A Bowl of Stupid

A few quick notes:

First, for anyone interested, I just posted new pictures up on my Flickr page from my trip last month to Krui, Sumatra, Indonesia. Feel Free to take a look.

Second, I leave Bangkok again tonight for another month of surfing back down in Rote, Timur, Indonesia. I am, like usual, excited about the upcoming trip — especially considering the surf down there has been absolutely EXCEPTIONAL in the past couple weeks, and they expect it to continue (double overhead, 5-10 knot offshore trade winds, and simply perfect).

Unlike usual, however, I am also contemplating getting a JOB here in Bangkok when I finish my summer in the Philippines, Micronesia, and elsewhere in the Pacific.

Yeah, I said it! Whatcha gonna do?

Seriously, I like Bangkok THAT much, and I'm actually thinking about going back to work — if only to sharpen back up my intellectual skills (or what's left of them). I've spoken to a couple friends here, and there are several interesting possibilities that do NOT include the practice of law. I enjoy living in Bangkok more than any place else I've lived for a while … so it just kinda makes sense (in a strange, capitalistic kinda way).

But September is a long way off … so we'll just have to see how it unfolds.

Finally, before I go incommunicado for a few weeks, I wanted to leave you guys with this thought:

Although living in Bangkok is awesome, there will obviously always be cultural issues that plague any American or European visitors.

The non-Latin language and script is the most obvious issue. However, there are a plethora of other differences — some gross, some sublime — that also invade my everyday life here in Bangkok and make me remember that I'm an ex-pat living in an entirely foreign culture.

For example, why do Thais maintain fastidiously clean floors (clean enough to eat off of), while letting immediately adjacent walls fall into baffling levels of disrepair?

And why do Thais have such (well known) open and accepting views on sexual preferences and skimpy clothing, yet still maintain such ridged views as to public bathing, such that it's frowned upon to go swimming in bikinis or any other type of revealing bathing suit fashioned any time after the Eisenhower administration?

Yet these issues are, in large part, mere curiosities. They don't really affect my daily life, or the lives of anyone else I know. The only cultural difference that really bothers me, on a daily basis, is the ridiculous show of deference and politeness shown by Thais to foreigners ('falangs').

This gets tiring … FAST.

Consider when you go out to eat (or go out anywhere, really) back in the States — there's a general understanding that, although you're the customer, the staff generally knows more than you do about how best to service your needs in the absence of any orders to the contrary (e.g., if you don't say anything, it's safe to say that you'll get your steak back 'medium' to 'medium-rare').

In Bangkok, however, you will instead get a waitress coming over every 2 minutes asking how you want your potatoes done, how hot you like your chili sauce, how well done you want your meat … and so on, and on, and on, and on.

Similarly, I went to get a haircut the other day, but eventually gave up on the whole thing after the barber refused to cut off any more that 1-2 millimeters at a time for fear of offending me. After an hour of this, I could barely tell that I'd been to the barber at all. Regardless, I still had to leave for fear that I would lose my shit, pull a Wayne Brady, and wind up choking the bitch.

Asking directions is also a big no-no here in Bangkok. Not because nobody will tell, but instead, they will try TOO hard. Inevitably, no matter whether or not the person you ask knows where you're going, they will simply agree with any directions you may suggest, point to, or show on a map — for fear of offending you, or telling you that they can't help you.

It really is like NYC in reverse. And like I said, it gets kinda tiring after a while.

Just once … ONCE … I want to go into a restaurant or a coffee shop — or anywhere!! — and have the wait staff ignore me, and spit in my food, and generally treat me like a piece of shit like they used to do back in New York and Miami and Philly. Just once — to let me know they're alive!

Alrighty then … I needed to get that off my chest … thanks, I feel better now. I'll see you guys in June. Peace out.

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[Originally transcribed: 12/04/08]

It's funny, I'm here in Sumatra — between surf sessions — and the amazing sitar playing of Anoushka Shankar came up on my iTunes during a random shuffle. Even now, after all the shit I went through in India, listening to this Punjabi music STILL fills me with a vague, if not altogether sane, desire to visit India again.

Luckily for me, I've already been there (at least briefly), so I can separate that romanticized sitar-filled vision of India with the India of reality.

Yes, I still dislike the contemptible, toga-laden 'drippy-hippies' I met who were seeking out the India of their dreams. Yes, I still think India itself is an overcrowded and over-polluted cesspool. Yes, I still equate the entire country with the wrenching agony I suffered in the clutches of the Dengue Fever.

However, for possibly the first time since before I first left for Sri Lanka and India last November, I can empathize with these knuckle-dragging simpletons in drag — albeit on only a slighter, more sane level.

Maybe it's because I've had a chance to just sit back, relax, and get in some halfway decent surf sessions during the past couple weeks. Maybe enough time has passed to mellow my views on the country. Maybe it's my new diet of virgins' blood and truffled chocolates.

Whatever. It's actually kinda nice to look back at India with a 'bit' less disgust. Now, if I can just hold out until November 2, maybe I'll be able to do the same with respect to the United States … but I ain't holding my breathe.

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[Yours truly, waiting patiently at the Air Asia counter in the Singapore airport]

Okay, so here's the thing — I hate planning return flights just because they tend to lead to confusion or unnecessary complications 1-2 months after the plans were initially made. Case in point:

I just spent a month surfing in the relative back-country of southern Sumatra, living 'for the moment' with no full-time electricity, no indoor plumbing, and little regard for the future or the past. And then, all of a sudden, I get wrenched back to reality with the realization that I have a schedule to keep — flights to make, places to go, and the like. It all gets very complicated very fast.

I came and planned on returning via airplane from Sumatra through Jakarta (a necessity since no planes fly directly to Bandar Lampung from anyplace other than Jakarta). Then, when I got to Jakarta, I had a return flight through Singapore solely for the purpose of picking up my other piece of luggage to bring it back with me to my new home in Bangkok.

So, the trip was ostensibly to be — from Krui to Bandard Lampung to Jakarta to Singapore to Bangkok.

Following so far? Okay, that makes one of us.

Things started off alright, but it all went sideways somewhere in the skies over Singapore. It was only then that I realized I had neither remembered nor written down anywhere the information about my return flight from Singapore to Bangkok. Given the number of airlines I've traveled with over the recent months, I couldn't even remember which AIRLINE I was on. The only thing I could (or at least THOUGHT I could) remember was that I had an overnight stay in Singapore.

With that theory doggedly lodged in my cranium, I took my time getting things done when I got to Singapore at about 2:00 yesterday afternoon. Rather than take a taxi, I gave myself some extra time on a shuttle bus, stopped at a Burger King for much needed red meat, and then relaxed at a coffee shop down the street from my old apartment on Robertson Quay — waiting before I finally had to find a hotel for the night.

During that time, I also tried to find out what flight I was on today — trying via email, SMS, and finally waiting on the telephone with Thai Air, JetStar Air, Air Asia, and finally … Tiger Air.

Of course, being the last airline i called, I was booked to fly out of Singapore on Tiger Air. THAT DAY. AT 6:00 P.M. IN ONE HOUR.

D'oh!!!

I hustled as best I could to make the flight. I grabbed the first cab I found, gave the driver an extra S$10 for getting me there in 15 minutes rather than the typical 30 minutes. I got my surfboard out of the left luggage at Terminal 1 to bring it with me via another taxi to the Tiger Air counter at the 'Budget Terminal' 2 terminals away.

And, of course, I missed my flight. To take the next flight on Tiger Air, which offers non-refundable tickets, would have cost me about US$500.00.

For those of you that know me personally, I'll leave it to you to guess of my response to that offer.

I considered the option of staying in town, as I had originally planned. After learning of GREATLY inflated hotel rates due to an international food festival being held in Singapore this week, I decided to try to get a flight out later that night.

Singapore and Thai Air assured me they could do it for the bargain basement price of US$800.00. I briefly considered flying back to Los Angeles, which was about the same price, but then I saw that Hilliary Clinton won the Pennsylvania primary and I decided to wait until after 2 November before even considering a return back to the States.

Instead, I checked at the Air Asia counter, which had 2 more flights heading out to Bangkok that night. I booked passage for me and my surfboards (almost the price of another ticket) on the later one leaving at 10:20 p.m. for about US$150.00.

Grand total I spent extra for being stupid enough to forget my airline, my flight number, and my flight DAY — including taxis, shuttles, baggage storage and transit fees (and the US$30.00 'exit fee' I got jacked for by an immigration official in Jakarta), I put it at a rough estimate of about US$350.00.

That was one HELL of an expensive cup of coffee. Man, given this type of stellar intellect, sometimes I'm amazed I've made it this far.

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Hey folks!

It's okay to come on back now everyone, I'm fairly calm now. But Jesus H. Christ on a pogo-fucking-stick, if I haven't had a nerve-wracking past few days.

First off, as noted in my last post, no one should EVER use AmTrust Bank for ANYTHING. EVER!! (unless you don't WANT to ever see your money again, of course). Fuck, I know there's a recession going on back in the States, but that doesn't mean the bank can simply STEAL my goddamn money!!

Regardless, that's what having an extra stash in your bank account is for, right?

Umm … yeah, not so much.

That's not to say that, besides also having the typical low-level 'scamming' thing going on, the local guys over at the Family Losman next door were also great hosts (although their facilities aren't as extensive as Andy's), so don't believe anything bad you may hear about them either. They're a bit cheaper, and they've just got a less extensive hotel/losman (i.e., Andy's got A/C rooms, a TV room, etc.). It just depends on what you want to do and pay.

So I'm here at Karang Nyimbor for another couple weeks — it's still not crowded in the surf, and my stress level has been reduced exponentially regarding money, so everything's cool.

Granted, it would be nice if the surf picks up a bit … but for now, I'm just thankful for what I've got.

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The latest edition (March 2008) of Atlantic Monthly contains an altogether disconcerting article entitled "Marry Him!", which can essentially be boiled down to the following excerpt:

At their core, many single women pose one of the most complicated, painful, and pervasive dilemmas they are forced to grapple with nowadays: Is it better to be alone, or to settle?

My advice is this: Settle!

That’s right. Don’t worry about passion or intense connection. Don’t nix a guy based on his annoying habit of yelling “Bravo!” in movie theaters. Overlook his halitosis or abysmal sense of aesthetics. Because if you want to have the infrastructure in place to have a family, settling is the way to go. Based on my observations, in fact, settling will probably make you happier in the long run, since many of those who marry with great expectations become more disillusioned with each passing year.

No, I don't think the author, Lori Gottlieb, is trying to be 'ironical.' And no, I don't want to think too hard on the fact that much of her theory is based not on empirical data, but rather, an analysis of several American television shows — Friends, the Mary Tyler Moore Show, Will and Grace, and, of course, Sex And The City ('SaTC').

For purposes of this article, let's just assume the premise that no in-depth discussion of the modern female condition would be complete without a critical analysis of SaTC. I wonder if the author is gonna have a conniption fit when she finds out that Carrie Bradshaw is getting married to "Mr. Perfect' (i.e., 'Mr. Big') in the upcoming SaTC movie. (No, I haven't seen the script or the trailer, but c'mon — it's a movie about an unmarried 40-something 30-something horse woman geared towards attracting an audience of similarly situated women whom ALL look forward to their wedding day the same way most men look forward to a nice T-Bone steak — let's just call it an educated guess.)

That said, based on these obviously well-reasoned theorems, the author claims that:

[Most women], like me, would rather feel alone in a marriage than actually be alone, because they, like me, realize that marriage ultimately isn’t about cosmic connection—it’s about how having a teammate, even if he’s not the love of your life, is better than not having one at all.

Good grief, I thought I was a disillusioned cynic, but this broad far surpasses me in that department. Truly, I don't want to even think about the size and quantity of skeletons in this woman's closet that would make her sink to this level of premeditated desperation. Really, I don't.

I am, however, admittedly curious as to the general reaction by the female ranks to this article — one better suited to Marie Claire or Cosmopolitan magazines than to a purportedly respected journal such as the Atlantic.

Have things gotten so bad that the USA has devolved into nation full of desperate women willing to dismiss major character failings (oh, and lest we forget … halitosis) in favor of simply having a full-time companion about whom they can kvetch to their girlfriends? Because if the majority of American women feel, as the author of this article does, that it's about time they too settled for something a little (or a lot) less than perfect … well, then I guess I should catch the next flight back to the States!

Is this really what 'true love' has been reduced to in the minds of contemporary success-oriented adult women:

So if you rarely see your husband — but he’s a decent guy who takes out the trash and sets up the baby gear, and he provides a second income that allows you to spend time with your child instead of working 60 hours a week to support a family on your own — how much does it matter whether the guy you marry is The One?

Aww honey, shush … you had me at 'mundane.'

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It's 4:00 a.m., I'm up all night in another random airport for the second time in 3 days, and I'm jacked up on a whole boatload of Nescafe instant coffee. This is the part of traveling abroad that they never tell you about on National Geographic Explorer.

Welcome to my fucked-up little corner of the world.

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It's now official — after Darfur and Iraq, India is my LEAST favorite tourist destination.

I've been laid up for the better part of 5 days now with what a local pharmacist says is probably Dengue Fever.

Admittedly, he may be wrong and I could have merely caught a really bad flu virus, since the only way to diagnose Dengue is via blood tests. But there's no way in HELL I'm letting anyone in this country stick me with a needle — doing it in Sri Lanka was bad enough. So, for bitching purposes alone, I'm just gonna assume I've got the Dengue.

He may be right — there's been an increasing number of cases in India over the past year, and I've been dealing with the symptoms described as being associated with the virus.

I've had a high fever on and off for the past 5 days — relieved only by copious doses of Ibuprofen (taking aspirin apparently makes it worse). I had a slight rash across my shoulders. My digestive system is in a worse state than Brittaney Spears' career. My eyes feel like they're gonna burn right thru my skull. And EVERY SINGLE BONE in my body aches. Intensely.

Yeah, there's a reason they also call this thing the break-bone fever or bonecrusher disease.

So I've been stuck in my room for the past several days doing anything I can do NOT to go crazy with boredom — reading books by the kilo, surfing the internet (when available), watching DVD's, and trying to get the most entertainment value as possible from my fever dreams.

The fever broke early this morning (but unfortunately has just resurfaced this evening — yea!), and I'm starting to get feeling back in my eye sockets. But I still can't eat anything, and I still feel like I just went 10 rounds with Bobbitt.

Hey, I'm not complaining (well, yes I am), because it could be worse — much worse. In that respect, I'm grateful that I'm (apparently) getting better. But, all in all, I'd rather be in Philadelphia.

I leave India in one week. Let's hope I don't catch a parasite or get rolled by a gang of rogue monkeys in the meantime.

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[Welcome to India, man! And yes, that IS "Freedom Rock"!]

I promise this will be (among) the last of the derogatory comments I have about my visit to India so far. That being said …

I understand I cannot justifiably classify an entire country after having visited only a tiny portion thereof — especially one swarming with foreign tourists. Agreed. I mean, to do so would be akin to someone criticizing the entire United States after having visited only Las Vegas.

Err … forget that analogy, but you get the point.

But to those people (many whose opinions I truly do respect) that say I need to visit the 'real India' in order to understand 'the magic' of the country, I say bullshit. I have ventured out into the boonies and cities, and I say 'Bullshit.'

Yes, India IS a bit different from other countries. Yes, India DOES have a remarkable history. Yes, it DOES have some great food and an extremely diversified culture. But there are amazingly different things in just about EVERY country worldwide (for now that is, until Starbucks and McDonalds have completed their takeover of the Klingon Empire).

I don't want to come off as hating India — because I don't. Indeed, there are some very interesting aspects of Indian culture, and I don't think it's really ALL that bad here. However, this blog, by necessity, is a distillation of my recollections and experiences about my travels. I cannot write about everything I see. It's just not a practicality. Instead, I must write about those things which affect me the most … in the moment.

I write about what I 'get' from India as I experience it — the hippies, the crowding, the poverty, the misogynistic culture, the frantic pace, the greed. And these things … they're not for me. Indeed, I fled from many of these same things also existing back in the States. Only in the U.S., there was indoor plumbing and less air pollution (if you can believe that).

I will say this much, however: I HAVE learned some things about myself since my arrival here. Not from the country or its people, but in how other Westerners view them both. As one commentator here noted, there are a HUGE number of Westerners who have never visited India and have a romanticized idea of the country — believing the entire countryside is not strewn with garbage, and believing Indians are ALL spiritually enlightened.

Man, they're just people trying to get by. Just because they've got different religions and philosophies does NOT mean they're any closer to grasping the meaning of life (if any) than you are — especially the meaning of YOUR life, dipshit!

Yet many foreigners here seem to continually propagate that illusion — actively blinding themselves to the reality so they can justify their continued search for answers in a place they've seen romanticized in movies as the birthplace of 'spiritual enlightenment'. You can see it in how seriously they take themselves and the whole concept of 'India.' They've all seemingly forgotten that the minute you start believing your own bullshit is the minute you lose touch with the questions you initially sought to explain.

Ironically, I got a shot of this reality this morning seeing a funny quote on the side of one of the Starbucks cups used by a local coffee shop (not in violation of any copyright laws, I presume):

chances are you are scared of fictions.
chances are you are only fleetingly happy.
chances are you know much less than you think you do.
chances are you feel a little guilty
chances are you want people to lie to you.
perhaps the answer lies on the side of a coffee cup.
you are lost.”

-david cross
comedian, writer, actor

Indeed.

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(map of Sri Lanka — for your reference and files)

I've thought long and hard about how to begin this particular post, given the fact that my sister may eventually read it, and she in turn will eventually tattle on me to my parents (just like when we were kids … man, some things never change). The easiest way is this:

I will never NEVER hesitate to ask for directions again. EVER!

As mentioned previously, I headed up here to Kandy to get my Indian Visa - boarding a train in Mirissa (Matara) in the far, far south, that I was told (repeat: TOLD) went through Colombo and then straight on to Kandy.

Yeah, not so much.

I probably should have first noticed something was wrong when the train hit a military checkpoint set up by the Sri Lankan Army to the north of the town of Vavuniya, Sri Lanka. It was only then that I learned — through a series of conversations in broken English, Singalese and Tamil — that I was not on the train to Kandy. Rather, I was on the train to Jaffna.

As in Jaffna, Sri Lanka's northern-most peninsula that is mostly under the control of the Tamil Tigers, the rebel insurgents fighting the Sri Lankan government. As a quick background for anyone not following the latest news on this (i.e., mostly all Americans, myself included until recently), Sri Lanka has been squeezed in the grip of a bloody civil war for the past 20 YEARS — the Sri Lankan Government on one side and the Tigers ('LTTE') on the other. There had been a toothless 'cease-fire agreement' in place for the past couple of years, but that too was formally dissolved just weeks ago after a string of violent clashes between the government forces and the LTTE.

Now, it appears the country is heading back to war. A civil war. A bloody, nasty, unnecessary, ridiculously over-extended civil war.

Fortunately for the surf-tourists, the violence has, for the most part, not extended into the island's southwest area — at least the far southwest, where I was surfing. In contrast, from all reports, the northern area is a cauldron of violence not suitable for tourists or locals alike.

So, through my own ignorance and stupidity, where did I wind up taking a train ride to? You got it — the absolute heart of the Tamil rebellion. Man oh man, sometimes I really do live up to the title of this blog.

Don't get too riled up, sis — I didn't stay there for long. In fact, my stay in the north can be counted in seconds, not even minutes. Shit, I didn't even actually make it into Jaffna proper. Instead, the absolute SECOND I realized where I was — when someone who read English pointed it out for me on the map, at which point I promptly flipped out — I literally jumped off at the next stop, ran across another set of tracks, and jumped on the nearest train heading back in the other directions. No, I'm not kidding. In fact, I may have been screaming like a little girl at the time, but I can't quite remember.

I didn't ask where that southbound train was heading. Frankly, I didn't care.

I had seen how some of the other (ever-increasingly Tamil) passengers were looking at me as I was trying to glean our location, and I had visions of the next days headline:

"In other news, an American tourist was taken hostage today in the Jaffna region. Officials are unsure why this tourist was even in that war-ravaged region, despite warnings …"

So yeah, I ran away like the little bitch I am. And yeah, I'm okay with that.

Any of you war correspondents out there who want to size up — okay, you win the big brass balls award. I'll give you that right now.

No kidding, being in a war zone while you're actually at war is fucked up enough (although I've been prepared to do it). But heading into a war zone just for the hell of it? Man, that's just nucking futs!

Luckily, the trains here in Sri Lanka run almost 24 hours a day, so I eventually found another train heading over to Kandy from the ridiculously obscure area I eventually found myself back down in the south. But what should have only been a 5-6 hour train ride instead wound up taking me about 12 hours.

I'm now in Kandy, but I have to wait a full week to get my visa due to the national holiday on Tuesday. So I've been walking around the lake, up the hills, and around the town. The city is beautiful, despite the massively overt military presence (everyone seems to be carrying an automatic rifle — I've an absolutely comical picture of a sign at an ATM stall with a circle and slash through it, prohibiting not cigarettes … but automatic rifles. I shit you not).

And instead of Tigers, Kandy seems to be infested with monkeys and bats (and the occasional elephant). And I got bit by some guys dog (he was kind enough to run inside and show me the vaccination documents, tho). Hey, the dogs, monkeys and the bats ain't carrying automatic weapons or munitions, so I'm cool with 'em.

They say that every adventure isn't an adventure while you're going through it. Yeah, maybe. But I'm guessing there are easier ways of having an adventure than by inadvertently wandering behind enemy lines.

Jiminy Crickets, can't we all just get along? I mean, really, I only came here to surf. To hell with this, I'm heading back down south until my visa comes through next week.

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Yes, I was stupid enough to step DIRECTLY on a black sea urchin in my rush to get out into the surf break right in front of my new guest house in Marissa, SR. Yes, it fucking hurt.

Given my sister's fascination with divulging my various minor physical woes with my technologically inept parents (apparently in a unilateral attempt to turn the rest of my mom's hair grey), I had resolved not to discuss the matter any further.

However, I've been asked by several folks for details. So, with a request to my sister NOT to tell my parents about this (at this point, hopefully) trifling issue for now, here are the details.

I stepped on a whole flock of black sea urchins. For those not acquainted, they are a mass of hollow black spikes with tiny spurs on them, apparently present just to add that extra special touch.

If you happen to step on them and remove your foot back without moving side to side, it may be possible to break off the spike while they are still sticking out of your foot by a few centimeters. If you 'jerk' back your foot (or feet, in my case) in response to the shock of having razor sharp spikes jammed 1-2 centimeters into the soles of your feet (no, I am NOT kidding), then the spikes will break off just below the surface of the skin.

This makes removal a particularly wonderful experience.

A large majority of the spikes in my left foot fell into the former category, and thus were removed fairly easily (all but a small one, which I'm keeping as a pet). The right foot however was not so fortunate. I had about 20 spikes in all. Most of them were removed using a mixture of native plant seepage, Sri Lankan rum, and a big fat splif.

One particularly vicious spike went thru the outside of my pinky toe in such a way that, rather than trying to pull it out, it was actually easier to cut the skin along the length of it and remove it by opening the skin flap.

There were also several others that were too deep to remove with the instruments at hand (a safety pin, nair clippers, and a pair of tweezers (all of which obviously just cleaned in an alcohol bath, of course). For them, we applied a mix of coconut, sugar, and curry powder and let it sit overnight.

Yes, I let them do that to my foot. I'm a very trusting soul.

Amazingly, the mixture worked (for the most part), as all but two of the bigger spikes were drawn to the skin surface overnite. That's where the fun starts. Long story short, after letting Dinu (my host) dig around in my foot with a safety pin for the better part of 2 hours, we instead decided to go to the doctor and let him remove the remaining spikes (this turned out to be a VERY good idea, considering the spike we removed from my little toe had gotten poisoned and was swelling from infection).

We did, of course, go to the snake farm first. Dude, if you've never seen a brown cobra hissing and rearing at you from only a meter away from you, I HIGHLY recommend it. Okay, maybe not … I hear ya.

The doctor's 'office' was something special, as was also the local anesthetic that must be applied at the site of EACH puncture. After applying the local, the 'doc' went to replace the old scalpel head with a fresh (and presumably clean) blade. In doing so, the old blade 'popped' off and flew across the room, landing behind some table or another.

Both I and my new Brit friend Paul (who was there to get some drops for his manky ear) starting laughing hysterically at the flying scalpel blade. The doc was not amused, and after setting down some newspapers to mop up the blood, he set to work digging into the sole of my foot with a scalpel.

That was just precious. Absolutely precious.

Those of you who know me personally may know my quirk that I tend to laugh more in direct relation to the amount of pain I'm in. You can ask Paul, in a matters of only seconds I was laughing hysterically in a way I haven't since watching "Showgirls." Again, just precious.

So, there you've got it. I'm on penicillin to treat the infection/poison for the next few days, and I'm out of the water for at least 1 more day (day 4, in total). All total, the doctor and the drugs cost me about US$5.00. Not bad, all things considered.

Other than that, though, I'm having a blast. No, really! Before this sea urchin bullshit, I was getting some decent surf (not Indo surf, but still …), the food is simply AMAZING, the locals are nice to a fault (almost creepily so), and the other surf-tourists I've met to date have been absolutely fantastic.

Hey sis, knock yerself out. But if mom goes all postal over this shit, it's not my fault.

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Mental note: Sea urchins+feet=pain.

That is all.

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Well folks, given my history of injuries and the active lifestyle I pursue, one would assume I would have gotten injured much earlier during living abroad. Thankfully, I haven't … until now.

The good news is that it was nothing too major, and I should be fine (I don't want to jinx anything, cuz there is still potential for infection). The bad news is that I'm probabky gonna have a really nasty scar on my left knee and I won't be surfing for the next week or so until the stiches are sufficiently healed.

It was only 2 days ago when I decided to stay here in the Philippines for a full month. I made that decision based partly on the quality of Mahi-Mahi here, and also figuring that although I've not yet felt the right 'vibe' here, I should at least give the place a chance. As part of my preperations for staying the month, I rented a room with a kitchen so I can cook my own meals rather than having to constantly dine out. I also rented a motorbike so I can go to the markets in town to buy food and other supplies, as well as to ride over to the various surf breaks not within walking distance.

Yeah, some of you can already see where this is heading.

Anyway, the surf on this side of the island has been pretty dismal for the past several days — the northen winds blowing out any significant waves left from the 2 typhoons in the area. I had heard, however, there is a decent surf spot up towards the northern tip of the island. Yesterday morning, I decided spur of the moment to check it out.

I never got there.

I took a wrong turn somewhere along the way. Don't ask me where I made the wrong turn or where I wound up, because longtime resdents here on Shiargao that I've asked can't even tell me where the fuck I was (ironically, one person who did know told me I was up near a place called 'Salvation'). All I know is that almost immediately after I turned off from the main road, the 'road' — usiing the term euphamistically — changed from flat pavement to an unpaved path consisting mainly of huge puddles of mud and rocky hills.

Every so often I stopped to ask directions — each time being reassured in broken English that yes, this REALLY was the proper way to the north end of the island. Based on these directions, I continued on until I literally ran out of road (the road turned into a walking path that turned into a drainage draw, that finally ended on the beach next to a comicaly small fishing villiage). There, I was told (read: wildly gestured to) that I had indeed gone the wrong way and I needed to go bAcK almost to my starting point and take a completely DIFFERENT (and paved) road north, since where I was wasn't actually a road.

I had just turned around to make the trip back towards the main road when the heavens opened up - WIDE open. If you've never been to the tropics, you really should make the effort to do so. It is a remarkable thing, You can't imagine just how much water can fall from the sky at one time until you see it in person. It really is amazing.

Anyway, the 'road' almost immedaitely began to flood, resembling a small creek more than a road. I hadn't gone more than 50-100 meters after turning around before I hit a steep rocky incline. My my back tire hit a slicked up rock and slid out from beneath me. Thankfully, I was only going a few km/hour at the time, so I avoided any serious injury.

After falling, I picked up the bike and took it to the top of the incline where I better could take a survey of any damage — both to me and the bike. Luckily, I was able to keep the bike from getting too damaged by cushioning its fall with my body. My left leg, to be precise. I was pleased to first see that my left foot had only some minor scrapes that would heal in a couple days. But then I caught sight of my left knee, although it didn't really hurt.

I'm not sure how it happened, but when I looked, I saw a huge gaping wound right below my left kneecap. Specifically, in a rough circle about 2 inches in diameter, the skin was simply gone, exposing the tendons and other tissue below.

It really didn't hurt, but it looked knarly as hell.

I was (and still am) more concerned with infection, considering I had to ride the bike back through the 10-12 kilometers of this flooded and rocky 'road' before even making it back to solid pavement. Every time I came to another muddy expanse of water in the road, I had to pick up my left leg in the air so as to avoid spraying any 'goo' up inside my exposed kneecap.

I remember thinking to myself that this was turning into one hell of a long bike ride, however, as soon as the rain stopped and I got back on solid pavement, I'd be able to get the wound quickly attended to.

Err, not so much.

My trip back to the main road was long, but reletively uneventful. However, once there, I fell victim to my own expediency. See, the exit point back onto the main road was about halfway between the main towns of General Luna ('GL') and Dapa. As I am staying out past GL (where most of the ex-pats are), I decided to hit the medical clinic there, so as to avoid a long drive home after gettting treated.

When I got to the GL clinic at around 11:30 a.m., I found that the doctor doesn't come in until 13:30 (1:30 p.m.), and I would have to wait another 2.5 hours before I could get stiched up there. Instead, I got back on the road and headed back again where I came from — towards Dapa — specifically, the Dapa hospital. Well, I guess you could call it a 'hospital.'

It actually bore more semblance to an auto-body shop than what we in the West would call a 'hospital.' My first clue in this regard were the chickens wandering around just out front of the building. My second clue was the dog that wandered into the 'operating room' at the smell of my blood — looking for scraps, one would assume (No, I'm NOT kidding. I couldn't make up this shit).

I wasn't able to get treated when I first got there, since the only doctor in the hospital was busy delivering a baby. So, after having already left my kneecap exposed to the elements for a couple hours, I would have to wait a bit longer until after the little brat was ushered into the world (just kidding … but not really).

Now, I truly believe that how one deals with adversity is a sign of their true character, especially in an unfamiliar environment. So yesterday, I was particulally self-concious about not appearing as just another self-absorbed American looking for special treatment while screaming 'don't you know who I am?!?!" (although I was, admittedly, feeling a little like that inside).

For that reason, I didn't make a big deal about getting hurt in the first place. Nor did I bitch about having to drive back from GL to the Dapa hospital. I was not about to start losing my shit now, especially considering there was a local Filippino fisherman also there, stolidly waiting for treatment after getting his calf ripped apart by a moray eel.

An intake nurse looked at my injury and told me how much it would cost — 50 pesos for consultation, and another 75 pesos for the stitching. Le me repeat that, the entire treatment cost the equivilent to about US$3.00.

She also told me what I'd need to get for my treatment — sutchers, a needle, bandages, and a local anesthetic. I was given a prescription of sorts, and then told to go to the pharmacy in town to buy the equiptment. I paid 10 pesos (about $.25) to a guy on a tricycle to take me there and back. And after I got my suppies, I sat there silently waiting for delivery (quite literally). The total cost for all those supplies was only about another US$5.00 (admuittedly, the antibiotics I bought afterwards were sorta expensive, about US$50.00). So, it was a total cost of about US$8.00 to get treated (man, Micheal Moore's movie 'Sicko' was good, but you can't really grasp just HOW fucked up the US medical system is until you get treated outside the country).

Anyway, the baby refused to accomodate our schedules, and after a time, the doctor and trauma nurse from GL came to Dapa (ironically, they didn't even open the clinic in GL, but instead came straight to Dapa to help out in their E.R.). The fisherman rightly got his mangled leg treated first (apparently, the moray eels out here can be downright vicious). The 'OR' was open to the public, and various members of his family and the general public who happened to be there (myself included), wandered in and out surveying the proceedure.

Once again, this guy was so quietly stoic about the whole thing that I was concerned about looking like a weak-willed American when next it came my turn to be stiched up. Fortunately, I have a uniquely high pain tolerance. Unfortunately, I also have a really bad habit of giggling like a madman in response to severe pain.

As they got started on my knee, we all realized just how fucked up it was (is). Not only did I tear out a huge chunk of flesh, but the adjacent skin that remained was ripped from the tissue underneath, leaving a 'hole' under the skin. I know from prior experience that is the real danger (when I was in college, I had torn my right calf muscle resulting in an abscese that got infected and almost killed me due to my lack of treatment). It was also tricky due to the placement of the injury. I've heard this before, but I was reminded again yesterday that the knee is one of the hardest places to treat an injury.

The doctor and nurse were, however, absolute professionals when it came to cleaning and debriding the injury and stiching me up. Indeed, but for the dog looking for scraps and the locals looking to see if the American would start screaming in pain, their treatment was better than some I've received back in the States. They even gave me a mask and let me sit up to watch the proceedure (except when the local started wearing off and I started giggling like a nutjob). The hospital staff was also extrememly kind to me, and I thank them all immensely for their help.

I'll probably have a nasty scar on my left knee, but if the drugs do what they're supposed to do, I think (hope) I'll be fine. I'm taking some pretty powerful antibiotics for the next 7 days, just in case. During that time, however, I won't be unable to go in the ocean. So, no surfing for the next week. No worries, I'd rather get healed up (plus, the winds have picked up, making the waves unridable for the next 5-6 days anyway).

I go back in a couple of days for a check up (I hope I can make the US$3.00 consultation fee), and hopefully any chances I'll be healed up in a week. I just hope no more dogs wander into room.

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Those of you who, to your great misfortune, have been reading this dribble for some time, may recall my discussion several months ago about the movie 'A Crude Awakening' and the phenomenon of 'Peak Oil'.

As noted in that post, the movie shows that the ever-diminishing supply of petroleum will have effects that, to the modern industrialized world, will make global warming itself seem like a walk in the park. According to experts, first will come oil-based political disputes between the West and those areas still producing the larger amounts of oil (cough, cough, … Iraq, Iran, Nicaragua, … cough, cough).

Next come inflated petrol prices, the collapse of international economic markets, and various other economic and political upheavals in (or caused by) those Western countries most reliant on foreign oil (cough, cough … fuck it, you know I mean the US).

Then finally, the utter collapse of Western civilization as we know it.

At this point, if you pay attention to foreign media reports, you can already see where this whole thing is heading. If not, well then … enjoy your turkey, you bloated fucker.

I say 'foreign media' because, as of the time of writing this (early Thanksgiving morning in the U.S.), there are absolutely no significant stories in the U.S. online press (i.e., CNN, MSNBC, Yahoo/AP News, etc.) discussing the issue that seems to dominate all the foreign press today — sky high oil prices and the effect on the global markets.

In contrast, both on TV and in print, BBC World, Yahoo International, and the International Herald Tribune, are at the time of writing, leading with the story of how:

'World equities were hammered Wednesday by soaring oil prices and fears over the global economy, with steep falls in Asia and Europe after volatile trade overnight on Wall Street, analysts said.'

Briefly, for those of you who aren't aware, oil went up to its highest price ever today — just shy of US $100 per barrel. The causes apparently pertain to US 'policies' in West Asia, production issues leading into the upcoming winter months, and, since barrels have always been priced by the US Dollar, which is doing poorly on the international markets, the barrels just ain't worth as much (as it were).

You would think that this, combined with the fact that the UN just published one of its most scathing reports about the state of global environmental issues, would be some cause for concern. Or at least a front page news slot.

I guess not.

Rather, at the time of this writing, in contrast to (what at least I consider to be) this very important global story, CNN America's lead story is … wait for it … wait for it …

'3 charged with causing Natalee Holloway's death.'

What. The. Fuck.

With those fucked up priorities, I'm guessing the new Shrek float in the Macy's Parade will be Wolf Blitzer's lead story on 'The Situation Room' tonight.

This post initially was going to be about how all that shit they talked about in 'A Crude Awakening' may perhaps, despite the recent oil discoveries in Brazil, all be starting to come to fruition.

Indeed, we are, as always, one bad bottle of Tequila away from all-out war in West Asia. We are slipping quickly into a global recession (or at least, a US recession). And, as noted, oil production is down and demand is up - leading to the highest petrol prices in history.

And yet, when I research to find some US media reports on all of this, all I could find there is a stunning investigative report on how workers are inflating the Scooby Doo balloon for Macy's 81st Annual Thanksgiving Day Parade.

For that reason, I didn't go off on the whole 'doom and gloom' scenario … again.

Instead, I went off on the state of the US media … again.

I know some of you may think all I do is sit here and think about ways to bitch about the media and the government back in the States. But I honestly don't see it that way. I don't go looking for this kinda Anti-American type of shit — it just come to me.

Regardless, you may have a point.

I really shouldn't complain about the state of 'journalism' in the US today. Really, the press is only giving the American public what it clamors for.

So, for Americans, that means CNN issuing a breaking report on how the Macy's Day Parade this year will be featuring the cast of "Legally Blonde." Whereas in the rest of the world, it means reporting on how they'll be feeding themselves in the next couple years.

Yep, maybe you guys are right — it's good to be the King.

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(Me, trekking en route in hills between Chiang Mai and Pai, Thailand)

Okay, after some nice whitewater rafting and trekking in Northern Thailand, and a few solid days of getting really liquored up rock climbing down in Krabi (Southern Peninsular) Thailand, I'm back down in Singapore.

Honestly, it feels really, really good to be back 'home.'

However, it's the first time I've been here in about 2 months and, while I'm glad to be back, it's not quite to 'homecoming' I was hoping for.

My flatmate is moving in with his girlfriend in only a few days.

And I am essentially homeless … again.

I was really looking forward to doing my usual "Singapore R&R" trip - taking a couple of weeks to regroup, get my bearings back, and plan for my next long term excursion. And while another friend has kindly offered to let me crash with him for a bit, I had become used to the prior 'living arrangements' (especially since my mate has been so generous about allowing me to stay with him).

Although I was never on the lease, my flatmate refused to let me pay him a dime towards rent (I was forced to surreptitiously leave money around the flat and then tell him it was his … sorry D), and I only stayed here for 1-2 week stretches, I felt like this place was my home.

I have been traveling the large part of this year for weeks and months at a time, but I always felt like I had a home.

That feeling of 'homeness', I guess, was probably the result of the hospitality and friendship of my flatmate more than anything else — and for that I will be eternally grateful.

Don't get me wrong — my other mate (whom I also like a lot and am grateful too) has generously offered to allow me to crash with him here in Singapore before I leave for my next trip abroad. So it appears I have someplace to stay for now.

However, despite that, and the fact I've gotten to know Singapore fairly well, I still feel a bit lost.

I know what y'all are thinking: 'yeah, that's a real shame when folks be throwin' away a perfectly good white boy like that."

I feel ya, brotha' … I feel ya.

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It was just what I needed, actully.

It happened as our truck crawled along the muddy hillside roads outside Chiang Mai, Thailand, as we were being driven up to the dropoff point for today's whitewater rafting trip.

I had a bit of an epiohiny.

Yes, another one, you fuckers.

As background, towards the end of my trip back to the States, I was finding myself again growing extremely bitter in my views towards Westerns (and Americans, in particular) for a variety of reasons - none of which are all that important at the end of the day.

However, the trip back to the States has also led me to consider various aspects of my place in the overall dynamic of global living in the 2st Century. Living in the States is, at the end of the day, not all that different than living abroad.

It's all a matter of keeping — or, in my case, obtaining — perspective.

I realised this today, as I was looking out at the fairly unadulterated tropical landscape full of banana trees, bamboo trees, palms, teak trees, and all variety of crawling vines and bushes — all one would expect from the back-country of Southeast Asia.

I'll try to explain, but I'm not quite sure I can.

When I first arrived in Chiang Mai, my tuk-tuk (taxi) driver assumed by my demeanor that I'd been here before. I think it's cuz I've lost any sense of 'bewilderment' I first had after leaving the States. You see it on the faces of all the mealy, pasty white, backpackers wherever you go … I mean EVERYWHERE.

In relation to living (or returning) to a metropolis like New York, or Philly, I called this getting my 'city legs." (KB calls it the 'Amish boy' factor).

However, that being said … although I've been doing for years and I'm getting quite good at it, I'm tired of playing the pissed-off American know-it-all, claiming that Americans who continue to toil as Joe Banks are doomed to a miserable existence.

I'm also tired of playing the flip-side of that coin, the know-it-all American 'ex-pat' who thinks he's an expert in all things living abroad, and about being a well-healed traveler.

Before I left back for Boston, I think I was viewing my trips abroad — to Costa Rica, Indonesia, Cambodia … wherever — not as a means to discover new places, but only new places to say I've been. The net effect of doing so was to put myself above all the other 'lessor-healed' travelers, but not see them — or myself — in the general equation.

I've been lamenting about the large number of Westerners in these Asian countries the same way I did about all the tourists to Miami Beach when I lived there. However, what can I really expect by going to places that are geared towards tourists?

It's essentially akin to getting pissed-off about having to sit through a Broadway musical after making a special trip to the theatre.

These places exist. They are what they are. As are the people there.

Cie la vie.

You must (or at least, I'm trying to) take these places - and the things and people they each have to offer - for what they are.

Acceptance.

I really shouldn't get mad because there are more tourists circulating through a town in the hills of northeastern Thailand than you'd ever have expected.

And I shouldn't be disturbed by watching Americans sitting atop trained elephants (whom several I saw faintly resemble) in the middle of the jungle just for the snapshot value.

And it's okay that there are developed railways, and freeways, and sprawling metropolises in places you 'thought' had only recently been blessed with the marvel of indoor plumbing.

These things are the way they are. And they'll be that way after I leave. Whether it be Chiang Mai, or Bangkok, or Costa Rica … or Miami and elsewhere in the States.

Each of these places have things to offer. They don't have to be what you've always envisioned them being.

And I really, really, REALLY, must stop trying to impose my views of perfection on them.

The best I can really hope is to try to take as much as possible from whatever 'beneficial uniqueness' remains in the places I'm visiting. By continuing on the path of 'hoping' these places will be as I WANT them to be, I'll simple continue contributing to the problem.

All that being said, however, I still think I reserve the right to get ridiculously exasperated about seeing a group of 20-something Euro-trash girls in some shithole backpacker ghetto-bar all dolled up like they're spending the night out at Crobar.

C'mon, get a fucking grip, you guys. I mean … really.

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