The Moustache Brothers Are In/YANGON - MANDALAY

In the morning, I'm supposed to leave at 10 so Madoka can take her Burmese lesson, but I end up hanging around till after 11. But she's such a classy dame, she doesn't even mention it on my CouchSurfing profile. Even more embarrassing, I left late because I was trying to use the internet. After this, though, it's free traveling spirit from here on out.

I do eventually leave though, and go to Chinatown, which is sort of funny to me to find in a non-Chinese Asian city. Walking around, I get a chance to try some traditional Burmese street food, like a "donut" and an "egg tart". They're both alright.

Look at all these exotic delicacies. A free spirit like me is going to have to try them all, in the interest of cultural openness.

There's a street vendor selling some sort of juice from big metal vats, which I feel it necessary to try so I can remain the King of Drinking From Questionable Water Sources.

Seems legit.

The "juice" is a very strange and not very pleasant combination of sweet, sour, and salty. Another vendor is selling the children's Nazi shirts that I saw earlier. I do not buy one, because I am not a Nazi nor a child.

Also durians, which meant the market smelled incredible.

Then...well, I'm not sure I want to say what I did next. I feel like you're going to judge me. Just...don't judge me alright? I went to an internet cafe for, like, 3 hours. I know I'm weak, but dammit I wanted more music, and frankly Yangon isn't the most happenin' city as a pedestrian at 2 in the afternoon. I'm left wandering around the city, occasionally taking pictures of old architecture, because that seems like a thing to do and this is how low I've run on stimuli.

Hey, that looks old

What's up drab-town, why so gray

I bet someone appreciates you more than I ever can

Good for you, gettin' fixed up all nice

Is this ugly or beautiful? I don't even fucking know.

There are some sights though, such as Mahabandoola Park, where there's some okayish topiary, and a Burmese family of 6 that insists I be in all their group photos.

There isn't a whole lot else to do. I take a few more photos, then wait out a storm in Cafe Aroma after dinner. There are a couple white guys in there I think about talking to, since backpackers are so rare, but something about their Beer Lao tank tops makes me reconsider.

Pictured: No lie, it really rained pretty hard.

Once I get home to Madoka's place, I consider what to do post-Burma. Flights to Kuala Lumpur are super cheap since they're the hub for Air Asia, and I've read somewhere that Kuala Lumpur has the cheapest 5-star hotels in the world, so I book one, the Shangri-La, for the night I leave. It's $134 for the one night. What the hell. As I am less of a rich person and more of a cheeky homeless type with a twinkle in my eye and some skin falling off, I'm not sure if this is a great deal for 5-star luxury, but it seems about right. Almost immediately I realize I booked it for a night I get in late. What the hell.

Evan gets in late, around 10 pm. He gets on Skype, bitches about traveling alone, and something that's happened to him that he doesn't want to talk about, but wants us to know that it was not good. No one is sleeping, it's past midnight, and I have to be up at 4. I read the Lovecraft short story The Shunned House. With thunder and lightning crashing outside, it's surprisingly effective at keeping me awake.

I take a taxi to the airport at 4:30. I've borrowed Madoka's Lonely Planet, which goes against my totally arbitrary and ridiculous principles, but Burma is tough and I need the maps. As I wait for the Air Mandalay counter to open, I notice the vast majority of foreigners in Myanmar seem to be French. Something about French backpackers and hard-to-reach places, I guess. Feel free to insert your own joke here for some post-modern story interactivity. I've always imagined this blog as the House of Leaves of dumb travel shenanigans. Also, I hear post-modern story interactivity is French third base.

There are no plane announcements in English, which leaves me feeling like I've missed my flight until a friendly stranger gestures that it's time to go. On the plane itself there is no assigned seating, which is the first time I've ever seen the like of it.

Once we've arrived in Mandalay, I share a cab with a Burmese ad exec who gives me his card and recommends I try the city's coffee. Since Mandalay is home to the notorious political comedy troupe The Moustache Brothers, I ask our driver innocuously about "a famous comedy group." He's not sure what I'm talking about, so the ad guy explains that I'm looking for Par Par Lay, their leader. The driver says they aren't in town. Huh.

I get a room at the Royal Guesthouse. It costs $8, and the bathroom is down the hall. It'd be four dollars more for an attached bathroom, but after booking a 5-star room in KL, I feel like pinching the pennies. Really make myself appreciate it.

And constantly having to pay for two beds by myself is really making me appreciate being basically alone in life.

After a sweet nap till 4 in the afternoon, I hail a bike to take in the sights. An obvious choice would be the Royal Palace, but Wikitravel tells me it was rebuilt by the government using forced labor, so not the coolest place to visit, moral-wise. Apparently it also isn't that impressive and is kinda falling apart, so all around not the best attraction.

It is quite a wall it has, though. Dang gurl, dat wall.

I settle on the more moral choice of climbing Mandalay Hill. It's a...hill, but with just the most temples and pagodas on it. Let's take a little photo walk, and enjoy the sights together:

If you're gonna spend some time in Myanmar, get used to the sight of these guys outside of everywhere. I like 'em.

Wowzers! Time to start walking!

One of those Buddha guys I hear so much about!

A lot of love. Maybe...too much love.

Alright, guys, I get it. You like Buddha. Let's move on.

Ugh these fucking stairs

Another Buddha, but big.

Some more big Buddhas. You're really going for it, Mandalay Hill.

And this is...a harrowing scene of torture and pain?

Yeah, I think that's what it is. Bummers-ville, Population: These dudes.

Just...a great big horrible cage of suffering. And why is that priest sitting there like such a dick?!

So then there was this walkway around one of the temples that led to some good viewpoints.

And as to be expected, the ground was covered in broken glass.

Which makes sense, for a place that requires you to walk around barefoot.

I could have tetanus, but this is pretty good I guess.

Oh yeah, and there were just all the cats.

Along the way up the hill is a little temple that's all about snakes. According to the story I half-remember, a couple snakes slithered in from the jungle one day, and these snakes were holy or lucky or something. To honor these snakes of legend, the temple has a couple of big honking snake statues that you can rub the head of for some of that transitive snake-luck.

Yeah, rub that fake snake's dome.

Get that scale-y luck.

Some more temple kitties. Not snakes.

Some rooms got kinda sparkly, to let you know that Buddha can be fabulous.  Kinda makes Jesus look like Hank Hill in comparison.

Oh boy, is that more temples I see in the distance? And like, a gajillion stupas? I was worried I would run out!

Myanmar: "We're krazy for stupas"

At the top of the hill, a young monk strikes up a conversation with me. I expect him to go on about his spirituality, or ask for alms, but instead he's just incredibly envious of the fact that I went to university. I choose not to explain my particular experience at one of America's premiere drinking schools. Apparently it's got the drop on spiritual enlightenment, though. Nothing like a 21-year old who's lived 8 years in a monastery saying he's jealous of you to put some things in perspective.

After mentioning my mom wanted me to get her some prayer beads, the monk helps me find a seller. I peruse some nice beads for 500-1,000ks, but the young monk insists I should spring for the 3,500 ks beads, made of premium sandalwood. "It is for your mother," he persuades. I buy them, head down in shame. Dammit, dude, you're a better person than me, I get it. If I run out of money in this country, I put it on your dumb, bald, enlightened head.

It's past 6 now, so I wind my way back down the hill band buy some 500 ks ice cream. The ice cream makes me wonder why the fuck I keep buying ice cream in Burma. God dammit, Jamie, just stop it already. There are a bunch of dogs and cats lounging on the cool tile now that the sun is setting. Some dogs start barking along a wall at me. Fuck you, dogs. You don't know about my ice cream standards. You don't know shit. 'Cause you're dogs.

My bike driver outlines a giant, extensive tour for tomorrow, and I nod dumbly, assuming it'll be fine. Everything's always fine, fuck it.

I ask the driver to take me to Too Too Restaurant, which has supposedly the best Burmese food in Mandalay. I order the tiger prawn curry, their signature dish. It is...okay, I guess. To me, Burmese food always seems to be missing an integral component. Flavor, maybe. One of those things that matter in food dishes.

Overall I'd say it was somewhere between edible and delicious. Damn, food writing's easy.

For dessert, the driver takes me to a shop to get some of the local delicacy, Htou Moun. It's an extremely sweet and oily jelly candy that reminds me of Turkish Delight. We eat it at a small tea shop where a crowd of locals has gathered to watch Myanmar play Pakistan in soccer on one tiny, ancient television. The reception is terrible. At one point the power goes out. A young boy who was up till now enjoying the game smiles at me, points up at the useless light bulb, and says "Myanmar." I drink some coffee as per the ad exec in the cab's suggestion. It is very sweet and not very special. Burma wins the game, 4-3.

Contrary to whatever that cab driver claimed, the Moustache Brothers are very much in town, so I head to their residence and wait outside drinking Myanmar Beers with the rest of the travelers here for the show. For those who don't know, the Moustache Brothers are a family comedy troupe from Mandalay that do a combination of stand-up jokes and traditional Burmese dance. The members are two brothers, Par Par Lay and Lu Maw, along with their cousin, Lu Zaw. In 1996, Par Par Lay and Lu Zaw were arrested for telling political jokes during a performance, for which they served six years in a labor camp. They were released under the condition that they remain under house arrest, and only perform for foreigners.

SO COOL.

Lu Maw, the only member who speaks English and therefore acts as host, ushers us into their garage where the show will take place and hands out free leaf cigars. In addition to classic Burmese puppets and statues, the walls are covered in pictures and posters of seemingly every Hollywood actor or celebrity who's ever even mentioned the situation in Myanmar, along with a great number of photos of the Moustache Brothers with famed politician and political prisoner Aung San Suu Kyi. It was at a performance in her home that Par Par Lay and Lu Zaw were arrested.

If the name Par Par Lay sounds vaguely familiar to you as it did to me, the pictures on the walls reminded me that he's mentioned very briefly in the Hugh Grant film About a Boy. I could spot at least 3 posters from the movie hung up around the walls.

There's one!

Spot the foppish Englishman!

Now, I wasn't sure what to expect from their comedy act, but it definitely wasn't what happened. Credit where credit's due, these guys are badass political rebels and all, champions of free speech, inspirations to the Burmese people...but their jokes are just absolute the fucking worst. The entire set can be summed up by Lu Maw talking about about how Jennifer Lopez has a big butt, and then asking us not to tell his wife that he likes Jennifer Lopez's big butt. Ad nauseum. He also shows a peculiar obsession with English idioms, likely from learning English around a lot of douchebag backpackers.

There are a few jokes about the Burmese government as well, which to be fair are a little funnier. They mostly cover the topics of not having electricity, and how corrupt people are, and how they like to shoot innocent people. Comedy gold. Par Par Lay also had an extended segment where he sat with chains draped about himself, while Lu Maw cracked a few more jokes about things that make me sad. You know what, I think I've got a picture or three of just that:

Lu Maw's wife actually did show up, and none of us told her about Jennifer Lopez. Awkward!

And then, of course, she danced.

And actually that was the most interesting part of the show for me, when they launched into a traditional Burmese dance routine, complete with puppets and costume changes. I didn't understand any of it. At some point I think there was an ogre.

After the show the Moustache Brothers take pictures with the audience, holding up nonsensical signs somehow related to Par Par Lay's jail stint and intelligence agencies around the world.

Yeah, like that.

All the women working for the troupe, their wives perhaps, bring out a huge cardboard box from which they start selling t-shirts. The funds go to help political prisoners, which makes that pretty much the most badass shirt possible to own, so I buy two.

Sadly, Par Par Lay died a little over two years later, in August of 2013. I don't really know what to say about that, other than he put on an unforgettable show, under circumstances I can't imagine and hope never to experience. Here's to you.

Going in Circles/YANGON

Today's the day. I'm finally getting out of Thailand. Before I catch my flight in the afternoon, I run around Bangkok on various errands. I get my final suit fitting, before they ship the whole package stateside. I buy a new MP3 player, remembering the advice of those guys on Ko Tao who were so keen on biking around in Bagan listening to music. Finally, I need cash. Lots of it, in USD.

On account of Myanmar being so tightly closed and controlled, there are apparently no ATMs in the entire country. This means any money you need for your stay, you have to bring ahead of time, and they only accept US dollars for exchange. The bills also have to be in crisp, perfect condition, due to their fear of forgeries. After some online research, the place to go seems to be Super Rich, a currency exchange place in Bangkok that deals in exactly this sort of thing. After running to a nearby ATM for some baht (where I forget my debit card, only to have a security guard come running after me and politely explain that maybe I shouldn't be forgetting things like that), I get 600 USD in new, pristine bills. To keep them mint, I put them between the pages of a scuba textbook in my backpack.

Now, at this point I've been in Thailand 31 days, which some may notice is a higher number than the 30 days a Thai tourist visa allows. However, to my surprise and even greater relief, I don't have any problems going through airport security. They notice, of course, but I feign ignorance. Something in Thai is written over my visa stamp (I like to think it's a curse), and I'm on my way. Smooth as butter.

That is, until a security guard comes running up to me where I sit eating at an airport sushi stand. This is it. I'm scuppered. Whatever scuppered means, this is it. God, why did I have to watch Brokedown Palace before leaving on my trip? I know exactly what's in store for me. But who's going to heroically sacrifice themselves to take my jail time? I've got a real shortage of best friends around me at the moment. What could be the punishment for overstaying your visa? Fuck, what's the number for the consulate?! Why didn't I ever register with the embassy?! Why don't I do the things you're supposed to do?!

The guard produces my netbook. "Is this yours? It was left at the security check."

Guess I won't have to involve the consulate after all.  Get yourself together, Jamie. Hopefully Burma will fix the holes in my brain. No drugs there, except for that whole Golden Triangle heroin thing, but that's a little outside my league. Maybe I won't even drink, and really dry out properly. Sounds nice.

Before I board the plane, I get some gelato finally. I forgot to mention I've been craving gelato for awhile, which is strange because it's so interesting. Now you know. Gelato cravings. But that's over now.

Around 6:30 we land in Yangon, formerly Rangoon, where I grab a taxi from the airport that reliably overcharges.

Sup.

A couple months ago, I signed up for the internet site CouchSurfing. For those who don't know, CouchSurfing is an international community of travelers, most of whom are looking for a place to stay or offering a place to stay. There's a lot of high-minded feelgoodery I could get into, but suffice to say it's a great place to find a couch abroad.

I had originally planned to use the service in Australia, but wasn't able to find anyone available in Perth at the time. Instead, the first couch I managed to book is in Myanmar of all places, with a Japanese girl named Madoka. When I get out of the taxi, I'm more than a little excited to see that she lives in a rather nice upscale hotel. Also, that she's a real person, and not a murderer, or even a rapist. Incredibly, she's a wonderfully nice person who just likes to host backpackers and hang out. Murder-free!

I notice another backpack already in her apartment, and Madoka tells me another couch surfer will be here the same time as me. His name is Evan, and apparently he is also a nice non-criminal. In fact, the only actual criminal act was performed by myself, when Evan came home and I proceeded to steal much music off his Macbook for my new MP3 player. Evan invites me to check out the Shwedagon Pagoda, supposedly the oldest in the world, and Yangon's biggest tourist attraction.

It is absolutely gorgeous at night, as the lights of the temple bounce off and illuminate the golden stupas. It's also filled with rad electric Buddhas, which answer the age-old question of how to make religion accessible to the youth. It is, and has always been, flippin' sweet light shows.

We meet back up with Madoka, and the three of us get dinner at, appropriately, Friendship Restaurant, and then retire back to the apartment where I tune Madoka's guitar and find that I was wrong. People abroad don't just want to hear Oasis. They want to hear Oasis and Green Day's "Time of Your Life".

In the morning I steal some more music from Evan, and make plans with him to check out the circular train. Apparently, it’s the best way to see the real Yangon and hang out with the real locals and be really "real". Before that, however, Evan’s seen an ad somewhere for a plane travel package of Myanmar through Air Mandalay, so we head to their office to check it out.

The package is a few hundred bucks for tickets around the Golden Kite, which includes Mandalay, Bagan, Inle Lake, and then back to Yangon. Evan and I both sign up, and then inquire about the circle train. Immediately there is a communication block. One girls says there is no circle train, then another girls says there is, another girl says there isn’t…So we do what any sane people would do, and trust the internet. We take a taxi to the train station (which exists), and get on. Somewhere in there we forgot to buy a ticket, but…whatevs?

The internet also said that we would need our passport, and would have to stay in the conductor’s carriage, neither of which are true. This marks the...second? third? time the 'net has been wrong, maybe ever. Sometimes I wonder if this internet thing is really going to last.

It is also very possible that we didn't even pay for our train ticket. Extremely possible.

The back of the train has a string demarcating seats for scary military dudes. I probably should've paid for my ticket.

The train is a long, slow, bumpy ride. We're the only foreign passengers, and everyone else seems to be going to work or hopping on and off to sell snacks and drinks. It's the sort of thing that pops boners for the backpackers who want everything to be "authentic" and only talk to locals and just want to be "real".

So anyways, we talked to this authentic local who was real as fuck. A lecturer/engineer who lives in Germany, and basically only travels at the convenience of the government. Apparently, the government here kind of blows. Locals, man. 

Evan and I start to feel a little peckish, and the occasional mango hawker isn't cutting it. We get off the train at a random stop, which turns out to be approximately the center of nowhere. Apart from some metal and wood shacks set up by the train tracks, the rest of the area is a dusty field stretching out into dry scrubland. We head for the shacks.

In one of the corrugated metal huts is a woman making...some sort of foodstuff, by the look of it, which'll have to do. She uses her hands to scoop and shape the food, which is a sticky tofu-like substance that actually tastes pretty bland. I figured her unwashed hands alone would create some kind of flavor sensation.

No flavor sensation here.

In more exciting news, next to her maison d'E. coli stood a stall where a kid was selling betel nut. Betel nut is something the Burmese like to chew on that stains their teeth blood-red and causes them to spit absolutely everywhere, resulting in streets that look like an overenthusiastic Zombie Walk met up with a violent street riot. I had no idea what the effects were. I had to try it.

Bingo.

The betel nut doesn't actually taste that bad, but man does it get the saliva going. A fairly intense head rush comes on for a few minutes, and I actually feel stoned for a good spell, before it fades and is replaced by a sharp caffeine buzz. All the while my mouth is filling with ruby spit, and now we've gotten on another train, and it's moving. The car is filled with people, and there's no room to maneuver for the door. I consider spitting out the window, but that would involve not only getting myself into a position to open the window, but also spitting this vampire loogie out over the shoulders of about 4 innocent bystanders. Instead, I stand in uncomfortable resignation, cheeks bulging, insides of cheeks and roof of my mouth tingling, then burning. Imagine your mouth full to burst with horrible exotic tobacco juice, daring yourself not to swallow, yet considering...

Outta the way, I've got nut juice I need to get rid of! Eh? Eh? You get it.

When the train stops again I'm finally afforded an opportunity to dash out of the carriage and empty my raw, burning cheeks, looking much like an ebola victim with an upset tummy.

Sorry, guys.

At this point Evan and I notice that calling this the "circular train" might be a bit of a misnomer, as now the train simply starts going backwards after a long stop. Apparently, there is no circle, and those ticket saleswomen were right to be confused. Oh well?

Who wouldn't want to see these sights twice!

Ready to end our non-circular tour, we ask some locals next to us about getting a taxi, which prompts the entire carriage to converse in loud, excited Burmese. A gang of elderly women take it upon themselves to help us out, and they get off the train with us to find a taxi together.

As for where to find taxis, no one has a clue. Our unintelligible multi-generational posse wanders around the station, back and forth, until finally the guy in control of the trains has to come out and point us toward the main road.

You can see here all the people who just gave up and resigned themselves to be Station Folk for the rest of their lives.

I see a kid walking around in a red and black swastika t-shirt. And before you ask, not the nice Buddhist one that's all straight and nice. This was the other one, the one tilted at an angle. The angle of evil. Go figure, amid the totalitarian regime of the Myanmar government, Nazi fashion does alright.

A taxi eventually comes our way. Evan gets out around Shwedagon so he can see it in the daytime, and I get out at Bagyoke market, thanking our elderly benefactors. I need to use the black market at this literal market to exchange all my crisp USD bills for Burmese kyat, and before I even have a chance to ponder how exactly the fuck I'm supposed to do that, a guy has already come up to me and asked if I need money changing. How on Earth he distinguished me from a local, I'll never know.

Pictured: Me! Pretty much.

I talk the guy up to 820 ks for the dollar, which I feel pretty good about. Madoka later tells me that the official exchange rate the government sets is 45.5 ks to the dollar, hence why everyone comes to the black market. I also later learn that Evan got 822, and Madoka gets 825. I just did the math now, and that's like a 3 dollar difference. Somehow I'll learn to live with it, in time. 

After we're done with our illicit transaction that had me feeling like such the badass, black market man takes me to get a bottled water, which I requested, and then takes me to his "mother's shop" to buy a longyi, which I did not request. A longyi is basically a men's skirt worn exclusively in Burma, or by the same awful backpackers who make concerted efforts to wear Thai fishermen pants in America and are just waiting for people at a party to comment on them but they won't because everyone hates you. Also, the longyi cost 5,000 ks, and if I'm going to wear a novelty skirt, it's got to be, I dunno, half that. I'm putting my foot down.

While trying to find a cab I end up visiting another pagoda, because while Burma may not have liberty, they do have Buddhist prayer stations in spades. Another money changer offers me 840, and I assume him to be a short changer because I just do not need any more regrets in my life. I turn him down, and he's nice enough to tell me where to hail a cab. Down a long road full of palm readers, it turns out.

Evan is already back at Madoka's, but she's still at work. Turns out, her complex has a rather nice swimming pool, and it is completely empty and also lovely.

I feel like this whole Burma thing took a left turn somewhere.

After she returns, Madoka makes some pasta for dinner, and the three of us leave for a bar called the 50th St. Cafe. It is extremely western, with a clientele that seems to be exclusively US expats with their Burmese prostitutes. There is a band, and they play The Cranberries, Hotel California (twice), and Justin Bieber's seminal classic "Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh Baby Baby Oh, Etc.".

This is a menu boasting the best Bloody Mary in Asia.

This is an aggressively mediocre Bloody Mary. DANGIT JAMIE YOU FELL FOR IT AGAIN.

So, I came to Myanmar to dry out and detox, and I ended up getting buzzed on betel nut and drinking in a shitty pub. Maybe there's a moral there, or maybe it's just one of those mysteries. Like how to pronounce "calculator". Nobody knows.

The Wettening/KO PHI PHI - BANGKOK

After our boat from Phi Phi Leh docks, we have an afternoon breakfast/hair of the dog with some of our new friends back at Phi Phi, which is also kind of like paradise, if paradise was filled with sports bars and fake Ray Bans. Everyone makes plans to meet later, and then splits up to get some actual sleep. Tyler is in our room listening to Bon Jovi and Green Day albums, so sleep is out of the question. He asks if I want to go the pub. Sure, I tell him. Why waste a good day-time buzz, I always say.

He's found a sports pub called Breakers, where I eat potato skins while Tyler watches a Moto GP race. I really wish I could be the kind of person who's able to find something to talk about with anyone, but I've got nothing here. Is it me? It feels selfish to say I only want to talk about things that are interesting to me, and with people who are also interested in those things, but there you have it. Please don't tell the other backpackers. I spy a sign in Breakers for 1.5 liter mojito pitchers for 200 baht. Maybe that'll help loosen the ol' tongue.

After hanging out with a few of the girls at their bungalow (which is up, like, a million steps on this dumb hill) while a tropical shower rages outside, we end up back at Breakers. There are a lot of judgy looks when I order a jug of mojito for myself, but screw everyone else because I am great, just like mojitos.

Warning: Not For Losers or Dummies

After a few drinks we head for the beach, where I drink some Jameson and Cokes with a rather attractive young American party girl, but she seems more interested in Paul. Fucking Irish. After grabbing some pizza with Sander, we crash back at the guesthouse.

I need a change. A new edge. When everyone else heads for the beach in the morning, I lock myself in the bathroom and prepare my things, like a samurai about to perform ritual seppuku. For the first time on this trip, I shave my face. Beard, moustache, the whole enchilada.

Feeling like a more-handsome Lazarus, I join the others for food. I'm stopped in my tracks by another first, when I'm refused a breakfast dish for the first time in SE Asia because it wasn't breakfast time. What is this, McDonald's? In Nazi Germany? Fucking fascists! So instead I eat a brownie sundae, because this isn't Travel Sensibly: Adult Decisions and Responsible Living. This is Fuck You, Jamie Eats Sundaes For Breakfast 'Cause Something About Travel: The Bloggening. I guess what I'm trying to say is, I'm a problem solver.

Anyways, I eat my food and show everyone my face and learn a valuable lesson about how people don't care about my face hair as much as I do apparently. I spend the rest of the day drinking with Sander, because he's never tried Guinness and I don't mind the excuse.

Which of course leads to an Irish Car Bomb or two.

And hey, while you're up, Bazooka Joe shots. Look, there's a method to this, alright?

This being a sports bar and all, some soccer happens on the TV that gets everyone angry, so we leave for the happier, less-hooligan-y vibes of the beach. I talk with a French guy, while Tyler gets over his footie woes by boldly and unsuccessfully hitting on the man's Chinese girlfriend. After a rousing debate about who's hotter, Monica Bellucci or Marion Cotillard (which is utterly ridiculous and not even a contest, unless you've seen Irreversible, in which case contest canceled so we can all call our mothers and tell them we love them), an American girl joins our group and worms her way into conversation.

Initially, I'm psyched to speak to another American. It's been awhile since I've met anyone from the home of freedom and Eggo waffles. Then she starts to talk, and immediately undoes all the stereotype-breaking I've accomplished with these people. She speaks with the exact same voice that Cyndi uses to make fun of us Americans. Here's a fun snippet:

"Where are you from?" she asks.

"I'm from Seattle."

Totally serious, she asks "Are you gay?" Like it won't bother her or anything, but she's an anonymous census taker and wants to make sure I'm not one of those weird straight-Seattleite outliers. (Is it because I shaved, I wonder? Is a smooth face gay now? Has anyone told George Michael?)

No, I'm not gay, I tell her. I guess Seattle's got its fair share, but I don't number among them (which is really too bad, because they get the best clubs). In the interest of forced conversation, I ask her the same thing.

"Where do you live back in the States?"

"Oh, I don't live in America anymore." Genuinely curious now, I ask her to elaborate.

"Well, I was in Cambodia for, like, 4 months. Now I've been backpacking around Thailand for about 4 months. So I don't live in America anymore, I'm really just more of a traveler."

Well fuck. I didn't know I was in the presence of a traveler! I'm surprised she even remembers how to speak English after, brace yourself, three-quarters of a year. Vast empires have risen and crumbled to ash, I'm sure, in the time it's taken for her to get kind of bored of banana pancakes. I'm sorry, Swiss dick in Railay, we really are the worst.

The next day spells the end of our little troupe. The girls split to go their separate ways. I book a plane ticket for Myanmar 3 days from now, and a ride to Bangkok tomorrow to secure the visa. Sander and I try to spend our last day cliff diving, but the shop that organizes climbing excursions won't let us book without at least 3 people in our party. We never do find a third, which is a shame, but I don't take it as hard as Sander, who later keeps calling the girl working the desk "a cunt". It seems a little harsh, but I remember he's 18, and upsets easily. The age gap hits me like a cold pogs slammer to the face. The poor naive boy, he still thinks "people" and "things" matter. He'll learn.

Ko Phi Phi has an official viewpoint from which you can see practically the entire island, which sounds like a great thing to go to and see before I leave. Unfortunately, it's up another million stairs, which is just the most fun to climb in the wet, sticky afternoon heat. Still, the view from the viewpoint predictably does not disappoint.

You win this round, viewpoint.

We see Tyler a bit later, who tells us someone knows someone staying at a hotel somewhere with an infinity pool. I wasn't even totally sure what an infinity pool was, but I knew I definitely wanted to be a part of it. At the hotel, which is an expensive number by the beach, no names or room numbers are asked for, or ID given. We just walk up some stairs and straight into the pool. So if you're ever in Ko Phi Phi and by the beach, and you think "This gorgeous ocean view is nice, but I wish it was just a little more chlorinated, and I had to be sneaky for some reason, but not too much" well then have I got the spot for you!

An infinity pool that infinity-s out into the ocean is my kind of pointless luxury. I felt like any second Kanye West was going to ramp a lamborghini into the hot tub, because an imaginary robot told him it would be a bad idea.

Of course, the general rule of thumb for when you successfully sneak into a lavish luxury pool, or really any high-end resort area, is you gotta jump off shit. See that little swim-up bar on the left? Sander finds a ladder around back that lets you climb onto the roof, and proceeds to start doing backflips off it into the pool. I had never done one before, so he gave me some instruction and...I did some painful things you could technically call backflips, if you were being kind.

But now Sander wants to do something more. Backflips into an infinity pool from the roof of the snack bar? So 5 minutes ago. He suggests we go wakeboarding. Again, something I've never done, and it really sounds like one of those vacation-y activities people do that I somehow never get around to. Some people wakeboard, some people get high and pretend to be a dog. Let's see how the other half lives.

We find a guy on the beach with little trouble, and Sander haggles him down to an acceptable price. On the boat, Sander gives me a very quick bullet point list of what to do out on the water: "Don't lock your knees. Don't lean too far back. Don't lean too far forward. Don't cross the streams." There seemed to be a terrible amount of things I shouldn't do, including some that might even have been from Ghostbusters. All I knew was I was going to hold onto the rope as hard as I could and hope for the best.

Sander is first up on the wakeboard, and he absolutely nails it. It gives me some hope, since what can a fit, extreme sports-loving 18-year old possibly do that I can't? He probably hasn't even heard of the ol' college try. 

I strap on the board and get in the water, and wait for the [captain? pilot? driver?] to start the engine. Next thing I know, I'm clutching desperately to the rope while being pulled through the bay, mostly underwater. I'm fairly certain the waterline dropped half an inch from all the saltwater I inadvertently chugged.

I'm given another shot on the board, and I swear for about 3 shining seconds I managed to stand up. Then, back to almost drowning as the boat drags me along for an impromptu scuba tour of my bay of shame. According to Sander, the [cap-lot-er] was terrible, and accelerated way too quickly, and crossed his lines or something. It's small comfort. Even better, everyone back at the infinity pool was watching, and got to see every minute of my expensive public waterboarding.

Go ahead, partake in my glory.

It starts to storm, so Sander, Tyler, and I leave the pool to go back to the room and shower. Afterwards, we bunker down in a nearby gazebo, where we smoke heavily and play Shithead for hours. Accompanying us is a girl named Faye who wants to meet me in Malaysia. She also has a boyfriend, but I'm a gentleman. A gentleman who doesn't particularly want the added stress of meeting up with platonic randoms in Malaysia.

While smoking, one of us spots a bottle of after-sun lotion left behind by someone. It's decided that it's a sign from the universe, and I should grab it, because of all the you-know. I take it because what the hell, it probably is a sign and I should stop my skin from getting any more cancerous lest I turn into a Hulk villain. It's now midnight, and Niels wants to get some pizza. It's midnight, and I've been smoking for god knows how long. More or less human putty at this point, I go with.

Unfortunately, the only pizza available after midnight in Ko Phi Phi has been lying out in the humid night for as long as we've been high, and tastes like a bag of dead dicks. I continue to smoke, hoping the munchies will make it digest faster, but no luck. Sander and Faye join us at the beach in Stones Bar, where I find myself barely able to move, much less order a drink. I buy a glass of Coke and set it against the pillow I'm lying on, and then watch dispassionately as a stray dog drinks my pop by continuously knocking the glass over a bit and lapping it up. After an interminable amount of time we get back to the room where I try to sleep miserably, but I can feel my mouth filling with warm saliva. Wettening. After much personal research, I know exactly what wetmouth means. I run into the bathroom, and for the first time on this trip, I throw up. Hard. There's been a lot of talk of signs from the universe. Maybe this means something. Probably not.

Getting from Ko Phi Phi to Bangkok involves a fleet of vehicles: boat to van to plane to taxi...It's all a blur, and I try to sleep unsuccessfully through most of it. I get to Khao San road, the Bangkok backpacker street, in the middle of the night and check into the first guesthouse I see, the Siam Oriental Inn. It's 350 bt for a room with aircon, and they give me a key to check out the room. I pass out immediately, and am woken at midnight by a girl with a note saying I have to pay. I do so, then go back to sleep.

It's actually disconcerting to sleep in a bed with no sand in the sheets.

My mission in Bangkok is simple: I need to get to the Myanmar embassy to get a same-day visa, as I fly to Yangon early tomorrow morning. A tuk-tuk driver agrees to take me for cheap, but only if we stop at a suit shop first. Originally I was going to get in and get out just to make the tuk-tuk driver happy, but once I went in...You have to understand, I've wanted a custom suit for years, and here was such a perfect opportunity, and really if you think about it buying a suit in Thailand is really actually saving money...And that's how I let one of their salesmen talk me into a deal for 2 suits, 3 shirts, and 3 neckties.

They take my measurements, and after explaining I'll be leaving tomorrow,they tell me to come back at 5 for a fitting. Easy, on to the embassy. Getting the same-day visa is actually a surprisingly painless process, I just have to give them my passport and a few extra bucks, and come back at before they close at 4:30. That leaves me with a couple of hours to kill, and you know, I've been thinking about replacing my stolen netbook...So I get a taxi this time to Pantip Plaza, Bangkok's biggest electronics mall. I'll have a quick look-around, buy one, and be back in no time to get my passport. Maybe they'll even have the same netbook I lost.

Of course they don't. I look around absolutely lost for over an hour, not recognizing any models or knowing what to buy. Mama Wilson didn't raise no blind consumer though, so instead of leaving without buying anything (the smart decision), I leave to find an internet cafe to look up reviews. However, there are none nearby, and I'm losing even more time searching for any place that has a computer I can use, until I finally find a hair salon that has a little internet station. But who could have guessed, there are very few online reviews in English for computer models sold in Thailand. More time is wasted jotting down the little info I can find, so I can make a hasty, terrible decision using a great deal of money I shouldn't be spending. I know I have a problem, but I've come too far to stop now.

I buy what turns out to be a very mediocre netbook for a stupid amount of money, and then have to wait even longer for the salespeople to get it from the warehouse. While I'm waiting, one of the staff is asking where I'm from, says he loves Kurt Cobain, he loves Nirvana, while I'm checking my watch and seeing that it's almost 4:20. Not the time, guy.

The Nirvana fan finally gives me the computer, and I bolt outside to flag down the first motorcycle driver I see. He says it'll take about 10 minutes to get to the embassy. Excellent, that should give me enough time to have about 50 heart attacks on the back of the bike.

He drives fast, and we get there at 4:31. Mother of all miracles, the doors are still open. I get my passport, newly visa-d, and allow my heart rate to drop from "Inside a Tornado Made of Spiders" to "Minor Bear Attack."

It starts raining like hell. I get in 2 different taxis that don't know how to get to the suit place, and I have to get back out into the monsoon. Finally a motorcycle driver pulls up and agrees to take me, even though he has no idea how to get there. He stops multiple times for directions, goes to the wrong place, more directions, and the rain only gets worse. I am super psyched to be on the back of a bike, holding brand new electronics, with my already-waterlogged passport in my pocket. We have to stop for gas, then ask more directions, until finally we get to the right place, where I am soaking wet for my fitting. Then the salesman convinces me to buy 3 more shirts and a pair of pants. I think I may have hit my head at some point.

The same inept motorcycle driver has been hanging around outside the whole time, and waves me down. All I want now is to go back to Khao San Road, which being the most widely-known street in Bangkok, should be fairly easy to get to. He says he'll take me. What he doesn't tell me is that once again, he doesn't know where it is, and I get to join him on his merry quest to be the worst person at his job in the history of ever. Before this, I sort of thought all cabbies had an omniscient sense of direction. It was an unrealistic, but comforting notion, like Santa. This man killed Santa for me.

The rain somehow gets even worse, because of fucking course it does. After stopping for directions twice more, and gas again, we finally make it to Khao San Road. Every inch of me is soaked, and I'm freezing to the point of shivering, but I managed to keep my electronics and passport safe. Why didn't I get off and find someone competent? Stockholm Syndrome, probably. I fell in love with my captor. But not enough to then pay him the 500 baht he demands. Because he used so much gas getting lost over, and over. It makes sense in an odd, perfect way: Why shouldn't the worst person ever demand I pay him for how awful he is? Like Britain extorting China after the Opium War.

But this isn't the first time I've stonewalled an irate Thai taxi driver. And this time, I think I'm on a little firmer ground. I offer him 300 to fuck off. He doesn't speak English, so rather than argue he keeps trying to get passersby to intervene, but they want nothing to do with it. When that proves fruitless, he tells me to get on his back and he'll take me to my guesthouse (the extra 100 feet). I reply "No" with such disdain it would make Rorschach proud. Finally he gives up, takes the money, and drives off. I win, I guess. I'm not sure that's what this feels like, though.

I spend the rest of the night drinking, reading Lovecraft stories, and trying futilely to get my new netbook to work. Khao San Road is a pretty awful place on its own, and even worse when you're alone. When I get to Burma, I tell myself, I'll detox. No more drinking and drugs for awhile. A good cleanse to set myself straight. That should bring back a little of the ol' positivity. Maybe I'll even get spiritual around all them temples. That'll be nice. If only this fucking netbook would work.