China Is (Might Be) Amazing!

Gee whiz, China is great! I am having loads of fun visiting the fellow teachers from my school. It's a super dooper good time! I have seen pretty landscapes, gawked at some cultural oddities, and stuck out like a non-sore thumb in the Far East. And don't worry, gang, I will be home so very soon. Only nine more days! Shucks, I am excited!

(For those of you who are questioning my sanity, remember this: China blocks Blogger. I could be dead for all you know.)

(That was a really bad joke, friends and family, and it's an easy one to make from a comfortable internet cafe in Laos before any travels have begun. Here's to posting blog posts ahead of time!)

Boo!

Thais are abnormally afraid of ghosts. To ask a Thai, "Do you believe in ghosts?" is like asking an American, "Do you believe the Mississippi River has water in it?" Ghosts are real, and that's that.

In every house, business, and building, on most roadways and even in the wilderness, Thais have erected ghost houses to appease the spirits. These are actual houses, albeit mini, and sometimes they are pretty damn fancy. Thais will leave offerings at these houses to placate the ghosts, so they will cause no trouble for the home, business, etc. The offerings are sometimes funny, at least to me, a Westerner. You can find anything from action figures to bottles of water with a straw in it to pieces of fruit to milk in a juice box. The ghosts love it all.

For example, a teacher at my school refuses to be home by herself, especially at night, because of the ghost which haunts her home. And this is a grown, eductaed, sane woman. She refuses to go to the bathroom in the middle of the night. She refuses to go to the bathroom in the morning until her boyfriend goes, even if it means she must wait for hours. How her boyfriend scares the ghost and clears the way befuddles even me.

Ghosts are real. Fear the ghosts of Thailand. Enough said.

Farewell Thailand, I've Entered the Big Leagues

I am off to China, land of the many and the land without facebook or google or blogger. As such I will be unreacheable by normal means. It's time for the old email throwback:

Email: bemagtitas04@aol.com



Until May 8, this is where you can reach me. After May 8, my American phone number should be reactivated (I hope this is right).

Wish me luck!

(You may still see some blog posts appear, but do not be fooled. I have pre-posted them here is Laos. And did you know that 1 dollar gets you 8500 Lao Kip? ...It's insane--ly worthless, even Thailand, Laos's neighbor, won't exchange the Kip)

Water Water Everywhere

Songkran!

Basic Definition: The Thai New Year

Semi Detailed Definition: Big water fight with lots of people and uninhibited happiness.

More Detailed Definition: A huge multi-day party where water is thrown, drinking is had, and one forgets that fun has an alternative.

And...
Happy Birthday, Dad!

Did you know that Brian is passive aggressive?

First: It is great to be back in Thailand. This place = good.

Back when I was in India, I rode a little public bus into the mountains. The roads in India, even when not careening along a mountain road, are subpar at best. Potholes, rocks, sporadic one lane sections, unpaved sections with that characteristic dirt rumble strip that somehow develops--basically not good. That is exposition piece number one. Number two: men in India (not unlike Thailand), are very touchy feely with other men, mostly because women are taboo. Men will cuddle, hold hands, and generally maintain a proximity which vehemently destroys the personal bubbles of Westerners.

I am on a twelve hour--bump--bus. We are just entering the mountains and the road begins--bump--somehow to become more tumultuous. An Indian man boards the bus and opts to sit next to this curious-looking white dude with the hair the color of an old man's, though there are plenty of empty rows. (Personal space breech.) We chat a conversation--bump--with limited depth, and shortly thereafter I resume an attempted tolerance for the heat and road which silence and spaced-out staring can only provide. I lean forward and rest my head on my arms, giving my back a little break. I sit up straight--ah, oh, oh god, there's an arm there--and I lean forward again. I think I should be able to sit back in my seat--ugh, these bumps--because it is my seat. I'll just lean back on his arm and he'll move. I lean back, now uncomfortably resting on his arm. He practically whistles for lack of care.

My annoyance builds. It is not the time or place to feel like dealing with this. For whatever reason, it seems absurd to ask him to move his arm, probably because no Indian would mind having this man's arm uncomfortably behind him. A minute or two pass with growing frustration. Although I may not stick up for myself (asking him to move), I am decidedly clever at times. Oh yeah, bump bump bump bump, ah, bump. I get an idea and implement it. Using the bus's propensity to seek out bumps to my advantage, I aim to cut off circulation in his arm. My right shoulder is located near his axillary artery, where the blood enters the arm in the shoulder. Now every bump is a slight but opportunistic increase in pressure on the artery, by jamming my shoulder into his. Bump--jam! Ha ha ha. I grin despite my discomfort. Bump bump--jam! A few minutes of this later there is significant pressure on his arm. He cannot be comfortable. And it's the waiting game. I hum a little tune.

Hummm Hmm Hmm Ba ba boopy. Hmmm.

There's some movement. Yes. An arm lifts, and a blonde traveler sits back comfortably in his seat. The man to the right shakes out his arm, as oxygen returns to the limb. The blond traveler returns to his silent staring, a little more pleased for the time being. The man doesn't say goodbye when he departs the bus later.

When you have too much money...

Sometimes you reach that point in travelling, especially when you have been very frugal, which I have, when you spend just a little too much on something. Inspired by previous town friend/hiking companion, Jake, my growing desire to fly finally overcame me. I splurged. I figure: it's not too often one is in the Himalayas, and 1500 Rupees really is too much when you do the conversion, about $34 or so. And think of the safety $34 of paragliding promises, especially over the rocky, tree-lined slopes of the southern edge of the largest mountain chain in the world. Oodles.

(This is Manali, by the way.)

Looks exciting, because it was. Fly, human, fly.

My Hats Off to You, Mr. Dalai Lama

Dharamsala (truly McLeod Ganj), my favorite place in India to date. I have been here now for seven days, and I am forcing myself to leave tonight, simply because I feel determined to see a bit more of India before I return to Thailand in six days. This city is a trap, but not in a bad way. It's an easy-to-access escape from crowds, heat, flatness, and the general pushy unfriendliness that is found in the rest of the tourist destinations in India. The people here are exceptionally nice and friendly, likely because of the influence of the towering mountains and the ever peaceful Tibetan inhabitants, among whom is the Dalai Lama.

I call these days my eight days of winter. I actually had to buy a coat and hat to cope with the temperature, and in my hands and under my feet were the occasional compacted snow flakes. After a 9 km hike above the village, I stayed one night on the ridge of a mountain, a measly 2,900 meters above sea level compared to the 5,000+ meter peaks which rose above me. Fellow hiker, Jake--professional golfer from Hawaii, and I spent a raucous night on the mountain with a group of boisterous Indian fellows who welcomed us rather seriously--they actually stopped the conversation to discuss with the group the terms of our admittance--into their friendship circle.

Once in, we were given food and intoxicants and participated in friendship circle dances of joviality. They regaled us with songs and local customs, such as throwing water bottles off the side of the mountain. Though promises of homestays and joint hikes up the mountain were given--very seriously, I might add--for the following day, our new friends left the in the morning before Jake or I had stepped out from our cliffside tent. Oh well.

Tonight I travel onward to Manali, hoping for another perfect mountain town, but my expectations remain low so as to buffer any disappointment. Thailand is starting to sound good again. And as I count down the days to my return, I begin the intense mental preparation for the water fight of my life, Songkran.

When a camel spits, it farts

This is a throwback to over a week ago, to a time when I still occupied a desert terrain.

Danielle, fellow Michigander, and I took a nice camel safari into the Indian dessert, where we spent the night on a sand dune looking up into space.

Camels, as it turns out, are a bit less comfortable to ride than horses, but the addition of a pair of stirrups may change the results of that competition.

And to settle the long, drawn-out debates: a camel actually farts more than it spits, and it is an unpleasant sound when it grinds its teeth.

Toot Your Horn for Urinating on Rubbish Piles

Three of the more common uncouth Indian engagements:

1. Trash Everywhere -- It is actually unbelievable how much trash is scattered around the streets (not to mention the foothills of the Himalayas). Like Thailand, it is impossible to find a trash receptacle in this country; however, unlike Thailand it is impossible to not see garbage everywhere.
2. Public Urination -- Men will pee everywhere, I mean EVERYWHERE, in this country. On every wall, on every building, on vehicles, on trash piles, on the rail lines, on the wall of the bathrooms, on the streets, there is pee. It is not limited to certain times of day or to types of crowds or by the number of people in the vicinity. Day or night, among women or children or men, with thousands of people around or none, there will be a man peeing nearby.
3. Incessant Honking of the Horn -- The horns never end. It drives me a little crazy. If there is a person off to the side of the road, not in the path of a car, the horn will be pressed. If there is a traffic jam, and no one is moving, every horn will be pressed. If your vehicle is a bus, press the horn the entire duration of travel so that every person may know where you are. Instead of side view mirrors, the Indians opt for horns. Maybe effective, but terribly grating to my poor little ears.