Things Get Weird/BRUNEI

While in the air to Brunei, I notice my passport is running dangerously low on stamp space. Still, I fancy myself a problem-solver: There's exactly enough room for the stamp on one page, and if I can get the immigration officer to put it right there then I'll have enough blank pages for the remaining countries. Easy. I'm kind of the best at Tetris.

The immigration guy is an asshole. He glares at me offended when I dare suggest where he should place his holy mark, and instead turns to one of the last fresh pages and lays his stamp smack in the middle. Now I'm going to have to find the American embassy and get more pages put in, which I'm sure costs at least a hundred billion dollars.

I can't find the bus from the airport, so I just start walking in the direction of the city. Brunei, or rather "The Nation of Brunei, The Abode of Peace," is pretty much one big city with a tangle of jungle and oil derricks on the outskirts. I'm pretty sure I remember reading an article somewhere that said hitchhiking here is easy, and worst comes to worst I can just hail a taxi. Or walk the whole distance, and be one of those kind of guys. Luckily, I'm barely walking twenty minutes before a sedan pulls over and picks me up.

The driver is Nelson, a local Bruneian of Malay heritage. He's very friendly, as you can imagine, and has one of those soft, "kind" faces. The kind of guy who pulls over and gives disheveled white boys a ride. In the passenger seat is a young boy, either teenage or early 20s, who doesn't talk the entire time and I just assume is Nelson's son.

I tell Nelson my story, and he mentions that hitchhiking is actually not that common. I'm a lucky duck! He goes on to offer to show me what he calls the King's Mosque, which is on the way. Hey, I've got nowhere to be. Let's reverently and respectfully tear that bitch up.

It's a gorgeous mosque in a country that I am sure is full of gorgeous mosques. It's got the four tower/pillar things around it that seem pretty integral to a mosque's mosqueocity, and the inside is all a stunning white, with beautiful stained glass filling the central dome.

The attendants make me wear what looks like a judge's robes before I can see the top floor, which seems like a quirky rule. Up there, they have a prayer room covered in ornate marble and glasswork. It's the sort of thing that makes you wish you were spiritual, so you could really kick things up a notch in the ol' veneration department. They don't allow photography, so you'll have to take my word for it. Or, like, go there. I'm not the boss of you.

After seeing the mosque, Nelson drops me off at Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel. Before leaving, he mentions that he owns a spa, and offers me a job as a masseuse. I of course reply that I have no idea how to give a professional massage, and he says it won't matter, that weird Bruneian guys will pay extra just to have the exotic fingers of a white person clumsily rub them down. He also mentions that if the Pusat Belia is full, I can stay at his house, which has plenty of extra bedrooms. Apparently the silent enigma in the passenger seat is currently one of his guests.

Yes, Nelson could possibly be a sexual predator, picking up helpless backpackers and having them turn out handie-jays in his spa of horrors, but I am running pretty low on funds here. No one's perfect, right? He did show me that mosque, and he's behaved very respectfully towards me this entire time. Maybe his spa is legit, and the boy in the front seat isn't his catamite toyboy. As Nelson explained, Brunei is Muslim, so it makes sense that all his clients are male, as only male masseurs are allowed to massage men. Really, I'm probably just being disrespectful by having misgivings. I would like that money. Nelson says he'll come by at 7 tonight and show me how to give a massage, then drives off leaving me with his business card. It's probably fine. Hell, I could just blow him off if the bad vibes get to be too much, or I forget.

Pusat Belia, Brunei's lone hostel, is full. They tell me it never happens, but it's a holiday and students are on a trip, which comes as small comfort since the next cheapest place around here is a $30 a night hotel. Maybe I will definitely meet Nelson. I wonder if I could give a handjob for money? You know, totally hypothetically. Just...a thought problem.

Something to think about while staring wistfully into the distance. We've all thought about it, right?

There's not a whole lot to see or do around Bandar Seri Bagawan, Brunei's capital that I was smack dab in the middle of. There are a number of really nice mosques, a mall-flavored mall, and your usual streets full of modern but drab shops. It's clear the city has a lot of money and infrastructure, but not a lot of interest in impressing sightseers or tourists.

This is the most scenic photo of the city, sans-mosque, that I was able to get. There is one sculpture, and it is dull as hell.

My options are stay around my hostel, wasting what little funds I have in overpriced cafes, or...fuck it. I won't let my tombstone read "Here Lies Jamie, He Was Too Scared of Possibly Having to Give a Handjibber to Make Some Quick Cash and That Somehow Led to his Untimely Death." I walk over to Pusat Belia and sure enough, right at 7 there's Nelson's car. Something that never gets said enough for creepy dudes: their punctuality.

If this is some tawdry seduction attempt, he does a good job of hiding it. First, Nelson takes me to eat dinner at a Chinese restaurant his friend works at. The three of us chat and have a good time, and then Nelson covers the bill, which could go either way.

Next, he shows me some sights, but none of them match up to the mosque from earlier. There's an amusement park I can just about see over its fence, some royal palace, and then this giant sculpture installation that a member of the royal family built to symbolize his engagement.

Nelson says the diamond is real. Adorable.

Honestly, the most incredible sight I see is what gas costs in an oil state:

Trying to think in litres (sp!) is still half-witchcraft to me, but those numbers definitely don't seem as high as they should be.

Finally, he takes me to his spa. It's business time. Like for real business, because his spa is totally a legit spa. There are certificates all over the walls, and a general "kinda cheap but probably real" mise-en-scene.

It's definitely not a sex dungeon, but that could be my cultural bias talking.

Regardless of whatever happens here, at least I can rest easy knowing it's halal.

Nelson keeps hugging me, but that's probably nothing. Maybe he's just a really grateful employer. This whole halal business, dudes only allowed on dudes, it's still possible everything is totally normal to him. Like skinship in Korea, where guys are all about friendly touching and caressing. I just need to respect his culture. Nelson leads me into the massage room, and asks me to undress. I make a point to keep my underwear on, and I look for any sign of disappointment. No reaction. Alright.

There I am, face down and clad only in my skivvies, and Nelson starts to massage me. I'm not a big massage man personally, but I can tell that he's a professional, and the entire time he's giving me instructions. Where to start, which directions to go, how hard to push, important spots to hit, the whole works. It's very informative, and I found myself immensely relieved, embarrassed, and wishing I had taken notes. This could be a real skill! I just life-hacked my way into some free job training! Traveling, baby, I'm doing it right.

His hands are steadily working their way down from my shoulders to my lower back, and finally to my butt. Nelson sighs. "You will have to take this off. Is it okay?"

I know what you're thinking. I was thinking the same thing. Sometimes masseurs have gotta massage the butt. Now I don't get too many massages, but I imagine you can't do a real, proper butt massage with cloth in the way. It makes sense. With some hesitance, I drop my drawers. Now we're in flavor country.

He gives my buttocks a good working-over, but doesn't overstay his welcome and soon moves onto my legs and feet. I knew there was nothing to worry about. Just think of all that sweet cash I'm gonna be making taking advantage of weird racist Bruneians. Maybe I'll never have to go home, and instead travel the world as a wandering masseur. Back in reality, Nelson tells me to flip over. No problem.

Feeling reassured but still antsy, I repeat over and over in my mind: You will not get hard. You will not get hard. I don't care where you land on the Kinsey scale, you are not going to have an erection at this moment in time for any reasons whatsoever.

There isn't a lot to massage on the front side of your typical human, and after kneading my arms and hands a bit, Nelson arrives at my Fun Zone. The Pleasure Palace. The Vault of Secrets. And he dives right in.

His fingernails trace designs over my cock like it's the hennaed hand of a Hindu bride. He does it so matter-of-factly, and with such practiced skill, that it must still be part of the massage. It has to be, and I'm...I'm just really learning a lot about Muslim massage today.

I won't lie to you. It doesn't feel un-great. Regardless, my hetero leanings win out, and I remain as flaccid as Elton John watching a sex tape of Gloria Steinem. Heaven be praised. no difficult soul-searching and huge life decisions for me today! Nelson, on the other hand, is not so content.

"I know you are not gay," he says, looking me in the eye, "But I am." Oh no. "Would you like me to continue?"

Let's all take a moment and recognize: COULD'VE BEEN WORSE. What that in mind, I still need to keep things upbeat and friendly between attempted-handjober and handjobee. Hell, I know for a fact my dick looks great in this humidity, and in some respects old Nelson here is just another victim to its splendor. I didn't mention this earlier for narrative reasons, but Brunei doesn't really have public transportation, on account of everyone having a car 'cause oil state. I don't have a phone either, with which one could call a taxi service. Basically if I stormed out into the night, I'd be kind of fucked. Meaning, ultimately, I need this guy to give me a ride home.

I need to be Zenmaster Flash here. Do I want him to continue, he asked? "No, I'm okay." Your move, amigo. Hope it's friendly and boundary-respecting.

There's a lot of disappointment in those gay Bruneian eyes. Nelson's a stand-up weirdo though, and he drives me back to the hostel. Let me tell you about long, awkward car rides. You don't know shit about long, awkward car rides. That isn't to say we didn't have some interesting conversation, though. I'm curious about what it's like to be gay in an entirely Muslim country, and Nelson informs me there are plenty of gay Bruneians. "They hang out in cafes," he says. "You can smell them." Shine on, you creepy diamond.

I'm also curious about the pricing/ what I'm giving up by not being a halal sex worker. He says if I truly was still interested, I could get up to the princely sum of...50 dollars an hour. That doesn't even sound like a good deal for a person who isn't as white as a Fleet Foxes concert in a snow storm! My alabaster handjobs are worth more than your peanuts. Good day, sir.

After Nelson has dropped me off back in town, I get coffee at a nearby cafe and check the internet. I had previously sent out some feelers on Couchsurfing for a place to stay in Brunei, with no response. As it turns out, one of those hosts, a Zimbabwean expat named Prosper, replied and had been waiting for me all night. I send a message back that I'll meet him tomorrow. Have I got a great excuse for why I got held up!

And it wasn't because I went late-night mosque-sighting! (Sorry, but I have to break up these walls of text somehow. It's also the only way I can get people to look at my vacation photos. Sucker.)

I spend one uneventful night in the spartan (yet pricey) KH Soon Resthouse, where once again ordering a room for myself yields two beds, as an unending reminder of my own loneliness.

At least I get to keep up with a lot more TV shows.

But that's why I'm on Couchsurfing. Today, I'm meeting a local Bruneian named Chan who's going to show me the jungle on the edge of town, and hopefully nothing else besides that. He finds me at the Yayasan mall, which is mainly notable for their horrifying mannequins.

Chan turns out to be a lovely, heavy-set guy with a passion for introducing people to Brunei. He drives me in his car over to what I come to learn is actually a rainforest. Geographically, Brunei is located on the island of Borneo, the largest island in Asia, which it also shares with Indonesia and Malaysia. I bet they get up to some wacky sitcom hijinks! Borneo is also home to the Borneo rainforest, one of the oldest in the world.

The Borneo rainforest also happens to be the world's sole habitat of the proboscis monkey, which Chan says we'll find today if we're lucky. It's a monkey that has a ridiculously large nose to the point of obscenity. It's really something, and if you're ever in Brunei, you'll see its dumb face featured on a lot of marketing for cafes and such.

Alright, enough tension. It's not like the monkeys are making a play for my junk or anything. We see some in the trees, because sometimes things are nice and the rainforest will share its treasures with you. Chan and I celebrate our enjoyable time with some refreshing coconut water.

By "see," I mean we spot some vague shapes in the foliage that might possibly be in the monkey family.

Chan drops me off at the embassy, where I go through the most numerous and thorough security checks of my life for the privilege of paying $82 for new passport pages. The knowledge of a truly sweet zombie defense spot doesn't make me feel a lot better about that.

Prosper meets me at DeRoyalle cafe, where I've just been watching episodes of Luther on my netbook and drinking unremarkable and overpriced coffee. He takes me back to his house, which is a nice suburban 2-story that he receives (in addition to his car) as part of his job in network administration. Like many other people here I've met, including Nelson and Chan, he gives me a spiel about how great the jobs are here, and how much they pay and all the amenities they provide, but I'm just not sure if a dry country is for me.

Normally an expat can only bring two bottles of liquor and a case of beer into the country per month, but Prosper has a black market guy who keeps him well-stocked. Before long, the party train is pulling into good-times station. I'm introduced to Prosper's Polish girlfriend, Kate, and we sit down to eat a dinner he's cooked and drink wine. The food is delicious, and we start listening to music and talking about our jobs, our travels, and Brunei. Nelson comes up, and Prosper gets steaming mad. He wants details, and weirdly, I don't want to give them. I really was asking for it, in a way. I was playing Gay Chicken with a man who was actually gay. Or maybe I just have more empathy after my breakthrough experience. Mushrooms, ladies and gentlemen.

In the morning, I find another Couchsurfing request waiting for me, but this one is just an invitation to grab some food. After I pick up my passport from the embassy, I return to Yayasan to meet Puspita, an Indonesian flight attendant who uses Couchsurfing to kill time and meet people between flights. She's from Jakarta, and recommends I go. Alrighty. She also pays for dinner, which is just such a class move, especially because your boy is a stone cold poor person. Puspita has a car, but since she's a girl and can't get her cooties all over the nice Muslim steering wheel, she's got her own driver to go with, who has a really tough time trying to find Prosper's. We say our pleasant goodbyes, respecting the nonsexual purity of our internet meeting, and then I get drunk again with Prosper on honey whiskey. He plays a bunch of Zimbabwean music and gets nostalgic, which I find sweet and also educational. I play him a bunch of white boy backpack rap, which he seems to enjoy in return. They always do.

On account of Bandar having next-to-nothing of interest for an international rogue like myself, I find myself the next day hanging out yet again in a Coffee Bean while Prosper and Kate see X-Men: First Class.

I also hit up a McDonald's, where I find them trying to out-America America. The MEGA Mac would make a bald eagle weep tears of pride.

Prosper mentions something that does manage to tickle this scalawag's ears: according to him, there is in fact a club in town, but only expats are allowed entrance. It's the only place in town that one can procure booze, save for getting traditional liquor from the indigenous natives, which seems like a whole to-do.

Unfortunately, Prosper doesn't get any of my Skype calls, so he's unable to pick me up, and I have to take a van home. You can call it a private taxi if you want, but for my $15 it's a freaking van. No club tonight, and tomorrow I fly out. Whomp whomp.

Prosper, stand-up guy that he is, even drives me to the airport. He says: "If you're ever in Zimbabwe, let me know and even if I'm not there, I'll have my friends take care of you. They'll show you the best time of your life." Hot damn, now I just need to get to Zimbabwe!That's the one regularly used in jokes to refer to how close it is to everything, right?

I stop in KL for a layover before enjoying a longer, overnight layover in Bali. My destination this time: the newest country in the world, East Timor. I have done literally zero research into this mysterious nation other than to confirm that it is indeed a Southeast Asian country, and therefore I must see it.

Bali is a cinch this time. I immediately tell off the touts who try to carry my bags, and find some guys to share a cab with to Kuta. There, I'm able to get a bike taxi to Poppies Lane, where I find a cheap $10 hostel and schedule the driver for a pick-up to the airport tomorrow. Once he leaves, I wander around looking for food, liquor, and wifi.

Instead I found my spiritual awakening. Buy my book, please.

I take a break to grab some things from my room, and upon exiting I meet a group of Koreans staying in the room adjacent. Instead of eating dinner, I spend the night with them drinking beer, soju, and beer mixed with soju in a delightful concoction known as somek. Because I am smart and thrifty, and by now you should know this about me. I'm gonna crush East Timor.

Layovers and Axe Murders/KUALA LUMPUR - KOREA - KUALA LUMPUR

My hunger has grown so great that I actually manage to wake up in time for the free breakfast buffet. That is, without time to shower or change my clothes, but I make it. The food is as delicious as you'd imagine in a 5-star hotel, so I eat heartily for an hour until I am beset by the consequences of eating heartily after 2 days of near-starvation.

That's right, I'm talking diarrhea on a professional level. And while I am indisposed, I notice in the bathroom a feature that may or may not be unique to luxury accommodations: There's a weird door next to the toilet that leads behind the wall to places unknown.

Either for sneaky toilet cleaning, or the Phantom of the Shangri-La likes watching people poop.

By the time I am finally able to negotiate a tense cease-fire agreement with my butt, the buffet is already over. Bummer.

I mean, you could pay for your food now. If that is something you'd like to do. Cause you'd like to be a sucker all your life.

On the lookout for whatever other amenities I can wring from this place, I decide to go for a swim. That seems luxurious and, more importantly, free.

Right on both accounts.

Before I've even decided on a pool chair, I'm brought a chilled bottle of water and an apple.

Always with the apples, these guys. Fancy people must be all about their five-a-day.

However, I'm not really a guy who goes to swimming pools that much, so I'm stuck for how to make the most of my time. I do some laps, alternating between different half-remembered strokes, because that's something I've seen cool guys do in movies. It starts to rain. I feign disappointment for the benefit of the pool workers who probably despise me.

The hotel is massive, and holds an extensive collection of facilities, but I'm unable to find anything else a scumbag like me can do on the cheap in the couple hours I have till checkout.

Although for future scumbag guests, I did spy this little number out the window.

I'm going to have to spend money at some point. Seeing as I'm getting hungry, and I've been known to enjoy a drink or two, I visit Arthur's, a pub inside the hotel owned by a famous mixologist, whose name escapes me.

His mixologist story seems to check out, though.

I order an Old Fashioned and discuss with the Malaysian bartender the best techniques in making one.

A conversation which, for some reason, my proofreading friends insist be cut for "length" and "unfathomable boredom" reasons. I bet Thomas Pynchon doesn't have to put up with this shit.

My drinks are delicious, although some nachos I order need more cheese. IN YOUR FACE, 5-STAR LUXURY. YOUR NACHOS NEED MORE CHEESE. We were right to enjoy Taco Bell all along, guys. After I finish eating, I'm asked if I want a newspaper. Or a taxi ride, or more peanuts, or a hand towel. Alright, 5-star luxury. You're not bad. The guy who brings my bill asks where I'm from, and while he's never heard of Seattle, he has heard of Nirvana, and hums me the riff from "Come As You Are". He further says it makes sense that I'm from Seattle, because of my hair and the fact that I'm writing in a journal. Pretty sure I've never gotten that from a Buzzfeed quiz before.

When I'm ready to leave, the hotel immediately brings me my bags and charters a taxi to my next destination. My next destination is KL Bedz, the cheapest hotel I could find that claimed to have wifi. I never even got a chance to use my room's bidet...

I'm not ashamed. I love bidets. I'll use a bidet all over this place.

KL Bedz is a comfy communal-style hostel with super-helpful managers, where backpackers are encouraged to hang out around the place. I check into my dorm bed and try to use the wifi, but my netbook is behaving worse and worse. Eventually frustration wins out and I give up, so I leave to go explore the city and experience another culture or whatever.

A culture rife with snatch thieves.

Of all the major Southeast Asian cities I've been to, Kuala Lumpur is perhaps the nicest and most metropolitan, which isn't too surprising given its status as the travel hub for the area. It's clean and modern, though at the expense of some of the character other, grittier cities like Bangkok and Ho Chi Minh City have in spades.

When your city has a shop that specializes in custom milkshakes, fuck character.

While KL (which I am assured is what the coolest kids call the city) is very urban and upscale, you can still find tropical trees growing between the concrete buildings and skyscrapers, so the whole town looks very lush and green. It's a very comfortable place to walk around at night. I get some curry at Jalan Alor, a street packed with food stalls of every conceivable culture and dish. Here, the city still has a little adorable grime (although apparently this used to be the city's red light district, so in reality it's relatively gentrified).

I can't finish my curry because of a bad chocolate doughnut I ate earlier (we've all been there, right?), but the stall lady insists on boxing it up for me, after which it stinks up the dorm room in KL Bedz. Wherever I go, always making friends. The stink does not put off one Swiss roommate, however, who insists on making conversation (re: talking exhaustively about her boyfriend who must be a winner because he's traveling on a completely separate trip) even though I am turned away from her and trying to merge body and soul with my pillow. She says the best paying places for work in the world are Sweden, Switzerland, and Norway. I tell her I do not live in those places, and likely never will. She continues to talk. At some indeterminable point, I fall asleep. I do not know if she stopped talking.

Since I only have one full day in KL before catching another plane, I hit the tourist trail hard. For breakfast, I find a place advertising free coffee with their cake. Afterwards, I see the Kuala Lumpur Tower. The cake is delicious. The tower is okay.

Pictured: An okay tower.

Apparently, KL Tower is the only tower in the world surrounded by jungle, and thus also the only tower in the world to need this sign.

I go up to the observation deck, and learn from a multimedia PDA guide that KL Tower is the 7th tallest telecom tower in the world. I bet if I told you before you read this blog post that you were going to find out which tower in the world was 7th tallest, you never would have believed me. Actually, the PDA told me it was the 4th tallest, because it was three years ago and we are all made fools by the inexorable march of time.

Fuck you, Time.

The view is pretty nice. Not like the nicest ever, but like 7th nicest:

This is not the world's biggest flag. That's in Romania. Man, we're learning a lot today, aren't we.

And there's that fancy hotel I stayed in! Wow, am I a "posh" now?

There's a little theme park area called the Cultural Zone, but it is awful. All the employees are gone, and the area is just sterile fiberglass recreations of old Malaysian houses with some notes on their history. There are also some traditional dancers doing hourly performances, but theme park dancers for some reason always remind me of the film They Shoot Horses, Don't They.

And if you didn't get that reference, go ahead and check it out. A great movie for your next date night!

This Predator statue is pretty cool, though. "Metal Robot" my ass, I know a found-object Predator when I see one.

The tower's also got a zoo, which is way cooler and a good time. After paying 5 RM, the zookeeper puts a big-ass ball python around my shoulders.

It is the raddest.

For a small zoo exhibit that has to play second-fiddle to the questionable tourist draw of the 7th whateverest whatever, they actually have a good selection of weird or rare animals. Some lizards, birds, tarantulas, an albino turtle, and hey! a 2-headed turtle:

...This monkey, which zoological scholars have dubbed "one of the rare species in the world":

...Sugar Gliders:

...Hairless Somethingsomethings:

...A whole display of tarantulas:

And...a raccoon:

What's harder to see from the photos is how small the cages are, which is why some animal rights activists hate this zoo and want it shut down. I figured I would lead with the pictures before dropping that tidbit, 'cause it's kind of a bummer.

After the KL Tower, I walk to the Petronas Towers, picking up a margarita at Beach along the way. I will come to learn that Beach is KL's most infamous meat market, and a favorite among ladies of the night. They advertise having "the bestest margarita in town" (the bar advertises this, not the prostitutes). If that is true, the margarita standard in Kuala Lumpur is very low.

They do have a big tank with a shark in it, though. Bring the kids!

By the time I get to the Petronas Towers it's too late to use the sky bridge, but I've seen all I need to of it in Entrapment anyways.

My tourist quota filled, I find a bar called Palate Palette, which is kind of a chill, artsy hang-out, but mostly notable for the crazy number of locks on their bathroom door:

I'm starving, but by the time I'm ready to eat it's 11, and funnily enough the kitchen closes at 10:45. Back to Jalan Alor, for some humbow, barbecued pork skewers, and grilled corn. It is all great.

Grilled corn especially is a relief after time in East Asia, where they think the proper way to cook corn is to boil it until the once-noble cob becomes a pathetic stick of flavorless rubber pellets.

Before heading back to KL Bedz, I grab a beer from 7-11. Their selection is weirdly expensive, until I realize they're all 8-9% alcohol. I choose one that is 9% and also the cheapest. It is awful but strong, like a racist gorilla. I check my email, and there's an email from Sarah, asking if I'm still coming to South Korea.

This is probably as good a time as any to mention that my next destination is South Korea. A friend from my days working there is having a birthday and, as John Francis Donaghy first said, I need a vacation from this vacation.  However, because I'm a wee bit of a prankster, I think it'll be funny if I tell Sarah that I'm not coming, and surprise her! It'll be hilarious.

There's another morning of very narrowly making my flight because of circumstances almost entirely out of my control, but everything's gravy once I find a restaurant called Chocolate where I'm able to order a gourmet chocolate shake and these waffles:

Dat waffle.

After eating and drinking liquid chocolate for breakfast, I feel fucking terrible. It takes forever to get through security and passport control, especially after some parent actually tries to get a giant toy BB gun onto the plane, and I only get to my gate just as they're boarding. My netbook is now completely fucked, as in Windows won't even load anymore, as in no entertainment for Jamie's 6-hour flight. Sure, there's still starving kids in Africa, but I bet they also don't like contorting themselves into the least-painful position to almost-sleep-but-not-quite for half a day. You know, like rickets.

The plane lands around 9:30 pm, and it takes almost 40 minutes to get my luggage. Normally I'm able to get my checked backpack almost instantly, probably because I'm always late to the airport and my bag is on top or something. However, as the minutes pass I can tell the baggage handlers here are doing all the small, lighter suitcases first, leaving all the heavier suitcases and backpacks for last. Normally I'd keep an objective view about this, because being a baggage handler isn't my first choice of career, but my ride on the KTX (the Korean bullet train) is leaving at 11:00, and it takes about an hour to get to the Seoul train station from the airport. Most infuriatingly, the train from the airport has a display above the doors that shows how far you are from your destination through a line of LED lights that turn red the closer the train gets to its destination. I get to watch in slow, increasing horror as the lights are simply not turning red fast enough.

The worst part is when you look at your watch, and think about the time that's elapsed, and you're trying your hardest not to do the math, but your brain decides this is going to be the one time it's capable of realizing its fucking potential.

So, I pull into Seoul station at 11:30. But! There is one last KTX train leaving, and I get on this one just in time, no ticket or anything. I've learned from my time being a scumbag in Korea that you can board a train with no ticket, and the porter will simply issue you one when they find you out. Or, as in a couple of scumbag cases, they do not find you out.

With my netbook out of commission, I flip through magazines until I come across a timetable that says this train doesn't go all the way, and I'll have to transfer at Daejeon to get to Daegu, where I once resided and Sarah still lives. I'm in luck: there's one last mugunghwa (the cheapest class of train) to Daegu. I should be there by 2 am which, since Sarah works evenings, should be perfect.

Except that I'm tired, and you know what tired people do? They fucking fall asleep on the last fucking train to Daegu. I end up at the end of the line, in Busan on the East coast. My only option now is to wait for the 5 am KTX inside a PC bang (sort of an all-in-one internet/LAN gaming cafe). I finally make it into Daegu around 6 am, and hesitantly knock on Sarah's door.

As it turns out, after she had gotten excited over me visiting only to be told I wasn't coming, her friends had thrown a Jamie-bashing party that night where they all commiserated with her over my duplicitous plan-making nature, and generally discussed what a fucking cunt I am. So what am I saying is, the surprise was extremely successful. One more feather in my prank-fedora.

I stayed in Korea three weeks, and since the visit was mostly a relaxed affair about seeing friends, let's fast-forward a bit: I went to my pal Austin's birthday in a town called Gyeongju, where we did one of those adventure packages where you get to ride ATVs and play paintball, but not at the same time because...holy shit why is that not an option somewhere? I'm...kind of upset now. Austin's thing was fun. Whatever.

Fun can be such a fluid term.

I also finally went to the DMZ, through a tour organized by the USO, who apparently do stuff besides get used as a plot device in WW2 films. Actually, I had previously tried to take the tour twice when I lived in Korea. The first time I forgot my passport which it turns out is a necessary item, and the second time there was a North Korean artillery attack (I just found out it was called "the bombardment of Yeongpyeong"), and for some reason they called off the tour as the most militarized border on the planet went into high alert. At least they gave me a refund that time.

This time, no surprise artillery attack! Probably something I should always be grateful for, all the time. The drive up to the border takes a couple hours from Seoul, and we were all previously instructed to dress nicely, with no messages or imagery on your clothing that could be construed as provocative. We are further told to never make eye contact with the guards on the North Korean side, and always conduct ourselves respectfully. I heard that on the North Korean side, they let you do whatever the fuck you want. Flip off the South Korean guards? Go for it! When we reached the JSA, or Joint Security Area, I was kind of hoping I'd see on the other side at least one bored tourist, maybe some desperate Vice journalist, drop trou and show the Forces of Freedom their pale, white ass.

They didn't. There's no butt in this picture. I already checked.

There was however this North Korean guard who checked us out for awhile, and then went inside. After that, I couldn't see any more guards on their side. YOU HAD AN OPENING, SOUTH KOREA, AND YOU BLEW IT!

Our Marine officer tour guide tells me he likes my hair, and he used to have his styled in a similar way. I doubt this very much, because I just had Sarah re-bleach my hair and dye it white, but it's too long now for the style to really work, so now I look like an alien porn star from the future:

It's an acquired taste.

At the JSA, there's a building where North and South Korean officials can have talks, and since this building is situated in the center of the border, half of the room is technically in North Korea.

You can see out this window the concrete divider between the two sides. Left is North, right is South.

So if you're ever out and you meet some guy at a party who's so cool and says he's been to North Korea, like we all do when we're trying to impress people, fact-check that shit. Stop letting people like that get laid from only being to North Korea on a technicality.

Here's a South Korean guard that looks like an action figure. GO JOE

From the JSA, we can just about see Kijong-dong, North Korea's Peace Village, otherwise known as Propaganda Village. After the 1953 armistice, both South and North Korea each have maintained their own village in the DMZ. On the South Korean side there's Daesong-dong, where our guide tells us civilians living there are given government stipends of something like 100,000 USD, but have curfews and can pretty much never move out, not to mention the constant knowledge that if any shit starts they're gonna be the first to...get bummed out. On the North Korean side, in lovely scenic Propaganda Village, it's pretty well-known that no one lives there and all the buildings are fake and rigged with timers to turn the lights on and off at set intervals, because the DPRK is the kid who "totally has a girlfriend who's a model and they have awesome sex all the time in all the positions, but you wouldn't know her 'cause she's from Canada" of world nations. Actually, the fake buildings house giant sound systems that used to blast pro-DPRK, anti-Western propaganda over the border, until 2004 when both countries finally agreed to stop broadcasting at each other.

Fun fact, after South Korea put up a 323-foot-tall flagpole in their village in the 80s, North Korea responded by building a 525-foot-tall flag tower in their village (now the third tallest in the world). It was called the "flagpole war," because sometimes countries are children. The North Korean flag is so big it weighs 595 lb and has to be taken down when it rains so it doesn't just rip under its own weight.

Next, we were taken to the site of the Axe Murder Incident, which is about as serious business as incidents can possibly sound.

The Axe Murder Incident occurred in 1976, when there was this tree that was blocking line of sight between a UN Command checkpoint and an observation post. US and South Korean forces were all "Hey guys we're gonna trim the branches of this tree," and North Korea was all "Okay that's cool guys" and then when they actually went out to cut the tree, a bunch of North Korean soldiers showed up and were all "OMG what are you doing that's Kim Il Sung's personal tree that he planted and watered and whose photosynthesis he personally supervised." Cpt. Bonifas, the dude in charge, was like "Fuck those dudes and fuck this tree, keep trimming," which the North Korean dude, Lt. Pak, did not like one bit. He sent for more dudes, and then was like "Seriously don't cut that tree," but Bonifas was still like "Man fuck these branches, they gotta go" and turned his back. So, Pak shouted "Kill the bastards!" (really) and, using axes dropped by the tree trimmers, killed two soldiers and wounded another nine. The outnumbered Americans and South Koreans were also unarmed, since rules at the time strictly limited weapons for JSA personnel.

Kim Jong-il went to the UN like "They totally attacked us! Also the Americans should leave South Korea and stop helping and the UN Command should get out of the DMZ, so that everyone stops picking on us." America was like "Screw you bro" and ordered Operation Paul Bunyan, and instead of simply trimming the tree, they were gonna cut that mother down. They sent in unannounced 23 vehicles of military engineers to cut that leafy bitch down with chainsaws, along with 60 other armed dudes for security. And another company of dudes, with machine guns and rafts for escape, and a 64-dude South Korean special forces team of Tae Kwon Do experts, with sandbags, machine guns, grenade launchers, and Claymore mines strapped to their chests. And a handful of attack choppers, and B-52 bombers, and F-4 and F-5 jet fighters. Oh, and an aircraft carrier just offshore. Did I mention the bombers were nuclear-capable? One way or another, that tree was going down.

The North Koreans showed up too, with like 200 dudes with machine guns, but they just watched the whole time, 'cause what the fuck are they gonna do. The tree was successfully cut down, with the stump deliberately left standing.

Now replaced with this monument.

Kim Il-sung afterwards was like "It sucks that thing that totally wasn't our fault happened, hopefully in the future you don't start shit, won't be shit" which everyone kind of just accepted because it's North Korea and the first time since the armistice that the DPRK had actually accepted any sort of responsibility for violence in the DMZ, so...progress.

And there you go. History.

As we're taking pictures of the site, we can just make out some sort of noise coming from the border. It sounds like the very faint, static-y voice of a woman speaking Korean. Our guide says he's never heard it before, but we all know a North Korean propaganda Communist opera when we hear it. Someone had their fingers crossed behind their back in 2004!

Nearby is the Bridge of No Return, where the two sides used to hold prisoner exchanges, and so-named because if a prisoner chose to go home, they could never return, and supposedly many of the prisoners held by the US didn't want to go back. After the Axe Murder Incident, the bridge was never used again, and concrete bollards were put in place to prevent vehicle access. Our guide tells us about how in 1993, Bill Clinton walked to the middle of the bridge for a photo op, which prompted a bunch of North Koreans with Kalashnikovs to come out and take aim, which the Secret Service probably did not like very much.

The bridge was briefly used again later to trade a British spy and a North Korean terrorist, as seen in the 2002 documentary Die Another Day.

From there, we're taken back to safer ground at the DMZ Theater & Exhibition Hall.

Here's the gift shop.

The theater shows reels about the Korean War and history of the DMZ, while in the exhibition hall they have an assortment of displays and artifacts.

Like the tree stump from the Axe Murder Incident.

And...the actual Axe Murder Incident.

Once we've taken in all the history our Western capitalist overlords have to offer, the tour heads to the Third Tunnel of Aggression. It is named such because it is the third of four tunnels they discovered North Korea making under the DMZ so they could make a surprise attack on the South, although people suspect there could be more than a dozen more. North Korea tried to pretend the tunnel was for coal mining, and you can still see where they painted the walls black, which I bet totally fooled everybody. They don't allow pictures, but I can assure you the tunnel was sufficiently cold, damp, and generally tunnel-like. It's got a gift shop as well.

The tunnels are also a part of the tour that South Koreans can actually visit, as they're not allowed to actually see the JSA for security reasons. All around us were hundreds of tourists: Korean families and school groups here on field trip.

The DMZ: Fun for the whole family!

After the tunnel, we're whisked to Dora observatory, where you're given an extensive view of the border and a bit of North Korea, aided by pay-telescopes.

Apparently the DMZ is so heavily guarded, that it's become an involuntary nature reserve, protecting a bunch of endangered animals like the Amur leopard and the Korean tiger. So it's got that going for it, which is nice. South Korea even tried to nominate it a UNESCO Biosphere Reserve, but North Korea opposed it, because they're a real-life Cobra Command.

Last sight on the tour is Dorasan station, a railway station that used to connect North and South Korea, and has been restored and now sort of acts as a symbol of hope for reunification. Although, it was opened for about a year in 2007 and used to ship materials to the Kaesong Industrial Region, where North and South Korea work together, granting South Korea access to cheap, Korean-speaking labor, and giving North Korea actual money that doesn't come from meth or massive-scale insurance fraud (those crazy kids!). In 2008, though, North Korea closed the border crossing, because of reasons. It's getting old now coming up with different ways to write that they're fucking crazy.

Pictured: Hope?

Here's a map of the big Eurasian rail lines, tantalizingly showing how if the Koreas were to be reunited, South Korea could be joined with the Transsiberian and given rail access all the way to the Western coast of Europe. So, look for that in the future.

At our final DMZ gift shop, I pick up some North Korean beer and wine. The beer is okay, the wine is awful. Definitely not worth financially supporting a totalitarian dictatorship. More like dick-tatorship, eh? Eh?! Between this and Burma, my trip has funded a worrying number of police states. Moving on.

Let's get back to fast-forwarding. I watch Biodome for the first time. I see a Korean drag show at a gay club that I didn't know existed in my 13 months of living in the country, so that was a delightful surprise. Koreans treated it like a strip club, making it rain 10,000 won bills on the performers. It was pretty fun. I format my netbook and try to reinstall Windows, which doesn't work. Sarah and I go to the Itaewon district in Seoul, and see a Korean theater performance of Hedwig and the Angry Inch, which apparently is a musical that Koreans go nuts for.

I'm not saying Korea isn't a fairly progressive country, but still...Huh.

I'd like to point out the earlier photo from Dora Observatory, I wasn't supposed to take that, but what the hell. No one noticed. At Hedwig we aren't supposed to photograph or record anything, but I couldn't help it, and had to get a snippet of the experience. Staff were on me instantly.

The next morning, hungover in the way you can only get in the hardest-drinking country in the world, Sarah and I eat our weight in Taco Bell before she has to go back to Daegu. God above how I've missed you, lettuce-smothered filth-pockets that only tangentially qualify as food. It was great seeing Sarah as well, her giving me a place to touch down and having my loneliness alleviated if but for a few weeks, but the Bell always has and always will come first.

As is customary in Korea, I stayed in a love motel while in Seoul. This one had the most impressive selection of room conveniences for sale I've ever seen in a glorified fuck hole.

I need new reading material, and Sarah leaves me with one of her favorite books, Bukowski's Women, because maybe she thought I needed more inspiration to drink. Bukowski certainly does the job handily, although after living it up in a first-world country for almost a month, my budget is casting very inhospitable glances at my "hobby".

Resuming the grand adventure, next on the list is Brunei, once again by way of Kuala Lumpur. And once again, I get to my gate 10 minutes before boarding. The plane ride is a melancholy one. I miss Sarah, I miss Korea, and my head just isn't back in the game. I bet Bukowski's got some advice for me in this here book that'll help.

This time, there's no 5-star shenanigans. I need somewhere conveniently located by the train, so I can be responsible and not get to the gate with minutes to spare once again. POD Backpacker Hostel is just the ticket:

Austere.

I sort of get what they were going for, but what they've ended up with is a forbidding, dead tree and a murder of crows watching you sleep.

After a nap, I ask what there is to see that I haven't already, that is feasible before my 6 am flight. The very accommodating staff give me info and directions to Batu Caves, which is in an actual jungle at the end of the train line.

And I almost end up accidentally using the wrong train section, where they talk about periods all the time and gross everyone out. Probably to distract themselves from the inescapable sexism suffocating them like a heavy wet blanket.

Whaddaya know, there's a Korean couple in my car! In stark defiance of the prevailing train segregation paradigm. Badasses. We strike up conversation, and I find out that the fella is a Christian preacher with a daughter in Juilliard. I never got any info about his wife. When we get to Batu Caves, he buys me a coconut, takes a bunch of photos of me, and leaves me with his email address and phone number, which I'm not entirely sure what to do with. I thought this was just a casual train conversation fling-type situation, but apparently he's expecting more. I am not your whore, sir.

Thanks for the coconut, though.

Batu Caves itself is a scenic limestone cave formation that also houses multiple popular Hindu shrines.

Which means it's got some of these awesome statues around. Hinduism definitely has some of the best gods, hands down.

Just look at all these characters! Polytheism is for sure the way to go.

By the way, this is the world's tallest statue of Hindu deity Lord Murugan, and the second tallest Hindu deity statue period. I know what you're thinking: First the 7th tallest telecom tower in the world, now the biggest Murugan?! Its like this itinerary was ripped straight from your dreams.

The cave inside is pretty good too.

There's a lot of hullabaloo around one of the shrines in the cave, and one onlooker tells me someone is shooting a movie that's an Indian/Indonesian collaboration. There's a famous actor present as well, drawing a decent crowd of looky-loos.

He was the guy in the one with the thing, I'm led to understand.

As I'm taking the scene in, another Korean guy comes up to me and says that he saw me sleeping at the airport waiting for my last Air Asia flight! That's what being a world citizen is all about. People caring about other people. Take it from me: Next time you run into a stranger, brighten their day a little by mentioning that time you watched them sleep. It'll put a little pep in their step. Pay it forward, guys.

In addition to the Hindu shrines, you can also see the Dark Cave, where the trapdoor spider, the rarest spider in the world, resides. I've still got some time to kill, so I go on the tour. We're given low-intensity flashlights and walked around a very dark cave where we can't really see anything, much less some tiny spider.

Although this sign informs me I was missing quite a bit.

They can't all be winners.

On the way back to KL Sentral I accidentally take the Ladies Only car, and absolutely nothing happens. The staff at the hostel also recommended seeing Chinatown and the old Central Market, so I make a stop nearby the market. Maybe once it was quite the sight, but now it's just a gussied-up mall, with the different stores made to look like street stalls, separated by country. If there's one thing I can say about the Central Market, it's that I never thought something could make me appreciate an actual street market.

Central Market: Eminently skippable.

Chinatown, on the other hand, is exactly one of those actual street markets that I just so briefly missed. It is crowded and pushy and hot and loud and awful, like all good street markets.

Who doesn't love a bunch of people yelling at you simultaneously to buy shit you don't want?

Back at POD the staff give me some further advice for Brunei, which I take with a grain of salt this time, then I have just enough time for the bus to the airport. For the first time in I don't know how long, I arrive early and unhurried. It's boring and I hate it.