Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Re: The Artificial Chinaman
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From the eMails and other responses I got, I deduce that my little article didn't quite come across the way I had intended. Goes to show how difficult writing and communication in general is. :-)))
---
When I first moved to the small mountain community of Garden City near Taipei, I found out that a lot of famous writers, painters, film-makers and other artists lived there. One of my new neighbors was Bo Yang, who also happened to be the father-in-law of one of my best friends. Naturally I got to know him and later I taught his wife - a good poet in her own right - English and helped her in her work with Amnesty International (Taiwan) of which Bo Yang was the chairperson at that time. Soon I found out that Bo Yang had spent almost ten years in prison for his writings. Finally I picked up his book "The Ugly Chinaman and the Crisis of Chinese Culture" www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1863731164/krautnet and read it right through in one go. It was amazing! But if a foreigner had mentioned even one tenth of the issues of "cultural criticism" Bo Yang has written about, he would have been labeled a racist [I had a discussion about the subject in my home country and guess what happened? Right, they found out that Holg was a fucking racist.] or at least Anti-Chinese and he would have lost many of his friends. Which is why I have always kept my trap shut on the subject, although I agree with Bo Yang in almost every single instant.
But that was then and this is now. People don't get thrown in jail any more when they don't show proper respect for the president. (Or when they go dancing, for that matter.) And after more than twenty years here, I feel I have enough understanding to finally speak up. Unfortunately, almost all of the chapters in Bo Yang's book are still as valid today as they were when the book was first published. Now back to my story.
---
Boy, am I glad that I posted here instead of following my original plan! I intended to write this piece for a big (Chinese language) newspaper here in Taiwan, in order to re-kindle the debate that Bo Yang's writings had caused such a long time ago. (The country was under martial law until 14 July 1987.) Since the audience is almost exclusively Chinese, I thought that they might see a reflection of themselves in the story. Of course my friend in the story is actually a composite of many of my friends here on the island, and some of them are not really my friends at all, but show these cultural attitudes and values very well.
Of course, some people would get upset by this parody. Some would probably get very angry and question my right to criticize them. And many more would agree with them. But some others would perhaps question their own values and maybe get a little different look at some of the problems that are plaguing them.
So, how should I change my story in order to get this across more clearly?
Any constructive criticism is most welcome.
Cheers!
Holg
groups.yahoo.com/group/PABD/message/502
boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18618801
Edited by: KrautHolg at: 2/20/03 5:56:21 am http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm2.showMessage?topicID=33.topic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From the eMails and other responses I got, I deduce that my little article didn't quite come across the way I had intended. Goes to show how difficult writing and communication in general is. :-)))
---
When I first moved to the small mountain community of Garden City near Taipei, I found out that a lot of famous writers, painters, film-makers and other artists lived there. One of my new neighbors was Bo Yang, who also happened to be the father-in-law of one of my best friends. Naturally I got to know him and later I taught his wife - a good poet in her own right - English and helped her in her work with Amnesty International (Taiwan) of which Bo Yang was the chairperson at that time. Soon I found out that Bo Yang had spent almost ten years in prison for his writings. Finally I picked up his book "The Ugly Chinaman and the Crisis of Chinese Culture" www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/1863731164/krautnet and read it right through in one go. It was amazing! But if a foreigner had mentioned even one tenth of the issues of "cultural criticism" Bo Yang has written about, he would have been labeled a racist [I had a discussion about the subject in my home country and guess what happened? Right, they found out that Holg was a fucking racist.] or at least Anti-Chinese and he would have lost many of his friends. Which is why I have always kept my trap shut on the subject, although I agree with Bo Yang in almost every single instant.
But that was then and this is now. People don't get thrown in jail any more when they don't show proper respect for the president. (Or when they go dancing, for that matter.) And after more than twenty years here, I feel I have enough understanding to finally speak up. Unfortunately, almost all of the chapters in Bo Yang's book are still as valid today as they were when the book was first published. Now back to my story.
---
Boy, am I glad that I posted here instead of following my original plan! I intended to write this piece for a big (Chinese language) newspaper here in Taiwan, in order to re-kindle the debate that Bo Yang's writings had caused such a long time ago. (The country was under martial law until 14 July 1987.) Since the audience is almost exclusively Chinese, I thought that they might see a reflection of themselves in the story. Of course my friend in the story is actually a composite of many of my friends here on the island, and some of them are not really my friends at all, but show these cultural attitudes and values very well.
Of course, some people would get upset by this parody. Some would probably get very angry and question my right to criticize them. And many more would agree with them. But some others would perhaps question their own values and maybe get a little different look at some of the problems that are plaguing them.
So, how should I change my story in order to get this across more clearly?
Any constructive criticism is most welcome.
Cheers!
Holg
groups.yahoo.com/group/PABD/message/502
boards.fool.com/Message.asp?mid=18618801
Edited by: KrautHolg at: 2/20/03 5:56:21 am http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm2.showMessage?topicID=33.topic
The Artificial Chinaman
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The Artificial Chinaman
Taipei, Taiwan, 2003
The Artificial Chinaman lives in a suburb of Taipei in a villa which cost him US$ 865,000 and he paid most of it in cash. Those were the good old days! When he isn't hiding from the rays of the sun in his villa, he is lying in his Mercedes SLK 230 Kompressor, cowering in his brand new Cadillac Escalade ESV, or his regular car, a Mercedes Benz S320. Usually on his way to the office - where he spends almost sixteen hours per day - or on the way to a fabulously expensive restaurant or KTV. The food isn't very good there, but they treat him like a king, which is the whole idea. It makes him feel good and it gives him a chance to impress his friends and clients. He doesn't even know what the word pretentious means and would have trouble understanding it when he looked it up in a dictionary. And then he would solemnly declare that he doesn't much care for that kind of people.
His skin is white, almost translucent, in contrast to the foreigners, who look red. Also, they are extremely hairy, whereas he is smooth, almost completely without body hair. They perspire a lot and tend to smell bad; probably because they don't shower every day. He doesn't know whether he should give credence to the reports, but he has heard that some of them are positively dirty in this respect. He has never gone on a picnic, has never gone fishing, avoids walking whenever he can and exercise of any kind seems like the height of absurdity to him. Why did he study and work so hard, if in the end he still has to toil like a lowly peasant? If he gets fat, so be it. If he dies early, it would be a shame, but it can't really be helped. Anyway, all this talk about healthy living is greatly exaggerated.
He gets sensitive when he talks to people who went to a better university, have a higher position or significantly more money. At the same time, he is extremely proud of his achievements, of his material wealth which he shows up compulsively and in exaggeration. He is also very proud of his children who only enjoy the best. The best tutors, the best violin-, piano-, and ballet- teachers, the best food, the most fashionable clothes - the best of everything. But he doesn't spoil them! Only ignorant people do that and he sure isn't ignorant.
He does not get on with their teachers who show a complete lack of understanding for the difficulties his kids go through. He is slightly exasperated by their tutors, who though highly recommended, don't seem to do much for their grades. The grades, of course, are the shame of the family, but since only the system is to blame and all friends have quite similar problems, the whole issue either isn't mentioned or has become a conversation topic with real close friends.
His son, eleven years old, naturally has the very best credit card and the newest Nokia that money can buy and things are getting a little expensive. Well, not really. They will get slightly more expensive later on, as he has promised his only son - the apple of his eye - a sports car as soon as he passes the entrance examinations to the university. Any university. He is not yet aware of the fact that his son is probably not going to enter a university. One of his daughters might, but it is far from sure.
The Artificial Chinaman's wife has a Filipina maid. She had a couple before, but they didn't do a good job, and every Sunday they wanted a day off, which is intolerable. She tried an Indonesian maid, but that was even worse than before. Within less than a week she had sent her back to the agency. Friends have been telling her that Vietnamese servants are the way to go, and she is definitely going to try it out next time. They look much less like peasants, not so black and sun-burnt, and they are supposed to be really hard workers. One could almost mistake them for Chinese, if the truth be said. Actually, aren't they really Chinese? Their country once belonged to China and only a quirk of history has changed that fact. OK, they could be honorary Chinese. Kind of.
The Artificial Chinaman's wife has a problem. She is bored to tears. You can only have your hair done so many times, you can only play Mah Jong a couple of times per week - lose or win a grand doesn't mean a thing, it'll all be spent on inviting the losers to dinner or KTV anyway - and the movies get worse and worse these days as well. She has only one solace, or maybe two. Shopping of course! Gucci, Hermes, Aigner or Louis Vuitton, never mind. As long as it is expensive, looks expensive and has class. Never mind taste. That word belongs to another universe. Certainly not hers. The other reprieve is gossiping. She meets her friends in coffee-shops, really fancy coffee-shops, and she talks about any juicy subject that presents itself on TV or the specialized gossip magazines. Sex, scandal, politics cum sex & scandal - that's the stuff.
She loves her kids dearly, and so does the Artificial Chinaman. They never go out of the house unattended - the driver gets them to school and picks them up again - and their lives are safe. Not quite safe enough, what with all the kidnappers, madmen and incompetents around, but as safe as money can get them. Last week the kids had a bit of an adventure: Dad called up a taxi and told him exactly where to deliver the three of them, but the kids were in charge of paying the taxi, ordering the drinks at Starbucks and making it to their tutor by themselves. They were thrilled! Taking a taxi ride all alone, what an amazing adventure!!
The Artificial Chinaman has bloodshot eyes, not because of too much booze, which he doesn't like very much anyway, but because he can't sleep at night. He never slept much more than five hours anyway, but with the economy going the way it is and the high-interest debts he had to take on to jump-start his company, he is worried about the future. Not his future, of course, he could live on white rice and soy-sauce, but the future of his children and of his expensive and high-maintenance wife. What will happen if he can't pay the bills any more? Already business has gone down an alarming 70% - but he can't move out of the posh (and mindblowingly expensive) highrise downtown, because that would signal his clients that he isn't on the ball anymore, that the swing has started tipping in the wrong direction, that the end is near. Which again would spook them because they worry that they will be next in line. What a mess! To stay gets one deeper into trouble and to leave would mean the end right here right now. What to do?
He would love to talk to someone about his worries, but it would be the height of bad taste to mention it to friends and no real man would bother his wife with serious things like this. Wives shouldn't need to worry, that's the man's responsibility! He has no respect for people who can't even manage that much. But things have started slipping and he's been deeply ashamed to not even fly business class anymore, but had to endure an agonizing hour cramped in a tiny seat amongst the riff-raff in the back.
What is the world coming to? Hasn't he always worked hard and followed every sound business principle he has ever come across? The Artificial Chinaman is more than a little bewildered. What went wrong all of a sudden? Just a couple of years ago everything seemed so easy and so perfect. Almost, almost, he had made his one billion Taiwan dollars. And he would have retired, he really would have, if only he had made it that far. I swear, he would have.
And what makes this story even more sad, is that he happens to be my best friend on this island.
Cheers!
Holg http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm2.showMessage?topicID=33.topic
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The Artificial Chinaman
Taipei, Taiwan, 2003
The Artificial Chinaman lives in a suburb of Taipei in a villa which cost him US$ 865,000 and he paid most of it in cash. Those were the good old days! When he isn't hiding from the rays of the sun in his villa, he is lying in his Mercedes SLK 230 Kompressor, cowering in his brand new Cadillac Escalade ESV, or his regular car, a Mercedes Benz S320. Usually on his way to the office - where he spends almost sixteen hours per day - or on the way to a fabulously expensive restaurant or KTV. The food isn't very good there, but they treat him like a king, which is the whole idea. It makes him feel good and it gives him a chance to impress his friends and clients. He doesn't even know what the word pretentious means and would have trouble understanding it when he looked it up in a dictionary. And then he would solemnly declare that he doesn't much care for that kind of people.
His skin is white, almost translucent, in contrast to the foreigners, who look red. Also, they are extremely hairy, whereas he is smooth, almost completely without body hair. They perspire a lot and tend to smell bad; probably because they don't shower every day. He doesn't know whether he should give credence to the reports, but he has heard that some of them are positively dirty in this respect. He has never gone on a picnic, has never gone fishing, avoids walking whenever he can and exercise of any kind seems like the height of absurdity to him. Why did he study and work so hard, if in the end he still has to toil like a lowly peasant? If he gets fat, so be it. If he dies early, it would be a shame, but it can't really be helped. Anyway, all this talk about healthy living is greatly exaggerated.
He gets sensitive when he talks to people who went to a better university, have a higher position or significantly more money. At the same time, he is extremely proud of his achievements, of his material wealth which he shows up compulsively and in exaggeration. He is also very proud of his children who only enjoy the best. The best tutors, the best violin-, piano-, and ballet- teachers, the best food, the most fashionable clothes - the best of everything. But he doesn't spoil them! Only ignorant people do that and he sure isn't ignorant.
He does not get on with their teachers who show a complete lack of understanding for the difficulties his kids go through. He is slightly exasperated by their tutors, who though highly recommended, don't seem to do much for their grades. The grades, of course, are the shame of the family, but since only the system is to blame and all friends have quite similar problems, the whole issue either isn't mentioned or has become a conversation topic with real close friends.
His son, eleven years old, naturally has the very best credit card and the newest Nokia that money can buy and things are getting a little expensive. Well, not really. They will get slightly more expensive later on, as he has promised his only son - the apple of his eye - a sports car as soon as he passes the entrance examinations to the university. Any university. He is not yet aware of the fact that his son is probably not going to enter a university. One of his daughters might, but it is far from sure.
The Artificial Chinaman's wife has a Filipina maid. She had a couple before, but they didn't do a good job, and every Sunday they wanted a day off, which is intolerable. She tried an Indonesian maid, but that was even worse than before. Within less than a week she had sent her back to the agency. Friends have been telling her that Vietnamese servants are the way to go, and she is definitely going to try it out next time. They look much less like peasants, not so black and sun-burnt, and they are supposed to be really hard workers. One could almost mistake them for Chinese, if the truth be said. Actually, aren't they really Chinese? Their country once belonged to China and only a quirk of history has changed that fact. OK, they could be honorary Chinese. Kind of.
The Artificial Chinaman's wife has a problem. She is bored to tears. You can only have your hair done so many times, you can only play Mah Jong a couple of times per week - lose or win a grand doesn't mean a thing, it'll all be spent on inviting the losers to dinner or KTV anyway - and the movies get worse and worse these days as well. She has only one solace, or maybe two. Shopping of course! Gucci, Hermes, Aigner or Louis Vuitton, never mind. As long as it is expensive, looks expensive and has class. Never mind taste. That word belongs to another universe. Certainly not hers. The other reprieve is gossiping. She meets her friends in coffee-shops, really fancy coffee-shops, and she talks about any juicy subject that presents itself on TV or the specialized gossip magazines. Sex, scandal, politics cum sex & scandal - that's the stuff.
She loves her kids dearly, and so does the Artificial Chinaman. They never go out of the house unattended - the driver gets them to school and picks them up again - and their lives are safe. Not quite safe enough, what with all the kidnappers, madmen and incompetents around, but as safe as money can get them. Last week the kids had a bit of an adventure: Dad called up a taxi and told him exactly where to deliver the three of them, but the kids were in charge of paying the taxi, ordering the drinks at Starbucks and making it to their tutor by themselves. They were thrilled! Taking a taxi ride all alone, what an amazing adventure!!
The Artificial Chinaman has bloodshot eyes, not because of too much booze, which he doesn't like very much anyway, but because he can't sleep at night. He never slept much more than five hours anyway, but with the economy going the way it is and the high-interest debts he had to take on to jump-start his company, he is worried about the future. Not his future, of course, he could live on white rice and soy-sauce, but the future of his children and of his expensive and high-maintenance wife. What will happen if he can't pay the bills any more? Already business has gone down an alarming 70% - but he can't move out of the posh (and mindblowingly expensive) highrise downtown, because that would signal his clients that he isn't on the ball anymore, that the swing has started tipping in the wrong direction, that the end is near. Which again would spook them because they worry that they will be next in line. What a mess! To stay gets one deeper into trouble and to leave would mean the end right here right now. What to do?
He would love to talk to someone about his worries, but it would be the height of bad taste to mention it to friends and no real man would bother his wife with serious things like this. Wives shouldn't need to worry, that's the man's responsibility! He has no respect for people who can't even manage that much. But things have started slipping and he's been deeply ashamed to not even fly business class anymore, but had to endure an agonizing hour cramped in a tiny seat amongst the riff-raff in the back.
What is the world coming to? Hasn't he always worked hard and followed every sound business principle he has ever come across? The Artificial Chinaman is more than a little bewildered. What went wrong all of a sudden? Just a couple of years ago everything seemed so easy and so perfect. Almost, almost, he had made his one billion Taiwan dollars. And he would have retired, he really would have, if only he had made it that far. I swear, he would have.
And what makes this story even more sad, is that he happens to be my best friend on this island.
Cheers!
Holg http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm2.showMessage?topicID=33.topic
I Had A Dream.....
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The heavy base guitars were deafening, they made the beer in my glass tremble as if T-Rex was on the prowl nearby and my mind was reeling. The only way to describe the feelings that were furiously attacking my brain is with a cliche: culture shock
Where I had expected quiet little streets with a few street vendors and some dilapidated restaurants, I found row upon row upon row of go-go bars, whores, whores, whores, techno bars, pubs tailored to specific nationalities, Mac Donalds', 7-elevens, discos, bowling alleys, blazing, humming and throbbing neon signs galore as well as restaurants from simple tourist rip-off to 5-star mega-tourist-rip-off. Shocked indeed. The uneasy feeling settled like a pint of ice-cold water into my stomach and I was contemplating whether I had fucked things up for this little vacation. Maybe we would have to pack our bags and beat a hasty retreat to Kho Pha-Ngan or even farther away. Maybe, for once, I should have listened to my friends.
I ordered another Singha Beer in desperation, waiting for Liping to show up again, back from a little shopping spree upon which she had embarked with glee. We were sitting in an "Italian" restaurant, as we had just arrived at 10:30 pm and were ravenously hungry. I had tried to make conversation with a guy who most resembled a traveler, but no luck. I had tried another guy, who looked pretty lonely, just to escape the fact that I might have screwed up mightily, but he wasn't interested either. If this continued, the vacation would turn into a write-off.
Although I was dog-tired, I kept ordering and drinking Singha Beers until 2:30 in the morning and finally crawled under my sheets.
*****
What a surprise when I opened my eyes the next morning! The beach was perhaps twenty meters from where I found myself. Gently rolling waves made a sound - which would make me drowsy later on while reading - and what was more, it was almost deserted. It didn't take me long to embark on a running start into the Gulf of Thailand. The water was *warm*, I realized with pleasant surprise. Where then were the hordes I had seen last night? Or was it all but a bad dream, crept upon me while I was hiding under the sheets? No, but it couldn't be, there was the moss on my teeth and the dragonflies in my head to prove it.
The situation explained itself while I sipped an ice-coffee on the veranda, listening to "Light My Fire" by Jimi Hendrix & Jim Morrison. It seemed as if everybody except Liping and me was grumbling about the weather. It was overcast, as it usually is at this time of year, which makes life a lot more pleasant than when the sun is blazing down with brute atomic power to singe your skin, frizzle your hair, ruin your eyes, rob you of all energy and make you perspire as you wouldn't believe. Still, it was around 85°F , the humidity was way op there in the stratosphere - but a gentle breeze wafted in from the ocean. Perfect! Except for 99% of the other tourists, who felt cheated of the sun.
Things got better steadily after that. We left all our stuff at the inn and set off along the beach. It got more and more deserted the farther we walked. The bungalows turned into huts, which again turned into the most simple A-frames without mattresses or electricity. We had to wade through a little river, where the water rose above our waists, and after that we came to a place where several small open fishing boats were moored. If you judge a boat by the paint, they were in bad shape. I had the feeling that it was more lucrative to work as a waiter in "town" than to go fishing these days. Town, by the way, consists of a single street parallel to the beach, but as touristy as you can possibly get.
At that point we had to literally run for cover, as huge black clouds were approaching rapidly, whipping up a strong wind with promise for a tropical downpour. We made it just in time to a little beach restaurant constructed entirely from one material: coconut palm tree in all its manifestations. I love those things, but I am afraid that they will be gone all too soon. You can watch one being built in one afternoon by a group of skilled workers, which is exactly what we had done in Viet Nam. But they don't last as long as ones built with corrugated iron and a variety of plastics. Well. I guess, I wouldn't like to rebuild all the time, either....
Liping sipped on a coconut - unfortunately from my point of view, not one of the giant golden "King Coconut" they have in Sri Lanka - while I was hard pressed to decide between Mekong Whisky and Singha Beer. In the end, they decided for me, as hadn't got any limes. We got out our books and spent a few hours reading and discussing what we were reading, seeing, smelling, feeling and drinking. My worries from the night before had gone the way of the dodo and the Tasmanian tiger, but there was another feeling now. I felt disconnected from reality, as if slightly stoned, except that I wasn't stoned or drunk or anything like that. Strange, weird feeling. It lasted for many hours and it came back every day for our entire stay.
When we went back to Lamai Inn www.sawadee.com/samui/lamaiinn/details/, we heard Jimi Hendrix wailing "Foxy Lady". Much as we wanted to avoid it, we had to go downtown again to exchange some money, buy a couple of things and get some food. I ran into a couple of masons or bricklayers from Germany and two teachers from the little island Bornholm in Denmark. The latter were quite pleasant to talk to, but they had already eaten and so they couldn't join us for dinner. Too bad. It was the last dinner we had in town, and it was just so-la-la. It had one redeeming feature, though. On the way back from that particular restaurant, I developed a case of terminal thirst, which again made me look at every single bar we passed like Old Eagle-Eye. Liping had her eyes peeled as well, only it was for the bikinis and tangas across the street. Finally we passed a bar that passed inspection. From then on every night ended at that particular one. www.pocahontasbar.com
The owner was a young guy from Denmark and while there were more than your usual share of Scandinavians around, I ran into a couple of Indians from Malaysia and two guys from Newcastle as well. We had plenty of fun with our accents and an ungodly amount of drinks to lubricate our conversation.
From then on we had our dinners right at the beach. Once in a while a massive downpour chased us under the roofs made from palm-fronds, but it was just as pleasant down there. There was a variety of excellent Thai food. Liping opted most of the time for different kinds of sea food, whereas I am more partial to really spicy Thai curries. All went well, except for one time, when we went to a particularly traditional place and I ordered a green curry. Dunno how people without a palate made from asbestos eat that stuff. But I managed to do it in the end, though I wouldn't have been able to without the help of one bottle of Mekong Whisky. We had one of those with every dinner. When that was finished, Liping would sip on her chilled white wine, while I would continue with beer. Most of the time Singha, but also a fair amount of Carlsberg.
When we ordered the very first bottle of Mekong, strictly according to how Paul/Neo/Drift would have done it, I thought it only fitting to propose a toast to PABD. Collectively first, and individually later, with a specific wish for every one. We liked the idea so much, that from then on we did it with every bottle of Mekong we had. [We brought four big bottles back to Taiwan with us, so we can continue the tradition for a while. If we only have the occasional sip, that is. Right now, we are both drinking Chardonnay, so as not to waste any of our treasures. ;-)))]
And, like I said before, every evening we ended up in our favorite bar and talked to interesting people from all over. Time was rushing past us at warp five at least.
Then Nick & Jocelyn showed up. Nick took us to "No.1 Lookout", which was definitely worth the ride in the tuk-tuk. www.into-asia.com/bangkok/tuk-tuk/ We went on to Chaweng, where I experienced culture shock once more, only much much worse. I'd stayed there before in '86 or '87 and now I sat amongst all the glitzy splendor, vainly looking for a Thai person anywhere. Even the waiters were mostly foreigners. I didn't even see a single whore there! The average age of all the tourists was way up there, the prices were out of this world and I couldn't wait to get back to Lamai. We had decided to go to bed early, as we were flying the next day and actually made it to bed at 2:30. So far so good.
The trip back was unpleasant. When I had to pay airport tax for the fourth time on this trip, I finally lost my temper. Didn't help things, of course. When I ran into the vast crowds at the airport in Bangkok, I was about ready to just say "eff this" and head back the way I had come.
And then a curious thing happened. While I had been feeling the "disconnect" every day at the beach, Liping got that feeling as soon as we were back in Taiwan. The weather and everything was OK actually, particularly for this time of the year. But still.... Something seemed not right. What with all the rushing and the grim faces and the dollar signs shining out of everybody's eyes. Something was amiss for sure, but it seems to slip farther and farther out of our grasp with every single hour we spend amongst the multitudes. And in just a few more days, in just one week, we will finally be back and we will have accepted that *this* is reality and the beach is what everybody says it is. A dream. And what a pleasant dream it is.
Cheers!
Holg http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm7.showMessage?topicID=5.topic
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The heavy base guitars were deafening, they made the beer in my glass tremble as if T-Rex was on the prowl nearby and my mind was reeling. The only way to describe the feelings that were furiously attacking my brain is with a cliche: culture shock
Where I had expected quiet little streets with a few street vendors and some dilapidated restaurants, I found row upon row upon row of go-go bars, whores, whores, whores, techno bars, pubs tailored to specific nationalities, Mac Donalds', 7-elevens, discos, bowling alleys, blazing, humming and throbbing neon signs galore as well as restaurants from simple tourist rip-off to 5-star mega-tourist-rip-off. Shocked indeed. The uneasy feeling settled like a pint of ice-cold water into my stomach and I was contemplating whether I had fucked things up for this little vacation. Maybe we would have to pack our bags and beat a hasty retreat to Kho Pha-Ngan or even farther away. Maybe, for once, I should have listened to my friends.
I ordered another Singha Beer in desperation, waiting for Liping to show up again, back from a little shopping spree upon which she had embarked with glee. We were sitting in an "Italian" restaurant, as we had just arrived at 10:30 pm and were ravenously hungry. I had tried to make conversation with a guy who most resembled a traveler, but no luck. I had tried another guy, who looked pretty lonely, just to escape the fact that I might have screwed up mightily, but he wasn't interested either. If this continued, the vacation would turn into a write-off.
Although I was dog-tired, I kept ordering and drinking Singha Beers until 2:30 in the morning and finally crawled under my sheets.
*****
What a surprise when I opened my eyes the next morning! The beach was perhaps twenty meters from where I found myself. Gently rolling waves made a sound - which would make me drowsy later on while reading - and what was more, it was almost deserted. It didn't take me long to embark on a running start into the Gulf of Thailand. The water was *warm*, I realized with pleasant surprise. Where then were the hordes I had seen last night? Or was it all but a bad dream, crept upon me while I was hiding under the sheets? No, but it couldn't be, there was the moss on my teeth and the dragonflies in my head to prove it.
The situation explained itself while I sipped an ice-coffee on the veranda, listening to "Light My Fire" by Jimi Hendrix & Jim Morrison. It seemed as if everybody except Liping and me was grumbling about the weather. It was overcast, as it usually is at this time of year, which makes life a lot more pleasant than when the sun is blazing down with brute atomic power to singe your skin, frizzle your hair, ruin your eyes, rob you of all energy and make you perspire as you wouldn't believe. Still, it was around 85°F , the humidity was way op there in the stratosphere - but a gentle breeze wafted in from the ocean. Perfect! Except for 99% of the other tourists, who felt cheated of the sun.
Things got better steadily after that. We left all our stuff at the inn and set off along the beach. It got more and more deserted the farther we walked. The bungalows turned into huts, which again turned into the most simple A-frames without mattresses or electricity. We had to wade through a little river, where the water rose above our waists, and after that we came to a place where several small open fishing boats were moored. If you judge a boat by the paint, they were in bad shape. I had the feeling that it was more lucrative to work as a waiter in "town" than to go fishing these days. Town, by the way, consists of a single street parallel to the beach, but as touristy as you can possibly get.
At that point we had to literally run for cover, as huge black clouds were approaching rapidly, whipping up a strong wind with promise for a tropical downpour. We made it just in time to a little beach restaurant constructed entirely from one material: coconut palm tree in all its manifestations. I love those things, but I am afraid that they will be gone all too soon. You can watch one being built in one afternoon by a group of skilled workers, which is exactly what we had done in Viet Nam. But they don't last as long as ones built with corrugated iron and a variety of plastics. Well. I guess, I wouldn't like to rebuild all the time, either....
Liping sipped on a coconut - unfortunately from my point of view, not one of the giant golden "King Coconut" they have in Sri Lanka - while I was hard pressed to decide between Mekong Whisky and Singha Beer. In the end, they decided for me, as hadn't got any limes. We got out our books and spent a few hours reading and discussing what we were reading, seeing, smelling, feeling and drinking. My worries from the night before had gone the way of the dodo and the Tasmanian tiger, but there was another feeling now. I felt disconnected from reality, as if slightly stoned, except that I wasn't stoned or drunk or anything like that. Strange, weird feeling. It lasted for many hours and it came back every day for our entire stay.
When we went back to Lamai Inn www.sawadee.com/samui/lamaiinn/details/, we heard Jimi Hendrix wailing "Foxy Lady". Much as we wanted to avoid it, we had to go downtown again to exchange some money, buy a couple of things and get some food. I ran into a couple of masons or bricklayers from Germany and two teachers from the little island Bornholm in Denmark. The latter were quite pleasant to talk to, but they had already eaten and so they couldn't join us for dinner. Too bad. It was the last dinner we had in town, and it was just so-la-la. It had one redeeming feature, though. On the way back from that particular restaurant, I developed a case of terminal thirst, which again made me look at every single bar we passed like Old Eagle-Eye. Liping had her eyes peeled as well, only it was for the bikinis and tangas across the street. Finally we passed a bar that passed inspection. From then on every night ended at that particular one. www.pocahontasbar.com
The owner was a young guy from Denmark and while there were more than your usual share of Scandinavians around, I ran into a couple of Indians from Malaysia and two guys from Newcastle as well. We had plenty of fun with our accents and an ungodly amount of drinks to lubricate our conversation.
From then on we had our dinners right at the beach. Once in a while a massive downpour chased us under the roofs made from palm-fronds, but it was just as pleasant down there. There was a variety of excellent Thai food. Liping opted most of the time for different kinds of sea food, whereas I am more partial to really spicy Thai curries. All went well, except for one time, when we went to a particularly traditional place and I ordered a green curry. Dunno how people without a palate made from asbestos eat that stuff. But I managed to do it in the end, though I wouldn't have been able to without the help of one bottle of Mekong Whisky. We had one of those with every dinner. When that was finished, Liping would sip on her chilled white wine, while I would continue with beer. Most of the time Singha, but also a fair amount of Carlsberg.
When we ordered the very first bottle of Mekong, strictly according to how Paul/Neo/Drift would have done it, I thought it only fitting to propose a toast to PABD. Collectively first, and individually later, with a specific wish for every one. We liked the idea so much, that from then on we did it with every bottle of Mekong we had. [We brought four big bottles back to Taiwan with us, so we can continue the tradition for a while. If we only have the occasional sip, that is. Right now, we are both drinking Chardonnay, so as not to waste any of our treasures. ;-)))]
And, like I said before, every evening we ended up in our favorite bar and talked to interesting people from all over. Time was rushing past us at warp five at least.
Then Nick & Jocelyn showed up. Nick took us to "No.1 Lookout", which was definitely worth the ride in the tuk-tuk. www.into-asia.com/bangkok/tuk-tuk/ We went on to Chaweng, where I experienced culture shock once more, only much much worse. I'd stayed there before in '86 or '87 and now I sat amongst all the glitzy splendor, vainly looking for a Thai person anywhere. Even the waiters were mostly foreigners. I didn't even see a single whore there! The average age of all the tourists was way up there, the prices were out of this world and I couldn't wait to get back to Lamai. We had decided to go to bed early, as we were flying the next day and actually made it to bed at 2:30. So far so good.
The trip back was unpleasant. When I had to pay airport tax for the fourth time on this trip, I finally lost my temper. Didn't help things, of course. When I ran into the vast crowds at the airport in Bangkok, I was about ready to just say "eff this" and head back the way I had come.
And then a curious thing happened. While I had been feeling the "disconnect" every day at the beach, Liping got that feeling as soon as we were back in Taiwan. The weather and everything was OK actually, particularly for this time of the year. But still.... Something seemed not right. What with all the rushing and the grim faces and the dollar signs shining out of everybody's eyes. Something was amiss for sure, but it seems to slip farther and farther out of our grasp with every single hour we spend amongst the multitudes. And in just a few more days, in just one week, we will finally be back and we will have accepted that *this* is reality and the beach is what everybody says it is. A dream. And what a pleasant dream it is.
Cheers!
Holg http://pub38.ezboard.com/fpeaceandboatdrinks66759frm7.showMessage?topicID=5.topic