The street shrines of Kuta

Even in the most modern of Thai cities, one can walk down the street or stroll a university campus and suddenly happen upon a stupa, an ancient Buddhist shrine around which the city has grown up as if the structure were protected by a force field. Some of these objects date back to the reign of Charlemagne or to the early Middle Ages, when Notre Dame of Paris was being constructed. Some are so old that, like primeval mountains, they are eroded down into pitted mounds. They aren't nearly as grand as the vast wats, Thai temples with which the tourist soon becomes watted out. They are simply part of the urban landscape. But people still leave offerings of flowers, food, and drink at them, and they remain undisturbed no matter where they stand. To stumble across such remarkable artifacts in the midst of a bustling city, unnoticed and unheralded by plaques or guided tours, is a constant revelation.

  

Here in Kuta, Bali, there are even more such structures, though here they are Hindu and not usually so archaic. Some of them are parts of actual temples, pura, but even the little back-alley neighborhoods of Bali look like temple complexes because of their coronet finials, internal courtyards and shrines, and tiled or thatched rooflines.



Apparently, once these edifices are installed, they are never removed.  There are remnants everywhere, still rising silently amid the empty spaces surrounded by ongoing hotel construction.

                                 

Some are now doorways to nowhere, protected by leering guardian demons, dvarapala, who bear weapons and fearsome scowls.

Some dvarapala stand in front of bars and surf shops that have sprouted around them. They are respectfully draped in checkered robes or shrouded like mummies. 

                                                

Barely noticeable twin shrines, contained by iron fences, flank the vacant lot that cuts between The Pad Bar & Grill and our hotel, giving it the illusion of being a bit safer at night.

Antique stone walls coated in emerald-green moss surround a muddy parking lot off Legian Street.

But the newest shrine erected in Kuta has a grimmer origin. Regrettably, it is listed as a top TripAdvisor attraction, in front of which one can see visitors in Santa hats taking one another's grinning photos and their own selfies. On the site of the destroyed Paddy's Pub, a busy corner off Legian Street, stands the massive carved-stone Ground Zero Monument, a memorial to the 2002 terrorist bombings in the Kuta tourist district. It lists on a black marble plaque the names and nationalities of all 202 victims, most of them Australian partiers. One of our drivers, Gede, was among the lucky, bartending at Paddy's when first one, then another bomb went off, leaving him with a permanent tinnitus in one ear and covered with the blood of customers whom he had been serving just moments before.

                                        

The monument bears a handful of smaller, more poignant memorials from the families of individuals who lost their lives there: Jerry & Andrew, Happy Birthday Joey, May Family. One wonders why there are so few of these remembrances.

Like the other mute shrines around the city, it will no doubt stand forever. But it is unlikely that it will ever be as solemn as they. There is now an annual "Kuta Karnival" media promotional event--originally an attempt to bring tourism back to Kuta, but now a big beach party--that celebrates the anniversary of the bombings,

Spa Visiting 101

I admit it. I wait until I'm somewhere in Southeast Asia to get as many as a dozen manicure-pedicures--largely because they're so cheap there ($13.50 max), I've got nothing else to do, and I have no dishes or dog care to ruin the job the instant I return home.

Of course, there's more to the mani-pedi experience than just getting one's nails trimmed and painted. As much as an hour and a half of oiling, nipping, pushing, abrading, cleaning, massaging, undercoating, painting, top coating, and bouts of vigorous fanning to dry the polish can be involved. Courtesy cups of water, fishing things out of your purse for you which might ding the manicure, local language lessons, and helping you back into your sandals can also be included. This is your day!

One of my several manicures somehow took place on the beach--
not usually advisable, given how sand adheres.

Bill lacked the patience required for a simple
mani-pedi. Barely able to tolerate
this simple clinical procedure in Pattaya,
he was twitchy as a cat. But his toes
have never looked better.

First (unless you're on the beach), you hop up to the entrance, kick off your sandals outside, and step into an air-conditioned salon where peaceful meditation music is playing. Then you determine whether the salon has the right color for you. Usually it does. Otherwise, you would have to beat an embarrassing retreat.  Because I'm nonconfrontational, I've always managed to find a passable color, though Balinese polish tends toward Halloweenish orange hues.

You are then ushered to your own cushioned seat and invited to soak your feet and hands in warm baths. In some cases, I've had two nail technicians working on me at once; in others, only one efficient one.

Usually, a little hand or foot massage costs extra, but some girls will throw one in for free.

Then begins the whole routine involved in making all twenty of your nails more flawless than you could possibly make them.

In Jamaica, a pedicurist insisted on scraping away at the soles of my feet with a grater until I thought I would scream, and left them nearly raw but softer than a baby's behind.

Here in Bali, my perfectionist pedicurist went to town, scrubbing away at every callus on one of my feet until she was satisfied, then picking up the other. Trouble lay ahead. I have been saving a very special, particularly painful corn on the ball of that foot for a U.S podiatrist. She began scrubbing it; I went "Ow"; and she inquired, with concern, "Pain?"  I nodded, and she began to take things very seriously indeed.  Out came a pair of lobster-like pincers with which she began enthusiastically digging away at the thing.

She worked away for a good while, as I thought: Are pedicurists in Bali also trained as podiatrists? Are these tools sterile? Will I need a Band-Aid? How about antiseptic? I asked all these questions of her, to which she smiled agreeably, continuing to work and chat quietly with her colleague--no doubt about how she had never seen such feet or heard such whining in her entire short career.

Eventually, she proudly presented me with a small granule that she had dug out of my foot. Her colleague admired it. Wow, I'm like an oyster to have created such an object, I thought. I didn't tell her so, lest she dig around for more.

She did anyway, despite my occasional protests that, really, it was fine and we needed to finish up. She paid no heed. This was a mission now. I began to fear that I would have to pay an additional 100,000 rupiah for this excavation. In the midst of it all, she applied alcohol. Shouldn't that have come first?

At length, the word got out. The boss lady and three or four other girls gathered round the operating theater. They goggled as they peered at my foot.

Now truly alarmed, I asked, "Is it bleeding? Can I see? Don't I need an antibiotic now? Is there a podiatrist around here?"

They smiled and went on about their business, while my pedicurist went on about hers.

Finally, I could take no more, made keep-away hand motions, and uttered my safe words: "Ti dahk!" ("No problem!").

The whole process took so long that I was unable to avoid a violent  Balinese thunderstorm that I'd seen approaching. Lightning cracked overhead; the alleys turned into ankle-deep, warm mudbaths filled with rotted offerings, rat droppings, and dog and horse shit. In all this I walked home on the sandal-shod foot that had just been operated on. If I'd had a Band-Aid, it would have washed off.

When I got back to the hotel, I washed my foot more thoroughly than it had ever been washed. I hope Neosporin really works.

The nails look great, though.

News at 11.

Why did the farangs cross the road?

In Thailand, there are many hair-raising activities to partake in.

One might, for instance, zipline through the jungle canopy like a monkey, in Flight of the Gibbon, available at several locations. This requires some training, a jungle guide, and the wearing of helmets and special gear. There, one may also rappel, climb rope "sky bridges," and indulge in honeymoon tandem-zipline packages, undoubtedly intended for those who have had second thoughts about their new marriage. "Dearest, let's do the honeymoon tandem package! It'll be rollicking fun!"

Such additional stunts as "Tarzan Jumps" and "Flying Fox"--hardly on everyone's bucket list--sound like nothing short of sheer, eye-popping terror.

These young women are clearly mad.
Note how delighted the suicidal one on the left is, having eschewed helmet-wearing entirely.

Then there are the snake, crocodile, and tiger shows, often way out in the sticks where safety statistics are hard to come by. There, visitors may drape themselves with massive boa constrictors controlled only by a hearty meal and the handler's state of sobriety.

Even elephant camp could be hazardous. Elephants, one worries, might have fleas the size of cats, which wouldn't hesitate to taste a tourist. And, sweet tempered as Asian elephants may be, riding any such animal elevates one to a life-threatening height of six to ten feet in the air. These beasts also have feet roughly the size of 18-wheeler hubcaps, with up to 10,000 pounds of weight behind them.

We were easily able to avoid all of these frightening adventures. We have free will, after all.

But come to the south end of the royal resort town of Hua Hin and you will find Thanon Phetkasem, Route 4, a divided highway connecting Bangkok and southern Thailand, which offers all the thrills you could possibly desire.

Unbeknownst to us, our hotel lay on one side of its heavily thicketed median, and everything else that we might want to reach, on the other. Among the delights on the other side are restaurants and the biggest mall in town, Market Village, thronged with happy shoppers and diners who were somehow able to get over there. Also on the other side is a huge night market offering unheard-of bargains, as well as the main taxi stand in our neighborhood.  Both sides of this six-lane highway are constantly abuzz with motorbikes, tour buses, cars, vans, trucks, tuk-tuks, song-taows, and bicycles. Crossing it takes the nerve and reflexes required to play a perfect game of Mario Kart. It is not unlike the Deadly Desert of The Wizard of Oz.

One imagines things would be easier if there were overpasses or timed crosswalks. Indeed, there are two. Each, however, is one-third of a kilometer away from our hotel in opposite directions. Appropriately, one of them crosses the highway to Bangkok Hospital; the other benefits the students of Hua Hin Wittayalai School. One mustn't have doctors, patients, or students taking chances (though I've seen plenty of the students doing so).  But for us to use one of these methods requires walking two-thirds of a kilometer out of our way, simply in order to cross the street.

At first, there was nothing for it but to take a tuk-tuk in a big U-turn across the street, for 100 baht, or roughly $3, per trip.

I'm sure that ferrying farangs across the street isn't unheard of among tuk-tuk drivers, who smile pleasantly, accept your $3, and, I suspect, purposely place the taxi stand on the wrong side of the street to capitalize on the practice.



After a while, this grated on our thrifty souls. We would brave one of the unmechanized crosswalks! How hard could it be? These Thais do it all the time. Look how closely they cut it.

This gent is more astute than most. He had sauntered nearly all the way
across before the crew hesitating on the median even dared set forth.

So, we faced our fear and tried. I got stranded on the median. 

An enterprising tuk-tuk driver once crossed the street on foot, all the way from the taxi stand, to escort us back across to his vehicle and then drive us on our way.

Another proven method is Strength in Numbers: Hang with a large enough throng of Thais who appear to know what they're doing, and most of the time none of you will be run over.

I was even lucky enough to happen upon the crosswalk when a traffic cop was there halting traffic. Why?  Maybe because it was Sunday? Was the King coming down the street? Who knows. It never happened again.

Why did the farangs cross the road? 

Because they had to. 

And they sometimes could.

Gallery of the Absurd

Spend any time at all in Thailand and you'll discover one of its hidden delights. Signs and sights are often incongruously screwy. More than once you'll find yourself knitting your brow, scratching your head, and thinking, "Huh?"  People write whole blogs about this topic because the material is everywhere, though it is beginning to disappear with the whitewash of westernization.  

In fact, the Thais may be becoming ashamed of their own typos. Seen on jersey barriers along a highway: a series of signs that read "SAFETY FIRT" in enormous, bold black letters. A few yards farther along, the offending typos had been blacked out so that the signs read simply "SAFETY." Finally, a few of them had been triumphantly corrected to "SAFETY FIRST."

A gallery of the absurd for your amusement:

The traditional Thai greeting, similar to the Japanese bow, is a prayerful
gesture called the wai (pronounced "why").  Here, Ronald McDonald offers both wai and wifi.

Where else could one find a hotel inadvertently designed to simulate a luxury liner colliding with a lighthouse?

Seen in an Aussie bar on Walking Street. Arabs keep out, but we respect your beliefs.

Entering Walking Street, you may expect "Passion of Colourful Paradise."
Could this be something like Disney's "Let the magic begin"?

Upon exiting Walking Street, you are wished a passionate evening ... I think.

We understand no smoking in the elevator, but what is that other ban all about?
Only in Thailand might you see a sign forbidding opened durian fruit.
Otherwise known as the world's stinkiest fruit, durian
tastes heavenly but smells like a cross between raw sewage and advanced decay.
Even Andrew Zimmern couldn't get past the smell to taste the ambrosia. 

The first line describing Koh Samet in a hotel handout makes it sound like
an S&M paradise: "A most idyllic Island for bathing and restraining."  What?

This international restaurant offers not only Thai, European, Chinese, and
Japanese food, but also free gruel! Count me in for this deal.
Another restaurant on the same street advertises "Western-style Chinese
food."  Pu-pu platter, anyone?

Pattaya also shows an absolute lack of reserve about matters that Westerners might find tasteless. 

Obviously a great deal of beer is drunk in this establishment. Ironically, the
toilet is located seemingly a mile away, in an adjacent hotel's garden.

These two off-color "laffs for the day" appeared in our luxury hotel's lobby.
But that's okay; there are no English-speaking children staying here.

Observed above the hippo pond at Khao Kheow Zoo. It's touching that they care
more for their animals than for the well-being of your cell phone.

Come to Thailand, and you'll find that the list indeed gose on.

Mrs. Jumbo and I

I love elephants.

I made this point vehemently to our Thai taxi driver, Ben, who was ferrying us about the Khao Kheow Open Zoo, 40 miles outside of Pattaya. Ben was intent on making sure we missed nothing, but I can do without aviaries. We have exotic birds in Florida.  Elephants, not so much.

"Mai nok. Chop chang!" I insisted. This means, basically, "Screw the birds. I like elephants," and Ben understood and obliged us.

I've seen elephants up close before, petted a bristly little baby in Chiang Mai, and watched them wield paintbrushes to create astounding drawings of flowers and trees. I've read Water for Elephants, the basic theme of which is the old saw that an elephant never forgets. I've watched Dumbo so many times with my kids that I can sing a mama elephant's lullaby to her baby. I suspect they might be smarter than us, and they have good hearts.  At least Asian elephants do.

How can one not love such a sweet, albeit large, doe-eyed creature?

So, I approached the elephant enclosure at Khao Kheow with a bagful of bananas and a joyful heart. I'd fed an elephant only sugarcane before, but I figured if they have a sweet tooth they must like bananas, too. I offered a whole banana to one adolescent, who promptly threw it on the ground and scared the hell out of Bill by giving him a kiss instead.

Then its mother strode forward to set me straight. She nibbled some leaves from a branch inside the enclosure and turned to me.

This time, I peeled a banana. She took it delicately with her snout and popped it into her fuzzy mouth. I followed up with the peel, which she liked as well. Meanwhile, her children wandered off.

When I stopped feeding bananas to her for a moment, she seized the branch, threw it over the log fence, and then struggled to get a grip on it, to haul it back inside. I handed it back to her, and she returned it to its place at her feet.

We were bonding.

At this point, it seemed appropriate to show her a sign of respect and gratitude for our interaction. I stepped back, placed my hands together in a prayerful and deep Thai wai, and bowed to her, saying, "Kap kun kah, chang" ("Thank you, Mrs. Elephant.")  Then something astonishing happened. She raised her trunk in her own wai and bowed her head in solemn response. I couldn't believe my eyes. Neither could Bill, who was snapping photos like mad.

                         

Then she politely requested another banana.

We both enjoyed this so much that we continued the same exchange of gestures until the bag of bananas was empty.

Long ago, a mahout probably taught her this trick for an elephant show, and she in turn taught it to me. I consider myself lucky that the trick didn't also involve her seizing the trainer and placing him on her back.

The eleventh hour

Two weeks from now, God willing, we will be in Reykjavik. Stopper that volcano for just a fortnight, will you please, senior deity? 

And ensure a few other things as well, please, while you're at it?

I guess two weeks isn't exactly the eleventh hour. But today we had to get serious about our tourist visas for Thailand.

A visa is required if one remains in Thailand longer than 30 days, as is an accounting of one's comings and goings, as well as every time one has been in Thailand before. (Why should that matter?)  We will be there precisely 31 days and will enter the kingdom twice, so Bill feared that, even if the Thai government let this go, the airlines might not, and we would be stuck forever in Singapore en route home. Although this might be fun, it really wouldn't do.

Turns out the nearest Thai consulate, in Miami, is closed for the entire month of September--rather like some Thai restaurants we know.  So, we have had to resort to a special Visa Express expediting service, whose website contains a great deal of text reading "Lorem Ipsum is simply dummy text of the printing and typesetting industry. Lorem Ipsum has been the industry's standard dummy text ever since the 1500s."

Being an editor and understanding the half-assed nature of "Lorem Ipsum," all this made me a bit nervous.

Nevertheless, Visa Express was recommended by the Thai consulate and happily accepted our payment of over $300 for their service.

No worries.

We discovered that we also had to have two additional passport photos taken apiece, to send off with our applications. Off we went to AAA headquarters, where this can be done relatively efficiently.  Still, I was by now so grumpy that I didn't bother to put on makeup and was perversely pleased to see that my photo looked like holy hell. The Thai government and the airlines will know how I feel about this, goddammit!

Now, the kicker. We are required to send off our passports with our photos, applications, and bank statement proving that we really have the money to pay for all this. 

Will our travel insurance cover not getting our passports back in time, and the bank account being drained?

Should I call in a consumer advocate?

Serenity now ...