Five dogs lie still on the sand, beige and irritating. The ocean ferociously delivers debris. One seems startled; the rest spring to their four feet bouncing confused circles around him. His eyes concerned, he starts to gnaw at the jumping fleas near his behind, false alarm. They lie back
down and re-assume their positions as potato sacks littering the tourists' beach, sand on their noses.



This is a trip. We are the dogs. The sand is in our eyes.

I haven't written in three weeks and a lot has happened since then. Bangkok's drunken 7-11 stoops, Kuala Lumpur with it's covered ladies and bumpy rain forest, VIP (home) and it's fashion catalogue poolside. I know who my friends are, they are adventurous and crass, sometimes to the point of stinging; some of us are worse than others, sometimes I feel like the worst.

The other day, it was a Friday, I was bored. I told Mac (the roommate) that I was bored and getting sick of the monotony of Hua Hin and the days of lazing by the pool, tingling in the washed out light. It was true. He suggested that we go to Bangkok (a three hour bus ride). So we boarded one of those buses an hour later and were on our way. Josh (a photographer) and one of my new good friends was there, going to Bangkok too. It was one of those unexpected trips that you cannot recreate; some pretty memorable things ensued. Another drunken weekend in Bangkok.

Upon arrival we booked a night at a hostel on Sukhumvit, a pretty touristy street near Central Bangkok. Then Mac and I met Sarah and John at a German restaurant, where they have bells on the table to ensure prime service and I ate warm meats and sour cabbage. The mashed potatoes were flaky and had the sweet taste that butter seems to take on in Thailand, nothing like the creamy subdued flavor which slides down my throat in the states. I usually don't partake in this warm meat eating, but as they say "When in Bangkok..." I think they called them Bratwurst, but they were pale and tender, like no bratwurst I have ever experienced. It didn't take much for my teeth to break through the exterior skin of the sausage and I was shocked. I drank two gin and tonics there, but only paid for one!

Then after that, we went to the 7-11; this was our first encounter with the wonderment that was the 7-11 stoop on Nana Road in Bangkok. Our agenda was to pre-drink there and we did, prior to going to the Bed Supper Club where beds run along the walls, and sluts dance to trance music. I could see that this was the kind of place where all of the hip people go to be seen. Western and Asian men alike broke out their stiff dark jeans, too shiny black dress shoes, and colorful oxfords. Prowling threads, I presume. I decided to wear my tight girl jeans and my purple, regal lion shirt. It was 700 baht to get in, which is about USD$20: 2 cocktails included. That's just how hip it was. I spent most of my time on the upper level looking over the edge at all of the people dancing, and thinking about one girl in particular. She was wearing a metallic purple dress which reached the middle of her thigh; she had one of those holiday in thailand tans and blonde hair. I kept imagining how the club would have changed if she jumped from the ledge onto the dance floor, which would have been about a three-story jump. One gold stiletto over the railing at a time, subtly suicidal. She would have fallen to the floor, chest first. Her chin would have slammed into the sticky black surface and started bleeding; a real buzz kill for the Bangkok hipsters. The sound of her fall would not have been heard, but after the DJ kills the trance music, she begins to wail. What attention she must crave to do such a thing.

Later on in the night, we went to a bar where the band sounded just like the black eyed peas and that bitch Meredith Brooks. We danced a lot, and the asian stud who was singing kept smiling at us and pointing to us in his kitschy way. We went home and I got yelled at for talking to Cameron too loudly on the phone in the hallway of our hostel at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Mac and I took the metro to the train station amidst the farangs (thai for foreigner) and the suspiciously kind train agents. Anywhere I go I am skeptical about people who try to help me, it makes me wonder what kind of money they want out of me, how they're going to rip me off, or what dead end they're going to lead me toward. I'm not sure if this is western skepticism of the other, mysterious eastern people, or if I'm just living up to my reputation by ignoring them due to fear of being taken advantage of. Regardless, Mac and I ignored the train agents until we realized that they were only there to help us figure out which line to join for train tickets to Chiang Mai (where we are going for Songkhran over our second break). Then leaving the station, we were bombarded by those others for whom skepticism is warranted. They are ruthless about offering new services that they seem to believe everyone needs. As if I hadn't just walked out of a train station, many of these short men wearing pink shirts asked if Mac and I needed cheap train tickets from their special agency, or if we wanted a ten baht tour of Bangkok, which inevitably lead to some made up temple where the entrance fee was outlandish. But no, I only pay outlandish entry fees to swanky bars, not to artificial cultural experiences. And the mind-fuck continued.

I stood still amidst around 30 other people, mostly asian, all eyes fixed on a man darting furiously into the clouds and up to the sun in a modern day kung fu film. DVDs were being bootlegged behind the scenes. They were previewing the film at the dvd store which was one of hundreds. Stands lined the floor in three rows leaving only room for about two people to walk the aisles. Cell phones with their metallic plastic glitter behind glass counters. I was on the fourth floor of MBK - Bangkok teenage paradise where bartering is encouraged and each of the eight floors is dedicated to a different purpose: clothing, shoes, electronics, cameras, a food garden where you can feast on treats from around the world. I went for the Japanese food and got some savorily delish fried dumplings.

Then we went to Hard Rock Cafe, I ate some hot wings which tasted like pork rinds, and a cheeseburger which was decent. We spent a lot of money, but there was free entertainment! A Thai band which kind of just mumbled along to top 30 hits of the 90's. Then was the 7-11 stoop with Mac, Sarah, John, and Josh. It was magical. We played circle of death in central Bangkok on the stoop of a 7-11 for three hours. The circle was successful in getting all of us drunk and we continued the party at the streetside bars which stay open until the wee hours serving the hottest tourists on the sidewalk as they play "what the fuck?" and scream profanities. I have never felt like such a stupid American.

And then I went to school as usual, spent some time alone, thought about how I am going to explore more of Thailand and get to know some of the locals. And then I went to Kuala Lumpur and I changed again.

It was Chistine, Jordan, Mac, and I who went to Kuala Lumpur together. My first time eating Indian food was in Malaysia, and it was a burst of delight on my tongue and down my throat. The Petronas Towers were phallic in a materialistic homo-erotic kind of way. And the art was profound at times and confusing in other cases, as art usually is. There was one piece, in particular which sticks with me. It was titled "Happy... New Year" and it depicts various expressions and festivities associated with the holiday in paintings which were collaged together. It seems to be a pessimistic outlook on the holiday. It makes me wonder if sometimes Asians have a similar outlook on the Chinese New Year as some Christians do on the commercializing of Christmas.

Little India in Kuala Lumpur

Then we went to the rain forest And this is what I have to say about that:

I have hiked eleven kilometers through Malaysia's Taman Negara, the oldest rain forest in the world. The sensation that I felt most of the time that Mac and I were struggling up and down the hilly forest floor, was hurried. From the very beginning I had a certain destination and I wasn't relaxed enough to realize where I was and to appreciate that I was surrounded by endless green shadows with speckles of light - the sounds of birds and giant insects. There were times when I stopped and looked around, speculating why I associate all of the sounds that I hear with modern-age technology - sirens, alarm clocks, cell phone rings, chainsaws - and why they happened to be the most annoying and abrasive of sounds. Then I went on to think about how it must be to live in what are considered "primitive" societies - with the squealing beast and the nearly naked man with spear chasing it in and out of the light in the forest. How fit that man must be - to live in the jungle, to hunt boar, and build, and to gather. How far away we have come from the root of what it is to survive, and to be healthy humans.

"When I get out of here I will drink and gin and tonic, or maybe 7." Why can I not have the desire to stay in the jungle for more than one night? Why am I so weak? Maybe I just don't have the interest in that sort of thing. But then I realized that is not true. I realized, again, that I am accustomed to being comfortable, and in order to grow I must deprive myself of these every day comforts. The real reason why I was so miserable is because I was rushing through the rain forest, with no time given for soaking it into my pores and into my being.



















I saw some aborigines between tree trunks and across the river. They were black and it made me wonder why they were practically the only black people I saw while in Malaysia. A part of me, which I do not want to divulge to people, wondered if they were transported in by tourist authorities for another feature to be given to the lackluster oldest rain forest in the world. Signs advertised going on an outing to look at the Aborigines, breast feeding their children, fetching water from the river, sitting in the shade of their A shaped huts made of logs and tarps. I can only hope that they are exhibitionists.

Speaking of exhibitionists, the only wildlife which I saw were insects, giant ants which I am convinced marched for a mile, and a stream which ran down to the river.

So we reached our hide standing pseudo-regally on stilts in the center of Taman Negara. Mac and I were exhausted from stumbling over the thick root which covered the forest for 7 hours, and the contemplation, and faces of god which we probably saw inside of ourselves. I took a cold shower and it felt refreshing. Then I sat on my bunk made of two by fours which split my back into uncomfortable segments. I peered out the window to see if a boar or a panther may have decided to grace us with their presence, but no. Nothing but the sound of sirens rushing down a city highway, it's roads overlapping like spiderwebs in the forest. And I can only assume that these sounds were coming from the mouths of birds and toads and those nasty cicada insects which hit the light over and over forcing retardation. So I attempted to go to sleep and Mac began to breathe heavily: asleep.

It was black now and I caught the moon in my eyes. I wept the night away. At first I was unsure as to why I was weeping, and then I came up with reasons to continue to do so. We always do that, don't we?

Part of it was beauty, part of it was very ugly and scary, dark and piercing-loud like the jungle in the night.