Off to work...

Sangklaburi, bridge to Myanmar...

Loy Kratong...

Loy Kratong, Chiang Mai... Festival of the river and the moon, little candles floating by on the river while the sky is filled with hot-air balloons. A night when the stars all drift into space, each star a message of light..
Click HERE for another Chiang Mai story.

Cleaning tools in Khon Kaen..

Fresh fish, Fresh Dish

Fishing under the bridge to Myanmar...

Pattaya Short-time

Het eerste wat me opviel wijls de slaap uit mijn hoofd trok was het monotone geronk ergens onder me. Dat ik het voor het eerst in uitzonderlijk lange tijd koud had, en dit zonder hulp van airconditioning. Hoewel mijn romp en ledematen niet bepaald op een zachte ondergrond lagen, rustte mijn hoofd op iets zacht warms. Ik opende mijn ogen, en zag sterretjes. En dan de maan, die uitzonderlijk snel in een boog voorbijgleed. Ik zag haren wapperen vlak boven me, en voelde de bocht die de pick-up maakte aangenaam kriebelen in mijn buik. Blijkbaar was het niet zozeer de maan, dan wel mijn bed dat uitzonderlijk snel door de nacht gleed. Mijn ontwaken was niet onopgemerkt verlopen, want nu kwam er een lieflijk lachend snoetje ondersteboven in beeld. Ik had geen flauw idee waar ik was, behalve dan zeer ruw. Men neme een wereldkaart ter grote van een plaid, en men legt de top van eenders welke duim op Thailand. Daar moest ik te vinden zijn. Onder die top van uw duim dames en heren. Bon, ik wist niet per se waar ik was, maar ik wist wel hoe ik daar geraakt was. Ik herinner me ook een jazzy nachtclub in Khon Kaen, de universiteitsstad van Isaan. (Men neme als tegenvoorbeeld Genk, als de studentenstad van Limburg. Maar dan wel bevolkt met kleurige plooirokjes, broeken met de obligate plooi in de pijp, witte sokjes boven zwarte schoenen of lederen laarsjes, gesteven bloesjes en vrolijke gezichtjes. De diversiteit van uniformepjes is hier ongelooflijk, geel-blauw, wit-blauw, wit-zwart, rood-zwart, geel-rood, blauw-rood, roze-wit, en zelfs een hele school in een uniform waar elke rechtgeaarde scoutsfanaat zonder blozen jaloers op zou zijn. En blozen deed ik, zelfs zonder scoutsmanie, want onophoudelijk was er wel een waaghals die onder aanmoediging van -meisjes-gegniffel en -jongens-elleboogstompen die een woordje engels uitprobeerde op de toevallige farang daar op de plaatselijke Rooseveltplaats. Natuurlijk meer geniffel en stompen, en nieuwsgierige steelse blikken om te zien wat de blozende kerel daar nu mee aanmoest. Net aangekomen uit grensstadje Nong-Kai en dan zo het vuur aan de schenen, potdikkeme.) De achtergrond van het podium was een schrale combinatie van aluminiumfolie dat als behang was gebruikt (deed me sterk denken aan het decor van een of andere oefening op Sint-Lukas) en een reusachtige vergeelde foto van de skyline van New-York, tevens als behang, en tevens zeer herkenbaar als decor in een of andere acteursoefening. (ps, mensen die erik blij willen maken met fotogenieke staaltjes van slechte smaak kunnen steeds decorfoto's mailen naar erik.decnodder@scarlet.be ) Er was een trio saxofonisten links naast de skyline, met gliteer en schitter van het aluminiumfolie dat vrolijk flitste onder de constante chaos van gekleurde lichtstralen (ik was al blij dat er geen blitse laser geinstalleerd was, mijn laatste confrontatie met het gebundelde licht doen me vermoeden dat A: Menig laserflitsflash-apparaat zonder benul van enige ISO 9001 norm gefabriceerd wordt, en B: Ik toch niet zo kleurenblind ben, aangezien ik nu zelfs kleuren zie als ik mijn ogen toeknijp. Ik vermoed dat de controleur van brand- en andere veiligheid dat laatste ook al eens doet.) Achteraan, naast de twin-towers, zat de drummer lekker te geven, en dan waren er nog wat gitaren en zo, ah ja, miekes met kleine bikinikes en die waren volgnens mij ook van aluminiumfolie, aan de schittering te zien. En vooraan stond er afwisselend een rijpere dame in prachtige zijde jurk te zingen. En goed. Dat was een van de redenen dat ik het naar mijn zin had, zo alleen daar in de nachtclub, dat en mijn 350 gram puur rundsvlees met peperroomsaus. En echt alleen was ik niet, want de dansvloer was gevuld met oudere chinese dames met hun nog oudere chinese mannen, die afwisselend in kopel dansten, walsten of rockten, dan weer en masse een of andere countryfolk danspas uitvoerden. Of was dat een mij onbekende aerobicsdiscipline, zoals ik er al enkele ontdekt heb in publieke parken in Azie? Ja, deze jongen had het best naar zijn zin daar in Zuid-Oost Florida. Zelfs toen een van de uit volle borst zingende dames een echte Katoey bleek te zijn die net iets minder goed kon zingen, maar de zaal des te harder deed swingen. Volgens mij de geknipte persoon om kabouter Plop en consoorten van de kaart te vegen bij de ukkies daar in Vlaanderen. Entertainment zoals Eddy Wally er goud mee schept: zonder benul van goede smaak maar wel lachen. Maar dat had nog steeds niets te maken met mij, ontwakend in de open laadbak van een pick-up. Toch maar even mijn Steak-verhaal kunnen doen.
Ik was vandaag in Pataya geweest. Dat was het! Ik had nochtans menigmaal gezworen nooit een voet in Pataya te zetten. Tenzij om een memorabele fockyoumentaire over Lou zijn Banana te draaien. En behalve mijn stoelgang had ik vandaag niets gedraaid. En om de moraalridders alvast gerust te stellen, ik had vandaag zelfs niet aan iets gedraaid. Er blijken namelijk 2 Pataya's te zijn, waarvan ik vandaag de illustere heb mogen ontdekken. Uitgenodigd door de familie van een lieftallige jonge deerne was ik achter in de pick up geklommen, ondanks het aanbod om binnen te zitten, iets wat blijkbaar menig Thais volkspersoon vreemd vind, aan de vrolijke wijsvingers en grijnzen van voorbijgangers en passerende chauffeurs te zien. Maar leg maar eens uit dat het bij ons in Europa als ongezond wordt beschouwd om in de laadbak van een pick-up te zitten, zeker als deze de zone 30 inruilt voor de snelweg. (Inderdaad was elk loszittend haarstukje snel weg.) En leg maar eens uit dat de ravotter in mij het heerlijk vindt om gespeend van enig comfort de zonnestralen en rukwinden op den bol te voelen kletsen. Gezamenlijk zaten we daar, moeder de hen met Paa, een negenjarige deugniet die plots heel ernstig kan kijken, Oi, de oudste zus, en Dao, de lieftallige deerne die ik niet zo lang voordien had leren kennen in universiteitsstadje Khon Kaen. Aan het stuur zat de vriend van Kai, een vriendin van de zussen. Vader de leeuw zat ergens in een boerendorpje ver weg peren te stoven terwijl de vrouwkes verzameld waren in de tijdelijke stad van Dao om het komende Loi Kratong-festival kleur te geven. (Menig lezer zal dit festival herkennen als ik vertel dat het gebeuren bestaat uit veel mensen die veel kaarsjes in zelfgemaakte vlotjes de rivier af laten drijven.) En in afwachting van de festiviteiten op de 26e kon een dagje aan het meer van Pataya er wel af. Zeker nu dochterlief een blijkbaar niet onknappe bleekscheet had meegetroond naar haar kot.
Het was een prettige dag, het meer was koel en het eten was rijkelijk: gegrilde vis gevuld met citroengras en dergelijke, papaya-salade met koolsla en geroosterde kiek (is er trouwens een epidemie in Thailand of niet, want ik hoor er hier weinig van). Met het water en de chips voor Paa inbegrepen kwam de totaalrekening die ik op mij genomen had goedkoper uit als wanneer ik een willekeurig bezoek aan Burger King had gemaakt. Het was wel duidelijk dat er hier nooit toeristen van buitenlandse oorsprong neerstreken. (Behalve de vriend van Kai was er niemand in de verste verte die meer dan 2 woorden Engels sprak, uw teerbeminde blogger buiten beschouwing gelaten) En hilariteit alom toen de lange witte Farang zich gracieus ontdeed van zijn hemd en jeans om lekker in het water rond te spetteren. Het was voor mij een must, gezien ik dra nog verder van de zee zou zitten tussen bergvolkeren en andere illustere wezens. Bij gebrek aan voorbereiding had ik natuurlijk geen handdoek mee, en dus deed ik wat ieder fatsoenlijk mens in dit klimaat doet als het zwem-gedeelte afgelopen is: Rap rap het water uit, gauw gauw broek en hemd aantrekken, en snel snel nog wat kiek smullen. Het was een zeer fijne dag jawel, en het enige minpunt was steeds nieuwe manieren vnden om de niet zozeer licht bedoelde grapjes over verloving en trouwerij te pareren met niet affronterende ontwijkende tegengrapjes. Het was uiteindelijk een stevig eind terug naar de stad. En zo was het dus dat ik aangenaam en opgedroogd wakker werd in de open laadbak van een vliegensvlugge pick-up. En ondanks de prachtige aanblik, kon ik mij niet ontdoen van een sluimerend besef dat een abrupte stop van het voetuig ons zou herleiden tot willoze vliegende poppetjes die ten prooi aan allerlei fysica-wetten nog wel het minste te vrezen zouden hebben van de zwaartekracht. Hoe ver kan een zak patatten eigenlijk vliegen als deze tegen een snelheid van 140 kilometer per uur wordt weggekatapulteerd? En moet je diezelfde patatten eerst nog koken om van moes te kunnen spreken?
Adios Calimeros!

Vegetarian's Day.

Arrived in Nong Khai village today. Bordertown with Laos. Nothing special around here, except for lots and lots of temples and the monks wandering between them. Nice temples tough. But I fear some faded hippies and converted New-Agers have settled in some years ago. I didn't noticed at first. Until I got at my guesthouse, located in a small pittoresque soi running to the Mekong river. The soi is filled with old wooden houses in washed out happy colors. (Mom, if you are still reading my blog, now is a good time to quit) I was feeling quite good mooded, walking towards the MutMee Guesthouse, recommended by my far from Lonely Planet. All this would soon change. I was walking into a Sing-and-Heal-Trap. Or any-kind-of-New-Age-course-you-can-think-of-Trap. On my left and right posters with Chakra's, invitations to Reiki- and Yoga classes and chymes and bells tingling from doors were warning me to turn right back and forget I ever was here. But no, I was dazed from the busdrive, and kept going until I hit reception. Very well organized, as I would soon acknowledge. All kinds of flyers directing you to the right place or explaining step by step what to do and not to do were neatly stapled to the wooden wall next to the reception area. There was a basket with keys that opened locks from rental bikes, telling you not to yell if your bike should brake down in the middle of nowhere, and such and so. I noticed a sign under the counter while handing over my passport to one of the foreign managers that informed any crooks not to bring ANY lady from town into the rooms. Doing so would lead to exile. I guess tar and feathers were waiting in some corner of a tantra-classroom. The manager did his routine, explaining me how to use the logbook of my room to get the cooks cooking, the bed changed and stuff like that. Very keen, he was, making sure I would know he invented the whole system. I guess if he wouldn't be vegetarian he could have worked for McDonald's, making up rules and regulations for staff, breaking up the difficult process of making a hamburger into small, easy to handle actions that pimpled teenagers could perform. Well, he was friendly, nothing I can say about that. But I got a bad feeling about the whole place. It reminded me of some of the "spiritual meeting centers" back home, of which I saw one too many (sorry Mom, I warned you though), be it only in black on white (or yellow or orange, these were popular replacements for white)flyers, mind you. Ahem. Hey, stop mockin' me, I needed that colon cleansing. I'm just not sure yet why it was being performed during a candle procession with low-bass humming. I started to look around and I noticed the same people you would notice in any New-Age centre. Skinny white men with cropped haircuts and that typical I-may-know-something-but-I-can't-put-it-into-words-Smile, your occasional reformed but certainly not less fierce Bra-Burner, who wouldn't be smiling if they even got a fraction of my yesternights vibes channeled trough, and yes, there he was, sitting in a motored wheelchair a la Hawkins, the required minority representer. He looked like the only sensible guy around, but his conversational skills were probably limited due to the steering-straw in his mouth. He would turn out to be a real rebel actually, although I'm not sure if he knew the ruckus he caused behind him. You see, as he was trying to make his way back to his room, he had to get from the gravel ledge that looked out onto the Mekong onto the cemented pathway that connected the restaurant with the kitchen with the rooms with the toilets and so on. In doing so, he needed a little help, which one of the friendly Thai staff members took upon him. It was quite a struggle, and I wondered how he ever arranged to get to this remote corner of the country anyway. There would probably be a book about this adventure in the local bookshop, under the "everyday-heroes" section, or next to the story about the guy that had to drink his urine and chew ice on his way to the north-pole because his galvanic hi-tech sledge-ipod-tent-kitchen-radiotransistor-foot-warmer got lost in a crack of the ice. Anyway, I'm wandering off again. (something that can't be said of the guy in the... Hell, he was supposed to be the only one I kinda liked there, better get on with my story.)After the battle with the ledge, he buzzed off. (No, really, that's what they call it. It does! Buzz, that is.) Immediately after he was out of sight, the "gay" (gay as in "sort of unworriedly happy") manager, the organizer that is, jumped from behind a breakfast table and started looking for any possible damage. No, not for scratches on the buzzed-off one-man-tuk-tuk, he was checking out the curbside. While meticously scanning the curbside, he nonchalantly wiped the gravel smooth with his feet, wiping out the chaotic tracks his rebellious guest had left behind. (I wonder if he would help him over the curb on the outer gate if the rebel got expelled in the event of bringing home a fancy townslady.) He was still at it when I finished my otherwise delicious breakfast. I decided it was time to scramble, but with my laundry being hauled off to some sweatshop and my room already being paid for I had to come back sooner or later. I was provided with a MutMee Map of the town, and to my horror it was just as organized as the check-inn. It said: "Mut Mee, a Place to Stay, a Community, a Place to Eat, www.mutmee.net" Anyway, the horror only expanded as I was informed that due to some ASEAN summit in Vientiane, the border was closed for all cheapos, including me, trying to enter with a non-business visa. Until the first of bloody december! I just knew it was bad news, all this reformed hippies and the like. Trouble, that's what they are. I was gonna buy me a redneck-bumpersticker and stick it on my bumper, or any bumper, lacking personal transportation. (I knew just the kinda guy for it) Somehow I get really bothered thinking of all these Mantra-humming beings, although they are rather harmless if you stay out of their aural range. I wondered why, part of it is because I cannot rid myself of the feeling that they are little hypocrites, pretending they feel good because that's not important, so you better feel good! Or else! (yes, colon and cleansing are one of the possible answers) They walk around in Asia, thinking they know it all, only because they have been tutored in some deranged hybrid mix of occult-eastern knowledge combined with hippie-philosophy and baby-oil. Me, I know shit, I think I know maybe about 20 percent of what is happening around me, and I feel happy being lost in the other 80 percent. And I am not alone at that one. I don't know which ones I would survive longest on an island, these spiritual veggies, die-hard Money-can-buy-me-anything-but-decent-manners Farang or a troup of unleashed Israelis that just ended their tour of duty on some dusty outpost. I mean, anytime I'd prefer old Fawlty above smiling Julian, he would simply just whip that good boy out of his wheelchair and into the hospital for being so slow and scratching paint off onto his curbside. Only by using the sheer power of verbal suggestion, mind you. No, this guy waits until he thinks nobody spots him, then goes over and tries not to think bad thoughts too loud to disrupt the neighbouring Vipassana-session. But hard enough to give them the shivers. My Buddha, I'm ranting. Time to get some temples behind my jaws. They say it all started here. F*$k if I know. I just like these happy colors on their rooftops. See ya all. (Bye Mom, kiss for you...)

Udon Thani Rocks!

Well, what can I say, only two days in this battered old city and already I've seen more Thai culture than in my past two months together. Sort of. The first night out, I enjoy a drink in a cozy restaurant, owned by some friendly Thai lady and her Steve from England, as some of the waitresses ask me over to a sort of bachelor's party. So after the restaurant closes, about eleven something, I jump into a 4x4 with blue headlights and ditto neon under it's frame, together with some of the waitresses and the brothers of the boss. Thai. All of them. The girls giggle and the man holler, I seem to be part of their gift to the groom. It turns out to be somewhere far into the countryside, and they ask me if I'm not scared going with a bunch of strangers to a place I don't even know is there. (this is the first and only time I feel like I should worry, but it only takes a second, as I see some hundred Thai people scattered on a field looking at a Thai Soap-series on a big projection screen. No, it's not here.) Finally we stop in front of a wooden house, and after a minute or so a man peers out of the door. Turns out they are all sleeping, since tomorrow is the big day and all. But hey, before you know it I sit inside of the house with about 17 Thai people, most of them don't speak English nor Engrish, and all kinds of delicious snacks are being presented whilst lots of beer is being served. I even get to try some Thai Rice-whiskey. Very strong, but very nice too! I seem to be some sort of an attraction, brought along to entertain the men and women just by being white and grinning as I sip from my whiskey. I didn't mind, and in the end they even gave me some good-luck charms in the form of white cotton bracelets. On the way back I realized that now would be a good time to feel scared, because our driver seemed to have trouble remembering what side of the road he was supposed to be on. But as there was no traffic, not even chickens or rats crossing, there was not much to worry about. All in all a nice outing, and the night after that I would be able to catch a glimpse of Thai nightlife that was not seedy. Country-music and Beer Leo!! Yep, the next day I was escorted by two Isaan ladies to the local countryclub. The men decided they needed their sleep, as they had to wake up considerably earlier next day. No problem for me mate. The countryclub was crammed with Thais, many of them wiggling and shaking their arms and legs while singing along with the local band. The music was quite alright, not that I understood any of the words, but these guys knew how to get people moving, and not long after my second beer I was wiggling and shaking along. Nobody seemed to notice I was trying the same moves as some the cool Hip-hoppers from Mtv do, 'cause everybody seemed to have their own indistinguishable style around here. Lots of fun guaranteed. Waiters and waitresses ran around carrying platters of food and mainly drinks, dressed in Wrangler-copied Jeans and with Krama-bandana's around their necks. Cowboy-style all over the place. If it wasn't for their Thai looks, I would have thought I was in the deep south of the U.S. of A. (Tears of the Black Tiger doesn't looks so far-fetched anymore, by the way, there's a new movie from the same director coming, and critics in Thailand are once more puzzled and baffled and try to forget they have to come up with some sort of impression that translates to a big audience) Oh, it's happy hour again, bye folks! (My hat turns out to be real sharp-looking around here)

Point and Smile, Point of no Return

Today I saw the sun dawn upon Isaan, the rural North-East of Thailand. Isaan people are the salt of the earth when it comes to endurance and hard-honest working spirit. That is, if they haven't gone off to Bangkok and catched the big-city flue. I was entering a land where 80 percent of the people worked for their food, in a quite literal way; planting rice, herding cattle, grinding spices after drying them, just being busy living the farmer's life. My stop was at Udon-Thani, it's a city for Isaan standards, just like Aarschot is a city for people coming from Aarschot, I guess. I was entering an urban landscape that came as a surprise after hours of rice-paddies and scrubland. Tuk-Tuk's waited eagerly, and the few farang that got off the train instead of going straight to Lao were being scanned expertly before prices were set for fares to go to nearby hotels. I ignored the latter of them, as they seemed to speak English too well, which meant their gasoline would cost the same as it would in Europe. Instead I walked a little into the city, letting it seep into my system. It was just as the guidebooks predicted, a little hard on the eye, no temples worth mentioning in the books, no guesthouses even for the shoe-stringed traveller. No problem there, as I made it to the hotel I got a deja-vu of entering an old Perestroijka Hotel somewhere in the outlands of Siberia. But with the heat on. This building seemed to have been erected in the fifties, post-war style, and I felt my hairs stand up as i noticed the tag on the mirrors: "Union Commerciale des Glaceries Belges, Bruxelles, Vitrerie en Beglazing." It seemed to have been on there forever, a tag that would appeal to the antique-dealers at Marolles, or the few old-school ones in the Kloosterstraat. The room was only 3.50 euro's, so I guess there is no need for guesthouses in this city, giving the fact that my room was twice as big as any room I've slept in while in Bangkok. I kinda liked these battered, 'ugly' cities, last time I was in such a place was when I got sick and had to stay in the local Hospital of Chumphon. That was a different trip tough. Back in the days when I still tought I would change just by travelling. These days, I feel more like I'm dissolving while travelling. I'm still very aware that I'm still same old me, but it just doesn't matter that much around here. Not that there's so much wrong with being me, but after 24 years you get bored by being you from time to time, I guess. No, lately I hadn't been too occupied with finding a reason for being here, or with just "being" in general. It was only by looking into that mirror and at the same time seeing the familiar font and names on the little tag, that I remembered I came from somewhere.


After I catched some sleep (see the previous post) I went out in the city, strolling around, window-shopping, and prety soon it dawned upon me I was far from Bangkok, despite being in a Thai city. Almost no one spoke Egglish, and it was only after about walking around for an hour or so that I saw the first other Farang. It turned out I was just around the corner of the major shopping mall, the biggest around, and the only one as well. But before I was in Airco-city, I was on my own, with my very basic knowledge of Thai being stretched far beyond my comprehension. This was the Land of Point and Smile, and then point some more, and speak slowly but still English, point some more, and just keep smiling so as not to upset the friendly but bewildered vendors. I guessed that apart from the shopping mall with it's Swensen and Pizza-Hut and All you can Eat-Grill (boy, I didn't just save money by catching up on forgotten meals, I think I even made money eating my way trough Tuna Salalds, Potato Salads, Pork Sausages and all sorts of thick dressings.) this would be the score for the rest of my upcountry trip. I would be getting my Laos visa in a couple of days, in Khon Kaen, when the embassy opened again after the weekend, and I would be going into a country where pointing and smiling and blabbering are common pidgeon. For now I was being happy just walking around, snapping uninteresting pictures and at the same time looking to the things outside of the picture. This was still the kind of place where Tuk-Tuk's were driven by old men in old shirts and gritty pants, instead of by some young schmuck with a Ray Ben on his head and the latest white Adiads on his feet. Andd I even managed to spot some Cyclos, that were being pulled by even more battered characters, men that looked like they had been born somewhere during the Roaring Twenties, alltough I doubt if there was anything roaring in these streets those days, apart from the occasional pig on a stick passing trough on its way to some party. (yes, well, if you don't have fridges and air-cool-trucks you best keep those precious porkchops fresh as long as possible by other means; keeping it alive and kicking) This was a place where people were very proud of knowing a word outside of Thai, and theuy insisted on using it whenever they saw a white-skinned farang around. I mean, it's nice when people say hello as you walk by, but if they keep saying it when for instance you try to point your way trough a purchase of a pen it tends to get a little annoying. Or even hilarious, as they yelled it at me with a big smile and a waive coming from a big truck that came very close to running me over. These people had their hearts on the right place, as far as I could tell, so I did not try to use my Sawasdee khap's too much but instead smiled surprised and answered with a nice Hello to you. Anyway, this was a place where you had to be very carefull with your Thai, because uttering even as much as one word (being one of the 6 or so I've mastered) would end you up in a waterfall of Thai sounds, and eager looks at the pauses between one waterfall and the next. Ignoring your baffled and lost look, the waterfall would just keep running until you shrugged your shoulders quite unsubtle, held up your palms towards the sky and shook your head like a horizontal variation of a death-metal-headbanger. Just remember to keep smiling in the act. Yes, I was feeling pretty happy. Soon I would be in dusty Laos, sitting on the deck of a steamboat (or so I imagined) watching landscapes slide by in a more than slow pace, which wouldn't matter because I was in Laos, Land of the 1000 Lotus-Eaters.

Hobo

I have always preferred trains over buses, and last nights experience didn't change that any. I was waiting in line at Bangkok's main train station, when it occurred to me it was a Friday evening. I had chosen a bad moment to travel. Everybody likes to go somewhere in the weekend, and indeed, when I tried to order my ticket to Udon Thani, all second class and even first class sleepers were occupied already. I could however take the express train 45 minutes later, leaving at 20.45 and arriving at 08 in the morning in Udon. Provided I was willing to sit in third class. Why not, I was supposed to be traveling low-budget anyway, why pay 10 euros for a bed in a train if I could get there for 3.50 euros on a wooden bench? I didn't regret it. It was long, indeed, and sleeping was not an option, apart from a minute or 5 here and there. I was seated between real Isan folk, people that know about the hard life and smile compassionately when thinking of that life. I was being spoken to in Thai and Thai-Lu, the north-eastern dialect of thailand. People were mocking this strange bird amidst them, indeed, I was the only farang in the whole third class compartment. I guess they are not used to see a whiteskin sitting it out on the bleachers seats for a small 11 hours. I didn't mind being the main subject off small-talk for the first hour of this trip, as most of them seemed rather friendly minded about my presence. I was offered all kinds of suspicious feats, from dried fish-skins to warm beers, but I managed to dodge most offers without offending them. At last I had to eat a bitter tasting fruit that looked like a potato and had the inner texture of an apple. I was relieved when I got off the train that I didn't get the watery sheitsers on account of the potato. It happened before, so don't mock me. And toilets in third class ain't really in my book of "rest"-rooms. Anyway, after they had inspected me and my strange book (many of these people can't read Thai, let alone English) their curiosity seemed satisfied and I guess they started talking about the reunion with their families in the morning. Working in Bangkok's sweatshops, as taxi-drivers or tuk-tuk drivers, playing security-guard at underpaid wages, these people all came to Bangkok dreaming of making it, or at least being able to scrape together enough money to support the family back home. (I will leave out of account the many freelance girls coming from Isaan, as they tend to take the airplane home ;-) Pride was in their pose, and it suited them, honesty shining in their eyes. These people didn't like complaining and bitching about the small inconveniences of daily life. Instead they looked forward seeing their 'kin again. Later, around 3 in the morning, when I quietly went to the toilet, I was almost moved to tears by the landscape of sleeping couples, mothers holding their children in their sleep, sometimes three of them at the same time. Everywhere I looked I saw unison. I guess I missed my hometown a little, but more than that I was just reminded by the importance of havong each other, of knowing you don't have to stand it all alone. Back home I liked to pretend I was a loner, and in ways I am, but I guess I am also a little of a romanticus, and seeing these people that were living hard but honest lives holding each other in their sleep (they would never do so in public when awake, unless it was brothers or sisters) just made me feel we (we, as in the west)were getting it all wrong. All this bravado and made-up need to show our independence, afraid of being let down. I think I was afraid of being let down just because I have so much. These people have nothing to loose but they are willing to fight for it. They have one another to build on. Me? I have my internet and my camera, I can hide a little more while watching other people making a living together. And I can't help but feel like I just got carried away, because I don't feel I have a right to complain, as most of my fondest memories from back home are those in which I was part of something, be it a loony filmcrew or an even loonier youth-movement. Maybe I am spoiled, being born in Belgium, but that doesn't mean I'm lost. There's more great stuff to do while I'm here, and I sure hope it envolves lots of people and lots of hard work, say standing up for more than 10 hours in the cold night while looking at yet another take of shot such and so. (As long as there's catering, there's a happy crew-member tagging along ;-)
Anyways, I feel kinda exposed right now, so I'm gonna hit some happy-hour beers. See ya all.

Sangkla Buri and the Three Pagodas

This bridge close to the border with Myanmar leads to a small but pittoresque Hmon village, where people spend their time looking other people walk by and smoking cigar-like cigarettes that look like Bob Marley has rolled them and are being smoked with the wide-side in your mouth.

Trip to Kanchana Buri, "railway to hell"

Well, Kancanaburi is where the famous Bridge over the river Kwai is, so that's why this is called the railway to hell. Apartt from that I can just say it was a very boring, tour-operated town, so off I went to the exotic bordertown of SangklaBuri, bordering Myanmar. The view as the bus drove around the last hill before showing SangklaBuri was stunning, especially after two weeks of capital Bkk. Yes, this was a good place to breath in some fresh air: a big lake runing across the border, and hiding some traditional tribal villages along it's banks, mountains older than Roland Lomme's second chin and everywhere monsoon-forest, being gren at this time on account of the ending of the rainseason. Looking across the lake was like looking at one of these Japanese paintings from lakes with mountains disappearing behind each other and into the ether. But then in full colour. I decided to give the eco-trekking a try, and next morning we set out in a longtail boat across the lake, enjoying the scenery pass by.

Later I enjoyed a pleasant form of sea-sickness as I sat on the back of an elephant, cruisin' the jungle and wading trough rivers. I felt like the late Mr. Genghis Khan, marching towards yet another victorious battle, trying not to feel sick and look ferocious.
After the elephant ride (I'm still not sure if Genghis Khan ever actually rode an elephant) it was time for some picnic, and then on to the Bamboo-rafts and into the river. It got pretty wild from time to time, but all in all it was a relaxed ride down the river, nothing close to Deliverance, apart from the apparent inbreds that populated the river's banks and seemed happy to sit there all day, fishin and grinning at no one in particular. We made a small stop on our way back to the longtail boat, and at first I wondered why this was done. Just a rocky riverbank with nothing to see or do. But then, as we set foot on the rocks, a school of butterflies swarmed up into the sky and fluttered all around us, mainly two schools I guess, one sticking to monochrome yellow, but a happy yellow none the less, and the other in stylish Black and White. After some snapshots we continued our rafting-adventure and arrived back at the longtail-boat.

Some locals were smoking odd-shaped cigarettes, and playing a local form of bowling, consisting of small flat stones being placed in grooves in the earth, and trying to topple as many as possible in one strike with another flat stone. These tribes rocked! Playing bowling and smoking what looked like huge spliffs but then backwards! Later, when we were on our way back to the wood and stone bungalows that seemed like they came from some Alp and had been mixed with a stone-rock house from the Pyrenees, we saw an artefact hidden under the cool waters of the lake; a drowned stupa. This place felt like magic. The weeds in the water moved like in slow-motion, and I felt like sirens were singing to me to join them in the waters. I stayed put however, knowing very well that soon I would be in Bangkok again and there would be more than enough sirens to be enchanted by.

Actually, it didn't take until Bangkok, and no, this isn't yet another tale of corrution of the morals, rather a celebration of it. As I climbed in the back of a pick-up truck, I joined a gang of locals looking eerily at this cowboy joining them. (I was boldly wearing a white hat that was on my head mostly for it's protectional capacities than it's appearance, altough I kinda got attached to it pretty soon.) Before I entered the pick-up, I had exchanged short glances with three schoolgirls crossing the street. They climbed aboard the old vehicle as well. I felt like a sixteen-year old teenager, blushing under my white Stetson (Okay, not a real one, more like a Setsun or something) trying not to get caught looking at the tallest one of them. She was doing the same thing. We couldn't help but blush and try to keep from grinning. It was all pretty harmless, and apart from being a little bit too old and a little bit too foreign I think our children would have been the most beautiful little angels running around on this planet. No, that's just the butterflies talking in my stomach. It all ended after a couple of long minutes when her friends got out and she followed them, looking over her shoulder one more time before I disappeared into the sunset. The old woman with the missing teeth across from me gave me the eye as I sighed, and I started humming quietly, feeling complete and utterly content with all of it. I'm a poor, a lonesome cowboy...

Potverdoemme!

Awel, duzend bommen en garnaten, morgen komt de nieve wong kar wai uit in bangkok, dienen dingen, alle, twieduzend46 awa! ik zen een beke van men melk, want de laatste filmkes die ik hier gezien heb waren ni echt al te vrolijk (Cellular; vermijden tenzij je een ugcpasje en een oceaan van verveling ter beschikking hebt, en Dodgeball; ja, moet ik daar nu echt iets bij verzinnen?) Potverdikkeme, ik blijf nog wa plakken wa, morgen gaan ik naar de cinema, hoera hoera! Engelse ondertitels of ni, ik gaan lekker rillen in den bioscoop! PS als iemand van ulder nog fijne scenarios of filmstuff heeft gemaakt, mailt da dan naar erikdc@gmail.com, zo kan ik mijn kwaliteitsleven wa upgraden alhier. Da rik.

Carpe Diem

So, I was supposed to stand in front of a classroom filled with eager smiling little Siamese kids, but a dangerously cocktail of Malaria-medication and Thai Whisky voted against any such plans. I went out yesterday evening, bought my first teacher-uniform and all, two neat shirts and two black pants, and tought I would just drop by good old Hole in the Wall, a sort of Kassa4-Barracuda-BarTabac in the heart of bloody Khao San Road. Anyway, by the time I got back home, I was way past my schedule, and I vaguely remind putting my alarmclock about 2 hours later. I can do this, I remember telling myself, I can do this. I even found strength in the memorie of one of my good old friends in Belgium, who is specialised in waking up adfter two hours of sleep and with still enough inflammatory liquids in his system to get pulled aside. I was thinking of the bravado with which my dear friend would stagger of to work, and to succesfully perform whatever devious duties lay ahead of him on that day. And so I fell into a coma, only to wake up with a screaming headache, a burning liver and a slightly irregular heartbeat. This had happened to me two weeks ago, and I knew I wasn't going to show up at my first day of work. Iwasn't even gonna make it to the nearest 7Eleven if I ran out of soda and aspros. Which happened eventually, six hours of vomiting agony later. I allready had warned my boss, who was sweet about it, since I only told about the being sick part and not the night before, so now I only had to warn myself never ever to mix my Lariam with suspiciously cheap whisky again. (5 euros a bottle.) Somehow I remember dragging myself 5 flights down to get in the burning blistering heat of the 2 o'clock tropical sunny asphaltos, and by the time I had gotten in the airconditioned 7Eleven, my shirt was soaked with rancid hangover-sweat. I managed to carry my supply of water up the stairs, and after another encounter with mr. Loo I sank into a sweaty afternoon nap. Later that day I kindly returned my schoolbooks to my boss, who told me to get well soon (no acting required for calling in sick when Lariam is working on your hangover at a 200 heartbeats a second.) and also that she had high hopes of me becoming a teacher. I couldn't believe it. Only in Thailand! Seemed like the impression I made in class the other day erased any doubts about my capacity of going to bed in time. So, I kindly told her I was going to call her if I was back in shape, but also that chances were big that I would spend the next three weeks in laidback Lao. She gave me a kind smile, and wished me luck, and told me to keep her number for when I was ready to settle in buzzy Bangkok. Amazing, Thai etiquette is just not what I expected it to be. I guess my days of learning are far from over...

back in town...

So last week I was spending a night in some Cambodian bordertown, one of those places where you can get two girls for roomservice, quite expensive, tough, so I skipped on that one.(Really guys, you must believe me! Especially you, Mr. Gozin, you must know I wouldn't dare stealing other people's dreams for a mere 20 dollars) Skipped on the "Blast-A-Cow" funpark as well, one cow is said to be sold for 60 dollars, and one shot from a rocket launcher will cost about the same, so it goes. But I'm not such a skilled sniper, so I would probably not get any steak out of my adventure anyway. Ahem, so, after being stuck in some dogtown at the border, I was in Thailand again, smiling way too much according to local norms, but still being smiled at, so I knew I was in friendly south-east asia allright. Funny thing happened, I was sitting on a bus that would take me straight to Ekkamai, Bangkok, not so far from a "friend's" appartment. But after waiting about half an hour somebody came to us and told us the bus didn"t go to bangkok. We had to take a slow bus, going to the Northern terminal of bangkok. After friendly inquiring why this state-run bus didn't go, the ticketlady told me that the driver was sleeping, and she smiled this typical I-can't-help-it-please-don't-make-me-lose-face-by-getting-angry-or-asking-embarrasing-questions-like-is-he-drunk?-thank-you-smile. You get to see this smile quite a lot when things go not exactly as planned, but I tend to smile back, say my Mai-pen-rai ("No Problem" works the same in Jamaica, so it goes) and change bus. Ending up on the other side of bangkok 5 hours later, i didn't feel like holiday-boy. It felt like coming home, or no, actually, it would feel like arriving in Brussels after a die-hard weekend of Antwerpian pubs and parties. It's not home yet, but it could be. Anyway, I prefer Bangkok above Brussels as far as my daily portion of Asian chaos and impressions requires from my system. A ew days later I had set up my camp at the ekkamai area, a little bit like Borgerhout in Bangkok, being densely populated with thai muslims. Well, okay, not like Borgerhout, because you can smile to people and not worry about insulting them while smiling. Hmm. I guess I say this because it's true. Because I seem to be addicted to smiling. I can just grin idiotically at anyone here, 8 out of ten I get a smile back, be it sometimes for other reasons. (sweat pearls dripping from your earlobes and nostrils is a good reason for giggles I guess) And 1 out of ten I get laid for a smile. (And 10 out of 10 with a smile) Ahem. Yes, i was saying? Bollocks. Anyway, being slightly bored because my roommate wasn't coming back until the tenth of November, I just started to stroll around in my 'hood. What I like so much, apart of the trade in smiles, is that you can be walking a big and busy road, like Sukumvith Road (one of the main arteries of Bangkok, lined with businesses, banks, international schools and other, less serious time-consuming businesses) all stuffed with traffic and commuters and foodstalls selling 50 cent dishes, and you just turn left or right in almost any sidestreet, and all is quiet again. There is still traffic, but considerably less. Then you can walk into another sidestreet on this sidestreet, and all will be even more quiet. But walk deep enough in this maze of sidestreets, past linnen hanging out to dry and street dogs trying to get some food out of the garbnage-bags, and you are most certain to hit upon a hidden village, mostly foodstalls catering to locals and beergardens filled with men drinking their hard works' paycheck, looking at the waitresses being busy waiting. Bangkok is filled with enclaves like this, and the more thai you speak, the more welcome you find yourselve.
It was on one of my outings, that a lady came over to talk to me. She spoke decent English, and was dressed decent, so I frowned a little because this was new to me. Anyway, to make a long story short, 2 hours later I was in some suburbian part close to the airport standing in front of 20 eight-year old kids in neat uniforms. Didn't sweat, thanks to the airconditioning. Did gave them an introductionary lesson on ordering Spaghetti and expressing satisfaction after having a belly full of bolognaise and pasta. "Mmmh, that was good..." Yes, these little fellas sure knew how to order Italian. I'm supposed to show up at 8 o'clock tomorrow, so I gotta do some shopping (Mr. Tie and me have never been good friends, but for 60 eurocents a tie one can't complain about the unnecessary high expense I guess.)Gonna get me some decent white shirt with a crease and a black pants with a crease as well, while I'm at it. If you're gonna do something, better do it good. It'll keep me busy for some time, keeps me from getting bored, and from going broke on Happy-hours...