Friday March 19, 2010
Calcutta was home to Mother Teresa for most of her life. It was where she established the Mother Charity missions that now exist in many cities around the world to help the very poorest “destitute and dying,” as well as orphans. It was important to me to visit the sights of Mother Teresa’s life and work because they are an example of excellent mission charity work and because Mother Teresa was my mother’s namesake.
I was surprised to learn that the mission openly accepts any foreign volunteers who show up at their door. They will put you to work the next day, after a brief orientation session, at one of their various locations in the city. I was interested in volunteering but I don’t really believe that a volunteer can do good work if he/she is only around long enough to learn the ropes. I wouldn’t have more than a day or two to spend, and honestly, I discovered the work was far too personal and intense for me.
I’ve never been to an orphanage before. I’ve always highly considered adopting if/when I decide I want children. The mission’s orphanage was exactly the scene I had always imagined a well-run orphanage would be. With an older Indian couple (who I think were interested in adopting) I was shown several rooms of the complex.
A nun dressed in white cotton robes took us first to the top floor, where in a bright, colorful room there were about 25 beds with low bars and an open space where equally as many children ranging from 4-10 years old were interacting and being cared for by busy volunteers and nuns. These children were all physically and/or mentally handicapped from birth or accidents in some way. They were shy but smiling, clinging to the women for guidance and love. One volunteer was soothing a trembling, blind 4 year old boy after some recent incident. In an accent I would place from Southern Spain she cooed, “Mi monito, no llores, no llores, estoy aqui.” Just then a young boy, who may have had cerebral palsy, fell to the ground and let out a cry. Calmly she stood the blind boy on his feet and anchored him to the side of the bed by wrapping his hand around the bar, “esperame,” and rushed to comfort the fallen boy.
Aside from these occasional tears the children seemed happy and busy either with each other or the women. They were drawing, playing, eating or sleeping. They seemed remarkably healthy. I was more concerned about the nuns and volunteers who were clearly exerting everything to care for these children. And yet they still had time to smile at us and ask us if we needed anything as we observed their work! I thought about the parents who had to give up these beautiful children because they couldn’t care for their special needs, or perhaps the parents who abandoned them because of their differences. Would these children ever know which the case was for them? Would they live their whole childhood in the orphanage? What would happen to them as adults? Was there any movement to adopt special needs children in India?
As we were about to leave the room I noticed the Indian woman looked as though she was about to cry, and so was I.
We headed downstairs with the melody of “row, row, row your boat…” growing louder. We were led into a smaller room with 20 cribs instead of beds and 20 toddlers playing in a pile on the floor with an assortment of toys and recorded children’s music filling the room. Again, they looked happy and healthy. But here there was only a single woman watching them, monitoring the fair sharing of the popular toys, and food and toilet needs. As soon as we stepped over the fence into the room each I, the husband, and the wife had 3-4 toddlers at our feet, hugging out legs, smiling bashfully at us, begging us to hold them. I sat on the floor and in seconds someone had claimed into my lap, a little girl with the biggest eyes and little black pigtails. She didn’t say anything, she didn’t show me anything, and she didn’t demand anything. She just looked up at me with the biggest smile as though I had just given her a huge ice cream cone with rainbow sprinkles, what a delight to be on my lap! I played with her for a bit but there was a queue for my lap quickly forming, girls and boys (though the ratio reflects the societal preference in India for sons, 3:1 of girls to boys) vying for my attention. After a couple more hugs I couldn’t take it anymore and we left that room as well. The married woman was holding an infant girl and looking completely overwhelmed. The young children were just what I would expect orphans to be. They were simply and mostly in need of physical affection. I asked the nun that was guiding us through the building if these children were all up for adoption. “Yes, adoption office open tomorrow morning, 8am. You come tomorrow?” No, I’m not adopting, not yet, definitely not yet, I tried to tell her. She smiled kindly and sadly. I learned that Mother’s orphanage is home to over 200 children at the moment. When my visit was over I headed to the Mother House to visit Mother Teresa’s tomb feeling emotional and hormonal.
Mother Teresa’s main personal mission had been to care for the poorest of the poor, the destitute and dying. Near the main Kali Temple of Kolkata is Mother Teresa’s original home for the sick and dying. I visited the temple briefly and waited half-an-hour for the “home” to open it’s doors at 3pm for visitors. I tentatively entered, not at all sure what to expect. Just beyond the door I was in a room with about 30 cots, each occupied by an old, fragile man. Some were sitting, some sleeping, some eating. Volunteers moved between them checking comfort and needs. I hadn’t expected to walk straight into the facility. The lonely planet said the home was, “surprisingly small.” I didn’t realize that meant it lacked any type of lobby or hallway. A young Canadian woman came up to me and asked what she could do for me. I told her I had just stopped by to visit, but I wasn’t sure what that entailed. She swept me with her along her rounds in the next room where all the woman lay. She was cheery and conversational. Asking me many question about my travels. She was a nurse in Canada and had come to Kolkata specifically to volunteer at Mother Teresa’s home for the sick and dying for 1 month. I asked some questions about the woman and the operations of the home but I was quickly overwhelmed watching the patients and the minimal conditions and supplies available. The Canadian woman told me that some of the people come to the home themselves; some are found in the slums and brought there. If they had no one to care for them they would rest here until they passed away. I barely looked at the patients, focusing on my conversation with the woman, not allowing myself to connect to the place. I left not 10 minutes after I arrived, avoiding the emotions and memories I knew would flood in if I remained there longer.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Friday, March 19, 2010
Visiting Kolkata, Bangladesh will have to wait.
Thursday March 18, 2010
I had expected Kolkata to be an extremely chaotic city, one of the worse. It is, after all, the 2nd largest city in India by population. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find Kolkata to be a very friendly city with little hassle, though the traffic is horrible. I feel right at home again, almost as though I never left. Slowly my limited Hindi vocabulary is coming back into use. I’m re-adapting my head wobble/tilt to replace my use of the words “yes” “maybe” “ok” “I don’t know” and “thank you.” And I’m fully enjoying the fact that everyone speaks English!! Well not everyone, not nearly everyone, but compared to my past 2 months in SE Asia I can have conversations with a complete with so much more content and friendliness. I appreciate what India offers a traveler so much more now than I did when I was here 2 years ago, the sense of humor, the clothes, the cheapness, the food, the silly bargaining, the English, the Hindi (no tones!)… Coming from SE Asia I am already used to the intense stares from men, the pollution, the heat, the noise, and the horrible traffic. And this all leaves me with generally positive experiences around each corner.
I flew into Kolkata mainly because I had hoped to spend some time in Bangladesh. On Tuesday it ended up being too late for me to go to the Bangladesh Consulate to apply for a visa. On Wednesday morning I took a taxi there only to discovered it was closed for the day to celebrate the birthday of the honorable Sir Reallylongname Reallylongname Reallylongname. On Thursday I returned, but I knew I would only bother to apply if I could get the visa back by Friday. This would only give me about 5 days to head into Dhaka, stay, and leave before I would have to make my way to Delhi. I promised Arman I would be in Delhi before his birthday on April 3 and I intend to keep that promise.
My interest in Bangladesh is to see a different part of Indian culture and visit a Muslim country for the first time. Being a Muslim country I wanted to get the visa in my Netherlands passport. I have two passports for good reason; sometimes I’d rather not be American. Also, I knew the visa would be cheaper for Europeans (about $20 vs $100). At the application counter everything seemed to be in order, they said I would get my visa the next day. I had to come back at 11:30am, in 2 hours, for an interview.
“Are you Muslim? Or Hindu? What is your caste?”
“No I’m not Muslim. I don’t have a caste.”
“What is your religion? Christian?”
I shake my head, “I don’t have one.”
“Agnostic?” he asks with shock, “why?”
“Because I wasn’t raised with a religion,” I smile.
“Why do you look Muslim?”
“How do you mean, because of my face?”
He nods.
“I don’t know.”
“You look Muslim.”
“Well, thank you” I smile and take my leave. I’m always flattered if someone identifies me with a particular ethnicity, especially if it is their own. I don’t know why he should identify me as Muslim, even after having seen my American passport as ID. Occasionally in the states people have asked me if I am Persian or they just ask “what” I am, usually after hearing my name. It was an interesting exchange to occur just as I am in the process of getting a Visa for Bangladesh, a Muslim country. I head back to the consulate to be early for my interview.
I waited for my turn to be interviewed. When I was called forward the man began to shuffle through my application and copies of my passport and Indian visa. I could tell he had no intentions of actually asking me questions when he began to name the fee for the visa for Dutch citizens ($18). But then he asked if I had the passport with me that contained the Indian visa. Was it an old passport? No, I said, it was a different passport. I had no intention of lying about my American citizenship; I just wanted the visa to be for my Dutch passport. He asked to see my American passport so I showed him.
He then proceeded to tell me he would have to put the visa in my American passport. I was afraid of this. My Indian visa is in my American passport because only Americans can have 10 year visas to India. I try to ask him why it is a problem. He has a photocopy of my India visa, he has both passports in front of him, until just then he didn’t know I had an American passport, why couldn’t he just put it in the Dutch passport? Because these were his rules, he says. I plead with him, saying it shouldn’t make a difference, all the information is available, but he doesn’t care. He asks me why I care, is it “because the American visa is more money?” “No, it’s because I feel safer traveling on my Dutch passport,” I say. This seems to change things. He then says he can write to the office higher up and ask them for permission to glue the visa into my Dutch passport. How long will this take? At least a week. I tell him I don’t have that kind of time, I will have to go with my American passport. But when I find out that an American visa will cost more than $170 I change my mind. For me to pay $170 to go Bangladesh, which honestly is not completely safe for a single female traveler due to political unrest, and for less than 5 days doesn’t seem worth it. I take both of my passports and leave the consulate. I’ll have to visit Bangladesh in the future when I have more time to actually see the country and hopefully someone to travel with. Travel lesson no. 79: Don’t be too honest with government officials, hide your extra passport until you actually HAVE to show it to them.
On the street I stop at a street vendor for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. As I’m drinking my juice a woman orders her own and smiles at me. “What country are you from?” she asks. She asks me about my trip plans and if I am going to Delhi. I must stay with her family in Delhi, she tells me. They are very nice and would be happy to have me. Not wanting to insult or reject this stranger’s hospitality I tell her that I have some friends in Delhi that are waiting to host me. But she’s persistent, “my family is really outgoing, really! You must go and stay with them! I’ll give you their address.” I finish my juice quickly and say, “It was nice to meet you” with a smile and walk away. I don’t even know her name! I had forgotten the intense hospitality sometimes shown to foreigners in India. As I walk to the metro I’m bummed I won’t get to go to Bangladesh but also relieved that now I won’t have to rush the next 10 days of my trip towards Delhi. I’m also appreciative that I came to friendly Kolkata as my reintroduction to India.
I had expected Kolkata to be an extremely chaotic city, one of the worse. It is, after all, the 2nd largest city in India by population. But I’ve been pleasantly surprised to find Kolkata to be a very friendly city with little hassle, though the traffic is horrible. I feel right at home again, almost as though I never left. Slowly my limited Hindi vocabulary is coming back into use. I’m re-adapting my head wobble/tilt to replace my use of the words “yes” “maybe” “ok” “I don’t know” and “thank you.” And I’m fully enjoying the fact that everyone speaks English!! Well not everyone, not nearly everyone, but compared to my past 2 months in SE Asia I can have conversations with a complete with so much more content and friendliness. I appreciate what India offers a traveler so much more now than I did when I was here 2 years ago, the sense of humor, the clothes, the cheapness, the food, the silly bargaining, the English, the Hindi (no tones!)… Coming from SE Asia I am already used to the intense stares from men, the pollution, the heat, the noise, and the horrible traffic. And this all leaves me with generally positive experiences around each corner.
I flew into Kolkata mainly because I had hoped to spend some time in Bangladesh. On Tuesday it ended up being too late for me to go to the Bangladesh Consulate to apply for a visa. On Wednesday morning I took a taxi there only to discovered it was closed for the day to celebrate the birthday of the honorable Sir Reallylongname Reallylongname Reallylongname. On Thursday I returned, but I knew I would only bother to apply if I could get the visa back by Friday. This would only give me about 5 days to head into Dhaka, stay, and leave before I would have to make my way to Delhi. I promised Arman I would be in Delhi before his birthday on April 3 and I intend to keep that promise.
My interest in Bangladesh is to see a different part of Indian culture and visit a Muslim country for the first time. Being a Muslim country I wanted to get the visa in my Netherlands passport. I have two passports for good reason; sometimes I’d rather not be American. Also, I knew the visa would be cheaper for Europeans (about $20 vs $100). At the application counter everything seemed to be in order, they said I would get my visa the next day. I had to come back at 11:30am, in 2 hours, for an interview.
-------------
After asking and receiving different directions from 10 people I find a cyber café to pass the time until my interview. As I pay for my hour ($0.30) the guy asks me, “Are you Muslim?” “Excuse me?”“Are you Muslim? Or Hindu? What is your caste?”
“No I’m not Muslim. I don’t have a caste.”
“What is your religion? Christian?”
I shake my head, “I don’t have one.”
“Agnostic?” he asks with shock, “why?”
“Because I wasn’t raised with a religion,” I smile.
“Why do you look Muslim?”
“How do you mean, because of my face?”
He nods.
“I don’t know.”
“You look Muslim.”
“Well, thank you” I smile and take my leave. I’m always flattered if someone identifies me with a particular ethnicity, especially if it is their own. I don’t know why he should identify me as Muslim, even after having seen my American passport as ID. Occasionally in the states people have asked me if I am Persian or they just ask “what” I am, usually after hearing my name. It was an interesting exchange to occur just as I am in the process of getting a Visa for Bangladesh, a Muslim country. I head back to the consulate to be early for my interview.
-------------
I waited for my turn to be interviewed. When I was called forward the man began to shuffle through my application and copies of my passport and Indian visa. I could tell he had no intentions of actually asking me questions when he began to name the fee for the visa for Dutch citizens ($18). But then he asked if I had the passport with me that contained the Indian visa. Was it an old passport? No, I said, it was a different passport. I had no intention of lying about my American citizenship; I just wanted the visa to be for my Dutch passport. He asked to see my American passport so I showed him.
He then proceeded to tell me he would have to put the visa in my American passport. I was afraid of this. My Indian visa is in my American passport because only Americans can have 10 year visas to India. I try to ask him why it is a problem. He has a photocopy of my India visa, he has both passports in front of him, until just then he didn’t know I had an American passport, why couldn’t he just put it in the Dutch passport? Because these were his rules, he says. I plead with him, saying it shouldn’t make a difference, all the information is available, but he doesn’t care. He asks me why I care, is it “because the American visa is more money?” “No, it’s because I feel safer traveling on my Dutch passport,” I say. This seems to change things. He then says he can write to the office higher up and ask them for permission to glue the visa into my Dutch passport. How long will this take? At least a week. I tell him I don’t have that kind of time, I will have to go with my American passport. But when I find out that an American visa will cost more than $170 I change my mind. For me to pay $170 to go Bangladesh, which honestly is not completely safe for a single female traveler due to political unrest, and for less than 5 days doesn’t seem worth it. I take both of my passports and leave the consulate. I’ll have to visit Bangladesh in the future when I have more time to actually see the country and hopefully someone to travel with. Travel lesson no. 79: Don’t be too honest with government officials, hide your extra passport until you actually HAVE to show it to them.
On the street I stop at a street vendor for a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. As I’m drinking my juice a woman orders her own and smiles at me. “What country are you from?” she asks. She asks me about my trip plans and if I am going to Delhi. I must stay with her family in Delhi, she tells me. They are very nice and would be happy to have me. Not wanting to insult or reject this stranger’s hospitality I tell her that I have some friends in Delhi that are waiting to host me. But she’s persistent, “my family is really outgoing, really! You must go and stay with them! I’ll give you their address.” I finish my juice quickly and say, “It was nice to meet you” with a smile and walk away. I don’t even know her name! I had forgotten the intense hospitality sometimes shown to foreigners in India. As I walk to the metro I’m bummed I won’t get to go to Bangladesh but also relieved that now I won’t have to rush the next 10 days of my trip towards Delhi. I’m also appreciative that I came to friendly Kolkata as my reintroduction to India.
By the way, I'm staying in Hotel Palace, just off Sudder St, across the street from Fresh & Juicy restaurant which is in the LP. It's a decent hotel with high ceilings so the rooms stay cool and private bathrooms. I recommend it. Or at least I recommend room 111.
Oh yeah… India!
16 March 2010
After 2 months of traveling overland from Southern Vietnam north into Northern Laos, then south into Cambodia and west to Bangkok I find myself at the Bangkok International Airport. I’m exhausted. I’ve slept poorly for the past several nights in my tiny room on Khao San road, blasted with horrible club music until 3am. And last night I went out salsa dancing again, not getting to bed until 1:00am, only to wake up this morning at 4:30am for my ride to the airport. Zombie-like I find my airline to check in at. This is not so simple because the Bangkok airport is huge. There are at least 40 different airlines here, probably more. Walking down the rows of kiosks I finally find Jet Airways on row P. I’m too early to check into my flight so I fall asleep across two seats, cradling my pack. I’m nervous about having to check my pack in, it contains everything, and I haven’t been properly parted from it for the whole trip. What if they lose it?
At 7am I approach the counter to check in. With my bag on the scale I hand the woman my passport and bend over to zip in the straps of my pack. From the empty line behind me an Indian man approaches and places his passport on the counter I am at. I stare at him bewildered. The woman says, “Sir, you need to wait your turn.” She pushes his passport back to him. He inclines his head to the right and says “ok.” But he doesn’t move, he just stands right next to me. “Sir, you need to wait behind the red line.” After a couple of gestures from the woman he backs away.
While she is checking me in he approaches again and the exact same exchange occurs again. And once more when she is telling me my gate number and handing me my passport. I was too tired to be really annoyed, but I was awake enough to register that while his behavior was very out of place at such an orderly beautiful airport in Thailand, he was just following normal conduct in India. You move to the ticket counter when you can. There are no lines; just people progressively pushing forward until they can get their request in, bus station, train station, movie cinema, and apparently airports are all the same.
When I first got home from India 2 years ago everyone wanted to know, “Did you love it?” I had a wonderful experience, but India was India, I wasn’t crazy about it. Would I go back? Probably, but not anytime soon, I had the rest of the world to see. I told people about the problems in India, the challenges, annoyances, as well as the good things. But over the past 2 years my stories, and as a result my memories, changed. By the time I left Seattle in January I told everyone I was excited to return to India. Many travelers I have met exchange stories about India. Many hated it and many loved it, but it is usually one or the other. For those that hadn’t been yet I told them they should go, but they should give India its own trip. I advertised Uttaranchal and promoted Rajasthan. I think I played a big role in convincing Dina to change her plans and fly to India.
I slept most of the 2 hour flight. As we landed I looked out at the little airport and the busy streets, “oh boy” I said under my breath. The woman sitting next to me must have either heard me or noticed the distressed look on my face. “Is this your first time to India?” she asked smiling. I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. Her question is one that everyone in India will ask you, I even wrote a blog entry about it on my last trip. I was surprised by just how proud I was to tell her, “No it’s not, I was here 2 years ago!”
As we spoke, waiting to get off the plane, I learned that she has lived in LA for many years now, but she lives part of the year in Bangkok. Her husband and her both grew up in Kolkata. Now her husband is a business professor who lectures at both UCLA and a university in Bangkok. She asks me where I am staying and I tell her I don’t have a place yet, I’m just headed to Sudder St where the budget hotels are. She offers to give me a ride there since her home is nearby. I gladly accept.
Jyoti’s offer for a ride saves me the stress of getting a taxi to the metro, figuring out the metro, and then finding Sudder St, but it also gives me a chance to continue talking to her. She’s wonderfully outgoing and motherly. “Are you taking malaria pills?” she asks sharply.
“No, I know I should be…” I say guiltily.
She recommends a pill that she claims she takes every time she comes back to India, even her son-in-law took it his first time in India. I have to get them straight away, I should have started them a week ago. The way she talks about her son-in-law catches my attention. She says it endearingly but there is also something different about her son-in-law. I ask.
Her son-in-law is American and white. I’ve already told her that I will be traveling for a month with my boyfriend but I was hesitant to tell her Atish is Indian. She’s been so sweet to me and I don’t want to jinx it. Having just arrived to India I don’t know yet how people will react to knowing I am dating an “Indian-boy.” But hearing that her daughter is in an interracial marriage encourages me to share my full story with her.
She tells me about her daughter and the wedding and how the groom’s entire family was so thrilled to be a part of an Indian wedding. Everyone wore sari’s and after the wedding the groom’s immediate family all came with them to India. We discuss how westerner’s love to embrace Indian culture. I tell her about my mother and my parent’s travels in India, and how I grew up with an odd exposure to Indian culture and Hinduism. She asks me what it is like for Atish dating me with his family? A work in progress, I reply. She nods wisely, understanding.
“In some ways I am a very traditional person,” she says “but for my daughter my priority is that she is most happy in life, and you must look at her now, she is so happy! When we announced the wedding people started asking me if I was angry because he isn’t Indian. But it was everyone asking me that began to make me angry.” But, she adds, it wasn’t her family in India that were concerned, it was only the NRIs (non-resident Indians). “I think it is all about worrying what people will think of you,” she continues, “there is so much pressure to uphold an image for your family.”
As we enter Kolkata conversation shifts to her telling me about the city. Her entire family still lives here. She and her husband are the “black-sheep” in the family for having left. Every time she visits she must try to see everyone, she says. But this trip is only a visa-run from Bangkok, tomorrow she will already be on a flight back. “I’ve already been here to visit 3 times since January; you’d think it would be enough! But they always say I need to come more. I think they just want the presents from America,” she laughs.
When her driver drops me at the base of Sudder St I thank her for making my “welcome back to India” fantastic. It was such a pleasure meeting her. I really regret I didn’t ask for her email, but perhaps our paths will cross again.
After 2 months of traveling overland from Southern Vietnam north into Northern Laos, then south into Cambodia and west to Bangkok I find myself at the Bangkok International Airport. I’m exhausted. I’ve slept poorly for the past several nights in my tiny room on Khao San road, blasted with horrible club music until 3am. And last night I went out salsa dancing again, not getting to bed until 1:00am, only to wake up this morning at 4:30am for my ride to the airport. Zombie-like I find my airline to check in at. This is not so simple because the Bangkok airport is huge. There are at least 40 different airlines here, probably more. Walking down the rows of kiosks I finally find Jet Airways on row P. I’m too early to check into my flight so I fall asleep across two seats, cradling my pack. I’m nervous about having to check my pack in, it contains everything, and I haven’t been properly parted from it for the whole trip. What if they lose it?
At 7am I approach the counter to check in. With my bag on the scale I hand the woman my passport and bend over to zip in the straps of my pack. From the empty line behind me an Indian man approaches and places his passport on the counter I am at. I stare at him bewildered. The woman says, “Sir, you need to wait your turn.” She pushes his passport back to him. He inclines his head to the right and says “ok.” But he doesn’t move, he just stands right next to me. “Sir, you need to wait behind the red line.” After a couple of gestures from the woman he backs away.
While she is checking me in he approaches again and the exact same exchange occurs again. And once more when she is telling me my gate number and handing me my passport. I was too tired to be really annoyed, but I was awake enough to register that while his behavior was very out of place at such an orderly beautiful airport in Thailand, he was just following normal conduct in India. You move to the ticket counter when you can. There are no lines; just people progressively pushing forward until they can get their request in, bus station, train station, movie cinema, and apparently airports are all the same.
When I first got home from India 2 years ago everyone wanted to know, “Did you love it?” I had a wonderful experience, but India was India, I wasn’t crazy about it. Would I go back? Probably, but not anytime soon, I had the rest of the world to see. I told people about the problems in India, the challenges, annoyances, as well as the good things. But over the past 2 years my stories, and as a result my memories, changed. By the time I left Seattle in January I told everyone I was excited to return to India. Many travelers I have met exchange stories about India. Many hated it and many loved it, but it is usually one or the other. For those that hadn’t been yet I told them they should go, but they should give India its own trip. I advertised Uttaranchal and promoted Rajasthan. I think I played a big role in convincing Dina to change her plans and fly to India.
Now, waiting for a flight to Kolkata, I’m having my first Indian experiences. And suddenly the memories, the ones I stopped sharing and remembering, are flooding back. With only a couple hours of sleep in me I’m not sure I’m ready to be in Kolkata in 3 hours. And it’s not just the fact that I’ll be landing in India, it’s just that I’ll be landing somewhere. I’ve been traveling across 4 countries gradually. I’ve seen the landscape change past my bus window, along with the culture. The food has slowly morphed from lemongrass chicken and pho, to spicy ramen soup and laap, to grilled fish and sticky rice, to noodles and fish, to noodles and curries. Now I’ll have the pleasure of “culture shock” as I touch down in India. From efficient, modern Bangkok to crowded, crazy Calcutta.
I slept most of the 2 hour flight. As we landed I looked out at the little airport and the busy streets, “oh boy” I said under my breath. The woman sitting next to me must have either heard me or noticed the distressed look on my face. “Is this your first time to India?” she asked smiling. I couldn’t help but smile and laugh. Her question is one that everyone in India will ask you, I even wrote a blog entry about it on my last trip. I was surprised by just how proud I was to tell her, “No it’s not, I was here 2 years ago!”
“In Kolkata?” she asked.
“No, not in Kolkata.”
“Ahh, so this is your first time in Kolkata,” she said wisely.
“No, not in Kolkata.”
“Ahh, so this is your first time in Kolkata,” she said wisely.
As we spoke, waiting to get off the plane, I learned that she has lived in LA for many years now, but she lives part of the year in Bangkok. Her husband and her both grew up in Kolkata. Now her husband is a business professor who lectures at both UCLA and a university in Bangkok. She asks me where I am staying and I tell her I don’t have a place yet, I’m just headed to Sudder St where the budget hotels are. She offers to give me a ride there since her home is nearby. I gladly accept.
Jyoti’s offer for a ride saves me the stress of getting a taxi to the metro, figuring out the metro, and then finding Sudder St, but it also gives me a chance to continue talking to her. She’s wonderfully outgoing and motherly. “Are you taking malaria pills?” she asks sharply.
“No, I know I should be…” I say guiltily.
She recommends a pill that she claims she takes every time she comes back to India, even her son-in-law took it his first time in India. I have to get them straight away, I should have started them a week ago. The way she talks about her son-in-law catches my attention. She says it endearingly but there is also something different about her son-in-law. I ask.
Her son-in-law is American and white. I’ve already told her that I will be traveling for a month with my boyfriend but I was hesitant to tell her Atish is Indian. She’s been so sweet to me and I don’t want to jinx it. Having just arrived to India I don’t know yet how people will react to knowing I am dating an “Indian-boy.” But hearing that her daughter is in an interracial marriage encourages me to share my full story with her.
“He’s never been to India?” she asks, wide-eyed, “It’s going to be quite an experience for him. You better take good care of him, you’ve been here before.”
She tells me about her daughter and the wedding and how the groom’s entire family was so thrilled to be a part of an Indian wedding. Everyone wore sari’s and after the wedding the groom’s immediate family all came with them to India. We discuss how westerner’s love to embrace Indian culture. I tell her about my mother and my parent’s travels in India, and how I grew up with an odd exposure to Indian culture and Hinduism. She asks me what it is like for Atish dating me with his family? A work in progress, I reply. She nods wisely, understanding.
“In some ways I am a very traditional person,” she says “but for my daughter my priority is that she is most happy in life, and you must look at her now, she is so happy! When we announced the wedding people started asking me if I was angry because he isn’t Indian. But it was everyone asking me that began to make me angry.” But, she adds, it wasn’t her family in India that were concerned, it was only the NRIs (non-resident Indians). “I think it is all about worrying what people will think of you,” she continues, “there is so much pressure to uphold an image for your family.”
As we enter Kolkata conversation shifts to her telling me about the city. Her entire family still lives here. She and her husband are the “black-sheep” in the family for having left. Every time she visits she must try to see everyone, she says. But this trip is only a visa-run from Bangkok, tomorrow she will already be on a flight back. “I’ve already been here to visit 3 times since January; you’d think it would be enough! But they always say I need to come more. I think they just want the presents from America,” she laughs.
When her driver drops me at the base of Sudder St I thank her for making my “welcome back to India” fantastic. It was such a pleasure meeting her. I really regret I didn’t ask for her email, but perhaps our paths will cross again.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
new pictures!!
From Luang Prabang, Laos to the beginning of my time in Cambodia (Mondulkiri Province).
Bangkok: Current Events
March 12, 2010
As I ride into the city in a taxi from the bus station I am in awe of how big, bustling, modern, and commercial Bangkok is. It is an amazing city. I knew it was big but I wasn’t expecting this level of consumerism and business. The transportation seems good too; I observe a sky train and a metro system, plus many busses. Everyone is out shopping on Friday. Every chain I can think of in America exists here, plus they have their own franchises to support, resulting in every blocked packed with stores. Dunkin’ Donuts, KFC, Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway, Burger King, it’s all here, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Then there’s the fashion, I pass shops of high end names that I could never afford. As we get closer to the tourist district we pass a main street that seems to lead to some government buildings, on 2 corners I notice some crowd control looking police man stationed. Maybe there was a protest earlier.
I plan to go salsa dancing my first night in Bangkok. It’s been ages since I’ve danced and I miss it badly. Plus I’m really curious about the salsa scene here; it’s supposed to be pretty good. I’m excited to find some internet and figure out where the dancing will be tonight. When I do look it up I discover that tonight’s dance is at Dream Hotel. Judging by the website it’s a very posh place. I don’t think it would be fitting for me to show up in my travel pants and dance in my socks as I originally planned. Unfortunately, the tourist street of Koh San is a circus. It’s packed with street vendors selling everything for Westerners at ridiculous prices, loud music blasting bars, and cheap crummy guesthouses. But I’ve decided to stay in this part of town because I feel safe here. Bangkok is an intimidating city and there is a large sex-trade/tourism scene. I figure I’d rather be around the bars blasting Black Eyed Peas than the local “nightlife.”
I head onto the street in search of something to wear. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the selection. I’ve just walked into a street version of Forever 21. Not only because of the ridiculous amount crammed into the street, but because everything they sell here is exactly Forever 21 merchandise. This is where it all comes from. And I quickly discover that the prices here are nearly the same as Forever 21 at home as well. I know the prices are ridiculous, but the tourists here (mostly European) are willing to pay them because the clothes are still cheap to them. It’s frustrating to know that I could be getting the same deals at home. I settle on a $5 pair of leggings and a $15 pair of heels to dance in, surely I’ll get blisters breaking them in. I head back to my guesthouse feeling outlandish that I just spent $20 to go dancing, but excited to get dressed up. Did I say earlier I didn’t miss my closet at home? Ok, well I miss it as much as I miss going out salsa dancing.
A cab to Dream Hotel costs another $3.25. This is going to be an expensive night. The hotel and lounge is beautiful. I sit down to watch the couples on the floor and scope out the place. The music is good and it feels so good. Soon I get asked to dance and it’s wonderful. I quickly discover that the leads here have a wonderful calmness and consideration to their lead. They don’t push and pull or over-direct you. Though there seems to be little independent styling for the ladies, the leads are kind and advanced and I have a blast dancing.
Taking a break, I begin talking to a German man I was sitting next to. He lives in Bangkok and noticed I must be from out of town because he didn’t recognize me. This is what I love about salsa communities. No matter where in the world, a salsa dancer is always welcome in a new community, and everyone in the community knows each other. It’s one of the best ways to network and find your way around a new city. I tell him I’m from Seattle and he says that it is the only city he has been to in the USA.
“Why did you go to Seattle, for work?” I asked.
“Yes, I was there for the WTO convention.” He tells me about walking in the rain at night past the hundreds of policemen to find his way through the city to the salsa club after a day of work in conferences. Ironic, considering what I’m about to learn.
He apologizes that tonight is so quiet. Is it quiet? Apparently this is only 1/3 of the normal turnout he says, because of everything happening in the city this weekend. What’s happening in Bangkok I ask, excited. He’s shocked I don’t know and I quickly feel quite stupid for being so horribly uneducated about the current events.
I’ve been very happy with the route my trip has taken and the places I’ve gotten to seen, but I have been disappointed by how my schedule has resulted in me missing nearly every major festival possible. I left Hanoi 2 weeks before what would have surely been one of the largest Tet (Chinese New Year) celebrations on the city’s 1000 year anniversary. I left Luang Prabang just before the Elephant Festival began. I missed an amazing Buddhist pilgrimage to Champasak, Southern Laos, by about 1 week. I’ll be missing the incredible Thai New Year / nationwide water-fight by less than 1 month. I’ve missed the amazing Holi celebrations in India by 2 weeks. Atish & I will be in India during Kumbh Mela but we won’t be able to reach it with our schedule. Yet somehow I’ve managed to arrive in Bangkok just as one of the nation’s largest protests ever for a political coup is about to begin, when hundreds of thousands of people are pouring into the city to voice their discontent. And I had no idea.
The Red-Shirts want the previous prime minister to be reinstated. He was ousted in a military coup several years ago for embezzlement. My understanding is he represents a more socialist movement. He’s currently in a self-imposed exile. His supports have picked this weekend to migrate from every corner of the country and fill Bangkok wearing their iconic red shirts. They are quoted in the news for wanting a peaceful march on the capital. They say they hope their numbers alone will instill a need for change. Jost, the German salsa dancer, says there are rumors of planned violence. He tells me to be careful, that they have no real knowledge as to how many Red-Shirts there will be, estimates range from 100,000 to 1 million. I’m worried about my flight on Tuesday morning and ask him if there is a chance this could interfere with the airport. It could he says, but most likely it will blow over before then. Oh dear, please let this pass quickly. I flash back to 9th grade when I waited with 15 of my fellow classmates in the Houston Bush International Airport for 3 days when the air-traffic controllers had gone on strike in Guatemala. We were so excited to reach Guatemala when we finally were able to fly, but the wait had been horrible. Would the strike end today, tomorrow? No one had any idea. Socio-political conflicts are the worst uncertainties to encounter when traveling.
As I head back to my guesthouse at midnight I see what I missed on my ride into the city. There are police everywhere. The center of the protests will take place near Koh San Road. As we get closer I see SWAT teams lining corners carrying large plastic shields, there are police cadets on other streets, a military truck is stopped and soldiers in camo are unloading. But I don’t see any Red-Shirts, yet.
The next morning I get online to research the issue and read the latest about the protesters. BBC says that 40,000 troops have been mobilized to protect the city. Everything around me seems to be running normally. I wonder how many tourists actually know about this. When I head out for my walk through the city I am shocked to discover that my perception of where the center of the protests would be was a bit wrong. They are 2 blocks from my guesthouse, on the street parallel to Koh San road. Large canopies are set up and there are a few Red-Shirts setting up resources and a stage. I ask one of them and they say that everyone is supposed to be entering the area late tonight and the main event would be Sunday. The sooner the better, I think. Let’s get this over with so I can make my flight.
My walk through the city is uneventful and wonderful. I have fun exploring the markets, waterfront, and temples near the river. I have fun trying different foods I see. I stop at a mum & pop restaurant and order Phad Sei Ew. I ask if I can watch them cook it. Atish and I are constantly trying to figure out the best order for frying all the ingredients together in the wok. The women are happy to let me stand in the kitchen with the cook and I film the whole process. To think I almost signed up for $100 cooking course just to learn how to make Phad Sei Ew. I just got everything I needed for free :)
I take a taxi back to Koh San Road. I had nearly forgotten about the Red-Shirts when my cab driver is frustrated because roads are blocked off. We have to take a large detour. Down different streets I see red in the distance. There are definitely more of them than this morning.
In Koh San Road I feel safe. The road is blocked by police men and the protesters would have no reason to come into this touristy area. But while I’m showering I start to hear a lot of chanting and yelling in the street outside. And it’s really loud. Could people be marching down the road? I get dressed and run outside to see what it is. In front of my guesthouse is a huge crowd of tourists pressed together watching something. I squeeze to the front and find a team of children break-dancing. They are putting on an incredible show and everyone is cheering them on energetically. They finish and I head back to my room. I’ll have to wait to see what tomorrow brings.
As I ride into the city in a taxi from the bus station I am in awe of how big, bustling, modern, and commercial Bangkok is. It is an amazing city. I knew it was big but I wasn’t expecting this level of consumerism and business. The transportation seems good too; I observe a sky train and a metro system, plus many busses. Everyone is out shopping on Friday. Every chain I can think of in America exists here, plus they have their own franchises to support, resulting in every blocked packed with stores. Dunkin’ Donuts, KFC, Starbucks, McDonalds, Subway, Burger King, it’s all here, the good, the bad, and the ugly. Then there’s the fashion, I pass shops of high end names that I could never afford. As we get closer to the tourist district we pass a main street that seems to lead to some government buildings, on 2 corners I notice some crowd control looking police man stationed. Maybe there was a protest earlier.
I plan to go salsa dancing my first night in Bangkok. It’s been ages since I’ve danced and I miss it badly. Plus I’m really curious about the salsa scene here; it’s supposed to be pretty good. I’m excited to find some internet and figure out where the dancing will be tonight. When I do look it up I discover that tonight’s dance is at Dream Hotel. Judging by the website it’s a very posh place. I don’t think it would be fitting for me to show up in my travel pants and dance in my socks as I originally planned. Unfortunately, the tourist street of Koh San is a circus. It’s packed with street vendors selling everything for Westerners at ridiculous prices, loud music blasting bars, and cheap crummy guesthouses. But I’ve decided to stay in this part of town because I feel safe here. Bangkok is an intimidating city and there is a large sex-trade/tourism scene. I figure I’d rather be around the bars blasting Black Eyed Peas than the local “nightlife.”
I head onto the street in search of something to wear. I’m immediately overwhelmed by the selection. I’ve just walked into a street version of Forever 21. Not only because of the ridiculous amount crammed into the street, but because everything they sell here is exactly Forever 21 merchandise. This is where it all comes from. And I quickly discover that the prices here are nearly the same as Forever 21 at home as well. I know the prices are ridiculous, but the tourists here (mostly European) are willing to pay them because the clothes are still cheap to them. It’s frustrating to know that I could be getting the same deals at home. I settle on a $5 pair of leggings and a $15 pair of heels to dance in, surely I’ll get blisters breaking them in. I head back to my guesthouse feeling outlandish that I just spent $20 to go dancing, but excited to get dressed up. Did I say earlier I didn’t miss my closet at home? Ok, well I miss it as much as I miss going out salsa dancing.
A cab to Dream Hotel costs another $3.25. This is going to be an expensive night. The hotel and lounge is beautiful. I sit down to watch the couples on the floor and scope out the place. The music is good and it feels so good. Soon I get asked to dance and it’s wonderful. I quickly discover that the leads here have a wonderful calmness and consideration to their lead. They don’t push and pull or over-direct you. Though there seems to be little independent styling for the ladies, the leads are kind and advanced and I have a blast dancing.
Taking a break, I begin talking to a German man I was sitting next to. He lives in Bangkok and noticed I must be from out of town because he didn’t recognize me. This is what I love about salsa communities. No matter where in the world, a salsa dancer is always welcome in a new community, and everyone in the community knows each other. It’s one of the best ways to network and find your way around a new city. I tell him I’m from Seattle and he says that it is the only city he has been to in the USA.
“Why did you go to Seattle, for work?” I asked.
“Yes, I was there for the WTO convention.” He tells me about walking in the rain at night past the hundreds of policemen to find his way through the city to the salsa club after a day of work in conferences. Ironic, considering what I’m about to learn.
He apologizes that tonight is so quiet. Is it quiet? Apparently this is only 1/3 of the normal turnout he says, because of everything happening in the city this weekend. What’s happening in Bangkok I ask, excited. He’s shocked I don’t know and I quickly feel quite stupid for being so horribly uneducated about the current events.
I’ve been very happy with the route my trip has taken and the places I’ve gotten to seen, but I have been disappointed by how my schedule has resulted in me missing nearly every major festival possible. I left Hanoi 2 weeks before what would have surely been one of the largest Tet (Chinese New Year) celebrations on the city’s 1000 year anniversary. I left Luang Prabang just before the Elephant Festival began. I missed an amazing Buddhist pilgrimage to Champasak, Southern Laos, by about 1 week. I’ll be missing the incredible Thai New Year / nationwide water-fight by less than 1 month. I’ve missed the amazing Holi celebrations in India by 2 weeks. Atish & I will be in India during Kumbh Mela but we won’t be able to reach it with our schedule. Yet somehow I’ve managed to arrive in Bangkok just as one of the nation’s largest protests ever for a political coup is about to begin, when hundreds of thousands of people are pouring into the city to voice their discontent. And I had no idea.
The Red-Shirts want the previous prime minister to be reinstated. He was ousted in a military coup several years ago for embezzlement. My understanding is he represents a more socialist movement. He’s currently in a self-imposed exile. His supports have picked this weekend to migrate from every corner of the country and fill Bangkok wearing their iconic red shirts. They are quoted in the news for wanting a peaceful march on the capital. They say they hope their numbers alone will instill a need for change. Jost, the German salsa dancer, says there are rumors of planned violence. He tells me to be careful, that they have no real knowledge as to how many Red-Shirts there will be, estimates range from 100,000 to 1 million. I’m worried about my flight on Tuesday morning and ask him if there is a chance this could interfere with the airport. It could he says, but most likely it will blow over before then. Oh dear, please let this pass quickly. I flash back to 9th grade when I waited with 15 of my fellow classmates in the Houston Bush International Airport for 3 days when the air-traffic controllers had gone on strike in Guatemala. We were so excited to reach Guatemala when we finally were able to fly, but the wait had been horrible. Would the strike end today, tomorrow? No one had any idea. Socio-political conflicts are the worst uncertainties to encounter when traveling.
As I head back to my guesthouse at midnight I see what I missed on my ride into the city. There are police everywhere. The center of the protests will take place near Koh San Road. As we get closer I see SWAT teams lining corners carrying large plastic shields, there are police cadets on other streets, a military truck is stopped and soldiers in camo are unloading. But I don’t see any Red-Shirts, yet.
The next morning I get online to research the issue and read the latest about the protesters. BBC says that 40,000 troops have been mobilized to protect the city. Everything around me seems to be running normally. I wonder how many tourists actually know about this. When I head out for my walk through the city I am shocked to discover that my perception of where the center of the protests would be was a bit wrong. They are 2 blocks from my guesthouse, on the street parallel to Koh San road. Large canopies are set up and there are a few Red-Shirts setting up resources and a stage. I ask one of them and they say that everyone is supposed to be entering the area late tonight and the main event would be Sunday. The sooner the better, I think. Let’s get this over with so I can make my flight.
My walk through the city is uneventful and wonderful. I have fun exploring the markets, waterfront, and temples near the river. I have fun trying different foods I see. I stop at a mum & pop restaurant and order Phad Sei Ew. I ask if I can watch them cook it. Atish and I are constantly trying to figure out the best order for frying all the ingredients together in the wok. The women are happy to let me stand in the kitchen with the cook and I film the whole process. To think I almost signed up for $100 cooking course just to learn how to make Phad Sei Ew. I just got everything I needed for free :)
I take a taxi back to Koh San Road. I had nearly forgotten about the Red-Shirts when my cab driver is frustrated because roads are blocked off. We have to take a large detour. Down different streets I see red in the distance. There are definitely more of them than this morning.
In Koh San Road I feel safe. The road is blocked by police men and the protesters would have no reason to come into this touristy area. But while I’m showering I start to hear a lot of chanting and yelling in the street outside. And it’s really loud. Could people be marching down the road? I get dressed and run outside to see what it is. In front of my guesthouse is a huge crowd of tourists pressed together watching something. I squeeze to the front and find a team of children break-dancing. They are putting on an incredible show and everyone is cheering them on energetically. They finish and I head back to my room. I’ll have to wait to see what tomorrow brings.
Welcome to Thailand
March 8, 2010
My first night in Thailand consisted of being ripped off by a drunken taxi-truck driver, where I ended up at a different part of Ko Chang then where I wanted to spend the night. A very authentic dinner at none other than one of Thailand’s notorious 7-11’s. A bad night sleep waiting to let my roommate in when she got back from drinking, which ended with me trying to ignore the sounds of her making out with some guy outside the room at 3am. And waking up at 6:30am to find an overpriced boat ride to the island I actually wanted to be on. But from there on I really enjoyed my 2.5 days relaxing on Koh Kud. There were very few people there so I really could be alone. I also got to go SCUBA diving for the first time in 2 years!
My first night in Thailand consisted of being ripped off by a drunken taxi-truck driver, where I ended up at a different part of Ko Chang then where I wanted to spend the night. A very authentic dinner at none other than one of Thailand’s notorious 7-11’s. A bad night sleep waiting to let my roommate in when she got back from drinking, which ended with me trying to ignore the sounds of her making out with some guy outside the room at 3am. And waking up at 6:30am to find an overpriced boat ride to the island I actually wanted to be on. But from there on I really enjoyed my 2.5 days relaxing on Koh Kud. There were very few people there so I really could be alone. I also got to go SCUBA diving for the first time in 2 years!
Travel Lesson-learned No. 73: Don't waste time arguing with crazy women
March 8th.
Once in Koh Kong I found a guesthouse for $7 for the night and put my bags in the room. I’m always frustrated by the attitude of some guesthouse owners when I arrive to ask about vacancy. Often I have to interrupt a television show or get someone’s attention, and then they just look at me like, “what do you want.” You’d think that if you were in the business of hosting people that you would be gracious and eager to please a potential customer, but I have rarely found that to be the case at family run guesthouses. A cultural difference I guess… People wait for business to come to them and seem to accept what they get.
I went straight to the local dive shop. I had read about Koh Kong Island, which was supposed to have very beautiful beaches. Everything I read said there were no guesthouses on the island, but that development was definitely on its way, and that was all written about 1 year ago. I felt certain, with my infinite wisdom, that by now there would be a guesthouse on the island. Instead of paying for a 1 day tour to the island, I wanted to find a local boat to drop me there and I would stay for a couple days.
At the dive shop they had day tours to the island for $40, way outside my budget. I asked about staying on the island and the guy said it wasn’t an option. What? There must be at least somewhere basic to stay. He assured me there were no guesthouses. But why? I asked. Because the island is a military base. There is no local development allowed for tourism, but everyone is expecting someone to come and buy the land from the government and put a resort on the island soon. Definitely, not what I had been expecting.
I came to Koh Kong because I wanted to find somewhere away from tourism to relax on the beach for a couple days before heading to Bangkok, and then Calcutta. Apparently this wasn’t the place. The town is nothing special, and it’s not really on the coast, it’s behind a mangrove swamp, so there are no local beaches. I decide to head to Koh Kood, an island not too far, but part of Thailand. I’ll cross the nearby border today and take a ferry to the island. I find an internet café and catch up with emails and tell Dad and Atish I’m safe after my days with no communication in the mountains. Then I head back to the guesthouse to get my bags.
I know they won’t be happy I’ve decided not to stay, so when I approach the guesthouse and see the owner / mother outside I smile warmly and bring my hands together in front of my face and say, “I’m so sorry, I have to change my plans, I have to go to Thailand today, I can’t stay tonight in Koh Kong.” And it’s the truth. I don’t have enough time to stay the night and leave tomorrow. I fly from Bangkok in a week and I want my time on the beach and in the city. Immediately she looks mad and says, “You pay $5.”
Excuse me? I’m not paying more than half the price for the room that just held my bags for 2 hours. She starts up a speech in Thai and her teenage son comes over to try to translate. Something about using the water, electricity, making the room dirty, I have to pay $5. I’m so put off by her complete unwillingness to understand the situation I am in and her hostility that I flat out refuse to pay. I haven't used the room or made it dirty but I did use the small bar of soap in my room to wash my hands when I arrived, I’ll pay $1. No, $5 she says.
I ignore her and head straight back to the room to get my stuff. I want to get my bags in my hands before they lock me out of my room. She’s so angry and I haven’t done anything but have to change my plans. I haven’t been rude, I’m still trying to smile, but she’s furious.
A couple minutes later I walk back out with my bag on my back, the key and $1 in my hand, I hand them to her. She waves the $1 in the air. What is this? You pay $5! I came and agreed to stay, I used the room, I have to pay $5. I calmly tell the son that that is ridiculous. I’m not paying nearly the full price for the room for 2 hours of keeping my bags there. She should be happy with the $1 (if I had another single I would have given her $2). This is incredibly bad business I tell the boy. I came here happy, my plans changed because I had bad information (not entirely true…), I said I was sorry I would have to leave for Thailand, and now she’s pissed at me. She should be understanding. This is bad business. I try to convey all of this to the boy and he looks distraught. I tell him I’m not paying her $5. I’ve put my foot down and now I’m going to be stubborn. I’m starting to get pissed as well. I can see how frustrated the boy is, he’s embarrassed. “Moooommm, just let it go,” is clearly what he is saying to her. No. She won’t.
At this point I realize that I may end up having to pay. In a sense I understand her side. I entered a verbal agreement when I took the key for the room. I’m almost surprised she isn’t asking me for $7. But I’m so incredibly put off by her approach that I will see this out to some type of fairness. I won’t let some woman (who didn’t even seem to want my business when I arrived!) yell at me and demand $5.
I say, “I’m sorry, but you are being unreasonable,” and walk to the door. She steps in front of me and slaps my shoulders then pushes me forcefully backwards. With my backpack on her shove sets me off balance both physically and emotionally. Now I’m mad.
I’ve heard the warnings about causing a Thai businessperson to lose face. So close to the Thai border, I assume the culture is shared. 1 traveler told me about going into stores and trying on t-shirts, after trying on 3 different t-shirts that he didn’t end up liking the woman said he couldn’t try on anymore, he had to buy one. But how could he buy one if he didn’t know if he liked it on himself? he voiced. Didn’t matter, he couldn’t try any more on, it was enough. So he went to leave the store and the woman slapped him hard across the back as he passed and said, “You try on, why not buy!?” He was so shocked he stopped and tried to explain himself but she hit him again and the girl he was traveling with had to drag him out of the store, afraid he would keep getting beat up if he stood there in shock.
A German woman I met was at a bar in Bangkok with some friends. They ordered a pitcher of some mixed drink and when they taste it they were revolted. The alcohol was some sort of cheap home-brew. They insisted on a new pitcher of better stuff that they were paying full price for. The second pitcher was the same so they got up and left and went to the bar next door. As they left the 2nd bar later on they saw a group of tourists headed into the first bar. The gal yelled over to them to not go to that bar because the drinks were bad. The woman from the bar was standing there and heard. She picked up a glass beer bottle and threw it forcefully at the gal, hitting her in the eye. She had to be rushed to a hospital and now is still having problems with the dilation of her pupil from the damage.
These stories are fully supported by a warning in the Lonely Planet about not causing the Thai to lose face because it can turn violent. I’m completely shocked by these stories. I can’t imagine such outbursts of violence in public, to potential customers, by women. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Obviously, this is an example of a huge cultural difference, but it is not one I am willing to excuse on the basis of misunderstanding differences.
What I was experiencing at the hotel wasn’t nearly as bad as these stories. The woman and I were in a standoff, each I believe within our own rights to claim whether or not the money should be paid. But I felt I held the moral-high ground because I was the one being calm, rational, not violent and not yelling.
In my attempt to seem self-assured and confident my nerves were slowly failing. I could feel my knees begin to shake under my pack. But I tried not to show it and continued to listen to the woman yell at me in Khmer, blocking the doorway with her body. Her neighbors and family members had now come around to watch the drama unfold. Her husband sat behind the desk and looked completely uninterested; he looked at the floor and didn’t try to aid the situation. There was a little girl and a teenage girl on the staircase watching. At one point I looked up at them and smiled and winked at them. They giggled. All of this caused me to further think that I was right, that this woman was crazy and alone in her demand for $5.
I repeated to the boy that this was horrible. I would leave here and tell everyone I met not to stay here. I would write on the internet (and I will) that this guesthouse should not be used. I told him that today, maybe I pay $5, but tomorrow they would have no guests. I think he understood me, but he made it clear that his wasn’t about responsible, sustainable business practices. This was about me paying $5 for using the room.
Just then a man with a backpack came walking up the driveway to the door. He was clearly looking for a place to stay. Standing directly behind the woman he was completely ignored. He looked so confused about all the yelling and I just stood there and smiled weakly at him. “Don’t stay here, go away,” I mouthed at him. He looked more confused.
“What is happening?” he asked. I explained my situation and told him he should find another place.
“But you stayed here?” he asked, he was Italian and he hadn’t fully understood me over the yelling.
“No, I got here 2 hours ago. I haven’t stayed, I just took a room, and now I need to leave.”
He look even more confused. He tried to ask them why they wanted me to pay if I didn’t sleep there. It was reassuring to know he was of the same mindset as I was. You don’t stay in a hotel room unless you spend the night, sleep in the bed, why should I pay for the room? After a couple minutes the man walked away to find another place. The woman never looked at him, he was never even offered a room. That’s the other thing. If the place was packed, if my leaving after check out hours meant that they had lost the business of filling that room with a guest, then I would have been more willing to pay. But the place was empty, so I hadn’t taken any business from them. Until just now. See! I said to the boy. You yell at me for $5 for nothing, and you just lost $7. See? He left, you lost a customer. The boy definitely understood, but he seemed too intimidated to even talk to his mother. He just stood there, occasionally repeating some of her ranting when she yelled at him to speak.
After another 5 minutes of verbal abuse the price dropped to $3. Now that was more reasonable. But at the same time, her dropping the price only confirmed my suspicion that she was majorly ripping me off from the beginning when her response to my apology of having to leave was “$5!” So, I figured I would give it another couple of minutes of refusal and then agree to pay the $3 to get out of there, but I really didn’t want to pay her. Then the boy translated, “If you don’t pay I’ll call the police.”
The police? A quick deliberation took place in my head and my mouth said, “Good! Call the police!” Why did I say that? I think I was hoping they were bluffing. They looked taken aback that I had said that. So sure was I of my position at the time that I pulled out my own phone and said shakily, “Call them! If you don’t call them, I will. Go on, call them!” They got the message, I thought perhaps she would drop the whole issue. Why make it more involved with the cops? But she was livid. She yelled at her husband to call. He looked apprehensive, but picked up the phone, dialed and handed it to her. I listend as she yelled the situation over the phone. She hung up, the police would be coming. She walked away and pointed at me and yelled something over her shoulder, “make sure she doesn’t go anywhere!”
A couple things went through my mind at this point:
They don’t have my name or passport, I could probably just get up and walk out, she seemed the only one really interested in keeping me there for the additional $2 (she still had my $1). But did I want to risk it?
Were the police a good idea? I’m in a foreign, developing country. The police could be really corrupt, I could end up having to pay $100 for god-knows-what. Then again, I was a tourist. A western. A pretty girl. They shouldn’t want to hassle me. They want tourism to grow in Koh Kong. Maybe if I batted my eyelashes, and smiled and said “she pushed me!” they would apologize and let me walk away without paying. It could easily go either way.
I look at the clock, it’s getting late. I tell the husband, if they don’t come in 5 minutes I’m leaving. He didn’t seem to care. The woman has come back to be my guard. I slowly, deliberately pull out my Lonely Planet and open it to the page for Koh Kong. Then I make a show of getting my pen and reading the sign outside with the guesthouse name and copying it into my Lonely Planet: Phneas Mea Koh Kong Guesthouse. I put a big X in front of it. Everyone is watching me, but I wonder if they understand what I’m doing. I have every intention of writing LP to tell them to not include this guesthouse in future editions, and post my experience on their travel forum. I don’t know that it will make a difference, but it has the potential to make a huge difference.
With 1 minute left of my self-proclaimed deadline 2 police motorcycles and a black Ford Escalade pull into the driveway. Apparently there wasn’t anything more important than a tourist trying to run out on a hotel bill going on in Koh Kong just then. There are 4 police men and a man I can only assume is the chief. As if in a movie he slowly gets out of the car and begins to walk towards me, flanked by the police men wearing motorcycle helmets, there’s no expression on his face as he removes his sunglasses. I dumbly try my eyelash/smile approach, “Hello” I say as I bow my head.
“Passport please,” he replies. Shit. Now he knows my name… What had I been expecting?
The woman starts to explain the story loudly. I wait. When she finishes he simply says, “You need to pay her $3.” Ok, I say, I’d be happy to, but can he hear my side of the story? He listens obligingly (luckily his English is very good). I explain how I had wanted to stay but couldn’t, I had only been there for 2 hours, she was rude, abusive, and unfair starting at $5. She was going to lose a lot of business from this incident and it would have served her better to have been nice and just ask for $3. He nods and then says, “Ok, but now I want you to pay her $3 and we close this problem.” Grrrrr. I wanted some acknowledgement. “But can you please explain to her why this whole thing was a problem, why I didn’t want to pay from the beginning?” He smiles and explains there is no point in it, she would do it again tomorrow if it happened. He also explains that it is the law there, if a guest stays in a room more than 1 hour they have to pay half the price. This is news to me, she never said anything about a law. Shakily I hand her a $5, trying as hard as I can to show that I don’t care that I’m paying her, no big deal. She makes my change and looks victorious.
The police chief asks me why I have to leave Koh Kong, why am I going back to Thailand. I correct him, I’m not going back, I’ve been in Cambodia for 3 weeks, and this has been the first bad experience I’ve had. He apologizes and says he hopes I come back to Koh Kong. See, I was right! The police would want to make a good impression for Koh Kong tourism. But that didn’t end up meaning I wouldn’t have to pay… He asks me about my travels as I walk out of the guesthouse (freedom!) and we share a couple words. I milk the smiling and conversation between us, laughing. I want the family to see how clear it is that I’m not the bad guy. I’m a very sore loser. I ask him where I should walk to find a motorbike to take me to the border. He offers to have one of his men take me to the border. Sweet! That ride would have cost me $3 ;)
As I climb onto the back of a gorgeous Harley Davidson police bike I laugh at my luck and the look on the faces of family, I wave back at them goodbye.
Having my nerves on edge being yelled at by the woman: not worth $3
Risking the decision of unknown police in a foreign country: not worth $3
Wasting an hour of my time to get to Thailand and the island: not worth $3
The experience of being delivered to the Thai border on the back of a police HD motorcycle: Priceless
Once in Koh Kong I found a guesthouse for $7 for the night and put my bags in the room. I’m always frustrated by the attitude of some guesthouse owners when I arrive to ask about vacancy. Often I have to interrupt a television show or get someone’s attention, and then they just look at me like, “what do you want.” You’d think that if you were in the business of hosting people that you would be gracious and eager to please a potential customer, but I have rarely found that to be the case at family run guesthouses. A cultural difference I guess… People wait for business to come to them and seem to accept what they get.
I went straight to the local dive shop. I had read about Koh Kong Island, which was supposed to have very beautiful beaches. Everything I read said there were no guesthouses on the island, but that development was definitely on its way, and that was all written about 1 year ago. I felt certain, with my infinite wisdom, that by now there would be a guesthouse on the island. Instead of paying for a 1 day tour to the island, I wanted to find a local boat to drop me there and I would stay for a couple days.
At the dive shop they had day tours to the island for $40, way outside my budget. I asked about staying on the island and the guy said it wasn’t an option. What? There must be at least somewhere basic to stay. He assured me there were no guesthouses. But why? I asked. Because the island is a military base. There is no local development allowed for tourism, but everyone is expecting someone to come and buy the land from the government and put a resort on the island soon. Definitely, not what I had been expecting.
I came to Koh Kong because I wanted to find somewhere away from tourism to relax on the beach for a couple days before heading to Bangkok, and then Calcutta. Apparently this wasn’t the place. The town is nothing special, and it’s not really on the coast, it’s behind a mangrove swamp, so there are no local beaches. I decide to head to Koh Kood, an island not too far, but part of Thailand. I’ll cross the nearby border today and take a ferry to the island. I find an internet café and catch up with emails and tell Dad and Atish I’m safe after my days with no communication in the mountains. Then I head back to the guesthouse to get my bags.
I know they won’t be happy I’ve decided not to stay, so when I approach the guesthouse and see the owner / mother outside I smile warmly and bring my hands together in front of my face and say, “I’m so sorry, I have to change my plans, I have to go to Thailand today, I can’t stay tonight in Koh Kong.” And it’s the truth. I don’t have enough time to stay the night and leave tomorrow. I fly from Bangkok in a week and I want my time on the beach and in the city. Immediately she looks mad and says, “You pay $5.”
Excuse me? I’m not paying more than half the price for the room that just held my bags for 2 hours. She starts up a speech in Thai and her teenage son comes over to try to translate. Something about using the water, electricity, making the room dirty, I have to pay $5. I’m so put off by her complete unwillingness to understand the situation I am in and her hostility that I flat out refuse to pay. I haven't used the room or made it dirty but I did use the small bar of soap in my room to wash my hands when I arrived, I’ll pay $1. No, $5 she says.
I ignore her and head straight back to the room to get my stuff. I want to get my bags in my hands before they lock me out of my room. She’s so angry and I haven’t done anything but have to change my plans. I haven’t been rude, I’m still trying to smile, but she’s furious.
A couple minutes later I walk back out with my bag on my back, the key and $1 in my hand, I hand them to her. She waves the $1 in the air. What is this? You pay $5! I came and agreed to stay, I used the room, I have to pay $5. I calmly tell the son that that is ridiculous. I’m not paying nearly the full price for the room for 2 hours of keeping my bags there. She should be happy with the $1 (if I had another single I would have given her $2). This is incredibly bad business I tell the boy. I came here happy, my plans changed because I had bad information (not entirely true…), I said I was sorry I would have to leave for Thailand, and now she’s pissed at me. She should be understanding. This is bad business. I try to convey all of this to the boy and he looks distraught. I tell him I’m not paying her $5. I’ve put my foot down and now I’m going to be stubborn. I’m starting to get pissed as well. I can see how frustrated the boy is, he’s embarrassed. “Moooommm, just let it go,” is clearly what he is saying to her. No. She won’t.
At this point I realize that I may end up having to pay. In a sense I understand her side. I entered a verbal agreement when I took the key for the room. I’m almost surprised she isn’t asking me for $7. But I’m so incredibly put off by her approach that I will see this out to some type of fairness. I won’t let some woman (who didn’t even seem to want my business when I arrived!) yell at me and demand $5.
I say, “I’m sorry, but you are being unreasonable,” and walk to the door. She steps in front of me and slaps my shoulders then pushes me forcefully backwards. With my backpack on her shove sets me off balance both physically and emotionally. Now I’m mad.
I’ve heard the warnings about causing a Thai businessperson to lose face. So close to the Thai border, I assume the culture is shared. 1 traveler told me about going into stores and trying on t-shirts, after trying on 3 different t-shirts that he didn’t end up liking the woman said he couldn’t try on anymore, he had to buy one. But how could he buy one if he didn’t know if he liked it on himself? he voiced. Didn’t matter, he couldn’t try any more on, it was enough. So he went to leave the store and the woman slapped him hard across the back as he passed and said, “You try on, why not buy!?” He was so shocked he stopped and tried to explain himself but she hit him again and the girl he was traveling with had to drag him out of the store, afraid he would keep getting beat up if he stood there in shock.
A German woman I met was at a bar in Bangkok with some friends. They ordered a pitcher of some mixed drink and when they taste it they were revolted. The alcohol was some sort of cheap home-brew. They insisted on a new pitcher of better stuff that they were paying full price for. The second pitcher was the same so they got up and left and went to the bar next door. As they left the 2nd bar later on they saw a group of tourists headed into the first bar. The gal yelled over to them to not go to that bar because the drinks were bad. The woman from the bar was standing there and heard. She picked up a glass beer bottle and threw it forcefully at the gal, hitting her in the eye. She had to be rushed to a hospital and now is still having problems with the dilation of her pupil from the damage.
These stories are fully supported by a warning in the Lonely Planet about not causing the Thai to lose face because it can turn violent. I’m completely shocked by these stories. I can’t imagine such outbursts of violence in public, to potential customers, by women. Whatever happened to the customer is always right? Obviously, this is an example of a huge cultural difference, but it is not one I am willing to excuse on the basis of misunderstanding differences.
What I was experiencing at the hotel wasn’t nearly as bad as these stories. The woman and I were in a standoff, each I believe within our own rights to claim whether or not the money should be paid. But I felt I held the moral-high ground because I was the one being calm, rational, not violent and not yelling.
In my attempt to seem self-assured and confident my nerves were slowly failing. I could feel my knees begin to shake under my pack. But I tried not to show it and continued to listen to the woman yell at me in Khmer, blocking the doorway with her body. Her neighbors and family members had now come around to watch the drama unfold. Her husband sat behind the desk and looked completely uninterested; he looked at the floor and didn’t try to aid the situation. There was a little girl and a teenage girl on the staircase watching. At one point I looked up at them and smiled and winked at them. They giggled. All of this caused me to further think that I was right, that this woman was crazy and alone in her demand for $5.
I repeated to the boy that this was horrible. I would leave here and tell everyone I met not to stay here. I would write on the internet (and I will) that this guesthouse should not be used. I told him that today, maybe I pay $5, but tomorrow they would have no guests. I think he understood me, but he made it clear that his wasn’t about responsible, sustainable business practices. This was about me paying $5 for using the room.
Just then a man with a backpack came walking up the driveway to the door. He was clearly looking for a place to stay. Standing directly behind the woman he was completely ignored. He looked so confused about all the yelling and I just stood there and smiled weakly at him. “Don’t stay here, go away,” I mouthed at him. He looked more confused.
“What is happening?” he asked. I explained my situation and told him he should find another place.
“But you stayed here?” he asked, he was Italian and he hadn’t fully understood me over the yelling.
“No, I got here 2 hours ago. I haven’t stayed, I just took a room, and now I need to leave.”
He look even more confused. He tried to ask them why they wanted me to pay if I didn’t sleep there. It was reassuring to know he was of the same mindset as I was. You don’t stay in a hotel room unless you spend the night, sleep in the bed, why should I pay for the room? After a couple minutes the man walked away to find another place. The woman never looked at him, he was never even offered a room. That’s the other thing. If the place was packed, if my leaving after check out hours meant that they had lost the business of filling that room with a guest, then I would have been more willing to pay. But the place was empty, so I hadn’t taken any business from them. Until just now. See! I said to the boy. You yell at me for $5 for nothing, and you just lost $7. See? He left, you lost a customer. The boy definitely understood, but he seemed too intimidated to even talk to his mother. He just stood there, occasionally repeating some of her ranting when she yelled at him to speak.
After another 5 minutes of verbal abuse the price dropped to $3. Now that was more reasonable. But at the same time, her dropping the price only confirmed my suspicion that she was majorly ripping me off from the beginning when her response to my apology of having to leave was “$5!” So, I figured I would give it another couple of minutes of refusal and then agree to pay the $3 to get out of there, but I really didn’t want to pay her. Then the boy translated, “If you don’t pay I’ll call the police.”
The police? A quick deliberation took place in my head and my mouth said, “Good! Call the police!” Why did I say that? I think I was hoping they were bluffing. They looked taken aback that I had said that. So sure was I of my position at the time that I pulled out my own phone and said shakily, “Call them! If you don’t call them, I will. Go on, call them!” They got the message, I thought perhaps she would drop the whole issue. Why make it more involved with the cops? But she was livid. She yelled at her husband to call. He looked apprehensive, but picked up the phone, dialed and handed it to her. I listend as she yelled the situation over the phone. She hung up, the police would be coming. She walked away and pointed at me and yelled something over her shoulder, “make sure she doesn’t go anywhere!”
A couple things went through my mind at this point:
They don’t have my name or passport, I could probably just get up and walk out, she seemed the only one really interested in keeping me there for the additional $2 (she still had my $1). But did I want to risk it?
Were the police a good idea? I’m in a foreign, developing country. The police could be really corrupt, I could end up having to pay $100 for god-knows-what. Then again, I was a tourist. A western. A pretty girl. They shouldn’t want to hassle me. They want tourism to grow in Koh Kong. Maybe if I batted my eyelashes, and smiled and said “she pushed me!” they would apologize and let me walk away without paying. It could easily go either way.
I look at the clock, it’s getting late. I tell the husband, if they don’t come in 5 minutes I’m leaving. He didn’t seem to care. The woman has come back to be my guard. I slowly, deliberately pull out my Lonely Planet and open it to the page for Koh Kong. Then I make a show of getting my pen and reading the sign outside with the guesthouse name and copying it into my Lonely Planet: Phneas Mea Koh Kong Guesthouse. I put a big X in front of it. Everyone is watching me, but I wonder if they understand what I’m doing. I have every intention of writing LP to tell them to not include this guesthouse in future editions, and post my experience on their travel forum. I don’t know that it will make a difference, but it has the potential to make a huge difference.
With 1 minute left of my self-proclaimed deadline 2 police motorcycles and a black Ford Escalade pull into the driveway. Apparently there wasn’t anything more important than a tourist trying to run out on a hotel bill going on in Koh Kong just then. There are 4 police men and a man I can only assume is the chief. As if in a movie he slowly gets out of the car and begins to walk towards me, flanked by the police men wearing motorcycle helmets, there’s no expression on his face as he removes his sunglasses. I dumbly try my eyelash/smile approach, “Hello” I say as I bow my head.
“Passport please,” he replies. Shit. Now he knows my name… What had I been expecting?
The woman starts to explain the story loudly. I wait. When she finishes he simply says, “You need to pay her $3.” Ok, I say, I’d be happy to, but can he hear my side of the story? He listens obligingly (luckily his English is very good). I explain how I had wanted to stay but couldn’t, I had only been there for 2 hours, she was rude, abusive, and unfair starting at $5. She was going to lose a lot of business from this incident and it would have served her better to have been nice and just ask for $3. He nods and then says, “Ok, but now I want you to pay her $3 and we close this problem.” Grrrrr. I wanted some acknowledgement. “But can you please explain to her why this whole thing was a problem, why I didn’t want to pay from the beginning?” He smiles and explains there is no point in it, she would do it again tomorrow if it happened. He also explains that it is the law there, if a guest stays in a room more than 1 hour they have to pay half the price. This is news to me, she never said anything about a law. Shakily I hand her a $5, trying as hard as I can to show that I don’t care that I’m paying her, no big deal. She makes my change and looks victorious.
The police chief asks me why I have to leave Koh Kong, why am I going back to Thailand. I correct him, I’m not going back, I’ve been in Cambodia for 3 weeks, and this has been the first bad experience I’ve had. He apologizes and says he hopes I come back to Koh Kong. See, I was right! The police would want to make a good impression for Koh Kong tourism. But that didn’t end up meaning I wouldn’t have to pay… He asks me about my travels as I walk out of the guesthouse (freedom!) and we share a couple words. I milk the smiling and conversation between us, laughing. I want the family to see how clear it is that I’m not the bad guy. I’m a very sore loser. I ask him where I should walk to find a motorbike to take me to the border. He offers to have one of his men take me to the border. Sweet! That ride would have cost me $3 ;)
As I climb onto the back of a gorgeous Harley Davidson police bike I laugh at my luck and the look on the faces of family, I wave back at them goodbye.
Having my nerves on edge being yelled at by the woman: not worth $3
Risking the decision of unknown police in a foreign country: not worth $3
Wasting an hour of my time to get to Thailand and the island: not worth $3
The experience of being delivered to the Thai border on the back of a police HD motorcycle: Priceless
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