Dynasty II

I step off the bus in Phnom Penh with a happy heart. This is, in part, due to an upcoming reunion with my Cambodian sisters. But mostly it's because I'm about to claim a small, but decisive victory in the ongoing struggle against the repressive tuk-tuk/moto-taxi regime. I head off at a brisk pace. Here it comes.

“Taxi?"
"No thanks.”
“Where you go? I take you, cheap.”
“Nah, very close, I walk.”
“Okay, how much you pay?”
“Take me free. Guesthouse pay you.”
Stunned silence.
“It's okay, I walk, no problem.”
"Okay, okay, I take you. But no tell you stay there before."

He drives me to the guesthouse. I consider staying next door at the newly remodeled sister hotel. It was only last week that I was here and I recognize the guy behind the desk. I go through the charade of inspecting the room and head back downstairs to check in. He searches my face for a hint of recognition, which I fail to deliver. He asks if I've ever stayed here before. I look right at him, smile and say, "Nope." I flash my driver the thumbs-up and just to be a good sport, slip him a little extra.

I walk over to Dynasty, where I'm showered with smiles and ushered to a chair. They bring some water and turn the fan to face me. We look at the pictures from my journey while I reenact some of the scenes. The nine-hour boat ride perched on a wooden bench. The palm beer guy, who climbs trees collecting sap. The smiling Cham children living along the river. Hanging out in the rice paddy.

The girls have an old Teddy Bear that they all share. I tell them I'm going for walk and promise to return later. I buy a Hello Kitty, a Teddy Bear and a Winnie the Pooh, take these back to my room and head off in search of supper.

After scanning the tourist area, I end up right back on my street at a little place on the corner. My waitress, Aileen, is a gregarious girl who bounces between customers, engaging them in different activities. She finishes a game of pool and comes over to me. I lose a few games of Connect Four, but take my revenge on the Checkerboard. It's getting late. I'm having fun, but I want to get back to Dynasty. Aileen convinces me to play a little Badminton out in the street. Soon, I see the girls step outside. They call out to me. I sense tension. I tell them I'll be over soon.

I say goodbye to Aileen and walk back to Dynasty. The reception is cool. There's some arm-crossing, back-turning and sneering followed by some finger-pointing to the door. "Hey everyone, I was just hanging out with my new friend Aileen. Why you mad?" The very mention of that name is enough to inspire an animated tirade. Apparently, they're not fond of her. I try to explain that I have a present for them and I completely agree that Aileen is a conniving trollop. I make a face to express my own dissatisfaction with her.

Later, I notice an ambulance backed up to the entrance of the sister hotel. Just a van really. A lady tells us that two foreigners died. I walk over as a body wrapped in a white sheet is being heaved into the back. It lands with an unceremonious thud. Too much time passes. There's a working girl on the bench out front. I ask her if she knows what happened. She's seems uninterested. Or is she, who has a front row seat? They bring out the other body. The van drives away.

Time for presents! I bring the stuffed animals. They want to know if I got one for the trollop. I assure them I did not. There are two for them and one for Nean and Agnchealy. It's midnight and the girls are tired so I head out.

I see a bar I hadn't noticed before. It's filled with people and music. Someone is playing a guitar, which draws me in like the Pied Piper. I sit down next to an old Dutchman and his young Khmer girlfriend. He tells me the bar just opened last night. It belongs to some Khmer ladies he knows. Some guys at the other end are from Denmark. "Mads Mikkelsen," I yell out. "Pusher, Brothers, The Wedding. I love Danish movies." One of them responds, "Dude, I love American movies! He lifts his shirt to reveal a tattoo decorating his entire right side; 'Apocalypse Now.' You win. The guy with the guitar is Canadian. He reminds me that we're both from America; I'm from The States. The gin & tonics start flowing. My neighbor to the north passes me his guitar. We trade-off singing and playing and soon it's four in the morning. I float down the street and drift up to my room.

I get up around noon and stop for breakfast where Aileen works. Then I head over to Dynasty to say goodbye. They sit me down and make me close my eyes. There's giggling and scampering. When I open my eyes, there's a wrapped present in my hands. I'll open it later. I have to go now. A van comes to take me to the bus stop. As we pull away, I wave goodbye to those girls and they stand outside waiving back. The driver is not unimpressed. Later, I sit on the bus staring at the unopened gift. I suddenly remember that I forgot to buy a krama, the traditional Khmer checkered scarf. That's when I realize what's inside.

Angkor Wit

Angkor Wat, Siem Reap, Cambodia

City of Temples
'Twas a twelfth
century creation,
Khmer capital station,
when the kingdom
called Kambuja
was the greatest nation
in Southeast Asia,
from lower Laos
down to Malaysia.
Southern 'Nam
and into Burma
with some of Siam
part of their terra firma,
but...

doomed to fall,
destined to rise
two more times,
first to the Chams,
then to Siam,
no surprise.
Change the name,
the shame is the same,
the game is repeated.
Siem Reap means
Siam Defeated.

The Tuk-tuk
Yesterday we seemed to agree
on a fifteen foreign dollar fee,
to drive me to the hive
and help me handle the honey,
but now your buzz has got a sting
because you sing for a twenty.

Tuk-tuk driver's prey,
I'm caught.
Deliver this giver to Angkor Wat.
A ten minute trip
in his souped-up moto
and I'm posing for a photo
in the parking lot.

The pic is for the pass.
The pass is for the proof.
The proof is in the cash.
The cash holds up the roof.

Tuk-tuk tour guide: "Take your time."
Tuk-tuk's taken: "Your tour is a crime."
So I stand up on my own and I fall in line
with the gazing herd and the Khmer design.

Tick-tock, teardrop, the scene is tragic.
Two million tickets sold, but they don't include the magic.
So this ship sets sail on its faded tour,
with the jaded Jew and his hated whore.

There's another taunting temple that I'm set to sack,
but my appetite has got its army on the attack.
I'm a prisoner of peace so I go where I'm told.

He's collecting his commission for the story he sold.
The restaurant I'm taken to belongs to his friend
and I sit here unsuspecting as the sellers descend.

The Trinket Hawkers
Stone-zone capitalist
kids cutting class,
trade in their tomorrow
for today's quick cash.
Searching for a sucker
in the tourist trash,
to sell a little something
from the sorry stash.
Trip your trick trap,
but I'm traveling fast.
Make tracks to the back
finally free at...

Last stop, Ta Prohm, universally known
as the temple with the jungle growing out of its stone.
Take a picture of the postcard and set it aflame
A thousand words for every photo, but every word's the same.

Dynasty Massage

Phnom Penh, Cambodia.

At first glance, a dusty disappointment. I book a ticket to leave the next morning and head off on my walk.

First stop, the outdoor market,

punctuated by stinking fish and dying hens,

legs bound together, heads hanging.

Time for a smoothie.

I spot a blender.

What are those fruits?

I sign for her to choose. She sticks her finger into the remnants of the last shake and nods in understanding. I'm concerned by the addition of carrots and lettuce to my fruit drink, but she proves to be a master mixologist. I move on.

Empty restaurants, travel agents, assaults from tuk-tuk drivers, "Where you going, what you need?" A park-$1 for foreigners, some monkeys, two boys dancing to distorted speakers, massage by the blind, a street barber. My feet ache, I return to my room.

Down the street is Dynasty Massage. There are five girls sitting in the waiting room when I enter. They giggle as they run to the back. My masseuse is cute. I'm wearing nothing but a sheet. She climbs onto the table and sits on me, doing my back first. I turn over. Calves, thighs, chest, no problem. Stomach, I panic and begin counting. Not working, I imagine a gory traffic accident. Last chance, that beheading I saw online. Damn it. Against my will I've achieved what some take little pills for. She pulls the sheet up a bit and continues the massage. I try to make conversation. She doesn't understand.

At the counter, the manager speaks a little English. The other girls are gathered around now. They're beautiful. I don't leave. Chea, Chen, Thavy, Danei, and Nit. They teach me Khmer words. I show them my pictures. They make me some tea, I make them laugh. They're in their twenties, from a small town, working here to make money to send back home. They sleep upstairs. They work six days a week from nine in the morning until midnight and rotate turns when anyone comes for a massage.

I sing 'Hotel California' for them. They clap, laugh, dance and sing Khmer songs. Later the boss, Agnchealy, comes with two friends. My heart starts pounding. In front of me is the most beautiful woman I've seen in a long time. Nean works at the boss's clothing store. I'm no longer funny. The girls make me sing again and then Nean sings a song. Before I can recover my personality, she leaves with the boss.

Five hours and four customers come and go. It's midnight and time to say goodbye. Before I leave, the manager pays the girls for the day, six thousand riel, about a dollar-fifty. Hugs are not customary between the sexes so I offer a handshake and a promise to visit on my return the following week. I like this town afterall.

The Bus

At times I welcome a break from the authenticity of third-world travel. The bus ride to Chau Doc would not be one of those times. I thought I had been pretty clear when I told Kim that I wanted a direct, air-conditioned mini-van for the six hour journey to Chau Doc, the border town connecting Vietnam to Cambodia.

I first suspect a problem, when after half an hour, we're unable to flag down one of the passing mini-vans, which are already full. The large, red bus that finally pulls over reeks of local flavor and before I can protest, I'm ushered onboard. I'm able to make out what looks like a small person buried under the bags that are spilling into my seat. Some of the passengers seem amused at my choice of transport. Others just seem plain puzzled.

The first stop comes one hundred yards down the road. "Damn it Kim!" Once I realize that this is not a momentary stop, I step outside to stretch. I trade smiles with a couple of guys who've settled into one of the ubiquitous hammocks that line the highway. I search their eyes for a clue as to what's happening, but they seem just as uncertain about the delay. Vendors riding bikes or pushing carts begin to assemble and with help from my fellow strandees, I sample some of the banana leaf-wrapped snacks. I consider breaking out my bottle of banana-rice wine to get this party started, but as it's only ten thirty in the morning, I decide against it.

With the ice now broken, I step back onto the bus with my new friends. The hours chug along and by turning sideways into the aisle, I manage to find a position that causes only a minimal amount of discomfort. Hunger is one problem I don't have. Whenever the bus pulls over, a slew of vendors board the bus selling the same three or four items. With two hours left, I grow weary of the heat and the juvenile show on the T.V. that has everyone else laughing out loud. "It couldn't get much worst than this," I think to myself. There must have been uproarious laughter in the heavens at that moment.

With about an hour to go, we come to a river crossing where all vehicles must board a ferry. We had just picked up a lady who managed to squeeze herself into the aisle next to me by sitting sideways on a short stool. She doesn't even bother to take off her sweater, gloves, face-mask, hat or red, plaid safari helmet even though I'm sweating in just a t-shirt. As we inch along toward the ferry, vendors start to board the bus. Okay, A) We've all eaten, B) We've already bought all of these same snacks and C) The lady in the aisle ain't budgin'.

So the vendors, unable to squeeze by, actually start climbing over her. Soon they're all crammed into the aisle and since we're now on the ferry, they too sit down. Now the skinny girl sitting next to me must have a very quick metabolism because her leg feels like a fricking furnace pressed against me. The stifling heat is now close to unbearable. Sweaty, sticky and unable to move, I remember the headline I had seen a few days previously. "Ferry sinks, passengers drown." I always wondered why people didn't just swim to shore- now I knew why.

And just when you think you can't get another person on the bus, in walks Mrs. Determined, selling the same damn thing as half of the others. It reminds me of the circus clowns endlessly piling into a small car. It's at this point that I decide to leave my body. I'm drawn back moments later by the loud, staccato haranguing of this last vendor who is foolish enough to believe that a woman wearing that much clothing, a face mask and two hats could possibly be convinced to give up her spot, however lowly.

The argument lasts long enough, that I'm able to film part of it, waiting the whole time for a slap, which is never delivered. Although I'm certain that there is nothing unusual about this particular bus ride, I sense that the guys from the hammock are able to see it from my perspective and smile broadly at me as I put away my camera.

When I finally step off that bus an hour later, my relief is only temporary, as I must now navigate my way through a maze of moto-taxis and tuk-tuk drivers, all vying for my attention and determined to deliver me to any hotel other that the one I want.

The Mighty Mekong

Still groggy from the "trip", I wander to the street, have my first cup of ca phe and wonder what the hell I'm going to do. Within moments, a stranger approaches and offers his services as a guide for the Mekong Delta. I usually ignore these type of solicitations, but in my dazed state I opt to be reminded why. Soon I'm sitting on the back of Kim's moto heading for the town of Ben Tre.

Instructions for tour guides: Unwrap package, heat until sweaty, spoon-feed, repeat.

Day one: Fish farm and fireflies.

Day two: Coconut Monk Island, coconut candy and honeybee farm.

Day three: Floating market.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the island home of the Coconut Monk, named for his strict adherence to a diet of coconut milk and fruit. Please watch your step as you climb the narrow, spiral staircase to the small platform where he lived, surrounded by nine female devotees. Visitors are not allowed to cross the metal plank suspended in the air to the wire globe hanging precariously at the end. This was the site of his daily meditation, which lasted five hours. At the top of the steps on the other side is the look-out tower complete with a miniature replica of the Apollo spacecraft. The Coconut Monk achieved notoriety during his bid for the presidency. He promised to bring peace to Vietnam in eight days and on the ninth day he would retire from politics and return to his island. His loyal followers diligently raised fifty million dong, about three thousand U.S. dollars. Sadly, the Coconut Monk fell to his death from the platform on which he lived. The government never officially recognized the religion built around his ideology. Please enjoy the rest of the park at your leisure, where you will see a crocodile pond, an ostrich and two monkeys. Thank-you and come again.

Little, yellow, stupid

Announcer: "And now it's time to play, 'Let's...Get...Stupid,' the ridiculous game of chance where happenings can be interesting, but mishaps can be fricking hilarious. Let's meet tonight's player. Lane Bieler is a thirty-eight year old experienced world traveler about to embark on his third trip to Asia. He doesn't want just another boring fourteen-hour flight so he's volunteered to play 'Let's...Get...Stupid.' Let's remind our audience how the game is played. Lane is going to toss a coin in the air and see if the result is catastrophic or fricking hilarious."

Background: I had decided early on that staying conscious for the first segment of my twenty-four hour trip was not an option. A friend of mine has access to an arsenal of drugs thanks to his mom, who hasn't got time for the pain, and his brother, who checked out of Hotel Reality fifteen years ago. I acquired a couple of Vikadins and two little, yellow pills that he assumed to be Valium. Two little, yellow pills just lying randomly on the counter.

So here I am in the city, passport-in-hand, with four hours to kill. My mission is to find the third book in the Pearl S. Buck trilogy I've been reading, have a couple of drinks, get some dinner and get on Bart. It's happy hour at the first bar with two-for-one drinks, so we have two rounds and the bartender buys us a "bon voyage" shot. Two bookstores later, I find a different book by the same author. Good enough. We hit up another lounge for a stiff martini and top it all off with my first meal of the day- a sushi roll and some sake. We now head back to my friend's van where I proceed to drink a tall-boy and get really high. Finally, it's time to get on Bart. Mustering all of my concentration I manage to get on the right train. For those who know me, it wouldn't be surprising if I got on a train going the wrong direction stone-cold sober- which I'm not.

Fast forward and I'm sitting in an exit-row, aisle seat next to the bathroom and the flight-attendant station with the stewardess seat directly facing me. I can hardly believe that I'm actually allowed to board the plane and as if this wasn't enough, my neighbor David and his Malaysian wife speak English. So we're rapping about Thailand, getting settled in and I decide to pop my little, yellow pill so that I can pass out right after meal service. During takeoff, the stewardess and I are talking about Taiwan and I'm excited about my seven-hour lay-over and the fact that I printed out the Taipei chapter from the guidebook's website. She writes the instructions to get downtown using a combination of bus and train and says that later she will get me the paperwork that allows me to leave the airport.

We reach cruising altitude and they serve dinner. I'm having a little trouble getting the utensils out of the plastic, which is slightly embarrassing since I had effortlessly extracted the tray from the armrest only ten minutes earlier. I manage to get about half-way through the main dish when it just gets too tedious to continue lifting the fork to my mouth. "I'll just save the rest for later," I think. At some point, I open my eyes and see that my meal is long gone. I grab my water bottle, but my shaking hand can't seem to hold it steady. Using two hands, I painstakingly guide it toward it's destination, but manage to get more on David than in my mouth. Thoroughly humiliated, I try to explain the situation to him. "Dude, I'm tho thorry. I thook thith Valium, buth I think it wath thomthing elth. Lithen tho me. I can't uth my thongue." Before David can respond, I drift off again.

When I wake again, I decide to go for a walk, but as I lean forward to stand I realize that I've lost my equilibrium. Afraid to fall, I sit back and then it dawns on me that whatever I took must be some serious anti-psychotic shit. My heart starts to pound very hard- slowly and deliberately, as if it is determined to bust out of my chest. I think that I may die at this very moment, but instead, fall back to my slumber.

For the second meal service, I'm not quite as adept at opening my tray and the stewardess has to help. I manage to get to the bathroom and then take a slow, exceedingly cautious walk to the back using headrests to steady myself. David asks if I'm alright and I thank him for his concern the best I can with my new lisp. I wonder if I'll ever regain control my tongue as I drift off, yet again.

As we prepare to land, I'm awakened by the stewardess who hands me the promised departure form. With all the dexterity of a first-grader, I manage to fill in my name, date and flight number, as if I'm really going somewhere. The flight lasted over thirteen hours, but to me it seems we just took off.

After deplaning, I wander around the airport for awhile on this gray, rainy day trying to regain the use of my tongue and realize that I'm in no condition to go to town or to stay awake for that matter. I eat a bowl of soup that I can't taste and head to a remote gate to sleep. You know those airport benches, the ones with the armrests connecting a group of black-leather chairs specifically designed to make sleep impossible? I proceed to snake my way around and through those armrests to get the deepest, most restful sleep imaginable. In fact, I was lucky to catch my connecting flight. I had set my alarm for one hour before departure, but at one point woke up and decided it would be best to go the actual gate to avoid any more potential mishaps. When I got there and looked at the clock, I realized that I had set my watch an hour slow and it was now time to get ready for boarding.

I sleep through most of the four hour flight, leave my unread book on the plane and arrive in Saigon around six in the evening, still very dazed. I wander the streets drinking in the experience for about four hours, choose a guesthouse and then sleep for another twelve hours.

The little, yellow pill turned out to be Clozapine, prescribed for daily use to treat schizophrenia. Now I may be a little OCD, possibly even a touch manic-depressive, but I'm no schizophrenic. Another good reason that I missed my initial flight which had only a ninety minute layover in Taiwan. Now for those of you who may be worried that, if I've had this many problems before I've even arrived, let me assure you- the fun has only just begun.

Captain's blog: supplemental

Stardate 2.3.09. 15:00 hrs.
I must get to the city by 5:30 to pick up my visa from the travel agent, before heading to the airport, but refuse to go without my new camera, which should be arriving any moment. The clock is ticking, the traffic is building and I'm running to the window every time I hear a truck go by. Idea: Call a friend in the city to pick up the visa for me and meet him after rushhour. No answer. I call my ride to come get me anyway and while on the line, city friend calls back and confirms plan. Fifteen minutes later the big, brown truck arrives followed by my ride. It's amazing to think that even the universe can be fifteen minutes late sometimes. Kirk out.