Curious Spuriosities

Bangkok III: Haircut 101

Had my hair cut today.

I've had quite a few haircuts in my day, let me tell you. Not as many as I've had hot dinners, but a substantial number nevertheless. The most memorable to date would be the mercurial (and, as it turns out, illegal) roadside clipper in Beijing, who sheered me with a rusty set of hand-clippers and fled mid-cut due to the arrival of the local constabulary. But this one takes the cake.

Venturing out during my Bangkok convalescence with my friend, May, we went to visit her old University. The oppressive 40+ heat was sapping what little energy I had. Gad, it was hot!

May suggested a trim to my shaggy and highly heat-absorbant cranial merkin might alleviate my agony. So she took me to a lovely little hairdresers she used to visit when she was studying.

Keen to impress the locals with my grasp of Thai, I scrablled together a request for a quick trim and tidy-up. In the hysterics that followed, May informed me that I had demanded to put my hair on a strict diet and then bloody-well get on with finishing the housekeeping.

The barber attacked my bushy bonce with gusto and here's the thing: he completed the entire task armed only with a wide-toothed plastic comb and an ancient and fright-inducing cut-throat razor. With a fearsome efficiency, he scooped and hacked with his rudimentary tool kit. Only for the final "housekeeping" did a pair of scissors emerge.

What a unique set of sensations to feel the tug on my scalp as the razor cut its swathe through my thatch. And to hear the rich crunching sound of hundreds of hairs being chopped in a single swipe.

I was getting pretty nervous as he neared my ears. But he worked his way around these fleshy obstacles like a seasoned topiarist.

He certainly gave me my money's worth: reducing me from windswept and interesting to sharp and sleek in just a few well placed swipes. I now look more horrifyingly like Crispin Glover than one could ever wish. Not a good look.

But I sensed he still had more fight in him. I noticed him peeking with an abnormal and, dare I say, obsessive interest at the dense and unruly undergrowth that forms my eyebrows. Not today, my friend. With the sun still blasting down out there... I'm gonna need all the shade I can get.

Stone Temple Piloting: Angkor, Day Three

Pulling up outside Bakong – the highlight of the ancient Rolous Group and site of the first major Khmer capital before it relocated to Angkor – I was amazed to discover I was the first tourist of the day. Save a few old monks shuffling around, there was not another person in sight. It was light, but the sun had yet to clear the think haze on the horizon.

Entry gate to Bakong
The entire complex is surround by a huge moat

At my leisure, I circled my way up and around the massive step pyramid. Not as ornate as some of the later temples (this one was built some 200 years before Angkor Wat), it had a simple dignity and sobriety of form that was most impressive. Each corner was guarded by carved stone elephants and each staircase by a pair of stone lions, many still in pretty good nick.

View to Bakong summit

Reaching the summit and still the only living soul, I decided to honour that sacred ritual practiced by Hindu mystics from time immemorial: I rolled a big, fat scooby. And I did toke thereof. And it was good. Yea, verily.

Right here and now, and in the privacy of my own wat, it just seemed the appropriate course of action.

I slowly circled the upper platform of the central tower, pausing to look out over unending miles of verdant jungle that had both protected and destroyed these magnificent structures in turn. And for that short moment I was the raja, the khan, the king and high priest of the Khmer empire. Bring on the dancing girls.

I then began a slow, circuitous descent – this time in the opposite direction to my ascent – pausing to snap shots whenever the light and the angles were just right.

View of the Bakong terraces frpm ground level

At ground level, I circled the structure again, then tracing the outer perimeter of its moat and finally, the outer wall, trying to get the reflection of the main tower in the dead calm of the water. As I shuffled through the dense, dry underbrush -- ever vigilant for banded kraits, spitting cobras, scorpions and numerous arachnoid species, real or imagined, intent of curtailing this pleasant morning constitutional  -- I wish I had worn the Blundstones.

Bakong compound from the moat

I had the complex to myself for the better part of an hour, but sure enough, the hawkers and spruikers soon began to set-up shop as the hordes arrived in their air-conditioned tour buses.

Hidden temple tower, Bakong South
A local family was living in the adjacent grass hut.

It was a magical, mystical hour and one I dare say I’ll be lucky to repeat anywhere on my travels.

Look back in Angkor: Angkor, Day Two

6.30am: Tuk-tuk time. Hired a friendly driver to ferry me around today as my thighs were chafed, legs racked with pain and feet splintered from day one’s ill-advised perambulations.

First stop: Banteay Serei, one of the oldest, and most heavily Hindu temple complexes, quit a few kms form the main Group.

Banteay Srei

Went right up country to see what is called Kbal Spean (or River of a Thousand Linga’s). It must have been an ancient Khmer picnic spot of sorts for royalty. A rugged hike into the far-flung foothills reveals a series of river banks and waterfalls where the very rocks have been sculpted in a pleasing series of friezes and fountains. Themes from nature and religious folklore can be clearly seen despite centuries of erosion from cascading water.

Kbal Spean
 

And then back into the Angkor complex to complete the remainder of the “big circuit”. This included:

• Pre Rup (made mostly of crumbling bricks yet still impressively towering)

• Eastern Mabon
  
  Eastern Mebon
  
  

• Ta Som (where the roots of strangler figs have run riot)
  
  Ta Som
  
  

• Preak Neak Pean (a spectacular 5-pooled fountain in the middle of what was once a huge reservoir)
  
  Preah Neak Pean
  
  

• Preah Khan (where a local cop acted as my tour guide and then shafted me for an exorbitant fee)
  
  Dancing Hall, Preak Khan
  
  

• The Bayon (again)

• The Baphoun (under intensive reconstruction)

  
  Road to Bauphon
   
  

• Phimeanakas (a steep stepped pyramid reminiscent of the it’s Aztec second cousins-twice  removed)
  
  Phimeanakas
  
  

A motorized escort, I now realise, is the only way to go. There is little to see in transit: the forest canopy is so high that one can barely see one temple from the very top of its neighbour. And nothing is visible at ground level until you’re actually at the gates.

I thought I might start suffering “temple overload” but this just does not seem to happen. The more you see, the more you want to see the longer you want to explore. It was only the onset of nightfall which put my templing to rest for day two.

A Walk in the Wats: Angkor, Day One

Nothing prepared me for the Temples of Angkor.

Nothing.

Not the books I’d read, the pictures I’d devoured nor the stories I’d heard.

For a start, the sheer scale of the place: I imagined that I could stand at some central point and, turning 360 degrees see everything within the horizon line.

I also imagined that, at a brisk pace, one could stroll around the entire complex within a day. Easily.

And for another, the sheer majesty of the place. Sure, I knew it was going to be impressive, but not that I was going to be so totally humbled and overwhelmed.

So stupidly I jumped on a motorbike mid morning, purchased my three day pass and deposited myself at the gates to Angkor Wat. And I decided I was going to hoof it from there. I took what was called the “little circuit”, a loop taking in

Angkor’s greatest hits:

• Angkor Wat (words can barely describe, so I’ll spare you)

  
  Angkor Wat
  Wat all of the fuss is about. And worthy of it. Sheer majesty.

• Banteay Kdei (crumbling and shaded by a massive forest canopy, it’s hauntingly atmospheric)

  
  Banteay Kedai and jungle
  There's a huge beehive in the lower branch of the big tree.

• Ta Phrom (beautifully warped by the tangle of tree roots),

  
  Ta Phrom, Angkor
  Not a bad root

          and

• The Bayon (with dozens upon dozens of huge stone faces with those enigmatic Mona Lisa smiles)
  

  
  The Bayon
   
  

What is it they say about mad dogs, Englishmen and the noonday Sun? Add to this list moronic Australians. I walked this entire 17km circuit in a day (well, most of it). In the dust and 39 degree heat. Gad, it was hot! And my feet were killing me. I figured with my backtracking and ill-advised “short cuts”, I must have covered at least 20kms.

Each temple took at least an hour to explore; many such as Angkor and the Bayon, much more. I was awestruck at their imposing enormity, their intricate complexity and their harmonic symmetry. Big, brilliant and beautifully balanced.

Not even extreme fatigue, dehydration and heatstroke could stop me in my tracks, scrambling and exploring the ruins. Even as I drifted into the deepest of slumbers that night, they formed the backdrop for an intense series of dreams and nightmares featuring gods and demons, slavegirls and serpents.

And sore feet. Tomorrow, I’ll take a sedan chair.

Crossing the torpidity threshold in Sihanoukville

It hits you usually on the fourth day, sometime after lunch. It sneaks up on you slow and cunning, so as to be almost imperceptible. But by mid-afternoon, it has you in its clutches.

When you find yourself completely immobile -- unable to even contemplate the notion of even thinking about getting around to anticipating entertaining the faintest idea of expending any sort of physical effort – you know you’ve crossed the torpidity threshold.

Not much to do but watch the tide come and go

There are so-called gurus who teach practitioners how to cross this barrier in less than a day. However, this requires an extraordinary level of mental and physical conditioning and years of training which almost defeats the purpose.

Most, like myself, prefer the natural method. It requires an optimal relaxation environment. In my case, Ochateal Beach to the south of Sihanoukville on Cambodia’s south coast. Additionally, the following factors should be observed:

• Temperature: warm, but not too hot (25-30 C is ideal).

• Tropospheric conditions: clear, with occasional cumulus

• Barometric activity: gentle (1-4knots) land breezeby morning, and sea breeze by evening. No prevailing gusts or squalls. Humidity 75-90%

• Rainfall: nil

• Ocean conditions:
  1. Tides: normal

  2. Waves: the flatter the better. Ripples will suffice.

  3. Colour: crystal clear, fading to turquoise fading to deep blue

Additionally the following props are required:

• 1 x folding deckcair

• 1 x sturdy sidetable

• 1 x beach umbrella (adjustable for both azimuth and elevation)

• 1 x beach mat (straw or raffia)

• 1 x broad brimmed hat

• 1 pair UV protective sunglasses

And, where possible, a steady and cheap supply of:

• Tropical fruits (for both shakes and salads)

• Ice-cold beer and soft drinks

• BBQed crustaceans, mollusks, cephalopods, chondrichthyes & osteichthyes

• The leaves, flowers and buds of the cannabis sativa plant

• Suntan lotion

Thus established and provided for, you can slowly settle yourself into a vortex of inactivity. The heart rate slows while breathing becomes deep and relaxed. Your metabolism drops back a few notches. Alpha waves rise in the brain. In fact, conscious brain activity may cease altogether.

Soon will achieve total separation of mind, body and soul. The mind may will the body to move, but the body will resist. The body may experience feelings of mild discomfort (from a too-cold beer or too-hot prawns for instance), but the mind will block it. The soul will swoop and soar as if freed from its corporeal prison.

The only sounds you hear are the rustling of palm leaves, the gentle breaking of waves and, the laughter of children playing. The nagging of hawkers and groveling of beggars fades into the background.

The only thing you see is the transitional bands of sand, surf, sea and sky. Floating plastic bags become turtles and rays. It all appears to be moving in slow motion.

The only smells become ozone and frangipani blossom.

The only tastes, the heightened tangs of salt, sugar, malt and charcoaled flesh.

The only sensations, the gentle motion of air across bare skin and the squeak of sand between your toes.

Laos in Translation

Laos, the land time forgot. Well, maybe it hasn't forgotten. Maybe it just hasn't got round to it yet.

Village market, northern Laos

Once out of the dusty capital, Vientianne, the simple granduer of this place takes over. In our rickety old bus, bursting at the seams with all manner of cargo: human, animal, vegetable and mineral; we witnessed its raw and natural beauty up close.

Vast mountain ranges overlap into the hazy distance, their ridges so jagged, it looks as if someone has taken something really jaggy, banged it around a little and then whacked it into the "Jaggermeister 4000" Industrial Jaggification Machine, only to take it out and roughen it up a bit more for good measure. Gad, they were jagged!

Elephant Cave Rock, Vang Vieng

Just like looking at clouds, one can stare at the rugged profile of these ridges and make all sorts of shapes and images. No, wait... I think that was the drugs kicking in.

We stopped at Vang Vieng, whose frayed outcrops I had been furiously and futiley trying to snap from the bus window for over an hour. Up close and ex transit, just as sunset was approaching, they were a site to behold. Madly trying to run while pour a Mekong whiskey, we reached to river's edge just before night descended, taking in the majesty of this scene,  "Cripes. Not bad." I remember thinking at the time.

Vang Vieng RiverPanorama

Non Sa-at: A Motorcycle Diary

O and I ventured on her her 100C Honda Wave to see some "monkeys and temples and stuff". Due to and administrative error, she was driving and I was riding pillion.

Our intended two hour jaunt stretched into eight as we decided to take the road less travelled. Or should I say, more travelled: by trucks, pedestrians, bikes, elephants, tractors, buffalo, utes, ducks, cycles, dogs and strange looking push-me-pull-you-types farm transport machines. All this traffic left the roads bomb-cratered with potholes, punctuated with buffalo turds, and strewn with randomly jettisoned farm produce and equipment.

All this rocking, rolling, riding left both our pelvic and lumbar regions tender and petulant. Gad, how it hurt! It still hurts.

Small cremation chimney, Non Sa-at
Originally uploaded by baabuzz.

But what a fascinating journey. The villages -- plentiful and none more than a five minute ride from the next one -- are a maze of makeshift but functional lean-tos, stalls, homes, sheds, general stores, pig styes, chook pens, eating houses, etc. Occasionally a rather grand looking white concrete and red tile structure would ballustrade into view -- built by farangs, O assured me, who had married girls from the village (although I think their introductions were made in more southerly regions).

We stopped a few times to enjoy the friendly local hospitalities, with O at pains to explain that I was NOT her boyfriend. Especially during the numerous times we called in on friends and relatives as we weaved in and out of the villages.

Dog Fight
Originally uploaded by baabuzz.

Witnessed a vicious dogfight between two neighbouring packs, which drew much mirth and excitement from the locals, many of whom were busy grooming their fighting cocks at the time. After much snarling and gnashing of teeth, the show was over, first blood had been drawn, the loser cowering a retreat. Sadly, all too soon, preventing a book to be drawn up and bets placed.

We rode and rode until it got dark, winding and finding our way to the back blocks of Non sa-at and... home. And off the bike. And... aaaaahhhhhh.

North to Udon Thani

After a hair-raising, sweat breaking, nerve-wracking sprint/climb/skytrain/tuk-tuk dash through early morning Bangkok traffic choas to make the 8.20am to udon Thani, we finally pulled out of the station at more realistic 9.06am.

A mother and her sleeping infant had commandeered my allocated seat, so after a fruitless tantrum, I slumped into a spare one nearby for the long haul north. I chose to travel by day, forgoing the first-class comfort of the sleeper (after a horrendously raucous and debached last night in Bangkok, I now wish I had taken the sleeper), to enjoy the changing scenery.

And change it did. From the broad, parched flooplains in the south to the, well, the broad, parched flood plains in the north, one could readily detect the subtle variations. In the south, the land is completely flat, blanketed in a dusty haze from cane fires and chequered with the dun-yellow stubble of dried rice paddies and scorched cane-fields. Whereas, in the north, the land is completely flat, blanketed in a dusty haze from cane fires and chequered with the dun-yellow stubble of dried rice paddies and scorched cane-fields.

There was, however, a fascinating stretch as we moved from Ayuthaya to Sara Buri, where the tracks skirt the expansive Lumtakhong river for seemingly endless miles. With the soft winter light and the haze from the dust and smoke, it is impossible to see the further bank of the river. The horizon just vanishes into nothing, the sky and river blending seamlessly into one.

Earth/Sea/Sky
You just can't tell where the water ends and the sky begins

The illusion creates an eerie and other-worldy sense of weightlessness, as if floating through a blue-green ether. Gad, it's wierd!

Kuala Lumpur

Originally uploaded by baabuzz.

Malacca: What a cracker!

There once was a grubby backpacker
Who boarded a bus for Malacca...

I hate arriving really late at night in someplace, short of food, sleep and cash. You're proabbly the same yourself, so I'll spare you the details of the ordeal of trudging through strange streets asking strange people stange questions in strange hybrids of Malay, Chinese and English.

Instead, let me tell you about Malacca.

Once upon a time, Malacca was the generic name used by European traders to desribe the entire Malay Peninsula, with its focal point bang in the middle of present day Melaka. She was a major trading port who attracted, in turn, traders from Indonesia, India, Arabia, China, Portugal, Holland and Britain. All tried to wrest of control of her by either direct or indirect means.

As a result, she harbours a history as fascinating as anywhere on the planet. Gad, it's fascinating! Malacca's architecture pays homage to all these foreign influences as well as its own Malay heritage. Istanas, forts, lighthouses, chapels, crypts, palaces, temples, shophouses, warehouses and bridges combine in a flurry of colours and styles like dishes at a wedding banquet.

A Famosa Fort, Malacca
Built by the Portuguese in 1641

Rich Dutch trader's house, Malacca
Well, once upon a time

Old Malacca town is wondrous sight. Just browsing the antique shops and galleries gives one a feel for a humming, thrumming yesteryear when spices and raw commodities ruled the wave-bound trade routes. And where the invisible hand of commerce stirred a melting pot of races, creeds and colours from all over the globe into one dynamically swirling, ebbing, flowing marketplace.

The Malacca River

And modern Melaka is not doing too shabbily either. It's clean and effificient with a wealth of shiny new buildings -- the evidence of plenty of investment dollars pouring in.