Pattaya

The city of male fantasy made manifest. Sweaty salty heat rolls through the streets in the evenings as the expats take their newfound girlfriends to dinner for two dollar Thai barbeque. One end of the buffet line thronged with farangs, foreigners, with chicken, ice cream, potato salad. The other end with squid, tripe, liver, cabbage. Paunchy man and mincing girl meet again at the table to roast their food over a bucket of hot coals and to eke out small talk.

Farangs who’ve lived here for years don’t know the language. It’s too hard to learn, they say, particularly to read. They are illiterate and simply let their money speak for them. It seems to have spoken persuasively, for bartenders and shopkeepers all know rudimentary English and The Economist and orange marmalade are on the shelves of the grocery store.

Islands off the coast feature uzi firing ranges and KFC delivers anywhere in the city. For the right price foreign criminals can purchase the golden visa- 10 years time here uninterrupted. The nexus of it all is Walking Street. There you can hire a bargirl for a ping-pong ball show or a basket f--- or just to talk down the price of a fake Rolex for you in the street. Lady-boys that you can’t tell until you look at the adam’s apple. Sixteen year olds swimming naked in a fish tank in Boy Town. It’s all in your price range.

My street is a holding pen for farangs, a European playground with rooms rented for as long as a tourist visa lasts. To the left of Language Corps is Jensen’s Danish Bar. To the right, Big Joe’s British Sausage. Everywhere are bilingual signs, saying Tourist Food, Not Too Spicy. My favorite is Rian’s Restaurant. 75 cent green curry chicken with mint, lime, figs, and coconut milk but with Foster’s posters on the wall to draw in the Australians. I eat lunch there everyday.

“We’ll get that movie from Blockbuster,” someone says after dinner. A man nicknamed Blockbuster walks by and pulls out a satchel full of burned DVDs. A woman on a motorcycle slows down outside my door and points to her sidecar, outfitted with a gas grill for roasting pork while she drives. I wave her on. It's all affordable but there's too much to buy.

Daddy's Cafeteria

I am grateful for the time that I got to spend in China- a week in Dinghai where Mary teaches bookended by short stints in Shanghai. I spend most of my first three days there inside, reading and watching movies. But in the evenings, Mary and her roommate Tyler would come home from work and we went to the market to buy food for dinner. The butcher was my favorite part, a wizened old woman who hacked at the pork with an axe. At the edge of her cutting board was a tray of kidneys, uncovered, and people passing by would shuffle through them idly.

One day Mary took me to her school Zhoushan Zhong Xue to eat lunch. The food was mediocre, but I learned how to say one important thing- naga shi baba da shi tong (this is Daddy's cafeteria).

Travelling the streets of Dinghai was my favorite part of the day. All manner of bicycles, rickshaws, mopeds, and various crossbreeds choke the road. Anyone changing lanes or anyone who witnesses someone changing lanes rings their bell furiously and the street is filled with a tinny chatter. At every stop light the bicycles line up so that I was reminded of my time as a skier in a mass start.

Another curious part of life is that every night in the city square, maybe 1000 people gather to dance in unison. Mary and I went one night to watch. One man working a pushcart full of speakers plays the music and somehow everyone seems to know the moves to song after song. I wondered how everyone came to know these dances until I saw at the preschool near Mary's apartment about 150 four year olds doing a similar morning workout. On Friday at Mary's school they had a day off for a school-wide track and field event. At the opening ceremonies many groups of several hundred students put on dances. It's a lifetime thing apparently.

Beijing Airport

Before my program starts in Thailand, I am spending a week in China visiting Mary. My first experience with China was a trying one.

After a 14 hour flight from JFK, I arrived in the Beijing Airport to find that my flight was delayed by two hours. I couldn't fall asleep, however, because a group of businessmen were growing angry about the delayed flight. As I watched, they circled around the desk at the gate and started pounding on it. Some of them started shouting and one guy even begin running through the crowd. He would point and people and shout, and they would shout back. Finally someone explained to me that the flight was going to arrive in Shanghai after the buses stopped running and he wanted compensation for the taxi home. Others seemed to agree with him and crowd became restless. Eventually the plane arrived, and we boarded only to sit there for 45 minutes. An announcement on the intercom said that because of mechanical difficulties the flight was cancelled all together.

Back in the terminal, things turned to total pandemonium. Many more people thronged the desk shouting, and as I watched incredulous, one businessman took a swing at a airline steward and had to be restrained. Finally an older passenger stood up and gave an impassioned speech, with much pointing and fist pumping. The crowd ate it up, egging him on and clapping. I was relieved, thinking that he had secured a flight for us, but the guy next to me said that the man had secured a meeting with Air China and needed a ten person delegation to represent the passengers in the presentation of our demands.

What followed was like something like a talk show popularity contest. Anyone in the crowd could stand up, and if the applause was loud enough he or she would run to the front of the room, hands clasped in victory. When ten people had been assembled the crowd gave one final cheer of support, and they retreated to the boarding tunnel for a summit. I could see a few other people as incredulous as I around the edge of the room- some pretended to be asleep while others watched warily. But the crowd on the whole seemed to be really into it.

Several hours later, at around 2 AM, the delegation emerged from the tunnel to much applause and the leader spoke again. I thought, now finally we have a flight. But someone next to me explained that the delegation had drafted a formal letter of complaint to Air China with three demands: a flight to Shanghai, 500 RMB (about $65 US) in compensation, and a personalized apology from a member of the Air China administration. Several volunteers circled the crowd gathering signatures of approval and then the delegation disappeared again.

I had now been awake for 21 of the last 24 hours and could hardly see. I think I feel asleep because I awoke to someone shaking me, saying it was time to collect my bucks. At around 4 AM the delegation had reached a decision with Air China, and all three stipulations had been met. I joined a line of passengers dutifully collecting their money, booed with the rest of the crowd as a wizened old woman apologized on behalf of Air China and the Beijing Airport, and finally boarded a plane some time after 5 AM.

Welcome to my Soapbox

Here I will write about my experiences in South-East Asia without having to send mass emails. I may also include the occasional opinion piece, or include photos.