Brendan Moran's Exciting Travel Adventures

We're huge in Bundi

Sarah and I are big celebrities here.  It's a small town.  They see tourists, but not everyone is out to rip us off.  There are some very nice friendly people here.  Walking down the street, people shout for our attention. 

"Hello!" cry shopkeepers and little children.

"Hello!" we reply.

Every few feet on the main street here, this little scene is repeated.  If we're walking slowly enough, a liteney of questions follow the initial greeting.

"What is your name?"

That's an easy one.  I usually answer this, but I keep walking. 

"What is your country?"

"USA." 

Saying "America" confuses most non-English speaking Indian people here for some reason.

One guy, after being told we were Americans, started rattling off fun facts he knew about America. 

"George W. Bush.  September 11.  Osama bin Laden.""Yep.  That's America."

If you keep talking to some of the locals, and I do quite often, the questions get more penetrating. 

"What is your job?"  I'm usually asked this by older men.  I kind of stammer out a different answer every time, because I don't really know what to say.

"I am traveling."

"You are a travel agent.  Good profession."

"I don't have a job."

This is met with silence.  Not having a job is not a positive thing to these men.  Any explanation that we took a year off work and that we plan to get jobs when we get back falls on deaf ears.

"I am in television." 

Also not a good answer.  It's tough to explain that one.  Also, it's somehow seems like a frivolous answer.  It's like saying, "I blow up balloon animals."  Especially since these guys I'm talking to seem like tradesmen.  Cobblers and tailors.  Men who work with their hands. 

Side bar here:  In the section on visa applications where I'm asked my profession, I always write down "actor."  I feel silly doing it, but writing "journalist" would draw unwanted attention.  Sadly, I'm not really an actor nor a journalist, but they don't give you enough room to write your life story on the applications. 

Another thing that's strange about Bundi is everyone wants a picture.  People stop us and say "one photo!?"  But the weird thing about this request is they want us to use OUR camera.  They only want to have a picture taken of themselves and then see their image on the back of the camera for a few seconds.  Or else, they insist on giving you their address and expecting you to mail them off a print whenever you get home.  I took a few pictures of some kids playing cricket in an alley and talked to their dad for twenty minutes about how and when I would send him these pictures.   

The guys working at our guesthouse even asked us for a picture.  When I said yes, they all ran downstairs, and then emerged a few minutes later with combed hair, jean jackets on their backs and rings on their fingers.  And then they just wanted pictures with me and not Sarah.  They just wanted her to take the pictures.  It was weird.

Monkey Business

Sitting on the rooftop cafe of our guesthouse the other day enjoying our lunch and admiring the view, we witnessed something very unsettling. A monkey jumped on top of our water tank, flipped open the lid, and began drinking from it. It sat there for a few minutes thinking and then took off. We share water with a monkey. We brush our teeth with this monkey water. We are trying our best to forget the incident. 

 

There are monkeys everywhere here. Jumping all over the rooftops screeching and fighting. They're too big to be cute. They're actually a bit scary. Especially in numbers. Apparently someone next door to our guesthouse feels the same way. He or she keeps firing a shotgun at them. I can't see who's doing it, but the noise is deafening. Sarah jumps a mile every time. 

      

Varanasi is so Bollywood

I went out walking down by the ghats in Varanasi on Saturday.  These are the buildings which people use to bathe in the Ganges, the Hindu holy river running through north east India.  Hundreds of people moving from ghat to ghat just soaping up and rinsing off.  I guess they would be clean if the river itself weren't so dirty.  Apparently it's the chemicals which get dumped in the river upstream you need to worry about, at least more so than the trash and dead bodies (we saw a few). 

I rounded a corner and came upon a Bollywood movie set right there on the river.  I saw guys practicing fight stunts, dummies (possibly for explosion scenes), a lot of people standing around trying to figure out their motivation and cow patties as far as the eye could see. 

Between takes, the production assistants (the ones with the walkie-talkies blocking foot traffic and acting much more important than they really are) let me pass to the other side of the set.  I noticed a group of extras playing old men with long grey beards and flowing orange robes sitting on some stairs and quick flashed a picture.  You can actually see one guy in the top right hand corner waving me off, telling me (in so many Hindi words) that picture taking is not allowed.  As if he's directing this picture.  Hey man, why don't you worry about being the best "third old guy from the right" you can be and leave the security to someone else. 

Movie people.  Sheesh.

What struck me about the whole scene is I couldn't tell where art was imitating life and vice versa.  Varanasi, especially near the ghats, is so other worldly that a film crew adds little to the already surreal atmosphere.  It's like shooting a war movie in a real war.  Take the extras.  These guys are really strange looking in mundane actions like walking down the street.  But as extras in a movie?  I want to know if they're locals, and really do dress like that in real life, or they're union actors who specialize in films about religious asceticism?  It's like a movie with a dozen different Santa Clauses in one scene.  Makes you wonder. 

--

Usually, when kids follow me trying to sell me something, they have ready made pitches. 

I say, "I'm from America."

They say, 'Capitol is Washington!"  (This one is very popular in south east Asia.)

One kid started following me with some postcards.

"Where you from?"

"America."

"Goldie Hawn is my friend."

This was not the answer I was expecting.  Apparently he's met Goldie Hawn on a number of occasions during her frequent stops in Varanasi. 

Ms. Hawn, if you're reading this, can you confirm please?  He was about nine years old with a nice smile.  He was wearing a blue sweater vest. 

It's only that I wouldn't want him going around using your name just to sell a few postcards.  Thanks. 

Sarah's Method of Stubborn Bargaining

Sarah and I went shopping for jewelry, clothes and assorted nicknacks the other day. Since our daily budget for food and cabs is fourteen dollars, Sarah was a little hesitant when salesmen kept quoting her more than ten dollars for one necklace. See, she's just not used to spending that much money at one time. So after I explained to her that we could in fact afford a ten dollar necklace, (two of them if she behaved) she headed back to the counter to bargain. 

The sales guy wanted six hundred eighty rupies. 

She countered with six hundred.

The guy studied her. "Six thirty."

"Six hundred," repeated Sarah. This is her usual technique. Instead of starting low and gradually working her way up, she picks a number and sticks to her guns. It's kind of an artless way to bargain but it gets results.

"Okay, six fifteen," says the guy. I'm standing off to the side watching this exchange. If I were Sarah, I'd agree to this price. I don't say anything though. She hates it when I butt in.

"Six hundred."

"Six ten?" says the guy. You can tell he just wants to get rid of her, but he's got his pride to worry about now. The other sales guys and myself are watching. 

"Six hundred." 

"Come on, you can give me ten rupees. I make no commission here. Ten rupees is all my profit," says the guy. This is bullshit of course.

"I don't want to pay more than six hundred," says Sarah. She makes to leave. This is another effective ploy. Walking out always brings down the price. 

I want to scream. I can't believe I have to go along with the "walk out" over ten rupees. Ten rupees, dear reader, is about twenty cents. Twenty cents is within our budget. Why is she doing this to me? 

"Okay, okay, six hundred," sighs the defeated salesman.

"Honey? Can I have the money now?"

"Sure babe. Nice job with the bargaining."

Puke

We took a day bus from Shimla to north to Manali.  This is where the Himalayas begin.  The road was so windy and bumpy the bus conductor himself puked.  You'd think he'd have a stronger stomach since, you know, it's his job.  But no, he just flung the door open (while traveling about 40 mph) and let fly.  This set off a small chain reaction of puking throughout the bus as people quickly opened their windows, flinging their breakfast upon the roadside.  The Himalays sure are pretty though.

I've been fighting with hotel managers in North India.

Laying awake at night, I can see my breath in great big clouds.  It would be fun, except I'm in my hotel room freezing to death.  It's much much colder here that we thought it would be.  We're stupid.  The guidebook said it would be cold.  I don't know why we didn't believe it.  Anyway, now we're in north India where they haven't yet invented central heating.  They have space heaters, but those only tease me.  They just radiate orange light, but no heat. 

We're not trying to be difficult.  We just want what we pay for.  The first night in our big drafty hotel the space heater broke down.  I didn't sleep much on account of the encroaching frostbite.  I think we deserve a discount, we say to the manager.  No he says.  You're being unreasonable, we say.  He says, I'll take fifty rupies off the price (about $1).  Shove it, we say, taking our fifty rupies back.

The next morning we moved to our third hotel in as many days.  I don't mind this too much, but sometimes it's nice to settle in for a few nights and just get to know the bed a little. You know, it's lumps, it's fleas, it's funny looking stains.  We splurged on what they call a "lodge".  Twenty dollars American for a nice big room, cable TV and a big old wood burning stove in the corner. 

So the sun sets and two guys come in to light the stove for us, since we were forbidden to attempt it ourselves.  Cut to: one hour later, a room filling with wood smoke, one guy flapping the door wildly to try and displace the smoke, another guy staring at the heater scratching his head, and the hotel manager in a heated discussion with yours truly. 

I don't know the exact moment when I turned into my father, but it happened sometime during the argument with hotel manager number two.  As he brought in the space heater as a conciliatory gesture to make up for the broken wood burning one, I started into him with a tone I only knew as my father's.  An angry demanding one.  Five minutes later, he was out of our room having agreed to accept a 70% discount on our previously agreed price.  Thanks dad.  We were still pretty cold though.

Baby it's cold outside.

I've learned that a key to smart bargaining is that, while negotiating an article of clothing you want to buy, it's best not to be actually wearing it.  Especially if the article of clothing is a wool sweater or socks or anything else that might prevent hypothermia, while you stand there shivering.  I probably got ripped off, but at least I'm warm. 

In the north, we stayed inside a lot.  We did make one foray out to an office complex which houses the Tibetan government in exile.  Apparently, you need to talk to them about meeting the Dalai Lama.  He lives in McLeod Gang, not a mile from where we were staying.  We thought it might be fun to wait in line and shake his hand.  Although, truth be told, I was a bit worried about what would actually happen if we got to meet the Lama.  Would he ask me questions?  Would they be about Buddhism?  I pictured a room full of monks and a very awkward silence.  Not to worry though, I walked into the office, inquired as to any upcoming meetings with the Dalai Lama and the young man behind the counter gave me a look I'll never forget.  He smirked, paused and then very softly, said "Um, no."  Sparing me and Mr. Lama from any future embarrassment.

As it's cold out, the only place in McLeod Gang we get any passable heat is our hotel room.  It also happens that I'm pretty sick with a cold/weird food virus so I've been treating the last few days as if I get to stay home from school.  It's better than that though, because my mother, the school nurse, isn't around to call me a liar and force me to get up.  Nor is my little brother around to bring back my homework (remember how even when you were sick they made you do math?). 

I've got a nice little setup with cans of Sprite, bland crackers and daytime television.  I haven't watched this much Oprah since forever.  Thank god there are english-speaking movie channels.  The movies they play are atrocious, but it beats not understanding them.  Yesterday, I sat through one called  "Cold Blooded" staring Jason Priestly and the guy who played Otter's buddy in "Animal House" as hit men.  Terrible, awful movie.

I watched 5 hours of cricket the other day.  I'm beginning to understand it.  It's not as boring as it looks.  I think.  It's like watching golf.  You just can't help falling asleep.    

But Enough about Curry...

Sarah won't stop going on about Vince Vaughn.  "Swingers" is on the TV in our hotel room.  We splurged for a place with AC and cable TV for our first few days here in Delhi to make it easier to transition to India.  Apparently, she forgot that Mr. Vaughn used to be skinny, and it's blowing her mind.  She has called him both good-looking and handsome in the space of thirty seconds and I'm starting to get annoyed. 

We are still a bit jet-lagged, so we're talking a mid-afternoon break from the outside world.  Delhi is rather crazy.  There are many many people here, and they are all moving in the opposite direction.   Walking the streets is an art.  There are so many things to dodge here, limb-less beggars, cows, cow patties and rickshaws being just a few.  Plus, we're on the lookout for some of the scams we keep reading about.  The one that keeps me on my toes is the scam where someone dumbs shit on on your shoes and then charges you for them to remove it.  I kind of want to see this happen.  Not to me, but to some other poor sap.  I don't know how I'll react when someone dumps crap all over my feet, but I doubt I'm going to want to give them any money. 

Sarah is now making puking sounds at the swing music playing through the part where Jon Favreau picks up what's-her-name.  I don't know.  I still kind of like the movie.      

One Night In...

Bangkok

We literally had one night in Bangkok.  Sadly, I was not humbled. We had to stop there overnight on the way from Cambodia to Bali.  We probably should have just stayed overnight in the airport. All in all, it probably cost us $200 getting there, getting back, hotel, and airport tax.  I love the south east Asia airport tax move. After checking in and walking towards the gate, one encounters a security guard shepherding people toward a small booth nearby where a smiling uniformed women insists you pay her $30 to go any further.  It's a shakedown.  I understand the importance of making me help pay for someone to sweep the floors at the duty free shop, but at least put the extra charges where I can't see them.  Hide the tax like they do in America.  That way, I can fool myself that I'm not being extorted.

We only saw the tourist district, so I can't really judge the city.  I did see an Australian guy getting fake dread locks put in and a lot of t-shirts with pictures of pot plants on them.  Which is pretty much all I expected.  It's a bit like a trashy drug culture theme park.  Sanitized and not really all that dangerous. 

Ubud, Bali

There are flowers everywhere here.   They gave us flowers getting of the plane, flowers on the bed, flowers in the bathroom and flowers as a substitution for birthday day cake complete with a lit incense stick as a substitution for a candle.  Very considerate, the Balinese. 

Sarah turned thirty the other week.  She's doing just fine with it.  For her birthday, we did a number of fun things, the best was a walk through a so-called monkey forest where she was attacked by monkeys. (Hilarious results in this podcast episode). 

We spent about five days walking around Ubud feeling a bit out of our element.  Well, me anyway.  There are about four trillion boutique stores all selling the same sort of Balinese art.  It's very impressionistic with many scenes of village life representated, and many more village girls represented with their shirts off. We didn't buy anything. 

I feel too young to be doing this kind of vacationing.  This high priced walking around.  Lots of browsing like I want the proprietor to believe I've got a discerning eye. 

We are still bothered / harassed every five feet by men asking, "transport?" and making a thumbs-up with both hands, holding them at angles and moving them up and down on an imaginary steering wheel.  Everybody does this move.  The last day while walking up and down and then back up and down trailing Sarah, who likes to look, but never really buys anything (thank God), I realized it would be far better for my piece of mind to just get a damn taxi.  The two dollars I spent would be well worth the freedom from the "transport" men. 

I'll get my chance again though.  Sarah left her make-up bag in the hotel there, so we'll be making a detour back that way to retrieve it.  Apparently there are, "hundreds of dollars" worth of stuff in there.  Awesome.

Gili Islands

We spent a week here just lying in the sand and doing little else.  There are three small islands off the north west coast of Lombok, the largest, the one they call the "party" island, being the one we hung our hats.  It wasn't much of a party, which was fine with me.  The party belonged to the Lombok natives, who although supposedly fasting for Ramadan, never hesitated to solicit me for drugs. 

Walk by any bar, and they will first always give you the, "tssst.. tsst" to get your attention.  I always feel like I'm a dog they're trying to heel.

Against my better judgement, I look at them every time.

"Four-twenty man?"

"No.  I don't smoke."  This is true. 

"Why not?"

To this I always want to scream at them, "Cause I said so, damn it!  I just said no, but now I need to explain WHY I don't want your ditch weed??!!"

This happens ten times a day.  Usually it's the same three guys.  I think it's just a cultural misunderstanding and I shouldn't get too worked up over it.  Still, it's annoying.   

The Lombok natives also have something cooking with single Western girls.  I can't say for certain, but there seems to be some kind of pairing up going on with the lithe, long-haired, dark-skinned boys and the let's just say "not getting her picture on a power tools calendar (not even March) any time soon" girls.  I saw about a dozen of these "couples" parading up and down the beach, snorkeling, receiving back-rubs in the shallow water and just looking mismatched.  Much like the obvious financial relationships one sees in older graying men and young Cambodian girls.. ahem, women.    

Thank the Lord I'm married. 

The Real Cambodia

Phnom Penh

We spent a day learning all about genocide.  It's a real part of any tourist itinerary here.  First, we hit the killing fields.  This was popularized in a movie of the same name which I have never seen but is played in bars everywhere in Cambodia.  A little too much I feel.  I'll spare you the history lesson, but essentially lots of people were rounded up and exterminated by the Khmer Rouge in the late 70s. 

The killing fields are about an hour outside of town along one on the bumpiest roads on the planet.  Along the way are skinny cows and scenes of village life.  The fields are really just one field with holes in the ground measuring 20 feet by 20 feet, where hundreds of people were buried (the remains have been exhumed).  They are much smaller than you would think.  I had never seen a mass grave before, but I just pictured them much larger.  It's the smallness that's unnerving.  There is also one main tower on the site which houses hundreds of human skulls.  I couldn't really look at it for more than a few seconds.  It just doesn't seem completely right standing there looking at all these horrible things.  Walking around, I felt somehow ashamed. 

Afterwards, we went to the old prison from which people were sent to the killing fields.  It's an old school, and still looks like one, but in the classrooms sit beds where people were chained to and then murdered upon.  There was not a lot of other tourists there the day we went, so walking around alone bordered on frightening.  There are also mug shots of nearly all the people who spent time there.  It's hard to look at these faces looking back at you.  Again, I felt somehow ashamed.  Even taking pictures made me uneasy.  There are lots of pictures I took to try and convey what the place felt like, but it's tough not feeling cheap and exploitative when you're trying to take "good" shots.   

Sihanoukville

We spent four days here sitting at a beachside bar / guesthouse.  I did not move more than 30 yards on account that I was sick.  We met a bunch of young Americans living there, most sporting dread locks.  Apparently, it's a very easy to live in Cambodia  without any visa hassles.  One guy I met told me he just keeps reapplying for a business visa every month for $30.  He neither owns a business or works for a business.  As far as I could tell his only business was sitting at the bar smoking joints all day.  The authorities in southern Cambodia seem to take a very relaxed attitude towards softer drugs.

Kampot

This is a small town on the south east coast.  There wasn't much to see except for an abandoned French mountain resort.  The old crumbling four story casino hotel had to be haunted.  See pics here, here and here.  Same goes for the church.    

Siem Reap

The overwhelming reason to come here are the temples.  They are hundreds of years old and very photogenic.  See some here, here, here, and here.  We hired a tuk-tuk driver at $8 a day who took us from one temple to another.  All told, over two days, we probably saw 18 of them.  They are beautiful and it's fun / dangerous to climb on them, but early on the second day, my eyes began to glaze over.  Other attractions in the temple complex included monkeys doing unspeakable things to each other in broad daylight and hustling children.  These kids are everywhere.  Selling bracelets, postcards and fruit.  Sarah can't stand them.  When one or two kids start to follow her, she will do this little fake out move where she cuts back two steps and then jogs ahead.  It usually works.  I find that it's easier to engage them.  Short of violence, they are going to follow you anyway, so you might as well talk to them.  Once you start talking to them, they tend to forget they are supposed to be selling you things, and turn back into the five year olds they really are.  I got a handful of them to count to ten in unison in six different languages.  Also, taking pictures of them and showing their images to them is a big hit, but lots of times, they are used to this trick and ask you for a dollar just for the privilege of allowing themselves to be photographed.  Sigh.