you could hear the beats from the shore. The party stretched across the crescent-shaped beach. Areas with DJs spinning various types of music attract different nationalities. The Israelis danced to trance. The Aussies and Brits liked dance(how I would classify the house music version of Top 40s). The Koreans preferred drum n bass. Then I wander down the beach to find one guy spinning Beyonce. As much as I love Beyonce, she does not belong at the Full Moon Party. The music is not great; no one notices when the DJ mismatches a beat. But everyone--let me repeat--EVERYONE is dancing their hearts out. The energy is electric and alive. I stop watching the DJs make mistakes and let go.

In the land of smiles, they have a word for this fun, sanuk. Playfulness is embraced in everyday life and the foreigners have adopted it for the night. People are covered in paint that glows in the dark and drink for plastic buckets, the kind you used to build sand castles as a child. I am informed that the King outlawed drinking from glass bottles after midnight so the buckets have become a marketable success for thai entrepreneurs.

The scene reminded me of San Fran's version of love parade with many more ladyboys, or transgender/transsexuals. Spotting ladyboys in a crowd is like looking through a Magic Eye book. At first you only see the picture on top, then you change your focus to see the hidden picture underneath. From that moment on, you can only see the hidden pictures. Everywhere I look there are ladyboys. Sexual Reassignment Surgery here is world renowned but costly. Many cannot afford it and only take hormones. At the party, I watched a ladyboy lick the sand off a passed out drunk boy's face.

I met lots of people in the crowd: Swedes, Colombians but wound up dancing with a group of Israelis. Soon I was introduced to their whole group of friends and they became my friends for the night. "Israel would be nothing without America's aide!" Soon we are covered in sand, so we dance in the water. At one point, someone handed me an iguana so I dance with the iguana who was very handsome.

I made one friend from Tel Aviv, Jacob, who was a paratrooper in the army. When I told him I was a medical student, he told me that he fractured his vertebrae when jumping out of a plane and getting his foot caught in the parachute. L4, L5 and S1. He couldn't walk for eight months and now he is dancing at Full Moon.

In the Israeli army, they call nights they do not sleep "white nights." Jacob taught me to find north by three sets of constellations in the stars. It is important to know at least three since the sky moves as you are navigating through the darkness.

I walk through Haad Rin's village with my new friends and realize all of the shop signs are in Hebrew. This month is a school holiday in Israel and so they all come to Thailand. One guy told me that the thai store and restaurant owners here speak Hebrew better than English. Who would have thought?

I watched the sunrise on the beach and the party was no where near over. It is quite possible that it is still going on as I type. At many parties I have been to, most people look like zombies at 7am, dancing because they are determined not to fall asleep, not because they really want to be there. Not so at Full Moon. The crowd is still bouncing up and down, people are laughing and running up and down the beach, the glow paint smeared all over their bodies and clothes. There is a first aid area and many people have bandages on from various party-mishaps but they continue to dance. The water is full of dancers as well, splashing about with the energy of anime schoolgirls.

I got back on the boat at 7am, tired and happy and with an invitation to visit Tel Aviv. But the highlight of the night may have been watching the ladyboys scramble in and out of the boats in heels and miniskirts.

My Buddha Is Bigger Than Yours

I stayed my first two nights on Khoa San Road, where Leonardo DiCaprio stayed in The Beach. Think dreadlocks, tribal tattoos and dirty sandals.

The first morning, on my way to the Grand Palace, a man stopped me and waved his hand before me, as if to ward off demons or cleanse my aura. The only demon I knew occupying my space was left from the Thai whiskey I drank the night before. Pronounced "whi-kay," thai whiskey is made from sugar cane and is actually a rum. Unfortunately, the man's efforts didn't work.

The Grand Palace is quite a site. A sort of spiritual Disneyland bathed in gold and jewels. The day was hot and the tiered rooftops looked magnificent against the deep blue sky. The main attraction is the Emerald Buddha, which is actually carved of Jasper and only a few centimeters high. He has been honored since the 15th century and the king himself changes Emerald Buddha's gold outfits three times a year.

Spirituality in Thailand plays a major role. If we live in a world of four dimensions, the fourth being time, Thais live in 5D. The fifth is the spirit world. Gods are thought to inhabit the same world as humans and certain areas are visited to pay respect to the deity who lives there and perhaps ask for a favor. An enormous amount of the day is consumed by prayer, burning incense, purchasing amulets of good luck, knocking a lucky wooden phallus on the door frame, leaving a spirit a gift such as fruit or flowers.

I visited the Amulet Market in Bangkok thinking it a novelty and upon leaving, I walked through other markets to realize all of Bangkok is an amulet market. I watched a monk stop at an ATM machine to grab some cash so he could purchase some lucky herbs.

After the palace, I visited Wat Pho, a temple home to Thailand's largest reclining Buddha. You cannot see all of him from any angle. His toe is bigger than my arm. Quite impressive. The day included hundreds of Buddhas, of all sizes, all given the same amount of respect as far as I could tell.

I tried to take a tuk tuk to Chinatown but my super-friendly driver kept driving me to his buddy's suit shops. Frustrated, I would up paying him to take me back where I started.

Then I got beat up by a small Thai woman.

Actually, I paid her to do it. Thai massage trumps all. They beat you up, fold you passively into various yoga poses and knock all the bad spirits to the curb. An hour costs eight USD at the massage school. I can't wait to go back.

The massage was so good that I fell asleep and was late to dinner with my new German friend Thomas. A Irish folk artist from Hamburg, all Tom wants to do is dive. He's been travelling for ten months. We ate grilled red snapper for three dollars and drank fresh squeezed juice. He told me I am the strangest girl he'd met on his entire vacation. I was pleased.

I went to bed early last night to rest up for my flight this morning to Koh Samui. Tonight is the Full Moon Party. I plan to spend the afternoon asleep on the beach in preparation.

The Devil Unseen

Upon boarding my flight to Korea, I realized I was the only white woman. Singsong voices floated around me and I didn't understand a word. This is already the trip I craved.

I happened to befriend the small Filipino woman, a grandmother, sitting next to me. Going to visit her mother in Manila and has a daughter who practices medicine. Turns out she works for the UN. Her story unfolded.

In 2003, she was stationed in Baghdad with her boss whom she adored, Sergio Viera de Mello, a handsome Brazilian diplomat who maintained a good repoire with both US and foreign leaders. He was being primed to become the next Secretary General, she told me. There is a bust of him in Ipanema.

This was the beginning of the war and they were the first UN team to be stationed there. It was not long before they were bombed. My new friend, Lynn, had her face mangled, lost site in one eye and today has thin white scars creeping across half of her face. Sergio was killed, found barely breathing in rumple. She has tears in her eyes as she describes this loss and that of 22 of UN workers that day. She, herself, was reported dead to her family at home--a HUGE clerical error. Her family held a memorial service for her, said their goodbyes. Then she called home and her son answered. "This is Mom," she said. "Who?" he asked.

Working for the UN is exciting of course, she told me, but it is full of heartache and helplessness. She describes the Iraqi people under Saddam's rule when she visited in 1999. Then, there was gas, electricity and water in every home. Saddam ruled tightly but the country was prosperous. She herself walked through the town market alone after midnight and felt no fear. Upon her return in 2003, there was no more gas, no more electricity, no water. Children no longer have a shot of becoming educated. There is trouble providing rations because the terrorists intervene and maintain control. "It is the new Somalia."

She then tells me that the first of Saddam's bunkers we targeted with precision weaponry was actually full of 500 citizens. "They did not print this is any American publication."

"The Iraqi people are of the kindest. I cannot help but to feel for them constantly. We have fed them to the terrorists."

In undergrad, in a different life, I took courses entitled "War" and "Violence and Social Order" and "Power in American Society." Long ago I read Black Hawk Down which was made into a movie. Lynn told me the real story. In 1993 in Somalia, an American copper bombed civilians accidentally, killing 267 women and children. This is the root of the hatred that brought down the two American helicopters and dragged their bodies through the streets. "I would maybe do the same," she said. They left out these details when I studied this at my well-respected American university. US soldiers fled and the Pakistanis came to their rescue. The US soldiers felt that animosity directed towards them. Perhaps we need to take responsibility for our actions to avoid more horror.

"Daddy," Lynn told me referring to Bush Sr, "knew to let Saddam go but his son was not so smart. It is a case of a devil you can see and now it is the devil unseen." How do you save Iraq? Even Democracy has it's limits. She told me that only one US Senator has a son in Iraq who works a comfy desk job in Baghdad. It is not the sons of our leaders on the battlefield. I asked her about the UN's sentiment towards the administration. "I believe we are ready for leaders that are capable of compassion."