Maladroit Joint/BORACAY - SINGAPORE - PHNOM PENH

I manage to rouse myself out of bed by 11:30 and what do you know, it's yet another beautiful day of perfect Boracay weather. Do people in nice climates just never have long dark nights of the soul? It's ridiculous, I can't get any proper introspection done in these conditions.

Yet you were too good for a clear sunrise the ONE time I'm ever gonna be awake for one, is that it? I've got your number, pal.

I wander around the D*Mall looking for breakfast and succor from the powerful, loving god of commercialism.

If you're ever in Boracay, consider checking out a place I didn't have time for: The Hobbit House, a restaurant run solely by little people. They probably chose the name themselves, and it's probably okay to feel good about going there. Still, I couldn't take the pressure.

As a treat, I find the fanciest-looking breakfast I can, which for my money is the mango French toast at the Lemon Cafe. I follow up with a raspberry mango smoothie, because mangoes here are incredible. Filipino food may be blander than the soft rock DJ at a church fundraiser, but on this island I've been enjoying the best mangoes of my life, which until now I always thought of as kind of a garbage fruit.

You win this round, national exports.

Because the D*Mall is so ridiculously upscale, it even has the D*Wall, a climbing pinnacle with three routes and belayers standing by. I have a little time before my flight, so I let them strap me into the hard route. After all, I just climbed in Railay that one time therefore I'm probably back in top form.

That's how muscles work.

Thus I climb, and for some reason I am unable to manage the last couple of grips to get to the top. The equipment must have broken, and I think my hands were sweaty so it wasn't really fair. The belayer guy definitely did not have to keep asking if I was gonna make it or not, exercising his sole window for passive-aggression in a job he must hate.

And that's that for the Philippines. It's been...okay to good, all averaged out. I check out of Bella Casa, get a trike to the airport, fly to Manila, wander around the terminal, and realize it's the wrong one. The shuttle for terminal transfer is out of gas, so I have to take a cab that never turns on the meter and likely overcharges me. Dang. After a caramel frappuccino and some unfortunate beef teriyaki, I'm finally in the air cruising to the Singapore airport, which is itself my next  destination. I'll explain.

Singapore's Changi airport has been repeatedly voted the best airport in the world for years, and boasts a number of gimmicky attractions to occupy a waiting commuter. Free movie cinemas, massage chairs, a rooftop swimming pool, even a flippin' butterfly garden. Since I hardly saw the airport when I was last in Singapore, I arranged for a long layover here before moving on to Cambodia, and the likely end of my trip. Basically, I like gimmicks, and this probably didn't actually need so much explaining. Lemme at those butterflies!

The thing is, I forgot that I was flying a budget airline. All that time in Boracay hobnobbin' with affluent Aussies and eating hella bourgeois French toast, I must've straight forgot I was brown water trash. Unfortunately, and I probably could've seen this coming, all the attractions of Singapore's airport are past the security checkpoint and thus require a boarding pass. A boarding pass that will be a long time coming since budget airlines only open a couple hours before the flight. And I arranged for a solid 10 hour layover to reeeally put those gimmicks through their paces.

So. After trying to sleep across three chairs in that way that always works and is super comfortable in an airport and definitely isn't just going to result in nonstop fidgeting and back ache, I get some kaya toast and coffee and look around for some damn thing to enjoy in this pre-security fucker. What I find is a gallery showcasing dioramas of the Singapore airport throughout the years. By which I mean that I find nothing. Because no one could possibly find this interesting, and that includes the people who made the gallery.

It's so shit, the carpet can't even decide on a single shade of shit to be.

After a simply cruel number of hours have passed, I finally receive my boarding pass and rush around the airport with about an hour left to see...well, in the end a koi pond, some cacti, and a room of hotly anticipated Lepidoptera.

Relaxing. Time's up, gotta go!

I actually rushed around the airport to see this. Why is this an attraction? Why do I care?

I'll hand it to the folks at Changi, the butterfly garden's an impressive setup.

Is it a setup worth a 10 hour layover? Of course not, I'm just a goddamn maniac. Still, with expectations low I bet you can have some good times great oldies.

I bet if I told you the Singapore airport had a shitload of butterfly cocoons...you wouldn't have strong feelings on the matter.

In fact, even cooler than the butterflies is a carnivorous plant exhibit, which is very special if you ever grew up with a friend whose mom bought him a Venus Fly Trap when you were kids, and you were so wracked with jealousy you totally screen-looked every time you both played GoldenEye even though when he accused you of it you said you totally didn't.

YMMV

After flying to Phnom Penh, I share a tuk-tuk from the airport with this New Zealander filming everything. According to him, photos are so last century, and when he's done traveling he'll compile all his footage into a music video of his trip. He's headed all the way to Siem Reap, and asks if I'd like to join. Though secretly jealous of his forward-thinking traveloguing, I gotta pass. I don't have too much time left, and still too much to see here first. I get off the tuk-tuk at the Lazy Gecko guesthouse, which isn't a bad set of digs.

Fan room, because I'm hardcore.

For one, they've hung a bunch of what I must assume to be paintings of beloved transvestite Divine everywhere, which is a fun, kooky touch.

Taking a minute to enjoy the balcony, I meet Frenchmen Alex and Sebastien. They're busy smoking whatever the cool French word for reefer is, and don't bat an eye when I mosey up alongside them. I let them know that I'm on the level by telling them how much I too enjoy the reefer, making sure to pronounce it "ree-FAIHR" in a very authentic French accent. They can tell I'm obvs not a narc, and I clearly know my shit. Alex offers to sell me a bag for $10, which seems to me to be decent bud (I'm fairly certain this is a real term), but then I'm the guy that bought the fifty dollar bag of tobacco back in 'Nam. I'm gonna with my gut.

Unfortunately, I'm actually broke at the moment, so the frogs are left hanging, but they promise to still be around later. It's as good a time as any to go exploring, so I buzz by the Friendship Monument and the Royal Palace, the latter at which I make the acquaintance of an Italian girl named Angela, herself just back from Siem Reap.

If I had met her at the Friendship Monument, this caption would've been...just whoa. Can't even imagine. Too many laughs.

Instead we meet here. Definitely among the sharpest palaces in all the world.

She's chill and I manage to pretend to be a normal human being long enough that we get along great. Together we check out the Royal Museum, which is...another museum. I can't keep up. Believe me, I looked at every single display case, read every placard I could, really tried to take an interest. None of it stuck. Probably my own failing.

Perhaps telling that the only picture I snapped was of the garden, and it took me about ten minutes to check that this actually was the museum.

We head riverside to eat at the internet-recommended Green Vespa, which is shockingly expensive for Cambodia. In fact, as a whole Cambodia is a lot more expensive than I expected, which still doesn't make it an actually expensive country, but noticeably pricier than similar places like Thailand and Vietnam. It's something to do with their own currency being reliant on the American dollar, which you will use far more than their own Cambodian notes. It's highly reminiscent of the situation in Myanmar. Really, everything in Cambodia is reminiscent of other, surrounding countries. Except for the Khmer script on the storefronts, you'd be hard-pressed to tell a photo of a random street in Phnom Penh from any other large Southeast Asian city.

The temples have more pointy bits, maybe.

I've been on the road too long. The map's all smudging together in my dumb bleached head. Fuck knows how those year-long French backpackers do it.

At Green Vespa I enjoy some pasta carbonara of which she is extremely skeptical. She goes on to add that she'll never eat Italian food abroad, because she's Italian and and has her Italian standards. Which makes a lot of sense to me, Italians not eating Italian food abroad, because the Italians have no clue what pizza actually is. Like most things, Americans had to take the original Italian idea of pizza (that is to say, circular toast smothered in olive oil with just a pinch of mozzarella) and unleash the potential hidden within. Have I been to Italy? No. Do I feel confident in judging their local cuisine regardless? Remarkably so.

Anyways, she orders something boring like a chicken sandwich, and then agrees to hit up a film night at local indie theater The Flicks. The movie makes absolutely no impression on me, and even less on her. We agree that it was a movie, and now it's time to call it a night. Despite our obvious chemistry we part ways firmly and chastely, but with plans to meet the next morning to see the S-21 Genocide Museum and the Killing Fields. Some very choice romantic spots, to be sure.

This picture here in case after I mentioned S-21 or the Killing Fields, your brain proceeded to then have any thoughts whatsoever about those subjects.

As promised, Sebastien is on the balcony in the morning, and sells me a bag for $10 he bought himself from Alex. "No profit," he assures. Is there always, everywhere in Southeast Asia a French dealer who's got what you need? Gosh, it is just super okay to say whatever you want about the French. Just a few paragraphs back I called them frogs! That's probably not going to be okay in like thirty years. But who gives a shit, it's the French.

Unfortunately, Sebastien doesn't have anything pre-rolled. Being a true red-blooded American, I'm used to enjoying the invention of this thing we call "pipes", and have no clue how to roll a blunt/spliff/doobie/that cross-joint thing in Pineapple Express. When I sheepishly ask if there's any possibility Sebastien could roll me something, he misunderstands and happily points out that the corner shop sells all the rolling papers I could ever need. Fuck.

But hold on. Angela is Italian, and Italy is in Europe, ergo she should carry the joint-rolling genetic trait. It still means I probably won't be able to see S-21 stoned as a friend suggested, but then that sounded like a SU-per bad idea in the first place. Gonna have to give the baked bummers a big ol' pass and just see the Genocide Museum sober and respectful.

Angela's awaiting at our designated meeting spot, The Lazy Gecko, calmly and respectfully psyched for the day. We tell a tuk-tuk driver we want the full package, S-21 and the Killing Fields, but no rifle range. They always try to slip in a visit to shoot off an AK along with the genocide tour, and don't seem to understand why a person might not be in the mood to fire an automatic assault rifle after seeing the atrocities of man laid bare. We're just weird like that, sorry tuk-tuk bro.

One of the first things you'll see entering the grounds of S-21, or rather the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum, is a sign prohibiting visitors from smiling or laughing. Not a big ask, believe me.

Preaching to the bummed-outest choir, guys. Is this rule something they actually have to enforce? Is the world that bad a place? Oh wait, look where I'm standing.

So in case you didn't know, S-21 is a former high school that the Khmer Rouge turned into...you know what? I'm gonna go ahead and drop the "serious travelogue of Southeast Asia" ruse. Just a little while ago I was talking about ornate French Toast and being awkward around girls, so I've got a hunch that if you've stuck with me this far, you're not super interested in the tonal whiplash that a detailed description of one of the Khmer Rouge's main execution centers would inflict. I will say this, that one of the survivors was there, telling his story and selling his memoirs. I gave him money, but did not take his book. It was too real. I feel bad now about not wanting to feel that bad, but that's being a tourist for you.

This is the most innocuous photo I have. It's a former school!

One more thing, the famous skull map of Cambodia was dismantled awhile ago out of respect for the dead, and in its place is this photograph. You know, if you were on some sort of bone sculpture tour and after the Sedlec Ossuary you came here expecting the actual map.

We move on with whatever the opposite of pep would be in our step to the Choeung Ek Killing Fields, which has multiple signs asking visitors not use any alcohol or drugs. I'm again glad my pathetic drug preparation skills have allowed me to appreciate the place with a clear mind. Actually, my teeth hurt and my stomach is on the verge of ruination from some nefarious earlier meal, but that's kind of the perfect mood for a tour of the Killing Fields. No one talks at any point during our entire tour. Even the guide seems to be as terse as possible. Can't imagine it's a job you spring out of bed for.

This is the most innocuous photo I have. It's a former orchard!

...A former orchard that sometimes heaves up articles of clothing when it rains.

I keep trying to think of how I can describe the experience, and want to mention the story of the- no, too dark. Perhaps I'll talk about the- no, definitely should stay away from that.

Nope nope nope

Suffice to say, like S-21 the Killing Fields are not something I want (or even possess the ability) to talk about and not something I imagine you want to read about, not in this format. You will feel sick and you will feel hopeless for the rest of the day, and that comes as my recommendation.

Exit through the gift shop.

Angela and I are nothing if not thorough sightseers however, so we struggle on for a jaunt around Wat Phnom, a presumably important temple located smack-dab in the center of the city. From Wikipedia I gather that it is the tallest religious structure in city as well, being built on a little hill that has a few steps to climb, but nothing close to the hikes I was making in Burma.

What is this, a temple for babies?

It's got a lot of stupas and pointy bits and some very nicely manicured grounds to walk around and looks a lot like a lot of other Buddhist temples I've walked around that that had a lot of stupas and statues and very nicely manicured grounds. I am so templed out, and I still have Angkor Wat ahead of me. Verdict: if you've already seen the majority of important Buddhist temples throughout Southeast Asia and just came back from walking the sites of some of one of history's worst genocides and just really aren't into the mood, you can probably give Wat Phnom a pass.

NEXT

We grab lunch nearby. Angela is on her way to Laos, and needs to get her passport back from the Laotian embassy. Of course the second we finish eating, the skies close up and drop down a flash tropical storm. Despite the torrential rain, Angela still takes the time to really put the mustard on haggling with the tuk-tuk drivers outside, their numbers dwindling as they drive away with other, drier passengers. Eventually, her winning style of bargaining (half-pointing, half-glaring, all-yelling) crushes the spirit of one driver enough that he agrees to take us for however many tens of cents less she demanded.

Through the downpour we can see some sort of protest going on in front of the French embassy, with whom I assume must be locals kneeling in front of the gate.

They thought to bring ponchos, so probably not a super spontaneous thing.

Whatever's going on over there seems way more interesting than any Wat, but we're in a tuk-tuk, and it's really wet outside, and what am I going to do: shout "Later, idiot!" at Angela and jump out so I can try to ingratiate myself with some very miserable people so later I can write a Vice article about how one time I crashed a minor Cambodian protest?

Actually...shoulda woulda.

Post-embassy we grab drinks at Mao's, an entirely Mao-themed upscale bar that for some reason exists in a country with a...strained relationship to communism. The kitsch inside is pure dead magic.

I order the cocktail of the house, named with some sort of Mao pun, and it was disgusting as all cocktails of the house are everywhere always.

Everything in the bar is red and covered with some sort of Mao portrait, and I wouldn't have ever believed you could buy this many commercial products adorned with the image of such a staunch enemy of capitalism had I not seen it for myself in Shanghai, so many moons ago.

Nice bar. Confusing bar.

After a tasteless dinner of unremarkable Cambodian fare, again very reminiscent of Myanmar, I bring up the subject of smoking illegal drugs, which is always a delicate situation with new companions that I almost certainly botch and make weird every time. Fortunately, Angela's a fan of the pot, and suggests we go to a shisha bar where we can smoke it semi-incognito. This is a great plan that fills us both with a lot of confidence as we get to a shisha bar, find a tucked-away corner booth, and I reveal my contraband. Then she asks me to roll.

There's no point in prevaricating, so I tell her the truth. I can't roll joints because god dammit, I'm an American and we have civilized fucking glassware that make it so you never have to worry about goddamn "skins" or all this prep work that I am sure only exists as a way for some stoners to put themselves above other stoners, regardless of how often they say words like "One Love" and "irie".

"I can't roll either, my friends have always rolled for me," she replies. We stare at each other in the dimly lit booth with expressions far, far graver than this situation should elicit. This table cluttered with a superfluous hookah bought only to act as a cover has now become a proving ground. This is going to be a trial. By fire. LITERALLY.

Passing back and forth, we agonizingly construct a half-dozen crooked, lumpy bastards that fall apart under the slightest pressure until, at last, I put together something starting to resemble what a human person could call a "joint." Angela still has to take it apart a bit, give it a slight re-roll, a little more skin for support, some TLC here and there, but it's done. It's still crooked, it's still very lumpy, but it's smokeable. And just like that, Angela and I share this maladroit joint that keeps going out, and doesn't want to light, and burns really unevenly, yet it's still the best joint because we built it together. I think this story finally got the thematic conclusion it needs to officially count as coming-of-age and thus have a unifying narrative arc! Go team!

There's an open mic at an Irish pub, and it's about as disappointing as every open mic at every Irish pub. Maybe a little less. Who cares. After one song, Angela says goodbye and leaves forever, since we never exchanged contact information. It probably wasn't the open mic act that made her leave, but still people, be careful out there.

The night is still young, however. Wikitravel makes a big deal (or did at the time) of warning people against one specific club with the ominous name of Heart of Darkness, where a fatal shooting occurred about 6 years ago.

Hey look where I immediately am now

Heart of Darkness is indeed a seedy, over-decorated nightclub with a dangerous reputation, and after touring some atrocities and kinda sorta doing some drugs, I feel dangerous myself. Of course, I don't actually do anything of note, just sit by myself and have a drink and no one except the waitstaff interacts with me at all, but I certainly feel my badass power level go up a few points. In hindsight....I've got a strong hunch actual badasses don't talk about power levels. Also, Heart of Darkness is kind of lame unless you want to hire a prostitute, and it probably isn't even great for that.

But hey, how funny is it that I've been to bars called both Heart of Darkness and Apocalypse Now, because Apocalypse Now was based on...damn. Not actually that funny. Phnom Penh, I'm done. Time to head North, and see...oh god more temples. So many temples. There's just no way Buddha was that cool, guys! No way. But then...then I will at last fly back to Seattle, where I never have to see another temple again. Unless they serve craft IPA or something, then we'll see how it goes.

Come On Man/RAILAY

The night ferry isn't as bad as they say, so long as you don't mind sleeping like Nosferatu for the entirety of the trip. It's actually pretty swell for me, on account of my intimacy problems. The real killer is the van ride across the mainland. Just like in Laos, an old, cramped, shitty van is made to play TARDIS and carry far more passengers than its exterior form would ever suggest. The padding in my seat is so worn I can feel the springs digging into my back along every bump along the road, and let me tell you, Thailand has no shortage of bumps in their roads. A brief rest stop is allowed, inside a tin made of cheap wood and corrugated aluminum, surrounded by flimsy benches. Getting up, I bash my head against the van's ceiling, only to find Jackass 2 is playing on a small, grainy TV inside. I feel like the franchise is following me, like a more butt-obsessed Sadako.

While Railay isn't technically an island, a range of mountains along the peninsula means visitors have to take a boat in and out. Once we come into port, I find myself in East Railay Beach, one of the two town centers. A single room at any of the hotels here costs too much for my lonely ass, so I hike inland into the jungle for cheaper options. A narrow dirt road takes me past a few clumps of bungalows, and I stop at one particularly ratty collection sitting in a sunlit field. At 350 baht, I still think I overpaid. See if you can figure out what's off about the bathroom:

It isn't the cold shower. Like a poetry-writing teenager, I've long since gotten used to them. No, it's the lack of a fucking sink that really threw me. Not to brag, but I've seen a lot of bathrooms in my time, and this is the first I've been in that was sans-sink. It's not the biggest deal, but...geez. It makes all bathroom operations just a little more frustrating, like eating soup without any lips. Oh, and they told me they wouldn't be able to give me any toilet paper until the evening, which was also just...not cool, guys.

With my backpack stashed away, I continue along the dirt road and into dense forest.  Here, the path gets more and more haphazard as it zig-zags up a series of hills. Next to the path is strung what must be the only cable line for this entire side of the island, which I'm a little reluctant to use as a walking support. After about a half hour of hiking, the road spits me out onto West Railay Beach.

All throughout the area jut gorgeous white limestone karsts, perfect for rock climbing. Unbeknownst to me, Railay is actually one of the world's biggest rock climbing destinations. I meet another backpacker on his way to town, who points out how many of the cliffs are already bolted and ready for climbing. All you need is a bag of gear and someone to belay.

Even getting into town requires some bouldering: Since the end of the beach is blocked by more cliffs, the only paths through involve either working your way through a narrow crevasse, or catching low tide and trying to wade around the shore. Fuck it, I love rock climbing. This'll just be foreplay:

After scrambling through the narrow passage, I eat lunch at a cafe that's supposed to have great tuna sandwiches. While I eat a big plate of internet exaggeration and disappointment, Simon and Niels walk by, completely out of the blue.

They've already made a day of climbing, and are quick to rave about the experience, as well as point me in the direction of where I can find some guides. Before leaving, they also let me know where they're staying in the area so we can meet up later.

Most climbing tours are scheduled for the early morning, so it turns out to be tough finding a guide to take me now that it's past noon. Still, I finally find a local Thai who promises for 800 baht to take me to as many spots as we can manage before sundown. He hands me a pair of climbing shoes, and before I can even get them on, chides "The shoes fit! Come on man!" and leads me to the first cliff. Like everyone else in the area, he's deeply tanned and tightly muscled, and makes me feel absolutely ashamed after seeing him effortlessly scale these rock faces to thread the rope for me, only to have my out-of-practice and out-of-shape ass clumsily try to match him. "Have a water! Come on man!" he helpfully suggests.

Before the light starts to fail, we get in 2 3/4 climbs before my paltry energy reserves finally run dry. Back at the shop, my guide makes fun of me when I ask for band-aids for my fingers that have blistered and burst. "Come on man! Fingers okay! You don't need! Come on man!"

The wussy man needs band-aids for his boo-boos.

No, I insist, I do need. Because I thought I was a hard man, but it turns out I'm just a pig-tailed Nancy Boy who's afraid of getting a widdle infection.

Outside the climb shop I sit at a table in an alley to bandage my hands. Next to me a Thai Rasta with shoulder-length dreads is playing guitar to a blind child. After I finish wrapping my fingers, the Rasta offers me the guitar, which I'm all too happy to refuse until the blind kid, sensing a new performer, smiles wide and chants me on. 

Well, what else can I do? Come on man. I give a very mediocre performance of Smashing Pumpkins' "Today" for the kid while the Rasta practices twirling a firestick. I have to give credit to the blind boy though, as he kept me in the alley long enough to have Tyler and Sander coincidentally walk by and notice me. Together, we grab some dinner at a Thai restaurant where the waiter insists on cleaning and then trying on our sunglasses. As it turns out, he prefers Tyler's £150 designer shades to my 5 dollar fake Ray Bans. Some people have an eye, I guess (Which was not a joke at the blind kid's expense, and shame on you if you thought it was! Alternatively, shame on me if no one thought it was and I just made an awkward dick out of myself [You know, awkward like nestling a set of brackets inside multiple sentences in a set of parentheses inside another sentence {Or your butt! Shut up!}.].)

Around dusk Tyler and Sander lead me into the jungle to visit a Reggae-themed bar they found the night previous, that they tell me has some of the best coffee they've ever had. Also, weed. It is named, imaginatively, Reggae Bar.

The boys don't lie. I order, and watch as the be-dreaded bartender/barista painstakingly hand-grinds the beans for what seems like an eternity before disappearing behind his beat-up espresso machine and returning with a god-damn excellent iced mocha. As we sit back and enjoy our coffees, we're chatted up by a Swiss guy sitting with his girlfriend on some pillows a few yards away.

"So ver are you all from?" he asks.

Each of us answers in turn. Sander, Tyler, then me. "America."

"That damn country!" Whoo boy.

"Well hey, we got bin Laden!" I reply. Now, I'm never quick to defend the States, because, well, everything, but geez man. We got bin Laden!

"Big deal, only take 10 years to find guy on dialysis in couple of mountains!"

There is nothing that will make a person more patriotic than some dick stranger in a foreign land ragging on his homeland. Unfortunately, all I have time to come back at him with is "Hey, you know, it was more than a couple mountains..." before his girlfriend gives him a look that says "Stop being mean to him, you know he only has an American education." As if to apologize for his rudeness, he asks Sander "Would you like?" and offers a joint he's just bought, but is turned down. Then Tyler, "Would you like?", again turned down, "No thanks man". And then he looks at me, retracts the proffered joint, and falls silent. What a global fucking citizen.

The bar has an acoustic guitar lying down, which starts to get passed around after Tyler rolls a couple blunts from his own stash. Once I've picked it up, and started plucking the intro to Metallica's "One" (because a girl from Montreal requested "Wish You Were Here", and I figured I should show the poor girl what real music sounds like), Swiss Miss Fucking Asshole starts loud-whispering to his girlfriend about how easy it is to play guitar. I mean, it's totally true, it's the music community's dirty little secret how stupidly easy it is to play guitar and impress people, but CHRIST MAN GET THE FUCK OFF MY STAR-SPANGLED NUTS.

But maybe I've been going about this all wrong. Better to take the high road, and show him some of that American compassion and diplomacy we aren't known for in the slightest. Catch him off guard.

"You want to play something for us?" I ask, holding out the guitar for him. Global citizen, here.

"Oh, I don't play guitar." He doesn't even play guitar! I swear to fuck I wish I gave more of a shit about Switzerland just so I could have levied some truly prejudiced and paint-peelingly offensive epithets his way. Even now, I just shot all my knowledge on that hot cocoa zinger a paragraph ago. Are they the ones with funny hats, or shoes? What's their pants situation? Ultimately, it didn't matter, because by now the entire bar was tired of his bullshit and just ignored him, and he left shortly after without saying anything. U-S-A! U-S-A!

We smoke a little more, and I try to field some music requests, but apparently all people from Europe want to hear is Oasis, and then after that maybe change the vibe with some Oasis, and then finally close out strong with Oasis. If you're from Europe and you take exception to that, well, talk to everyone else from your continent. Only you might have to speak kind of loudly, because they're all listening to goddamn "Wonderwall" for the hundred billionth time on repeat through a busted Walkman from back when that band might have mistakenly been considered good. Yeah, I'm a music snob, and I will fight you!

I'm sorry, just thinking about that Swiss guy got me all worked up. "Oh, I don't play guitar" what a dick.

After about the third time someone asks for an Oasis song and I say "Sure" and play The Misfits, I leave with Tyler and Sander for their bungalow, where we smoke more weed and play the card game Shithead for another few hours. In almost total darkness, I walk through the jungle back to my bungalow, where I sleep fitfully, because that's kind of my thing now.

That Swiss guy was kind of a bummer, so here are some cats being lazy at a Railay restaurant.

From Railay East, we catch the morning boat to Ko Phi Phi, where we can meet back up with the girls and keep our little party going. Rather than a longtail, this is the fast boat, so for the majority of the ride we sit feet over the railings, just riding the waves, the toothpaste foam of the water bathing our soles after each bounce and brief spell of hangtime. Range after range of limestone cliffs race by behind the warm spray of ocean water. Fuck. I liked Railay.