tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-217902192024-03-13T14:55:58.082+09:00New RexSame great taste... double the caloriesKarma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-61692246570041497732007-04-17T10:31:00.000+09:002007-07-20T11:29:40.590+09:00Cambodia PrologueSorry for the delay in posting. Been busy as hell. Although Cambodia was only a 2 day trip, we packed a lot into it, so I am going to break the trip into a bunch of parts. First, a picture-less prologue-- the arrival.<br /><br />This time, we got to the airport with plenty of time. We checked in and were told to proceed to the gate. Air Asia requires you to go through a battery of physical and emotional challenges prior to boarding the plane. First, you must wait in line to pay $15.00 in order to exit Thailand. 15 bucks just to get out of the country. Note that 15 bucks is a lot of money in Thailand. With 15 bucks you can eat dinner for about 15 days. 15 bucks can also pay for a week in a hostel. I mention this because in a country where you get used to living on the super cheap, this comes as a shock, mainly because it is feasible that you can end up with less than 15 bucks before leaving the country. I am curious what would happen to a person unable to pay the exit fee, but with an expired visa.<br /><br />Ok, anyway, so we pay the exorbitant fee and begin our walk... no, we begin our <span style="font-style: italic;">trek</span> to the gate. The gate is not so much in another part of the airport, as it is in another part of the country. Seriously, a tuk tuk and a days rations of food wouldn't have been totally out of the question here. Needless to say, we reach a sign with our gate number, which is posted above a flight of stairs. We walked down the stairs and into a big glass box. From here we could see the gate, but a glass wall separated us from where we were and where we needed to be. We looked around but there was nothing in any direction. Then, we noticed a small door in one of the walls of our crystal prison. We followed it out to an escalator that was roped off. There was no one in eyesight which led us to believe that this was not the right place. We went back into the glass cube hoping to find another answer. Nothing, same as before. We went back to the escalator, but this time, there was a woman standing at a small podium in front. We recognized her as the same sainly woman who had helped us the day before.<br /><br />She took our tickets and led us down the escalator which ended in double steel doors leading to the runway. Our next stop, however, was not our plane, but a shuttle bus. In this shuttle bus and only by the grace of God the staff of Air Asia and Suvarnabhumi airport managed to cram every passenger of a full Boeing 737-300.<br /><br />To begin, I would like to say that I was humbled and embarrassed by my lack of knowledge about Cambodia prior to my visit there. In America, though our social studies classes cover much of the world, South East Asia is rarely mentioned excepting for the Vietnam war. We learn of the Khmer Rogue's occupation of Cambodia, but only to the extent that Pol Pot was a mass murderer. This is especially odd because unlike Adolf Hitler, Mussolini, and other despots whose egregious actions are featured prominently in history books, Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge are not of a past generation. They are of my generation. As the remnants of the Third Reich are in hiding, whiling away the twilight years of their despicable lives praying that they never face the justice that they so richly deserve, the former members of the Khmer Rouge are alive and well. Some of them are as young as thirty somethings. Most are in their midlife. Their crimes were committed years after the Vietnam war that is so fresh in most American's memories. The problem is not that we have forgotten what happened in Cambodia, its that most of us never learned about it. In any case, assuming that there may be those who happen upon this post who, like me, did not understand the full extent of the Khmer Rogue's rule, I will do my best to infuse some history with the tale of my trip.<br /><br />After successfully making our way to Cambodia, we were welcomed into the airport at Phnom Penh where we had to change our Thai Bhat into a long forgotten currency from another life.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguN8CF8Z8qwdHsLpHoJHBsJzeZKpeMW7frYd8g9a4Rf9yq2rHLTvkqALx9-xOGnAgL-dp3ypUEK1MmuscvC8vK98IoEn3RsyumEJQz3WMaprzP4A0y0uiHTfHOHnKFBkqtzPv/s1600-h/us_dollar_front.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhguN8CF8Z8qwdHsLpHoJHBsJzeZKpeMW7frYd8g9a4Rf9yq2rHLTvkqALx9-xOGnAgL-dp3ypUEK1MmuscvC8vK98IoEn3RsyumEJQz3WMaprzP4A0y0uiHTfHOHnKFBkqtzPv/s320/us_dollar_front.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054205608451750898" border="0" /></a>Since Cambodia's infrastructure and economy had to be recreated after Khmer Rouge control, the Cambodian economy is understandably unstable. The Cambodian riel was the currency before the Khmer Rouge rose to power in 1975. From 1975 until 1980 Pol Pot abolished all currency. After the Vietnamese invasion in 1980, the riel was re-established as the official currency. In order to mend the severely damaged economy, and since there was no Khmer money for the new riel to replace, money had to literally be given away to the people. As such, the value of the riel is extremely low (as I write this post on April 17 2007, 1USD = 4,131.80 riel <a href="http://www2.blogger.com/www.oanda.com"><span style="font-style: italic;">www.oanda.com</span></a>.)<br /><br />Riel are primarily used for small local purchases, such as groceries. As Cambodia is trying to re-establish its economy through tourism, the US dollar is widely used, making it the de facto official currency.<br /><br />Ok, back to the airport. Look at a map of Cambodia (since you are lazy... here you go:)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFr5SXOmiolN47gbvkdkw-1jVezvYhWvFeIjJQwNDTpiAmbHzvhAIWXoGZzFBt-lMypADgyFBeX7DoiYQPyi1VsqhAqLuwF0Hazvz6Q385RpTzenQOYybvOinNOZjaZXsObRx/s1600-h/CAMBOD-W1.gif"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFFr5SXOmiolN47gbvkdkw-1jVezvYhWvFeIjJQwNDTpiAmbHzvhAIWXoGZzFBt-lMypADgyFBeX7DoiYQPyi1VsqhAqLuwF0Hazvz6Q385RpTzenQOYybvOinNOZjaZXsObRx/s400/CAMBOD-W1.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5054219416771607602" border="0" /></a><br />Not a giant country. We had two full days to see Cambodia. We figured that we could spend a day in Phnom Penh and a day in Siem Riep. Never, in my 25 years, did I ever make a plan that was bad on so many levels.<br /><br />For one thing, Cambodia is an amazing place. The people, the scenery, the food, and that's not even mentioning the Angkor Wat Temples that in every way imaginable earn their distinction as a UNESCO world heritage site. A paltry two days are no where near sufficient.<br /><br />The more immediate problem, however was a logistic one. On the map Phnom Penh is about 150 miles as the crow flies. Based on this alone, and the ease of transport around Thailand, I estimated an easy 3 hour bus trip between cities. In Thailand, bus tickets could be purchased the day of and are easy to come by. Such was the case in Cambodia as well, however the bus was not quite so speedy. Cambodia is not nearly as modernized as Thailand. As such, although the distance between Phnom Penh was not far, the roar connecting the two was an often unpaved road that carried on it all manners of travelers. I'll describe that a bit more later, but suffice to say a bus on such a road takes a long long time.<br /><br />Screwed. We had our return ticket and no where near enough time to do everything we wanted to do. We found this out from our new friend K.<br /><br />K was the cab driver that happened to be the first person we met when we got off the plane. In fact our intent was not to take a cab, but to hop on the back of a moped to get into the city center. While negotiating with a few guys with mopeds, K kept intervening. "The city is too far to go by bike. Come with me I'll take you to the city center and help you plan your trip."<br /><br />At this point we already knew not to trust anyone with a "friendly" offer, but then again we were proven wrong back in Bangkok. Since the cab fare split between the two of us was only a few bucks more than the cost of paying two moped drivers (and a hell of a lot nicer if the city was as far as K said it was) we decided to go with K.<br /><br />"What do you want to do in Cambodia?"<br />"We want to spend today in Phnom Penh, head to Siem Riep tonight and see the Angkor temples tomorrow."<br />"Wow, a lot in two days. Are you flying to Siem Riep?"<br />"No, we were hoping to take the bus. Do you know how we can do that?"<br /><br />K then, in his surprisingly perfect English explained exactly how flawed that plan is. The bus takes a long time. Scratch that. The bus takes an incredibly long time. K explained that due to the nature of the road connecting the Phnom Penh with Siem Riep, the bus can take anywhere between 7 and 10 hours. Since the rural road is not lit and is often crowded with pedestrians and livestock, the bus only leaves between 6am and about 1pm. The return trip would also leave at about the same time. By this schedule, to see Siem Riep, we would have to skip Phnom Penh, take a 7-10 hour bus ride, arrive in Siem Riep at night, then hop on a bus the next morning to get to Phnom Penh in time for our flight home. Of course, that would be absurd. The other alternative would be to forget seeing the Angkor Temples all together and spend our trip in Phnom Penh. We didn't like that idea.<br /><br />"I could drive you." K offered. We listened.<br /><br />"I could drive you around Phnom Penh today, take you to anything you want to see. When you are satisfied, drive you out to Siem Riep and get you a guest house. I will meet you tomorrow morning, bright and early, take you to see whatever temples you want to see, and then bring you back to Phnom Penh. I will arrange for a place to sleep tomorrow night and then pick you up the following day and bring you to the airport. Since we will be driving we can reach Siem Riep in under 6 hours. I will do it for $130."<br /><br />At first we hesitated. That seemed steep especially by southeast Asian standards. As I write this post, I feel like a complete idiot for even haggling with the guy. It was indeed a fair price. We were basically paying for gas and absurdly little for this man's efforts and time. In fact, considering the price of bus tickets, transportation to the various temples, and the saved headache of not having to worry about time or transit, the deal seemed better and better.<br /><br />We agreed. First step - exchange money. That I didn't take a picture of this establishment vexes the hell out of me. On a crowded street on the outskirts of the city we stopped at the money changer. This family run place did not have the Thomas Cook exchange rates posted on a board with digital numbers that changed with the market rates. You just took the clerk's word on it.<br /><br />"You can shop around if you'd like" said the clerk after we showed apprehension at the idea of handing her our money. A quick look at the street, a shop selling memorial stones, various stores that in New York would be referred to as bodegas offering bottled water in buckets of ice melting under the sweltering heat. There would be no shopping around. This is our place.<br /><br />In front of the woman was a glass counter filled with all sorts of different currencies and change strewn about. Glass. There was no safe in the back room. There was no back room. There was no form to fill out and hand to a clerk along with your passport. There was just this woman and her glass counter filled with cash money.<br /><br />We hand her our Thai bhat. We receive good 'ol US greenbacks and Cambodian riel. The exchange was one that begged for a passerby to rob all of us. It was... bizarre.<br /><br />Next stop was a coffee shop where we sat to negotiate our schedule over delicious tea. K explained that he lives in Phnom Penh, but his cousin is from Siem Riep, so he will take us around Phnom Penh and then transfer us into his cousin's care. No problem. With that, our schedule was set, our worries were behind us, and we eagerly set out to explore Cambodia's capital city.<br /><br />NEXT: Harsh Realities of Phnom Penh and a very regrettable decision.Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-6776432833143193302007-02-26T14:11:00.000+09:002007-04-16T14:23:46.297+09:00A Christmas Tale of Blood, Gambling, and Fisticuffs from Oops<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:arial;" >Day 5 - Bangkok - 12/25<br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Correction: Big Oops. We woke up, grabbed our stuff, checked out and grabbed a cab for Bangkok airport. We had about one hour to get to the airport and check in.<br /><br />Then, the oops: air Asia requires you to check in a minimum of 45 minutes ahead of time. At 44 minutes and 59 seconds before the flight departs, they give your seat to standby passengers. We got closed out of our flight. Then the really bad news: Air Asia's policy states that if you miss your check-in your ticket is null and void. This not only cost us out tickets to Cambodia, but our return flight as well. Our tickets were no longer worth the paper they were printed on.<br /><br />We begged, pleaded, flirted and did everything else that we thought might help, but at no avail. Our seats were gone.<br /><br />Until... the warm helpful heart of a benevolent sales manager.<br /><br />It was the best Christmas present we could hope for - Icy said it was the begging, I prefer to think it was the flirting, but regardless, the clerk we were talking to told her manager about our tale of woe. This dear, sweet saint of a woman went against policy and shifted our tickets to Cambodia as well as the return flight one day forward.<br /><br />Awesome. A Christmas miracle. Joy to the World.<br /><br />After a long nap we decided that when one has a day to kill in Bangkok, one must make the most of it - and the most would be made by watching people kick the crap out of each other. We decided to delve into the dark bloodied underbelly of Bangkok and catch a muay thai match.<br /><br />We had no idea how to get to the kickboxing place, and in the convolutions of Bangkok's streets, a walking route was hard to trace. When what to our wondering eyes did appear? But the tuk tuk driver who abandoned us a day earlier.<br /><br />Note: Just now I briefly entertained the idea of writing this entire post as a poem with the same rhyme scheme and meter as "The Night Before Christmas." I even went as far as to google the poem and change some lines in this post to match. After about 20 seconds, I decided to forgo this plan. My reasoning for this? Because. That's why.<br /><br />Anyway, back to things that matter. We saw the "Nick" tuk tuk driver who abandoned us the day before. Still feeling that there must have been some sort of misunderstanding, we walked over to him to find out what happened and ask him for a ride to the Kickboxing Arena.<br /><br />"While I was waiting for you at Wat Saket, some tourists got into the tuk tuk and asked me to take them to another place. I told them I was waiting for a fare but they insisted."<br /><br />Of course, this was a lie. You can't throw a prostitute in Bangkok without hitting a tuk tuk, so the idea that tourists insisted on shanghaiing our tuk tuk as opposed to the zillions of others that are constantly trying to solicit them is odd. On top of this, it was hard to believe that Nick put up much of a fight especially considering that he was certain to make more money off of anyone else. That being said, we couldn't blame him. We decided to give him another chance and asked him to take us to Ratchademnoen Stadium.<br /><br />"Too far. I finish work in half an hour. I don't want to go too far."<br /><br />We had no idea where the stadium was, and it was strange to have a tuk tuk driver refuse us (as they would typically be willing to drive you to Uganda if you are willing to pay) but we supposed it was his right and moved along the line of tuk tuk drivers that were calling to us. As we wished Nick, whose business motives seemed to neither stem from want of money or want of convenience, he made a request that was unexpected to say the least.<br /><br />"Can you pay me for yesterday?"<br /><br />Icy and I looked at him in dismay.<br /><br />"Huh?"<br /><br />"Yesterday. Can you still pay me for yesterday?"<br /><br />"Yesterday?"<br /><br />"Yea."<br /><br />"Yesterday when you ditched us for a better fare and left us looking for you for 45 minutes on the street around Wat Saket? Pay you for that?"<br /><br />Strangely his face did not register any sort of appreciation for the conflict between his lack of services rendered and his request for payment. For a few moments, Icy and I just looked at him completely unaware of how to respond to such a request. He looked back at us with a face that wondered why we don't have our wallets out. That look became a look of confusion as we wished him a good night and backed away towards the other drivers.<br /><br />After finding another driver we reached the stadium. This, by the way, took about 10 minutes which would make some people wonder why the Nick driver told us that it is "too far," but by this point in the evening we had already come to terms with the fact that we will never understand Nick.<br /><br /><br />The stadium is probably much like you would </span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/142/352399459_d9448a0bcf.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/142/352399459_d9448a0bcf.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;">imagine. A simple building surrounded by the hoi polloi who are waiting for 6:30 to roll around. Fight time. The stadium usually urges foreigners (who, as you can</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> see, tend to stick out at these matches... as was the case of the guy below who either lost a bet or decided to wear matching</span><span style="font-family:arial;"> hawaiian print shorts and a shirt) to purchase ring-side tickets for two reasons. Mainly because the locals take muay thai matches and the concurrent betting extremely</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352400591_8ec6311e8c.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 216px; height: 162px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352400591_8ec6311e8c.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;"> seriously. They do not want people who are new to the sport to get in the way or be inconvenienced by the calamity. Secondly, they separate the visitors in order to protect them from the raffish crowd as they shout and place their bets. Not that the crowd is in any way violent, but there are a lot of them, and when bets are taken they all move around very quickly.<br /><br /><br />Of course, we had little interest in the placidity of the ring-side seating and wanted to be in the heart of the fight which ironically is no where near the two guys beating the crap out of each other in the ring. We figured that obstreperous as we are we could keep up with the movement and energy of the locals. While this may not have been the case, I am happy that we made that call because to watch a muay thai match is truly to appreciate the audience. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.jcvandamme.net/EN/ENMovies/EN_Kick_Boxer/kickboxing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.jcvandamme.net/EN/ENMovies/EN_Kick_Boxer/kickboxing.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Before that day, I always pictured muay thai fights to be about as fast paced and bloody as you get. I pictured Tong Po dipping his hands in honey then broken glass as he was about to square off with Van Damme. While indeed exciting, it more closely resembles a cross between a Karate tournament and a decent boxing match than a bloodbath. In fact, during the entire tournament, we only saw one fighter get KO'd, the rest of the matches were decided by points.<br /><br />Before each match, fighters enter the ring and perform to traditional Thai music played by a small band in the stands. This pre-fight ritual, known as</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/154/352400996_4b2441d1af.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/154/352400996_4b2441d1af.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;"> Ram Muay, though seemingly an act of braggadocio is in fact a deeply symbolic exercise. Fighters circle the ring symbolizing that the fight is between the two fighters and them alone. The dance is meant to show a fighter's humility to the King, the organizer of the match, and their opponent's coach. Some aspects of the Ram Muay, such as stomping around an opponent are meant to be intimidating (much like a Maori Hakka) however they are carried out with reverence and respect for the sport and the opponent. This humility is best exhibited at the end of the match where the winner kneels before his opponent's trainer in reverence. Wikipedia has a great entry about Muay Thai that outlines more of the traditions involved. I only mention the panoply involved in order to put into perspective the respect for tradition that supersedes any violence involved. (n.b. Please bear in mind that I am speaking based on an organized stadium match, and with no knowledge of the Ong Bak-esque blood brawls.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352400007_1cb58af790.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352400007_1cb58af790.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As I mentioned, exciting thought the fights may be, the betting that occurs is spectacle by itself. For the first few rounds, the crowd silently watches the fight. After the first few rounds, the</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://rhys.arkins.net/blog/images/tiger_beer.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 141px; height: 180px;" src="http://rhys.arkins.net/blog/images/tiger_beer.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-family:arial;">y pick their favorite fighter and roar from their seats making a numbe</span><span style="font-family:arial;">r of hand gestures to indicate their bets (imagine the floor of the New York Stock Exchange, but dingier, no ties and more Tiger beer.)<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:arial;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/125/352399233_93e3cba303.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 250px; height: 187px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/125/352399233_93e3cba303.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">A quick tuk tuk ride, and back at the Hotel New Siam,</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br />Where restrictions on prostitutes destroyed Icy's plans.<br />Yes early was the hour when we went to sleep,<br />For our new flight reservations we wanted to keep.<br />A pan-Cambodian ride, (for our lives) we were petrified,<br />Stay tuned for my next post where that tale will be clarified.<br />In the meantime, thus ends the story of a Muay Thai Fight,<br />Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!</span><span style="font-family:arial;"><br /></span><span class="content"></span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-8996327546646555842007-01-19T12:57:00.000+09:002007-04-06T12:06:51.323+09:00Back to Bangkok<span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">DAY 3 - Pattaya 12/23</span></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/164/352385247_2ecdfe843e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/164/352385247_2ecdfe843e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/166/352385360_b4dfe6ccd7.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/166/352385360_b4dfe6ccd7.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/157/352385170_b2c473afca.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/157/352385170_b2c473afca.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br />THIS... is where I will be living next year.<br /><br />After a night of doubt over my choice to move to Pattaya next year, the following day reconfirmed every reason why I decided to go there in the first place. Actually, there is only one reason - to have an apartment right on an azure ocean and to spend absolutely every single day SCUBA diving in that ocean.<br /><br />While Pattaya itself has become a haven for hedonism, Poseidon's bordering kingdom remains the peaceful refuge that it has always been to me. No, it is not the best SCUBA spot in the world, heck it's not even the best in Thailand - but with top class wreck and cave diving, and diverse sea life and coral, I know that despite all else, I will be glad to call the waters around Pattaya home.<br /><br />As I will be living there for a year, I will save my normal SCUBA diving style entries for that time when I will focus much of this site on my adventures diving around Southeast Asia.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >That night, we left Pattaya and headed back to Bangkok. This is where we met Bee.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/149/352385735_c0ed927cb8.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/149/352385735_c0ed927cb8.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />We had returned to Khaosan road again hoping to find a cheap place to stay. We planned to spend the following day taking the cultural tour of Bangkok's temples.<br /><br />After walking around for a while, we ran into a woman holding a price list for Thai massages.<br /><br />I think it was about 80 Baht for a full body hour long Thai massage. How could you go wrong? The answer is you can't. For one hour, this woman of small stature cracked every bone and twisted every muscle in my body until I was able to walk out feeling like jello. Anyway, about an hour later while Icy and I were eating dinner at the Sawasdee lounge, we saw her walking around and invited her over.<br /><br />Bee used to live in a small village in North Thailand before moving to Bangkok. She works as a Thai masseuse, but doesn't like Bangkok all that much. Bee speaks English quite well, though with a heavy accent which is impressive considering she is completely self-taught.<br /><br />While we were eating, a French lady was sitting behind us. She was drunk to the point of embarrassing her date who was very quiet and noticeably uncomfortable. She insisted on having me listen to her iPod which was playing a French song that I was unfamiliar with. The lyrics were "Je vous dit (something something something) des yeux." I would not say that my French has gotten rusty since high school, as much as it has become non-existent. After she learned that I was from New York, she just gave me the finger. Her boyfriend apologized for her, although I wasn't about to mind the ignorance of a drunk. That was the last we heard from drunk French lady.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 4 - Bangkok 12/24</span><br /><br />Prior to setting off for, I had a throng of people tell me about all the Buddhas I HAD to see (they were emphatic about that HAD). I was told of the 'Standing Buddha,' the 'Sitting Buddha,' the 'Reclining Buddha,' the 'Happy Buddha,' the 'Lucky Buddha,' and the lesser known 'Received a Birthday Gift That He Doesn't Like, But Has To Feign Surprise and Excitement' Buddha. Not one to take admonishment lightly, we devoted day 4 to a tour of Buddha and the many positions he is capable of (except for the silly one.)<br /><br />While trying to plan out our day, a man stopped to ask if we need help. Naturally, despite the fact that we certainly needed some sort of direction, we did not miss a beat before answering "no thank you."<br /><br />In my experience, most people who try to </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >perform</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > random acts of kindness are looking to make a buck. Such is the sad world we live in. This fellow, however, happened to be the exception to the rule. Completely disregarding our response, he started writing some temple names down.<br /><br />"You want to see Buddahs?" His intuition was less precognitive and more a good observation of the particular page my Lonely Planet was opened to. He continued. "If you want to see Buddhas, you MUST go to </span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >Wat Intharawihan to see the Standing Buddha, then to Wat Sampaya to see the Lucky Buddha. Then go to Wat Saket to see the mountain from which you can see all of Bangkok. Finally, to Wat Po to see the Reclining Buddha." He said all of this in a really animated way. We let him do his schpeal figuring that there is no harm in attaining information. We would just wait for the part where he tries to rip us off, and excuse ourselves.<br />"Today, you are lucky because the Thai Government is sponsoring a push for tourism and is subsidizing the tuk tuk drivers." <span style="font-style: italic;">...sure they are</span>.<br />"I can arrange for a tuk tuk to take you around for the day. He will drop you off at each temple and wait for you for only --" <span style="font-style: italic;">...here it comes...</span><br /><br />"60 baht."<br /><br />Hold the phone. 60 baht. That is about $1.80 (split between the two of us.) For a guy to drive us around all day? It seemed too good to be true. I patted my pockets to make sure my wallet wasn't stolen while this guy was talking to me. It was still there. I know, the guy is going to insist on being paid up front, and then ditch us at the first temple. Not that 60 baht was too big a risk, but just to be sure...<br /><br />"Do we pay you now, or--"<br /><br />"No, no, no, you pay at the end of your tour. "<br /><br />I thought about it. There was absolutely no way this guy was ripping us off. Icy and I were shocked and speechless. We tried to imagine any scenario in which this can go wrong, but came up with nothing. This was really an honest offer. More over, the guy who was talking to us was not the tuk tuk driver who was about to benefit from the deal. He was just a guy interested in helping us. He did not expect anything in return.<br /><br />Some of you may wonder why I have devoted so much to this seemingly mundane part of my trip. Really, this encounter was anything but. You have to understand how refreshing it is to encounter a purely helpful and honest person. I don't mean to sound jaded, but for the most part, people don't go out of their way and devote time to help others. Some do, but it is just sadly not the status quo. This was like a soothing zephyr on a sultry day. In a moment, the skanky sleaze of Pattaya and Bangkok at night melted off in the face of pure generosity.<br /><br />I say this after patting my pockets for the rest of the day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/59/Tuktukpktalad05b.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/5/59/Tuktukpktalad05b.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Anyway, we get into our tuk tuk. To any of you who are unfamiliar, a tuk tuk is a tricycle motor-scooter with an open-aired covered cab on the back. For some reason, I never bothered to get a picture of these, so this one is courtesy of Wikipedia.<br /><br />Tuk tuks are great in Bangkok not only because they are cheap, but they also can get around the typically congested streets easier.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/151/352385882_f4e934d3e4.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/151/352385882_f4e934d3e4.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>I wish I wrote down or remembered the name of our Tuk Tuk driver (as he makes a cameo in the next post) but I didn't and I can't. For the sake of storytelling and as our time with him was spent over Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, I'm going to call him "Nick." This is the back of Nick's head.<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />Wat Intharawihan - The Standing Buddha</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3LfjtX3cOpZ7gvNsxtxs6ak6999p2ZX3VnlRSjQKSmDLds-K95XwsKN7kI1Pb2D8MtWIqTwzjRR7MG0fn9ClvMZFFn6-_spvItGJJTM6vVUZEfpFcbkjF_b3jJFrXGNzYusS/s1600-h/buddha_edited-1.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3LfjtX3cOpZ7gvNsxtxs6ak6999p2ZX3VnlRSjQKSmDLds-K95XwsKN7kI1Pb2D8MtWIqTwzjRR7MG0fn9ClvMZFFn6-_spvItGJJTM6vVUZEfpFcbkjF_b3jJFrXGNzYusS/s400/buddha_edited-1.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033052983684988578" border="0" /></a><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >When the Buddha stands, he stands tall - 32 Meters Tall and 10 meters wide. Named Luang Pho To, covered in gold foil and extremely difficult to photograph, this is <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangkok</st1:place></st1:city>'s Standing Buddha. According to one of the gentlemen at the temple, within the Buddha's top knot are actual relics of Lord Buddha brought over from</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >Sri Lanka. With that knowledge, I was pleasantly surprised to see that not many tourists flock to visit this particular temple.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br />One thing that I found unsettling was the large yellow sash around the Buddha that seems to be advertising something.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQao-9g_Y2aTnCMg2YdKV1uGjgzavljoPRRzCMdL3hWHEudKh_OI3u6s28vG3PAMOS5Q1rZcNPMPAUERoE9cT1fNsInxyPeNcA49cy_rHl9gIPRw502fdo7mUw1osT8uShgGuC/s1600-h/benz.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQao-9g_Y2aTnCMg2YdKV1uGjgzavljoPRRzCMdL3hWHEudKh_OI3u6s28vG3PAMOS5Q1rZcNPMPAUERoE9cT1fNsInxyPeNcA49cy_rHl9gIPRw502fdo7mUw1osT8uShgGuC/s400/benz.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033048675832790674" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >I did a Google search for "Benz RVT" and I found</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" > <a href="http://www.bmwccth.com/webboard/read_topic.php?qID=2851">this website</a>. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >If you scroll down a bit, you can find the words Benz RVT written among the <st1:country-region st="on"><st1:place st="on">Thai.</st1:place></st1:country-region> I am assuming that this is a private company that perhaps paid for some sort of temple upkeep or restoration. If that is the case then this 32 meter sculpture of a deity is being used as a giant billboard. I am not a particularly religious person, but to advertise on a deity who preached about the necessity to turn away from material things just</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >doesnt seem right. Heck, even the idea of advertising on a sculpture seems like a misuse of art. It would be like throwing a pair of Nikes on Myron's <i>Discobolos. </i>I think it's great that this company donated money to restore this temple because it really is beautiful. There is something to be said for doing a good thing without letting people know you did it, but I know many people would scoff at my idealistic world view. Still, I</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >imagine there are less gaudy ways to advertise at a temple.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" > </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" ><br /><!--[endif]--></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352387178_eef3c5234c.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352387178_eef3c5234c.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >At the base of the statue, offerings in the form on incense, flowers and gold foil are placed. Presenting such offerings to Luang Pho To is supposed to grant success.<br /><br />The gold foil is interesting and something that I have only seen in Buddhist temples of Southeast Asia. The idea (as it was explained by our friend at the temple) is that we can share our wealth with the Buddha and his temple.<br /><br />The temple itself is quite nice with several statues not only of the Buddha, but also of the various Abbots and Gurus who restored and taught at the temple. <br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/166/352388594_ee5b3ee26e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/166/352388594_ee5b3ee26e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/127/352388037_12491f35da.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/127/352388037_12491f35da.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a> <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/157/352388754_422880ba0d.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/157/352388754_422880ba0d.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352388132_c10e781430.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 20px 20px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 300px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352388132_c10e781430.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Really, really beautiful place.<br /><br />At this point, I was feeling a lot better about my decision to move to Thailand.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Wat Sampaya - The Lucky Buddha</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >The Buddha at Wat Sampaya is Lucky. We were not and got there about 5 minutes after they closed the doors to the temple. Irony abounds.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Wat Saket - The Mountain</span></span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>Boy, did we drop the ball here. To be honest, it was not completely our fault. We were told about a mountain from which one could see a great view of Bangkok.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKM70Y_vAdDmxmsXxx5gqvot_YKod154r0s3iT0XXPM_rQwHwx31msxUfyaX6ChQwSLD7s083AwSfjNIV2UGZ3CZ98GngHQlVMsgI4L5liOYPfWmFgm1dCec_hyuddy5Pvgqj/s1600-h/bkk.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyKM70Y_vAdDmxmsXxx5gqvot_YKod154r0s3iT0XXPM_rQwHwx31msxUfyaX6ChQwSLD7s083AwSfjNIV2UGZ3CZ98GngHQlVMsgI4L5liOYPfWmFgm1dCec_hyuddy5Pvgqj/s320/bkk.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033097526790815410" border="0" /></a>I cannot stress enough that the word used was <span style="font-style: italic;">mountain</span> as <span style="font-style: italic;">in a</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > natural elevation of the earth's surface having considerable mass, generally steep sides, and a height greater than that of a hill. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br />As you can see, in a country that is not especially mountainous, Bangkok is situated on a pretty flat piece of land. As we are both from Japan where the concept of "mountain" is used very literally, we were both expecting something more along the lines with the above dictionary definition.<br /><br />After returning home, I did research on this temple and learned that by "mountain," what was really meant was "mount" as in "The Golden Mount" a stupa containing more of the Buddha's relics. From the top of this stupa, one can get a pretty good view of Bangkok.<br /><br />While we were at the temple, we saw the stupa and carelessly disregarded it as a part of a different temple as we chased our elusive "mountain." All of the temples that we saw had stupas, this one just happened to be enormous. Of course, now we understand why people smiled and said "right here" as we asked them, "where is the mountain?"<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352390463_a3fd7c8a8d.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 304px; height: 406px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352390463_a3fd7c8a8d.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>Anyway, we were strangely fortunate in spite of our careless mistake. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >While we never managed to climb the stupa, in our search for a mountain (within the walls of a temple) we stumbled upon a ceremony. Here, eighteen new monks were being ordained.</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxezzI7Xio7EkgTuI0LhNGNSFCR8LfFTFgIldv3daG5Lgfw6l-_MtG-vh03EH08XOvY6H8JHz021UJO9sqKXlZu59tgTOLQdHOd59DBBOaH5nPkpM2ynpFIFVChfSiDJHGwF7I/s1600-h/18.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxezzI7Xio7EkgTuI0LhNGNSFCR8LfFTFgIldv3daG5Lgfw6l-_MtG-vh03EH08XOvY6H8JHz021UJO9sqKXlZu59tgTOLQdHOd59DBBOaH5nPkpM2ynpFIFVChfSiDJHGwF7I/s320/18.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5033105588444430018" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;font-family:arial;"><div style="text-align: right;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />This is Number Eighteen (as we came to call him).</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />We saw a bunch of people taking pictures of and</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> fussing over him, so we figured that he must be someone important. Maybe the eighteenth monk is the best monk. Maybe he is the one who will one day being unity</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> to the force. We had no idea, but we saw the fuss and wanted to get a picture with him. We were surprised because when we asked a woman to take a photo of us with the Golden Child, the woman we asked gave us a look that begged to know why on Earth we want a picture with this kid. Maybe she didn't know that he would one day save the world. Later, upon seeing the rest of the ceremony, we figured out that the people fussing over Number Eighteen were most likely his proud family.</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br />Then again, you never know. He looks holy. Doesn't he look holy?<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352390262_cd9bbfa259.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/139/352390262_cd9bbfa259.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352390381_8b577b410d.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352390381_8b577b410d.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We left the temple to find that Nick, our trusted tuk tuk driver was no where to be found. We looked around, figuring that maybe he was chased away from where he was waiting for us, and had to circle around the block. For 45 minutes we waited as he was a pretty nice guy and we didn't want to screw him over. Finally, we came to the realization that he had abandoned us which was a foolish move considering that we hadn't paid him his 60 baht. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" lang="EN-US" >It was even more foolish considering the fact that Icy and I were so relieved about the arrangement and how nice and honest he was that we had privately agreed to pay him double that. We figured that 180 baht (about $3.60) was still a great price to pay for a guy to chauffeur us around <st1:city st="on"><st1:place st="on">Bangkok</st1:place></st1:city> for a day, and if would show our appreciation of the fact that he was not out to rip us off. Alas he ditched us and we had to find another driver. This was done with great ease.<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Wat Po - The Reclining Buddha</span></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br />The Reclining Buddha of Wat Po is probably the most famous sculpture of Buddha in Thailand. It is an impressive sculpture, to be sure, however the temple surrounding it is itself absolutely amazing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/154/352393501_bfae2f73fb.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/154/352393501_bfae2f73fb.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >Besides the reclining Buddha, the temple is known for its 95 stupas which are distinctively square. Stupas (like the golden one at Wat Saket) are meant to house the ashes of deceased kings or important monks, or other people of note as well as religious artifacts and relics. The stupas at Wat Po are distinctively square and adorned with ceramic tiles forming</span><span style=";font-family:Arial;font-size:100%;" > <span lang="EN-US">intricate</span></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" > floral designs.</span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/127/352393743_c727cb05fd.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 300px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/127/352393743_c727cb05fd.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >The original temple dates back to the 17th century, before the founding of Bangkok. It is the oldest t</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >emple in the city In 1801, King Rama I expanded the temple. In 1832, King Rama III enlarged the temple to its present size and built the reclining Buddha. Rama III also established the temple as a center of learning. Here, in Bangkok's first "university" students not only studied Buddhism, but also Yoga and medicine. Here, a type of pressure point reflexology named </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Nuat phaen boran</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" > was developed and it is still </span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >taught at Wat Po. It is popular all around the world </span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >under its more common name, Thai massage. </span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >Throughout the temple, you can see tablets that once w</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >ere used t</span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352397708_77348f05f8.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/144/352397708_77348f05f8.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" >o educate students in the ways of Thai massage.<br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">This sculpture demonstrates the various ailments which are remedied by Thai massage.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Of course, we also have the obligatory fertility sculpture.</span><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/151/352394167_6490080943.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/151/352394167_6490080943.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/137/352394727_3cb7215672.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/137/352394727_3cb7215672.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br />The Reclining Buddha, an impressive 46 Meters from head to foot lies in the Wiharn, a building barely larger than the sculpture itself. The gold plated <span style="font-family:arial;">sculpture depicts the Buddha in the moment as it passed from this world to Nirvana. It is </span></span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><span style="" lang="EN-US"><span style="font-family:arial;">truly awesome.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:arial;">Here are my feeble attempts at capturing it on film. Since the Wiharn is only slightly larger than the sculpture itself, it is damn imposable to get a good shot.</span><br /><!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><!--[endif]--></span><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/125/352394812_82e94d2d4f.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/125/352394812_82e94d2d4f.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352395374_5ec9b9fcab.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352395374_5ec9b9fcab.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />On the soles of the feet are the 108 auspicious scenes in Chinese and Indian styles. These are inlaid Mother of Pearl. The same is used to accent the eyes.<br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/352395148_81201ba0af.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/160/352395148_81201ba0af.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/126/352397272_2f9903e5a7.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/126/352397272_2f9903e5a7.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWBQuKU_8XLk3mRwraPXxmz3jAd59plUyH91DiXulKLdUE38D9_KN6SF7Hsl7pwbiKW1_RqyHeZsffdQ2DY1_nr7BvJtRER3_KDpCPIb9MjaOdxMPZu29KlpIdRHWXyHVdAul/s1600-h/monks3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWWBQuKU_8XLk3mRwraPXxmz3jAd59plUyH91DiXulKLdUE38D9_KN6SF7Hsl7pwbiKW1_RqyHeZsffdQ2DY1_nr7BvJtRER3_KDpCPIb9MjaOdxMPZu29KlpIdRHWXyHVdAul/s320/monks3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5034187224418320098" border="0" /></a></span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >Our exploration of the temple grounds ended at the Wat Po Traditional Thai Massage School where students of Thai Massage perfected their craft on our achy bodies.</span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/352398350_77dce6c351.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/352398350_77dce6c351.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/149/352398790_817875353b.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 220px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/149/352398790_817875353b.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >By the time all was done,the sun was setting. We hung around for a bit as the temple took a new form. The red Thai sunlight reflected off the white walled temples and ceramic encrusted stupas giving Wat Po a </span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><span style="" lang="EN-US">fiery</span></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" > glow. </span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:arial;font-size:100%;" >We headed back to our hotel to pack and get set for the following day when we would head to Cambodia.</span><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: right;font-family:arial;"><span style="font-size:100%;">We'll stop there for now. Stay tuned.<br /></span></div><span style=";font-family:courier new;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style=";font-family:Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;font-size:100%;" ><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-30216443895104572582007-01-17T14:58:00.000+09:002007-01-18T16:38:34.250+09:00When in Thailand<span style="font-size:100%;">Welcome back.<br /><br />How very astute of you to notice that I changed the colors of this site, again. I see nothing gets by you, especially orange. You should look into becoming a detective.<br /><br />The reasoning behind the color change is two-fold. First, I wanted the site to be a little more unique and have some pictures as part of its permanent background. There is also a new cooler looking Flickr button that will lead you to more pictures. Second, I wanted to change the colors, not only because I think these are nicer, but they are easier on the eyes than a glowing white screen. A computer screen is really just a giant light emitting surface, and you wouldn't stare at a light bulb while trying to read 12 point text scrawled across it. Changing the color of course doesn't change this fact, but it makes things a little easier to read. Of course black would be best but then I would have to use bright white letters. Anyway, if you disagree with any of my decisions, you are wrong.<br /><br />Anyway, from December 21st until January 4th, I left Nagano and its snowless winter and set off for Thailand, Cambodia, Malaysia, and Singapore. As this is my introduction post, it will primarily be text, but fear not - so many photos and stories are coming your way that you will need an army of shithawks to defend yourself from their awesomeness.<br /><br />Shithawks.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >The Characters</span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >:</span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/159/353409721_4acdb52026.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 234px; height: 176px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/159/353409721_4acdb52026.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Rich</span><span style="font-size:100%;">: Not that I feel the need to introduce myself. I will go ahead and say one thing though. If you read any of this and at any point feel "hmmm, that is interesting." or "ha, that is funny." or "um, I disagree with his assessment." --please feel free to comment on any post. It makes me feel happy that people are interested in my stories or read my work. Also, if you disagree with me, I would love to explain to you how you are wrong. Seriously though, commenting is easy. Just click the link that says "comments" at the bottom of the post. See, no effort from you and you'd make my day. I can get that warm fuzzy feeling inside knowing that I am not writing all of this for nothing.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352460473_f5200d87d6.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/152/352460473_f5200d87d6.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Icy Jones</span><span style="font-size:100%;">: Icy is not a new character on our show, you met him <a href="http://www.xanga.com/furry_raccoon/355847085/item.html">in the first season</a>. For those of you who don't remember, I met Icy on the plane ride to Japan. Icy is from Philly, and is currently in a deep state of depression because he is a huge Dallas Cowboys fan. Icy was great to travel with, not because of his general coolness or the fact that he is a generally easy going guy - these are all great, but the most interesting aspect of having Icy around is the fact that he is a walking novelty in Asia. Not a day went by without someone yelling Bob Marley lyrics at him, or requesting a photo. One guy took time out every day to inform Icy that he was "chillin like a villain." In Thailand where backpackers often get their hair dreaded on the street, a few lads offered Icy a big smile and wink as though they were proud to become a member of some sort of fraternity that Icy was a charter member of. Perhaps the funniest exchange was at a hostel in Singapore when a girl, while rattling off the various genres of music that make up her self described "eclectic" music taste, said "and of course, reggae," while gesturing at Mr. Jones. It could be that the girl really liked reggae, or it could be that she was talking to a man with healthy dreadlocks and made an assumption. I told Icy he should have called her out on it, but he just smiled and shrugged. That's Icy.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/353278420_ae5ca750e3.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 249px; height: 187px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/353278420_ae5ca750e3.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" >Bhumibol, King of Thailand</span><span style="font-size:100%;">: </span><span style="font-size:100%;">The fellow you see in the middle of that arch is the King of Thailand.<br /><br />King Bhumibol of Thailand (more commonly known as Rama IX) is<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f2/Bhumibol_AdulyadejRamaIX.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/f/f2/Bhumibol_AdulyadejRamaIX.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> seen in pictures and giant billboards throughout the country. If you catch a movie in Thailand, you will see a video of him with the Thai National Anthem in the background. Almost every person in Thailand either sports an orange bracelet (designed after the LIVESTRONG bracelets) saying "Long Live the King!" or at least some sort of picture of the King on their person at all times.<br /><br />Oh yea, and if you talk any smack about him, you will find yourself in a Thai prison for 3-15 years according</span><span style="font-size:100%;"> to </span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" >lèse majesté<span style="font-style: italic;"> </span></span><span style="font-size:100%;">laws which the Thai government still practices, so for now, we're going to say that he is a handsome king and move on.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Arrival - Bangkok 12/21</span><br /><br />The night we arrived, it took me a few seconds to snap out of "I live in Japan where absolutely everyone is honest and wants to help me, and no one will ever take advantage of the fact that I don't know my way around/are not yet comfortable with the currency/cannot speak the language" mode. Don't get me wrong, during my time there, I have discovered that the Thai are wonderfully nice people, and are quite helpful. They simply maintain the notion that everyone from the west is a billionaire and can afford absolutely anything.<br /><br />We arrived in Bangkok's new international airport and immediately found ourselves among a swarm of people offering us taxis into the city. A New Yorker, fortunately doesn't have to travel to Asia to know about gypsy cabs. I knew damn well that the prices being offered at the gate were way above what we should pay to Bangkok, so we worked our way through the crowd to the street in order to find a licensed taxi (in Thailand, these sport a yellow license plate.)<br /><br />No luck, only unmarked sedans. Only more offers shouted at us. Finally, I heard a softer voice offer a price. "Need a ride?"<br /><br />I turned around and saw a short Thai woman in her 20s who was moderately attractive. Rather than dismiss her, I fell victim to the weakness that all men are subject to. "How much?"<br /><br />"700 Baht. The driver will pay for the highway tolls."<br /><br />"How far is it?"<br /><br />"About an hour."<br /><br />700 Baht is about $21. Seemed reasonable, and such a kind offer, for the driver to pay for the tolls. We followed the woman for a few seconds before logic kicked in. "700 Baht is not a good price. It wasn't a good price when the gruffy fat guy offered it to us back at the terminal, and its not a good price now." We then realized that the woman was not a driver. She was walking us to a driver who was clearly smart enough to use the little siren as bait. We hurried back into the terminal and saw where we went wrong. In the airport, there is a tiny sign (with numerous solicitors standing in front of it) informing travelers that metered cabs can be found at the exit of the ground floor. Brilliant. The ride cost us 400 Baht. We paid the tolls which came out to about 20 Baht (by the way, 100 Baht roughly equals $3).<br /><br />We arrived at Khaosan Road by 10pm. Khaosan is the backpacker road in Bangkok. Many people have their share of things to say about Khaosan, but personally, I didn't mind it. It is what it is, and that's an easy base for backpackers. At Khaosan, there is a wealth of fairly priced guesthouses offering clean and safe lodging. There are dozens of restaurants, internet cafes, places to have film developed (cheaply), places to dump pictures from a full memory card onto a CD or DVD (which we required a few times). There are also independent travel agents who know the country as well as South East Asia well and are invaluable and (at least in my experience) honest resources for booking trains planes and buses to your next destination. There is also tons of shopping, including designer shoes and clothing (some knock offs, and some the genuine article. Salespeople are honest about which is which), as well as pirated music, movies and books. You can even find press passes or college diplomas.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVaiHpsw1Xp47UaZfl1X_pPLVlEdc7A0vwfIovqjuxC5QSWRas5dKaBR4esih2Ba7B8-TxKLyEhVZ5n-sKGO7vmAor2xmJ-RL1gkSeAXQOS0KYNLyluPKzjUHC_bQqvEDZd5z/s1600-h/PadThai.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZVaiHpsw1Xp47UaZfl1X_pPLVlEdc7A0vwfIovqjuxC5QSWRas5dKaBR4esih2Ba7B8-TxKLyEhVZ5n-sKGO7vmAor2xmJ-RL1gkSeAXQOS0KYNLyluPKzjUHC_bQqvEDZd5z/s320/PadThai.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5021229078828121618" border="0" /></a>The best part about Thailand, in my opinion, is the food. Thai food is my absolute favorite Asian cuisine. As the country's main industry is tourism, there is very little need to worry about the quality of the food, or health risks. Thai natives don't even drink the water, so all water is bottled and ice is manufactured and clean. During our first night in Bangkok, we had some Pad Thai from a street vendor.<br /><br />For 20 baht, you get fried noodle goodness. That's about 60 cents for those of you keeping track. Add another 5 baht, and she will throw a spring roll into the mix.<br /><br />Real Thai Pad Thai is pretty different from its western Thai restaurant counterpart. Where the latter is a richer saucier noodle dish, in Thailand Pad Thai tends to be drier and focuses more on the natural flavor of the vegetables and some spices rather than sauce. Both are delicious, and both make you thirsty.<br /><br />Fortunately, if there is one other thing the Thai do well, its drinks. On the road there is a wealth of pushcarts offering freshly squeezed juices from any fruit imaginable. I alternated between banana shakes (banana, condensed milk and crushed ice) and watermelon juice. You can also get young coconut juice which is basically a young coconut, cracked open with a straw.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/131/352383446_dc7863c8a7.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/131/352383446_dc7863c8a7.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Of course, not all street food is delicious. Some is down right nasty. This cart seemed innocuous enough when we first saw it, but upon further inspection, we saw it was anything but.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/352383386_c4ea092ec3.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/163/352383386_c4ea092ec3.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>Thats right, here we have a fresh batch of fried scorpion and cockroach. There were also silkworms, maggots, grasshoppers, mantises and just about any other creepy crawly you would never want to eat.<br /><br />I was happy to learn that the hawkers who sell these did not decide to fry up bugs simply for western thrill seekers. In fact, these are traditional fare from a northern region of Thailand called Isaan.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">I ate grasshopper (inago) once in Japan. I know </span><span style="font-size:100%;">full well that it was not too bad, and I assume </span><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/141/352383508_4bad1c94f4.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/141/352383508_4bad1c94f4.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></span><span style="font-size:100%;">such is the case with other insects. Still, I could not bring myself to munch on a scorpion, and certainly not a cockroach.<br /><br />I find this particular picture funny especially because of the "aw hell no" look on Icy's face as he decides to pass on the arachnids, insects, and larvae below the plastic.<br /><br />Sorry to those of you who were hoping to hear of a brave story about how I tried one... I will do many things in the interest of a thrill, but I draw the line at crunching chelicerates.<br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br />During our stay in Thailand, as many travel plans were made on the fly, Bangkok and namely Khaosan road became our hub. As such, we managed to stay in a number of different guest houses throughout our trip. During our first night, we stayed at the "Four Sons Village" guesthouse. It was cheap enough, though not as cheap or friendly as other nicer guesthouses were, and it was completely without character. Still, it was clean and comfortable.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Day 2 - Pattaya 12/22</span><br /><br />The following morning, we woke up bright and early, had a delicious breakfast at our guesthouse, and headed to Pattaya.<br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/156/352383907_3456c35269.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 217px; height: 163px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/156/352383907_3456c35269.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /></span></div><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />I didn't know quite what to make of this sign we saw on the way to Pattaya. Perhaps they were referring to a major automobile manufacturing area? Perhaps the home of Motown. Perhaps somewhere in this Detroit of the East is the Thai equivalent of Brandon Back.<br /><br />Suffice to say, we were only 20 minutes away, yet these questions would never be answered.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/150/352384401_57bba1bc7e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 289px; height: 217px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/150/352384401_57bba1bc7e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>Pattaya is a modern day Sin City that makes Vegas look like a local church book club. Its streets are covered with prostitutes as well as ladyboys (transsexuals who are also often Prostitutes.) Unlike most cities where prostitutes hide in alleys or must be sought after in certain shady parts of town, the ones in Pattaya take the more aggressive approach of grabbing you by the arm and negotiating prices in perfect self-taught English as well as catcalling you day or night.<br /><br />If that is not enough, sleaze bars line the streets. These go-go bars apparently allow a person to see anything from a fully nude show, to women pulling various sharp objects and firing various other projectiles (including darts) from orifices which ought not have such items enter or exit them.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/129/352384524_2ecaa06a0e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 286px; height: 214px;" src="http://farm1.static.flickr.com/129/352384524_2ecaa06a0e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>These two ladies (we were pretty sure they were ladies, though we were not about to find out.) Were on the street advertising their particular go-go bar's Christmas party.<br /><br />I imagine I can skip the obligatory "sit on Santa's lap and tell her what you want" joke and leave it to your imagination. Needless to say, Christmas is a very secular holiday in Pattaya.<br /><br />Oh, and if you are scratching your head wondering where you heard of Pattaya before, you may have heard about it from me when I said "next year I will live in Pattaya to get certified as a SCUBA instructor."<br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:100%;">This is where I will be living next year. Builds character I suppose.<br /><br />-R<br /></span></div>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1162435090461779922006-11-02T09:23:00.000+09:002006-11-02T11:52:08.866+09:00October HodgepodgeThings I did during 十月<br /><br />I always liked the fall. In New York, it was definitely my favorite season. Summer is hot as hell. Without mountains, winter in New York means piles of brown snow and a crappy commute, and I believe that spring is German for "raging sinus infection" (stemming from the root word "Schpringhousen") Of course, I would only make two arboreal metaphors in one sentence to underline exactly what comes to mind when we think of fall. Leaf death.<br /><br />Of course, its not all that bad. Unlike any other creature when leaves die, they look nice, and that's what we look forward to in New York. Since other seasons are extreme or make us sneeze, we like the fall because its comfortable and pretty.<br /><br />Well, in Japan, its a different story. Here, in a land surrounded by mountains, and close to a beach with decent surf, we are constantly counting the days until the winter or summer. Spring still sucks, I think that is a constant everywhere in the world. Fall is still really nice, but there is simply not much to do. So, you end up with this... an October hodgepodge. Strange random outings every week to fill the void that exists before the start of the snowboarding season.<br /><br />It should be known, the habit of marking days until the Snowboarding season is not restricted to the Nakano Boys. Our hodgepodge begins with a camping trip in Keiso where a slope and a rail were covered in foam to allow a few boarders and skiers to hold a rail jam. First weekend of October, still far too warm for manmade snow, these guys were snowboarding on a layer of foam continuously sprayed with water to keep it slick. Then, they would pop up onto a rail and ride it without any white fluffy snow below them to break their fall, only dying autumn grass. Of course, it is also not easy to stop without the snow, so after the rail, most of the boarders slammed into the wall opposite the rail. Crazy. After the rail jam, a few bands played, a few teams of breakers broke, (including one guy who held a head spin for like 40 seconds then six stepped right out of it without any signs of dizziness.) While the stage was being used, another dude graffed a huge mural background. As it was an all night event, B and I broke out the ol camping gear and set up.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/115/276896027_239a1b5b82.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/115/276896027_239a1b5b82.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It should be known that the tent that we inherited from Rita was not a tiny little two man tent, but a Captain Stag 5 man tent. No fools were we, rather than roughing it with sleeping bags, we bought futons and proper bedding which easily fit inside. We also set up a decent patio from which we could overlook the festivities.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Nextly, we had School Festival. I <a href="http://www.xanga.com/furry_raccoon?nextdate=10%2f6%2f2005+2%3a38%3a37.287&direction=n">wrote about this last year</a>, so no need to go into it all again, or post pics again. I got the same "(insert non-Japanese invented activity or food here) was invented in Japan" rhetoric. We played the same games. I don't mean to underplay how impressive these festivals are. The students do all the work. I mean everything from start to finish. Staff are there to offer support and help the kids where they need it, but that's it. It is a really good project. The kids also did well. My 3rd years this year are a good bunch of kids. Some are a little too serious for their age.<br /><br />After the festival, we had a school enkai. These are also fun, but the real fun was afterwards when the karaoke ensued.<br /><br />I gotta pause for a second to preface with an introduction. This is Shimada-sensei.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/79/276946931_b0640124f5.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/79/276946931_b0640124f5.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>You remember Junior High School? Remember all those teachers that yelled at you for not having a shirt tucked in, or falling asleep in class? Do you remember that one teacher that was always smiling, that treated you like a human rather than a little kid? You never fell asleep in his or her class because it was actually interesting. He never punished you for breaking silly arbitrary rules. Not a chump that everyone walked all over, but the kind of teacher you listened to because you liked and respected him. That is Shimada-sensei. In a country where the line between authority figures and students is very clearly drawn, Shimada-sensei brings a sort of energy and informality that is uncharacteristic of Japanese schools (in my experience at least.) More personally, in a culture where people are afraid to talk to me for fear that their English is not perfect, or they will be unable to understand my often strained Japanese, Shimada-sensei, despite having poor English, despite my lack of Japanese skills comes and chats with me every day.<br /><br />About one year ago, Shimada-sensei was diagnosed with a sort of blood cancer (I am pretty sure leukemia, but I don't know, the medical terminology is different here.) Last October, he took a leave of absence (he is the Japanese sensei.) For a year, we had a slew of subs and temps try to fill his shoes. This September, he returned, a bit thinner, but with even more energy and a bigger smile than before. He is my closest friend among the teachers (if you look at the picture above you'll notice the Livestrong bracelet that I got him and the one I now wear.) Anyway, Shimada-sensei rocks.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/83/276896478_133817f2c4.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/83/276896478_133817f2c4.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a> Ok, back to the School Festival. So after the enkai, Shimada-sensei and I organized a few teachers for some karaoke. Enkais are fun, but still somewhat organized and formal. We needed to let loose.<br /><br />Five hours folks... We karaoked for five hours, from 9pm to 2am. Look at the other senseis (who also did well, mind you). They can barely keep their eyes open. Look at Shimada-sensei (pimped out in a crushed velvet shirt, by the way)<br /><br />This dude who gets his blood tested almost once a week jammed like it was his job. If you don't think Shimada-sensei rocks, I will fight you... That's no lie.<br /><br />The following week, I was feeling a bit burned out by lunchtime on Thursday, so I took the rest of the day off and met up with Kaori. After a long time of wanting to do so, we visited the Garu-koen zoo in Suzaka.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/110/276897149_e75ced0abc.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/110/276897149_e75ced0abc.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/109/276899263_2497b0a69e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/109/276899263_2497b0a69e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/113/276898609_0443ae2769.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/113/276898609_0443ae2769.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/81/276899053_ff691bb9c2.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/81/276899053_ff691bb9c2.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Ok, so the zoo was filled with the saddest bunch of animals since the zoo in Naples Florida. The kangaroo is named Hutch and is famous throughout Japan (they clam to have invented kangaroos, actually all marsupials are of Japanese design...Figures, built in womb pouch is pretty efficient.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/81/276899872_e731ee612f.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/81/276899872_e731ee612f.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>That weekend, I went to the top of Shiga-kogan with B and Ayako. We drove up taking pictures, took the chair lift to the summit and hiked down.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/88/276902251_477e18ffef.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/88/276902251_477e18ffef.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />It was really pretty. Here are some pics, but there are many more on the Flickr site. Perhaps the coolest was at the summit where we were above the clouds and watched the sun set into the clouds below us. Trippy, but cool as hell.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/94/276907823_d6bf023c81.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/94/276907823_d6bf023c81.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The big winner of the day was Brooklyn. That little guy hiked all day and was always a few steps ahead of us. What a cool dog. He slept for the next 3 days.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/115/276908984_0d77c1e803.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/115/276908984_0d77c1e803.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Of course October has to end with Halloween. This years Halloween party had its ups and downs. We hold the party every year for the members of our adult conversation class. This year, the people who came got really into it with their costumes (most of which were homemade.) We had some large pumpkins donated to us which was also cool. On the downside, many people did not show up which was frustrating especially because the only reason they did not show was our requirement that everyone MUST be in costume.<br /><br />This frustrated all of us mainly because there is this crazy notion that we teachers have the job to teach about our culture along with our language. Of course, we embrace this and love talking about our culture. If you mention October to anyone in America or Canada, the obvious response would be "Halloween" and when you think Halloween, you think costumes. Every day, we immerse ourselves in Japanese culture, eating any food put in front of us, and being expected to participate in any cultural activity or festival. Of course I am not complaining, its why I came here. Our problem is that the people who take this class expect for us to do things like the Halloween party. If we didn't do it, people would be disappointed. So we drop a bunch of money, and put in a lot of effort to make it happen. We decorate the room, schlep pumpkins around, make costumes - for so many people to not show up because they don't want to put in the effort of making or finding a costume makes me sad.<br /><br />Anyway, that being said, here are some pictures from this year. Since Devin is in China, Joycie, my deputy assistant filled in as the official Devin for the evening. We even told everyone that she is really Devin dressed up as a Guamish girl dressed up as a 50's schoolgirl. That confused people more than they normally are.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/118/285426914_6f39643815.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/118/285426914_6f39643815.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a> Brandon got a bunch of ski apparel from the 70's and was "Ski-patrol" Stokes was and is a Canuck. I made that Batman costume.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/117/285426770_c2b79c5e96.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/117/285426770_c2b79c5e96.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a> This is my humble class from Toyota Mura. The "Beauty and the Beast" costumes (back left) won the costume contest. Both costumes, were entirely handmade (including Beauty's dress) by Hanako (dressed as Beast.)<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/105/285427593_9b1caaa905.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/105/285427593_9b1caaa905.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />A blast from the past. I lent Yuriko my Superman costume from last year and she turned it into a Supergirl costume. Here in this photo I show my posing diversity.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/119/285426518_9366a782f0.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/119/285426518_9366a782f0.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...and that's all. Some of you may be saying "last post Rich said he would talk about his kendo tournament and speak about kendo, but he didn't..."<br /><br />Life is cruel and unfair. You should get used to disappointment.<br /><br />-RKarma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1157599158652419192006-09-07T11:41:00.000+09:002006-10-13T15:26:05.896+09:00Why do you build me up, buttercup?I have found that each and every time I end a post with something along the lines of "I will be posting soon" some cosmic forces conspire to inhibit me from posting for months. As such, I will refrain from promising more updates and will just update when I am good and ready. Maybe that will be every day, maybe it will be never. Either way it is more than you filthy sinners deserve.<br /><br />I don't want to steal Gnorm's Gthunder, so I am going to refrain from going into too much detail about his stay here. Gnorm's travelblog will, no doubt, go into great detail on what we did and what we saw. He may not go into so much detail regarding out battle with Moss the Interrupter, who aimed to kidnap the Very Important Moss (Like VIP).<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/80/224323548_32d6f82efd.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/80/224323548_32d6f82efd.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/97/224323521_bbe45688ae.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /><br /><br /><br />Although we emerged victorious, the battle left us both quite scarred, but I suppose that's what happens when you choose the life of a scientist.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/58/224323603_f86a278e91.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/58/224323603_f86a278e91.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/98/224323625_a40e69794e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 199px; height: 265px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/98/224323625_a40e69794e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I will, however talk about one things: Old Balls.<br /><br />In the immortalized words (or at least immortalized as soon as I post them in my blog) of S.C. Holohan, 20th century philosopher and creator of the config.sys: "Onsens are awesome."<br /><br />An onsen is a Japanese public bath house built upon a natural hotspring. Since Japan is situated right on the Ring.... The Ring of Firrrrre (you know, the one that burns burns burns.... Do you realize that there are like 6 lyrics in that whole song? Johnny Cash could enter a recording studio and mutter just about anything drunk and it would still make it in the jukebox of the Patriot.)<br /><br />Huh? What tangent?? Oh yea... So Japan is located right on the Ring of Fire and as such there are natural hotsprings all over the place. These not only shoot out boiling hot water, but with the water comes a bunch of minerals and salts from inside the Earth that beat the hell outta any jojoba bubble bath or bath salts that the Body Shop may be peddling. These bath houses are also designed to be the most relaxing places in the world, and they are. I wish I had pictures, but naturally you can't bring cameras into them.<br /><br />Upon entering, the fine establishment, you typically pass by some sort of eatery. Bath houses are a popular place to spend the whole day with the family or with people from work, so they all pride themselves on their food as well. The one near my house is well known for their zaru-soba. Cold buckwheat noodles made on premises that are served with a light soy based sauce, wasabi, and scallions. That and some tea or beers and the relaxation beginnith. <br /><br />Once you eat (or decide not to as the case may be), you work your way to the bath. Men and women each bathe in separate areas. You first enter a locker room where you disrobe, donning no more than a small towel about the size of a dish towel. The more shy individual may opt to select which body part they wish to cover with this towel, but on average the towel is proudly slung over the shoulder or around the neck. There is no modesty in an onsen... Just old balls.<br /><br />Next, you wash. In order to keep one's filth outside the bath, each person scrubs and shampoos in a private sitting shower prior to entering the bath. That small towel you brought in with you is used here. After making sure that you are clean enough, as well as ensuring that you have no lingering suds on your person, time to enjoy the bath.<br /><br />Now at the very least, an onsen has one bath. That number, along with the size and complexity of the bath increases along with the extravagance of the onsen. The onsen near me offers three separate baths, a waterfall (to sit under as the hot mineral water massages your back), and a dry sauna. Among the three baths, there is one indoor bath, usually the hottest one, only tolerable for short periods at a time. There is an outdoor bath that is typically surrounded by rocks and some sort of tranquil garden atmosphere, and overlooks a breathtaking mountain view. Finally, there is the cold plunge, a bath filled with freezing cold water which is especially refreshing after the sauna or when the heat of the other baths or the steam gets to be too much. As I am quite prone to overheating, I enjoy the cold plunge, though many people aren't fans. While in the bath, it is customary to put your wash towel on your head (it is cool at this point) or on the side of the bath, but never in the water. Apart from this, the order and which baths you decide to avail yourself of is entirely up to you. <span class="down" style="display: block;" id="formatbar_JustifyRight" title="Align Right" onmouseover="ButtonHoverOn(this);" onmouseout="ButtonHoverOff(this);" onmouseup="" onmousedown="CheckFormatting(event);FormatbarButton('richeditorframe', this, 12);ButtonMouseDown(this);"></span><br />Now, imagine if you will (Sean, Jen and Drew don't have to imagine too hard) a freezing cold Nagano day. There is like 50 feet of snow on the ground, a day of skiing or boarding on the mountains have left you frozen and achy. At the end of such a day, you shed off the several layers of ski clothes, and after washing up, you slip into the outdoor bath. There is snow on the ground surrounding you, but you are sitting in a bath of volcanic mineral water while breathing in the cool winter air and looking out over the snow covered valley as the sun sets. Whenever anyone asks me what part of Japan I will miss the most, I never hesitate before answering emphatically <span style="font-style: italic;">onsen.<br /><br /></span>After sufficient relaxation, you return to the shower. While the minerals and salts in the water are nice to bathe in, once they dry on your skin they are less than pleasant. After returning to the locker room, drying off and getting dressed, I usually get a bottle of milk. Most onsens sell milk in glass bottles that is uncannily the most refreshing thing you could drink after leaving the onsen. It is not ordinary milk. It's thick, like buttermilk. Between the onsen and the heavy milk, your body and your muscles are rendered to a state of gelatin. All that is left is to return home, slip under the kotatsu (a low table with a heater under it and a blanket draped over) and pass out in front of re-runs of the West Wing. Well, that's what my buddy Brandon and I do in the winter at least.<br /><br />Of course, I don't want to glamorize the whole thing. Besides you being naked, there are a bunch of other naked guys, most of whom are old men, frolicking around. The trick is, of course, to enjoy the onsen while managing to ignore the old balls surrounding you. Make eye contact for just one second with old balls and you will spend the rest of your onsen experience trying to purge the image while wondering if your scrotum will also someday resemble a wrinkled paper bag filled with cottage cheese hanging down to your knees. I have been told that women have the same experiences with seeing old boobs in the onsen. <br /><br />Naturally, if you are a foreigner, you must do this while simultaneously enduring the stares of these old men as they look at you. Being a hairy creature with tattoos on my back (which are still somewhat taboo here,) I am often stared at. My first time at an onsen, back when I was visiting Japan a few years ago, I had Jane's supervisor stop and complement my "muki muki macho body." Of course, coming from a country where two straight naked men in a bath would never say such a thing (or reasonably be taking a bath together for that matter), I was mildly caught off guard. I have since become used to the occasional stare. Again, some of my larger chested female friends have stated similar experiences. In a country where a healthy perky B cup is roughly the equivalent of Dolly Parton, women may stop and look at the giant mounds of flesh that in America are considered an average to small cup size.<br /><br />You're still thinking about the old balls, aren't you Drew?<br /><br />Ok, next time (whenever that may be) I will talk about Kendo and hopefully be able to show pictures and share good news about this Sunday's tournament. <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><br /></span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1156482618148568292006-08-25T13:28:00.000+09:002006-08-28T15:13:03.766+09:00Momotaro<span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:180%;" >Peach-boy Peach-boy<br /></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /></span><span style="font-size:100%;">Joycie said that this story is something I should post to my blog, so here I am doing exactly that.<br /><br />First off, an apology. For all those people living in Japan whose schools or Board of Educations don't treat them right. I'm sorry.<br /><br />This past week, the first week back from summer vacation, there have been no classes. For the past week, I have done little more than check email, read, play baseball with students and clean up the river with students. Down time like this is nice because it gives me a good chance to speand time with my kids and get to know them. The 3rd years are all around the same age as high school freshman in the US, so they get a kick out of having a teacher that is not too much older, plus they really like hearing about America and the different countries I've been to. I in turn like chatting with students that aren't quite kids.<br /><br />Aside from the students, the faculty here really takes care of me. Take, for example, what happened to me last Tuesday.<br /><br />Now you should know that it's hot here. It is really hot and we naturally don't have air conditioning in school. I have a tiny fan in front of my desk that keeps my skin from meltng off, but otherwise every shirt that I wear to work has to go in the hamper the second I get home. On a typical summer's day, I take no less than 4 or 5 freezing cold showers.<br /><br />So, sitting in this heat, getting a little bored, I say "厚い!スイカ たべたい!" Meaning, "It's hot!! I want to eat some watermelon."<br /><br />I didn't really want a watermelon, not that I would have minded one, but the thing is along with wanting to practice my Japanese in school, if I speak Japanese every now and then, the few newer teachers who are afraid of me start to warm up a little bit.<br /><br />At that moment, Kojima-sensai, who I teach with, jumps up and says "do you want a peach?" The peaches here, by the way, are really quite delicious, so of course I responded "sure."<br /><br />We go into the teacher's lunch room and out of her lunchbag, she pulls out a peach that I can only assume was part of her lunch. She hands it to me.<br /><br />"I can't take your peach. Really it's ok."<br /><br />"Take the peach!"<br /><br />"No, I was just saying I wanted watermelon because I wanted to say something in Japanese. That is your peach, you don't need to give it to me!"<br /><br />(She extends her hand with the peach further) Please! "Take the peach! I would be happy to give you my peach!!"<br /><br />So I take the peach, and she smiles. I go towards the sink to cut it.<br /><br />"NO!"<br /><br />"Huh? I thought you said I could have the preach..."<br /><br />"Yes, but cut it in the front office. They have a knife there that is good for cutting peaches."<br /><br />So, I take my peach and go to the front office. In the front office is Okubo-sensai at her desk, and Suizu-sensai, who is the groundskeeper Willy of the school. Okubo-sensai looks at my peach and smiles.<br /><br />"You want to cut the peach?"<br /><br />"Uh, yea"<br /><br />Suizu-sensai jumps up.<br /><br />"I'll cut it for you!"<br /><br />Now, at this point, my brain is going "Wh... huh? whats??" and I stand there frozen while she grabs the peach, and proceeds to cut it with surgical precision. Really, I have never seen a peach so masterfully cut in my life. She hands me a plate with the glimmering orange fruit perfectly cut and placed on its surface. I just stand there and hold the plate.<br /><br />"Um, thank you.... would, uh, would you like a piece?"<br /><br />"No no no.... I will just eat this" and she holds up the peach pit, some chunks of fruit still stuck to it. She pops the pit into hr mouth.<br /><br />"You know, I have a whole peach, and you cut it for me. You can have a real slice."<br /><br />"The pit is good. Enjoy the peach!"<br /><br />So now I am holding this ill-gotten peach, the culmination of absolutely NO effort on my part. At this point, I would feel like a good to just shovel the slices into my mouth, so I do the Japanese thing, put toothpicks in each slice, and walk around the teacher's room serving peach to everyone. At the end, I got to eat the last piece.<br /><br />Moral of the story: a ninja can kill anyone without even blinking an eye... and thats a FACT.<br /><br />Oh, and for all of you who enjoyed the New Zealand post and are waiting to be caught up, your time will come. I am planning on continuing with weekly, if not bi weekly posts from now on. I will, for the most part, pick up with more current stuff, but every so often when not much is going on I will write on some past event.<br /><br />As ever,<br />-R<br /></span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1156171007314010152006-08-21T21:28:00.000+09:002006-08-23T11:22:13.780+09:00<span style="font-size:180%;">The Big New Zealand Wrapup<br /><span style="font-size:130%;">...so we can all get on with our lives.</span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/1/123101758_63205f887b.jpg?v=0"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/1/123101758_63205f887b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/39/123101258_179334d165.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/123101258_179334d165.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>Ok, for the sake of the ability to write about new things, I am going to wrap up the rest of the New Zealand trip in one megapost.<br /><br />After the absailing and trekking through Abel Tasman, my partner in crime and I decided that we were due some relaxation time. Naturally, while most people choose to relax on a beach, we chose a deeper, less oxygenated locale.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.firstlighttravel.com/Assets/map_nz_boi.gif"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 281px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 366px" alt="" src="http://www.firstlighttravel.com/Assets/map_nz_boi.gif" border="0" /></a><br />Just off Tutukaka Beach is Poor Knight's Island, one of the most reputed dive spot in the world. Jacques Cousteau rated it as among the top ten in the world - and it didn't take long to figure out why.<br /><br />Poor Knight's Island inhabits rare wildlife, among which are the weatas: giant armor-plated insects, huge land snails, poisonous centipedes over one foot long, hungry land crabs that invade the forest and drag young seabirds from the safety of their burrows. Oh, and of course the tuatara, a miniature dinosaur that has survived on these remote islands unchanged for millions of years. The Poor Knights, the world as it was before man walked the earth. (<a href="http://www.offthefence.com/content/programme.php?ID=214&Categories=3">paraphrased from www.offthefence.com</a>.) <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101370_a3bb24ca54.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101370_a3bb24ca54.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />This is where we chose to relax. Of course, the delicate ecosystem of the terrestrial parts of the islands are maintained by not letting people onto it, but the waters surrounding the islands are no less impressive. New Zealand does a lot to protect its spectacular nature, and in the case of Poor Knight's Island, they did the most good by declaring it a national park and protecting it as such. Boat traffic is limited to a certain amount of dive boats and research vessels. Fishing is prohibited without exception. Even something as seemingly innocuous as taking a seashell from the ocean floor is not allowed. What that leaves you with is a perfectly preserved marine environment <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101183_f8e5078550.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101183_f8e5078550.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>to explore.<br /><br />The first dive site we visited is known as 'the gentle forest' because of the kelp that covers the ocean floor. It is not an especially deep dive site (at deepest, it may have reached 15m) but thanks to the shelter the kelp provides, there is much marine life to be seen. Lord Howe coral fish, scorpion fish, nudibranchs, sea urchin, black angelfish, sandagers wrasse, and demoiselle are among the most abundant.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123101408_3e02d6a968.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123101408_3e02d6a968.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101379_810b0911c6.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101379_810b0911c6.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Prior to Jane's poor ears filling up with water and the subsequent infection that ensued, she too seemed to enjoy the gentle forest.<br /><br />Between dives, we ate lunch in the shade of one of the caves in the area. The cave was an interesting phenomena in itself. The high curved ceiling allowed for perfect acoustics. In addition, the light color of the rocks reflected the sunlight that bounced off the water and at certain points of the day, the entire cave is illuminated in brilliant white light.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/43/123101672_6af599a0cd.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/43/123101672_6af599a0cd.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123101685_ab9df0c54e.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123101685_ab9df0c54e.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The second dive site was known as 'nursery cove.' Another shallow dive (17.5m) but as the name suggests, the site is teeming with juvenile wildlife. The <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123101912_0c9423b7b6.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123101912_0c9423b7b6.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>site is at the base of a cliff of one of the islands, which provides shelter for many species including the ones at Gentle Forest along with gray spotted morey eels, pigfish, rays, and various species of parrotfish. At one end of the site is a series of caves and archways known as 'the labyrinth.'<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/32/123101890_e06f6b2f86.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/32/123101890_e06f6b2f86.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/39/123101934_8b7cdd7ae1.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/123101934_8b7cdd7ae1.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101956_c0e91e144c.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123101956_c0e91e144c.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />After our dives, we drove around for a while, exploring the beaches around Tutukaka. We ended up at the Pickled Parrot in Paihhia, a decent hostel (with free breakfast!) that was close to where we needed to be.<br /><br />The next day, we decided to immerse ourselves in Maori culture. We went to Waitangi, the site where the English and the Maori signed the "treaty" to share the land of New Zealand. Of course, I am compelled to put the word treaty in quotes because I don't see "sign this paper or we'll kill you" to be much of an accord, but new Zealanders swear that it was a friendly agreement.<br /><br />At the treaty grounds, we had the chance to see a traditional Haka, the ritual dance of the Maori. The Haka was used for a variety of reasons in Maori tribes, the most noteworthy being the War Haka which is meant to intimidate the hell out of anyone standing on the opposite side of a bunch of Maori warriors. Through a series of gestures including stomping, slapping <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/39/123102483_7bbee2c2a3.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/123102483_7bbee2c2a3.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>various parts of the body, showing the whites of the eyes, the teeth, and brandishing the tongue, the war haka gets the basic principle of "we are going to kill you" in no uncertain terms. (This is of course unless the opposition vastly outnumbers the Maori with a gun carrying imperial army.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123102557_1777a130f4.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123102557_1777a130f4.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>After seeing the haka, we walked around the treaty grounds, and saw a reproduction of a ceremonial Maori canoe and the official tribal meeting house of the Maori where each Maori clan was represented by their own tiki god-looking carving.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123102719_cd757c8843.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/35/123102719_cd757c8843.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123102661_3ab7d4f02b.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123102661_3ab7d4f02b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/1/123102670_d313a1d295.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/1/123102670_d313a1d295.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />On the following day, our last full day in New Zealand, Jane and I decided to really take it easy (by conventional standards.) Given both of our interests in sailing (mine for the leisure of it, Jane more for the plundering and pirating aspect) we boarded the R. Tucker Thompson, a tall ship that is a perfect reproduction of a 19th century Halibut Schooner.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/48/132276011_4a604884e2.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/48/132276011_4a604884e2.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;" >"The Tucker is built to sail. She is a gaff rigged, square tops'l schooner. Gaff rigged means that her mainsail has four sides; square tops'l refers to the two square topsails. Schooner, in this case, means that of her two masts, the forward mast is shorter than the aft. She was designed according to the traditions of a North American Halibut schooner by a transplanted Californian, R. Tucker Thompson." </span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;">(www.tucker.co.nz).</span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic;font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Most notable were the ship's voyages in races, particularly around the world. With few amenities that were not available in the 19th century, the ship is indeed a proper sailboat.<br /><br />Don't take that to mean we were roughing it. On the Thompson, we basked in the final sunny day in New Zealand and saw the Bay of Islands once more, this time in style. On the ship, the cook, Ms. Battersby prepared a veritable feast (although despite the somewhat pricy cost of sailing, I still had to dish out a few bucks to have a coke with my meal). Rounding out the crew was Captain Garth Bishop.</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/46/132276534_6e82eebda3.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/46/132276534_6e82eebda3.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />The Captain was an...<span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">interesting</span>...fellow. At first his "Ahoy Matey, batten the hatches, stand fast and secure the ringers!" vernacular, along with his salty man of the sea appearance seemed like schtick to appeal to the patrons of the R. Tucker Thompson. Later, my opinion changed when he started firing his miniature cannon at passing ships. Only after surviving</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://x3a.xanga.com/f3aa7af6d223464799066/b43464487.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://x3a.xanga.com/f3aa7af6d223464799066/b43464487.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> his "hardy har har, arrrrrgh" laugh after the ear piercing cannon blow did I realize that Captain Garth was either hitting the rum a bit hard, or he was a few ships short of a fleet.<br /></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We stopped at the island where Captain James</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">s Cook first landed in the Bay of Islands. From the topmost point of the island, there was a truly impressive view of the cove. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/48/132275284_65f7b94f93.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/48/132275284_65f7b94f93.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/48/132275189_e2a27e1cd9.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/48/132275189_e2a27e1cd9.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/51/132275563_26bf1bfeb7.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/51/132275563_26bf1bfeb7.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />We explored a few of the lagoons before heading for the ship to enjoy that wonderful lunch I mentioned before. Of course, blatantly ignoring 24 years of my mother's admonition that I have to wait 30 minutes after eating to go into the water, Jane and I took a few plunges off the ship.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://x46.xanga.com/2d2a47f61953564798901/b43464359.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://x46.xanga.com/2d2a47f61953564798901/b43464359.jpg" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Of course, nothing we did on this trip scared me more than when Jane decided to take the wheel for a while.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/50/132276614_5947b483e3.jpg?v=0"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/50/132276614_5947b483e3.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br />...And while the intention of the voyage was to enjoy a relaxing, non perilous time - we could not resist the chance to climb up the rigging and hang out on the bowsprit.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/47/132276832_caafcd9c5f.jpg?v=0"><img style="MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/47/132276832_caafcd9c5f.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />One final ferry ride from the docks to the mainland (complete with a rainbow and the final sunset we would enjoy in New Zealand, and we were back in our rental car on the way to Auckland.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/56/132279352_51da730136.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/56/132279352_51da730136.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/51/132279543_363c80bf81.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/51/132279543_363c80bf81.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There, after meeting a thoroughly cool guy who stayed in the same "extreeeeeeeeeeeme hostel" (everything in NZ is "to the extreeeeeeeeeme" and our hostel during the final night in Auckland, with its neon lights and flashing strobes guiding you to your "intennnnnseee bunk bed" was no exception) - we grabbed a few beers. Shakespeare Tavern and Brewery in Auckland features such brews as "Falstaff's Real Ale," and "Willpower Stout" (pun intended) appealed to the English major in me, and the beers were damn tasty. Is there nothing that The Bard can't do?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/53/132280667_dd0a51786b.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/53/132280667_dd0a51786b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/50/132280690_2cee2ad82b.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/50/132280690_2cee2ad82b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/50/132280589_e72b799240.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/50/132280589_e72b799240.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">As you could undoubtedly anticipate by now, after beer, we craved one final adventure, and found that in the reverse bungy jump right in middle of town.</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"> After a crane hoisted up the two bungy cords that our seats were attached to, we were released and shot way up over Auckland for the most exhilarating panoramic view of the city before plummeting back down and back up and down again a few times. Afterwards, with hearts </span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;">pounding and adrenaline rushing, we made our way back to the hostel.</span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/54/132280441_b5e73ebb64.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/54/132280441_b5e73ebb64.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/56/132280856_eab4a0b033.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/56/132280856_eab4a0b033.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br />The trip back was a helluva lot more comfortable than the one out. While we had an overnight lay over in Hong Kong, the cushioned seats were a nice place to rest our weary heads. From start to finish, I truly enjoyed New Zealand, and despite my frequent jabs at her that may suggest otherwise, it would never have been nearly as much fun if not for the scurvy rat of a pirate that was at my side.</span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/48/132281037_bf6407385d.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/48/132281037_bf6407385d.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/55/132280936_a1fa2fb437.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/55/132280936_a1fa2fb437.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span></span><br /><span style="font-family:Georgia,Times New Roman,Times,serif;font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Good luck on the Peace Boat Jane... See you on the next adventure.<br /></span></span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1153493379895218102006-07-21T21:42:00.000+09:002006-07-21T23:57:24.693+09:00<span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-family:times new roman;" >Happy Racism Time</span><br /></span><br />For those of you (I think I am standing strong at 3 readers now) who occasionally tune into this site for my wondrous (though somewhat dated) accounts and visually stunning photograph of my New Zealand trip, I apologize. This post will be the angry ranting of an angry man ranting angry angry rants angrily. A post concluding the New Zealand trip, while in the works, will have to wait. I have a some steam to blow.<br /><br />I want to preface with a forethought. I oftentimes get vexed with foreigners who work in this country that wax on about how superior their country is and how "fucked up"[sic] Japan is. Don't get me wrong, I love my country, and I by no means fall into the camp of whose special kids who clutch steadfast to their manga and proclaim the superiority of the Japanese. I still choose Superman over Ultraman. Part of the experience that I have opted to enjoy for a second year is, however, to experience a different way of life.<br /><br />All this being said, let me get to the matter at hand. Today I took a driving test for my Japanese license. Now before anyone goes into the subtle gray area of "Shelala lefts" and "observing the speed limit," let me say I know how I drive. I am from New York, and if that does not come through in either my accent or the fact that I proudly proclaim that the wheel, jello, democracy, chess, electricity, Finland, etc. were all indeed created/discovered or founded in Brooklyn (Isaac Newton may have<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> invented the calculus in Britain, but he him self <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> in fact the son of Borough Presdent Joey Newton who clearly passed along his intellect. He was also pretty sick at basketball - also invented in Brooklyn) my driving remains as the most compelling evidence of my hometown.<br /><br />Still, mamma didn't raise no fool, and if there is one thing we New Yorkers do better than everything else, it's beat the system.<br /><br />Before I go on, there is something else that needs to be noted about the infamous Japanese driving test - apparently foreigners, as a rule fail is the first time around. In the months before my road test, I heard horror stories from every single licensed driver that I know, from a bunch of different countries, each storyteller ending with the "BS reason" why they were failed.<br /><br />Here's the kicker, not one reason mentioned can be found ANYWHERE in the driving manual that is given to English speakers.<br /><br />Back to my plan to beat the house. For the past month or so, I spoke to a few friends and compiled a list of "Stupid reasons that people failed." When all was said and done, I ended up with around fifty tips and failing points. My plan was simple. After reading the book, I would go to the course early (here the tests are done at a closed course, not the open road) MEMORIZE the track, and visualize driving it with all the stupid failing points in mind. Just for edification on what constitutes a "stupid failing point" according to the people I spoke to, here are a few:<br /><br />1) Failure to look under the car for babies or cats prior to entering the car. (I swear to God I am not making this up)<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><br />2) Failure to accelerate to 40 kph on a straight way (apparently this driver made it to 38.... Close but no cigar)<br />3) Indicating earlier than 3 meters (threeee shall be the number of the counting, and the number of the counting shall be threeee...)<br />4) Failure to prepare to change lanes using the correct order of actions (nb: the 'correct' order is as follows:<br /> i) look in rearview mirror<br /> ii) look in sideview mirrors<br /> iii) turn on indicator<br /> iv) look in sideview mirrors<br /> v) drift towards the edge of your lane with a close eye on the lane you want to merge to<br /> vi) look in sideview mirrors<br /> vii) change lanes<br /> viii) turn indicator off<br /><br />Apparently my friend made the mistake of turning on his indicator <span style="font-style: italic;">before</span> looking in his mirrors. On the open road, who knows how many lives that may have jeopardized.<br /><br />I would not even presume to criticize the strange abundance in steps to change lanes. Again, if that's what they want to teach, then more power to them - but to fail a man who completed the necessary steps but merely signaled first is ludicrous.<br /><br />Speaking of ludicrous, I do indeed hope that you all can appreciate the absurdity that after being legally permitted to drive in the country for one year on an international license, we all have to line up and subsequently fail a road test. How could you be sure that I am capable to drive in Japan? Well, for one thing, I have been driving since I was sixteen, and I have been doing it in Japan with no incident for a year now. I suppose that is irrelevant though.<br /><br />All of this brings me to today, 12:00 PM as I prepared to take my road test (after scoring perfectly on the insultingly simple written test, mind you.) The tester steps our of the test car and greets me.<br /><br />Tester: "Where are you from?"*<br />Me : "America."<br />Tester: "Oh, are you going to be ok driving on the left side of the road?"*<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">(Note: He has already inspected my paperwork and acknowledged that I have been living in Japan and driving on an international driving permit - on the left side of the road - for one year now)</span><br />Me: "Yes"*<br />Tester: "You know, in Japan, you have to follow the Japanese driving rules, not the American ones."*<br />Me: "I understand.*<br /><br />* All in Japanese. Yes, despite the fact that I have been living here for a year, and speak this man's language, he feels the need to ensure that I know he only sees me as a foreigner who is going to do things wrong.<br /><br />I hope you'll allow me a momentary segue here (as though you have the choice.) Before I continue, I should first define a Japanese term that this instructor and many people insist on using.<br /><br />Gaijin (g<img alt="" src="http://cache.lexico.com/dictionary/graphics/AHD4/GIF/imacr.gif" align="bottom" height="15" width="6" />-j<img alt="" src="http://cache.lexico.com/dictionary/graphics/AHD4/GIF/ibreve.gif" align="bottom" height="15" width="7" />n): A shortened version of gaikokujin, literally meaning "outside person." A foreigner. SYN: ALIEN, immigrant, stranger, outsider.<br /><br />This label is used DAILY to describe myself and the other English teachers and residents from abroad. Now I know in America, if people started referring to visitors or people immigrating as any one of the above terms, it would most assuredly be considered derogatory. This is mainly because it is. I can understand the occasional need to refer to a collective group as foreigners, you understand, but to go so far as to label someone with the nickname "outside person" daily is pretty terrible. This point really hit home today as I will continue to describe.<br /><br />So, after imparting his sagacity to the ignorant gaijin that in Japan I have to follow the Japanese road rules, not the American ones, we approached the car. From the start, I began running through the course and my checklist. I checked under the car for babies or cats, made my adjustments, and set off.<br /><br />I completed the course, flawlessly. Every single little item on my mental checklist was well met. I returned the car to the starting point, thanked the driver using the proper honorific "thank you," and returned to the waiting area.<br /><br />Now, I don't want to give you the wrong impression. I was in no way cocky or overconfident. My heart was pounding through my shirt. I knew from the moment I met the driver, he already had his impression formed on us damn dirty gaijin. I hoped sincerely that he would prove me wrong, that I was just being paranoid and over sensitive after hearing all the horror stories and that wicked word for the past 363 days. Alas, sometimes it's not fun to be right.<br /><br />The driver called me up to the window and explained that I failed. Then, in a manner that seemed to strain his imagination, he explained the reason which i will now add to the list I created so that I can pass it on to Joycie who will take (and fail) the test next month.<br /><br />Tester: "When you turned right, while you did first move your car to the far right of your lane, I felt you could have moved it further. Also, your left front tire was not at the proper angle for an efficient turn."<br /><br />I was seething. First off, I couldn't get a clear explanation on what "the proper angle for an efficient turn" is. I asked the tester, and he referred me to the text (which is roughly 100 pages, none of which come close to mentioning anything about tire angling or efficient turns.)<br /><br />I apologize. One more interruption to make an observation; all of this is taking place at window number 16 at the driving test center. Hanging over window 16 is a sign saying "Foreign applicants." Now, it should be understood that no body in the driving center speaks anything other than Japanese (or if they do, they are not public about it). All paperwork I filled out was in Japanese, and required me to fill in information in Japanese. When I phoned to make my appointment, they told me that with the exception of the written test, everything is Japanese, and if this is going to be a problem, I am responsible to bring my own translator. The written test is bilingual and everyone receives the same test.<br /><br />Also, as policy, they only allow 4 "gaijin" test takers per day.<br /><br />So, same bilingual test. Instruction and paperwork in Japanese. The license I am applying for is not a specialized license but the same one Japanese citizens apply for. I am one in a group of 4 people that will be visiting the Licensing Center today. One must wonder, what necessitates a segregated window? Since all the paperwork is the same, and I am applying for the same license, why wouldn't they group all four of us with the rest of the applicants? I suppose four is a tedious number.<br /><br />While this is all floating around my head, the tester executes the final "screw the damn gaijin" combo. Apparently, after an initial failure they will not reschedule you for another 8 weeks, which is fortunate because it is more than enough time for those who did not pass the test to find time to take their three day driving course (only costs $300). I guess that it is strangely comforting that discrimination is not the only motive here. There is also a money angle. After all, why pass me after only collecting the $50 test fee when they can get me to take the class and then charge me another $50 to test again? $400 bucks per gaijin? Not too shabby.<br /><br />Of course, there s always the "screw the man, I'm not taking the class" approach. A friend of mine tried that. He took the test 3 times. 3 times they asked if he took the class. 3 times he answered "no." They finally passed him the 4th time. I suppose they were content with only scamming him out of $200. He managed to save himself some money, but imagine how much time this can end up taking (by the way, we also have to use our vacation days at work each time we test. Be sure to factor that into the "losses" category of your calculations.)<br /><br />As the tester handed me back my paperwork, and the information on the school, he smiled. "Don't worry, no body passes the first time."<br /><br />After getting home I spoke to nearly every Japanese friend I made in the past year. They all passed the first time. Not even one failed. That tester must be permanently stationed at window 16, from which he is drawing his statistical analysis on the pass rates.<br /><br />So I sit here, 2 days before my international permit expires, without a license for the summer. Apparently although I live here, pay taxes, support this country's economy, work for their government, and teach their children, I am as ever an outsider.<br /><br />A gaijin.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_2449.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/400/IMG_2449.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1150685341542721242006-06-19T10:54:00.000+09:002006-07-03T13:57:27.013+09:00It's raining, it's pouring, Jane Conrad is snoring...<br /><br />Ok, I'll play fair, that title was chosen more for its cleverness than its veracity. While the former is accurate, our tent was far too uncomfortable to allow for a deep enough sleep to accommodate any snoring. In any case, we woke up on the final day in Abel Tasman to a gray day. While not the longest hike in our trek, the third day's adventures would by far be the most uncomfortable.<br /><br />My eyes opened and my first breath of air was that sort of wet musty air that brings with it the immediate realization that although I did not hear the steady syncopation of raindrops, Abel Tasman was soaked.<br /><br />By day three of no showering, the last thing you want is the stickiness that accompanies high humidity. We were tired and in pain, but we were also on a strict schedule. Not only did we have to cope with two major tidal crossings, but also a deadline. Our boat that would bring us from the apex of the park back down to the beginning where we would meet a bus back to civilization was expected at a very specific time. Miss it, and we are stuck camping again and the rest of our plans would go out the window. We quickly organized ourselves and set off.<br /><br />The first crossing...<br />The benefit of never being able to sleep is that you never have to stress waking up on time for anything. As soon as it was light out, we were up and dressed. Tent collapsed, sleeping bags rolled, cereal bars in our bellys and we were ready to go. Within a half hour of our departure, however, we were met with our first challenge. A tidal crossing that was at a less than favorable depth. We could not wait, and had to make the crossing as it was. <a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123098162_47ce2b2433.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123098162_47ce2b2433.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br />... You only wish you had a pair of Spider-man boxers as cool as mine were. Note the water shoes that Jane was wearing. Clever girl, she managed to save herself the joy of impaled objects in the soles of her feet (whereas mine plagued me for the rest of the trip.) On the flipside, those along with my adidas sandals that were Eventually used <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123098192_9693883be0.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 124px; height: 166px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123098192_9693883be0.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>(after I got sick of pulling shell fragments from my bleeding feet) ended up producing a unique odor that plagued us for the remainder of the trip.<br /><br />After we made the crossing, there was a lot of hiking. Of all the days, this one was the most grueling, not because of the distance, or the terrain (day 2 took the cake on both) but more because of the time concerns. We HAD to make it to the end of the road in <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123099161_a246ab2c84.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123099161_a246ab2c84.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>time to catch the boat that would bring us back, and we had to do it with a few tidal crossings that would not make our lives any easier. We prayed earnestly to the Maori tiki gods to ensure our safe passage.<br /><br />Clearly the Tiki gods were not pleased with our lack of offerings. As soon as we reached the next beach clearing, we were met with a horizon obscured by dark clouds, harbingers of the storm that would soon ensue.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099178_da2932e270.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099178_da2932e270.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Of course, Jane's suspicions fell on the eye of Sauron casting its gaze on us, or more specifically the ring she carried around her ne<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/1/123099229_aa0920f977.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/1/123099229_aa0920f977.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>ck. I too was tempted by this ring and was (for a while) changed into the creature Gollum.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123099291_9e599e7d44.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 361px; height: 271px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123099291_9e599e7d44.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>For a while the rain maintained itself at a manageable steady drizzle which had momentarily ceased by the time we reached the next crossing. It was a long one with water low enough that it did not necessitate pants removal, but high enough that sneakers had to come off. I don't remember much else from this crossing except <span style="font-weight: bold;">SWEET BABY JESUS! AY DIO MIO!!! </span><br /><br />The blinding white pain of broken shells passing through the inch thick kendo-calluses on my feet and managing to penetrate new skin that has still not yet been exposed to air is a special pain to be sure. My "water shoes" were also not a help as they were a pair of adidas <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.kohls.com/media/Photos/Shoes_Athletic_Appl/139_Mens_Athletic_Shoes/10_Mens_Sport_Sandals/ADID16630_13915P_296b3.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://www.kohls.com/media/Photos/Shoes_Athletic_Appl/139_Mens_Athletic_Shoes/10_Mens_Sport_Sandals/ADID16630_13915P_296b3.JPG" alt="" border="0" /></a>sandals (some of you may remember these from such places as the shoes I wore every single day at college) - they are the ones with the little massaging bumps that are wonderful under normal circumstances. The problem is, there was still enough water on the ground to 1) suck the soles of the sandals into the sand so walking was tricky, and 2) float a few shells in between the stuck sandal and my foot, struggling to raise the sandal - this happening in such a way that the raised bumps and rigid rubber of the sandal provided the shells with a base much more sturdy than sand, a base with which they could easily secure themselves so that when I stepped back down, the broken shell could penetrate my feet with maximum force and pain.<br />From here on in, walking became more of a method of lightly stepping, ow, picking an impaled shell from my foot, limping to the next step... wash, rinse, repeat...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099621_49bece0f2e.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099621_49bece0f2e.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/40/123099642_58c8a0e93d.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 125px; height: 167px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/40/123099642_58c8a0e93d.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>After this arduous struggle, we made it back into the woods. The dark clouds were still looming, but the rain had yet begun. The beach, the proverbial "calm before the storm" could be seen from between trees.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That's when it hit. Rain. The kind of rain that first drove man to shelter and years later would inspire Sal Umbrellione, a resident of Brooklyn, to invent the first umbrella. The tears of the tiki gods crying out about whatever makes a tiki god cry (insert clever remark about the white man killing Maoris, taking their land and relegating Maori culture to underfunded museums....here.)<br /><br />Still, there is something wonderfully pure about sheets of rain baptizing you after three day hike. I looked at Jane, and she had the same look on her face as I imagine I had. A wide ear to ear smile. Within the final hour of this hike, on a trip marked by 100 meter cave dives, ocean kayaking during a storm, hitch hiking, misadventures with shady vagabonds, and more to come - this was fitting. The rain was soothing, not the pit pat of inconsistent rain, but a strong downpour with constant cadence that soaked through clothing, hiking bags, and sneakers and wrinkled digits. It was earned rain, and we loved it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099789_5f1ca5be5b.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: left; cursor: pointer; width: 316px; height: 236px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099789_5f1ca5be5b.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/39/123099827_e59e1487a5.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 319px; height: 239px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/123099827_e59e1487a5.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123099870_0ca3943906.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123099870_0ca3943906.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>We had to love it quickly, however, as time was really running out.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123099913_222d30c2cc.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123099913_222d30c2cc.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Of course, we made it successfully, with enough time to applaud each other on a job well done, and a few moments to pull the remaining shells from my feet as well as survey the damage.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099956_7a0d7fca93.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 139px; height: 175px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123099956_7a0d7fca93.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><br /><br />Of course, there still had to be one more test of will. Over the horizon, we saw our boat as it arrived ashore. We anxiously waited at the edge of the water when all of the sudden the boat, our salvation and passage back to the world of men, stopped about 10 meters out.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/40/123100013_3327cf9e13.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/40/123100013_3327cf9e13.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>As it bobbed in the waves, Jane and I stared at it for a while. The captain was at the stern of the boat waving some sort of signal at us. It finally dawned on us, he could not come all the way to shore, we would have to walk out to the boat.<br /><br />Back to tidal crossing mode... The water was fairly shallow, but everything had to be put in or attached to our hiking bags, and they had to be carried above our heads as we waded out to the boat. Of course, even something as mundane as boarding a boat couldn't be easy.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123100132_d5a3d1f632.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123100132_d5a3d1f632.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a>Safe, sound, and soaked we got on board and headed out, leaving Abel Tasman in our wake.<br /><br />As we waited for our bus back to Nelson, I had a staring contest with this cow. He won, he always does... That's why I come out here.... Naaaaatureeee....(Goulet)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123100179_7f2f199744.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123100179_7f2f199744.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123100196_a74382a4d0.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123100196_a74382a4d0.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />While I lived out an inside joke that nobody who reads this will understand (I am not exactly sure if anyone reads this anyway) Jane munched down the final PB&J sandwich.<br /><br /><br /><br />Back in Nelson, we both showered, recouped, and dined on long missed Pizza Hut... Note the "I've been hiking with a baseball cap on for 3 days in the sun" tanline that I managed to score... That and spider-man boxers... Don't you wish you were me?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123100231_2b54b6e46b.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 211px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123100231_2b54b6e46b.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123100269_68c61f5092.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 210px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123100269_68c61f5092.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://static.flickr.com/1/123100336_fa6b360f17.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 227px; height: 171px;" src="http://static.flickr.com/1/123100336_fa6b360f17.jpg?v=0" alt="" border="0" /></a><br />Finally, after an <span style="font-style: italic;">interesting</span> walk, with an <span style="font-style: italic;">interesting </span>conversation about the stars, we returned to our hostel where Jane pontificated on the more exciting aspects of rubber warming bags (which she erroneously insisted on calling bedpans.)<br /><br />Bedpans.Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1147315053685474482006-05-11T11:14:00.000+09:002006-05-22T14:37:59.546+09:00<a href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123094191_6abcd76bba.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123094191_6abcd76bba.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Abel Tasman - Day 2<br /></span></strong><br />I don't know what woke me up first, the sun, the cold or whatever was under the tent that kept jamming into my leg. Maybe I never fell asleep in the first place. I looked over at Jane, she had the same look on her face that I imagine I had; tired, uncomfortable, and ready to hike.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123094047_71b7483193.jpg?v=0"></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123094047_71b7483193.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123094047_71b7483193.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br />Despite its beautiful beaches and wooded areas, Abel Tasman does not really lend itself to long lazy leisurely hikes. Deadlines come in the form of daylight and tidal crossings. In some cases missing the low tide means a 2 hour detour. In other cases, where there was no other way to go, missing the low tide means camping out for an extra day and trying to catch it the following day. The latter was a luxury we could not afford and suddenly I felt like I was back in Manhattan living in city life complete with all of the schedules and timetables. Still though, there is a cathartic difference between rushing to catch a subway to make it uptown for a meeting and aggressively trekking on a coastline in order to make a tidal crossing.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/1/123094246_d8e2da8ff0.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/1/123094246_d8e2da8ff0.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br />We were hungry. In no time, we packed up the tent and instantly our entire 2 square meter campsite, bedding, trash, and laundry were back on our backs. We sat on the beach, found some comfortable rocks, and ate a breakfast of fruit cups and energy bars. Our journey would begin with a short hike to the first tidal crossing; at least that was the plan. When we reached the crossing we found out that in our efforts to not be the slightest bit late to make the crossing, we were grossly early. We could either have waited an hour and a half to make the crossing, or taken<a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123094947_ce83edb445.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 237px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 271px" height="263" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123094947_ce83edb445.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a> the two hour detour. We decided as we were already up and genki, we would do the latter.<br /><p><br /><br />It is interesting how sometimes mistakes lead to discovery. While walking on the detour, we saw a sign for Cleopatra's pool. Neither of us had the vaguest idea what this could be, but I knew that if I did not take the detour, Bob Brier would certainly be disappointed, and I would never disappoint Bob Brier... that man has taught me so much.<br /></p><p></p><p><br />We hiked on a while longer until we reached a break in the path. In one direction, we could hike another three and a half hours to Onetahuti, the next campsite. The other direction was for <a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123095664_be4183b7a0.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123095664_be4183b7a0.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>a one and a half hour detour to a waterfall... We chose waterfall. </p><p>Walking the steep path up with my gear on my back, I thought about Sisyphus rolling his boulder and I wondered if the hills in Hades were this narrow and steep. We managed though, and at the very end we sat down and ate peanut butter and jelly sandwiches at the foot of the waterfall. </p><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Simply stated... amazing.</p><p><br /><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/123095899_4c1049362d.jpg?v=0" border="0" /><br />Going back down the steep path from the waterfall was surprisingly as difficult as going up. The detour took us a while, and we were still so far from Onetahuti. Although that day's trek did not have us worrying about tidal crossings, we still had to consider daylight. The light from our convenience store flashlights had already changed from that fresh store-bought bright white to a more amber color after the first night of camping. After sunset, we could not count on being able to see very much.<br /></p><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/40/123096342_bd03edd13b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /><br />We reached a path alongside the beach where we walked for a while. The tide was still out and there was a tiny island that one could walk to. I wanted to walk to the island and explore a bit, but we could not risk running out of daylight, so we pressed on.<br /><br />Soon after we reached the only impressive manmade thing I saw in Abel Tasman. Uncle Steve, Uncle Frans, if you are reading this, know that the suspension bridge that you built upstate <a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123096602_857b4f09b9.jpg?v=0"></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123096696_762329eed4.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123096696_762329eed4.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123096602_857b4f09b9.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 237px; CURSOR: hand" height="184" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/35/123096602_857b4f09b9.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>will always have a special little place in the section of my hears where I reserve room for the category of "small suspension bridges used to cross rivers." That being said, this one was pretty impressive.<br /></p><p>We stopped at another beach to put our tired feet in the cold water and noshed on some M&Ms. Here is the part of my blog where I abuse my wonderful travel partner.<br /><br />"I miraculously grabbed a handfull, only to discover (to Rich's disgust) that I grabbed all blue ones! What are the chances?!? Well, we won't show you that pic of them in my mouth..."<br /><br />Yea, she won't show you that picture, but I will...<br /></p><p><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123097736_edae02de44.jpg?v=0" border="0" /> </p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123097894_bef44398ab.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 248px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 313px" height="298" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123097894_bef44398ab.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br />As Jane said on her blog, this last stretch, though only about another hour was hard but we ganbatted. Once we arrived at Onetahuti I made us a nice dinner (which we actually got to eat on a proper picnic table.) Our luck also held out - as soon as we were ready to close up the tent it started to rain a bit.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123097917_2574a73370.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123097917_2574a73370.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123097927_3efe50ed2f.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123097927_3efe50ed2f.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></p><p></p><p><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/abelmap.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="451" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/400/abelmap.jpg" width="232" border="0" /></a></p><p>Our trek so far: The light blue trail in the water is obviously from day 1 (kayaking) from marahau to Anchorage. The purpleish line is from Anchorage to Onetahuti (with the detour to the waterfall).<br /><br />Say tuned for day 3.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Rex out. </p>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1146202355547295912006-04-28T10:45:00.000+09:002006-04-28T15:43:28.360+09:00<a href="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/map.gif"></a><br /><a href="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/nzmap.gif"></a><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">Blackfoot Fell on Her Head</span></strong><br /><strong></strong><br />Or at least that is the assumption that I have to go by based on the continuing and blatant lies that have become all too common on her blog. The logical conclusion that I reached is that at some point during the course of our two days of caving, or our three days of trekking or even sometime at the airport or while SCUBA diving, poor Jane must have fallen on her skull and anything resembling a factual account of our trip to New Zealand might have tumbled out of that hole in her eardrum.<br /><br />Here is the Jane Conrad "Fair and Balanced" account of our conversation preceding our kayaking adventure:<br /><br />"...Neither of us had ever kayaked before (although Rich lied to me and said he did - which is why I made the reservation!)..." (source: <a href="http://www.xanga.com/mr_mephisto">www.xanga.com/Mr_mephisto</a> <em>Captain and Raccoon Kayak Through Abel Tasman</em> April 24, 2006)<br /><br />Let me take a moment to explain how the conversation really went:<br /><br />Jane: Would you be interested in kayaking?<br />Rich: Sure, that seems great.<br />Jane: Should we get a guide?<br />Rich: I don't know, do we need one?<br />Jane: Well, you kayaked before, right?<br />Rich: No.<br />Jane: (laughs) Yea, OK.<br />Rich: (kinda boggled as to why that is funny) Do you think we do a lot of kayaking in Brooklyn?<br />Jane: Whatever, you can just teach me what to do.<br /><br />(Later at the Kayak place)<br /><br />Steve: So, either of you guys ever kayak before?<br />Rich: Nope.<br />Jane: Wait, I thought you said that you HAD?!?<br />Rich: No, you're confused. You said that I had, I said that I hadn't.<br />Jane: I thought you were kidding?!?<br /><br />Ladies and gentlemen, THIS is why I will really NEVER understand ANYTHING that has a second x chromosome.<br /><br />Now, I will be fair, aside from that initial "No, I don't know how to do it" I did not continuously protest Jane who was so adamantly doubtful of my inability. I am known for oftentimes going into something that I had never done before (which may or may not be potentially fatal to the inexperienced) with a "how hard could it be?" or "what's the worst that could happen?" (famous last words, as Nash would say.) Still, I am always upfront about my inexperience, though perhaps overconfident in my abilities or safety at times.<br /><br />So, Blackfoot is a libelous scoundrel. That being said, it is a good thing that we were guided.<br /><a href="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/nzmap.gif"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/nzmap.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Ok, so here is where we were. You'll recall that we finally reached Abel Tasman on day 5 of the trip. Somehow despite being delayed for one day in Narita, and taking two days to bus, ferry, and hitch hike from the North to the South Island we were still perfectly on schedule and ready to start the three day trek through Abel Tasman.<br /><br />Abel Tasman is a beautiful...BEAUTIFUL (read: most beautiful place I have ever been to, ever) coastal park. I won't get too involved in describing it here, however, as there are plenty of pictures and stories to come. Anyway, the coastal path we were planning on taking was about 17 kilometers long. We would complete the first 5 kilometers (from Marahau to Anchorage) on day one, an we would travel via kayak.<br /><br />So, with cereal bars in our stomachs and a half hour crash course on sea kayaking, we headed out to the bay with our guide, Steve.<br /><br />Now, a brief word about Sea Kayaking. This is not kayaking in a bay or a lake or someplace where you maintain the option to stop rowing for a bit and relax. When you are Sea Kayaking, you have a lot more to worry about such as cutting through waves that go over the top of the kayak, getting swept out further than you would hope to be, and when you are fortunate enough to paddle around shallow water, there is always the hazard of jagged rocks that make life more interesting.<br /><br />Of course, this is not necessarily to say it is an extremely dangerous sport either. Under the right conditions, the occasional "stop for a second to bob around" is permitted. Under the right conditions, once you get through an initial set of waves, a rhythmic paddle with light to medium cadence is sufficient to keep you in control.<br /><a href="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/map.gif"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://www.southern-exposure.co.nz/images/map.gif" border="0" /></a><br />We, however, were kayaking in conditions that could be best euphamized as "less than ideal," or more realistically stated as "insane." Unbeknownst to our guide, there was a swell and water was a rough. During the day of kayaking, for 5 kilometers, we had to row at full force, maintaining enough speed to control the boat. Also, to avoid being swept back to the jagged rocks lining the shore and the base of the cliffs of Abel Tasman, we had to do much of the rowing out to sea.<br /><br />We stopped twice, one to prepare, and one to recover. For and from what? The Mad Mile. The Mad mile is a bluff named as such because for approximately one mile there is no place wheresoever to stop. The specific course between Marahau and Anchoage is spotted with tiny beaches that are completely inaccessible except for by boat. During kayaking, if one were to get overwhelmingly tired, there is always at least the option to make it to one of these beaches to rest for a few moments. We were not granted this luxury as with the conditions that day, stopping to rest would almost be counter productive. The amount of energy that would have to be exerted in order to brake through the wake line again and make it back out after stopping on a beach would have negated the entire rest period.<br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123093030_782630c42d.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123093030_782630c42d.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>Before the Mad Mile, however, we stopped to rest for a bit. Steve gave us a small snack and some juice to re-energize. After some time, we were ready to take on the Mad Mile.<br /><br />The moniker Mad Mile certainly was apt, I tell you... APT! In order to make it around the bluff, we had to paddle out far then cut across it. The plan was to stop for lunch at a beach right after the Mad Mile. You would think that while heading back to shore we could just coast and let the waves bring us in. Yes, logic would support such a theory, however somehow that was strangely not the case and we had to continue the heavy rowing back to shore. It seemed ridiculous, kinda like having to walk up hill to come back down the mountain.<a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123093487_6eb21dabfd.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123093487_6eb21dabfd.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a> Once we made it back though, we flopped down on the tiny secluded beach and ate the yummy sandwiches that Steve had brought along. From there to Anchorage would only be another short stretch, but we needed the break. It also didn't hurt that the beach was amazing and it was a beautiful day.<br /><br />Once we made it back to Anchorage, we were met by a boat who transported our hiking hear to us. Before the sun set, our tent was pitched and Jane was passed out. I watched the sunset on the beach and took some photos. Jane woke up and we made dinner before settling into the tent.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/37/123093569_6046c869f8.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/123093569_6046c869f8.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br />Ok, take some time to appreciate how beautiful Anchorage was.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123093601_0814463ad0.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/35/123093601_0814463ad0.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123093752_cd4546b106.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/35/123093752_cd4546b106.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123093601_0814463ad0.jpg?v=0"></a><br /><br /><br />Next time: the trek to Bark Bay.<br /><br />Rex outKarma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1145429007070813982006-04-19T13:02:00.000+09:002006-04-22T11:45:31.246+09:00<a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123092617_91c622c541.jpg?v=0"></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong><em><span style="font-family:times new roman;font-size:180%;">Interlude - Insanity</span></em></strong><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;font-size:85%;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">It is difficult to try to record the events of this trip while simultaneously making an effort not to post blogs that are too similar to Mephistos... then again, we were on the same trip, so with that in mind, I give you day three/four -- the adventure between adventures.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">23.03.06 Early Morning.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Blackfoot wakes me up. My muscles are still sore from the previous two days. Since I left Nakano I have not allowed my body much rest. While the night before I still had a good 6 hours of sleep, it seemd strangely inadequate. I get out of bed and grab my things. I welcome the idea of a day of busses and ferrys. This day should be easy. I can catch up on sleep.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">There is a problem though. As I pack my things, I am reminded of a glaring ommision from a backpack meant to accompany me on a three day hike: a sleeping bag. Our journey to Wellington requires a few transfers without even seconds to spare. We will not reach any major city until night, and by then stores will be closed. Hopefully we will run into a bit of luck otherwise the nights in Abel Tasman are going to be chilly ones.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We check out of our hostel. The girl behind the desk is little and blonde. Her name is Hailey. Blackfoot asks her where we could find camping gear. Her answer is the name of a small town that we never heard of and would never remember. Most importantly, its a small town that we will not have time to reach before our noon bus. Situation does not seem good until we get that miricle we were looking for. Hailey offers to meet us in Otoranga (which Blackfoot will call "Orangatang" for the remainder fo the trip) before our bus picks us up, and take us to a store to buy supplies. God I love this country and the people in it.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We hop in a small van that takes us from the hostel to Otoranga. The driver, Freddie, the self proclaimed "oldest living fossil in New Zealand" drove us there while sharing all maner of facts on the kiwi bird and rabbit shearing.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">It is raining in Otoranga. Good, let the rain get its kicks in before we start hiking. Hailey picks us up and takes us to the store to gear up. Turns out its her day off AND she cancelled an appointment to do this. I love this country. We try to give her money for gas but she won't accept. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/123092506_8c4587cf21.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/123092506_8c4587cf21.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>The bus rides down to Wellington were long, but not awful. The drivers made frequent rest stops which I could have done without. We reached Wellington a little after 8pm and had to kill time before the 3am ferry down to the South Island. The bus station is in the middle of nowhere between the city and the docks and it's raining. Big deal. Blackfoot and I don our Uniqlo raincoats (purchased as we were leaving Narita...in case) and walk towards the city.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/wellington.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/wellington.jpg" border="0" /></a>Wellington is windy. That, plus rain and the fact that we hadn't eaten in a while, keeps us moving quickly, but with absolutely no idea about the city or where we are, an uneasy feeling sets in. I take out our lonely planet and try to look for a map that could tell us anything. As we trace the map grid, trying desperately to shield the pages from the rain and wind that had already started to tax the book, a young woman comes down the street smiling. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"You looking for somehting?" she asks? She does not speak with a Kiwi accent. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Food" we reply. She chuckles. Unless you are flying, the ferry is the only way down to the South Island, and Wellington is the port city. If she spends a lot of time around here I'm positive she often runs into more than her share of travelers.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">She is a Canadian working down in New Zealand. Nice girl, but seems like one of those high energy sort of people that you are happy to have leading you somewhere but will start to grind on your nerves as the night goes on. I never caught her name. She leads us to the city center and left us to handle ourselves. I'm not wearing a watch but its probably past ten. Still plenty of time to go. Problem is, where?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">There are a number of Chinese restaurants. They look greasy, like the ones in New York. God I miss the Chinese food in New York. Could these be the same? Only one way to tell.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">No. They don't have General Tso's Chicken. Unless a Chinese restaurant is familiar with the General, I am not interested. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">There is a guy standing against the wall in the shadow of a convienience store smoking a cigarette. He is looking right at us and I realize that I saw him a few blocks back as well. Why is he looking at us?</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Blackfoot senses it too and with a smile walks over to him. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"Hey dude, know where we can grab a bite?" She asks. While the situation did not seem to be kosher, something in my gut tells me that this guy is ok. His name is Max. He rattles off the names of a few bars and pubs and asks us if we would be interested in having a pint with him. Japan doesn't have many import beers and the ones they have are hella expensive. One of the bars he mentions is Irish. Blackfoot is on the same page as I am. We both crave the same drink we haven't tasted in far too long.</span><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/40/123092532_793d80bc2a.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/40/123092532_793d80bc2a.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Guiness.</span> <a href="http://static.flickr.com/40/123092532_793d80bc2a.jpg?v=0"></a><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">I always love when you are in a bar where the bartender knows how to properly pour a Guiness. The initial tip pour until the glass is slightly less than three-quarters full, then the waiting period when the drink settles and the head nearly shrinks away, then the final pour, a perpendicular blast from the tap that fills the balance of the glass with a tan froth and disturbs the blackness in the rest of the glass. If the bartender does it right, you get a perfect stout with proper head and a full body. Wrong in either direction and you are either drinking foam or Guiness juice. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The guy behind the bar knows what he is doing. First two rounds of Guinesses are on Max. I pick up the third. Max is a little crazy, but a good guy. He is from the UK and launches off into stories about how he ended up in New Zealand, helicoptors that follow him, and his various inventions. He buys the table a round of Jamesons. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Blackfoot and I realize that we still hadn't eaten. We go to a burger-king and get double bacon cheeseburger meals. We go to another bar and keep drinking until it is time to catch the ferry.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">24.03.06 Somewhere in Between Dreams.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">On the ferry we find a comfortable room on the upper deck. We take our sleeping bags and crash out. At 6am we arrive in Picton on the South Island. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Our journey is no where near to being over. Picton is on the eastern side of the south island, but we have to head west towards Nelson, so at 6am we hold out our thumbs to hitch a ride across the island.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">It is not too long before an old SUV car pulls over. The <a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/123092559_2cb1c9c8df.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/123092559_2cb1c9c8df.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>driver is tall and his shoes are untied. I wonder for a second if he is too tall and cannot reach his laces. Jane hops in the back amidst tons of machine parts and equipment. I sit shotgun. The song "Go to Sleep lil Baby" from <em>O Brother Where Art Thou? </em>is playing. The man is hurried, he is on his way to work. He is a research scientist working on developing biodesiel as an alternative for fossil fuels. He drives us to an intersection near a convienence store and heads to work.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">We wait longer this time for another driver. Another SUV pulls over, this one is also old. The driver is stocky with unruly white hair and a large nose. He clears aside some antique books and helps Jane put her bag in the car. I put mine in as well. He is running late for work and hurries us into his car. We are underway and he talks a lot which is fine because he is interesting. He is an archeologist studying the Maori. He tells us the story of an orange cat named "Fatty," his daughter who playes golf, and a toilet in Abel Tasman that engulfs you in orange sunlight as you are eliminating. Midway through a story a car cuts into the road and the Archeologist lets out a string of curses that would make Dice blush. </span><br /><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">He drops us off on a road outside of Havelock (the green-shelled mussel capital of the world). We are halfway to Nelson. We wait for over two hours on the side of a road that is as busy as a se<a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123092617_91c622c541.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123092617_91c622c541.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>x shop near a church. For two hours we sit and wait. A car pulls up. No luck they are just pulling a U-turn and felt that pulling oveer next to tired hitchikers would be fine. Other cars pass pretending not to see us or give an apologetic nod. </span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">The problem with our current location is that if we do not get picked up we are screwed. There is nothing for miles. We try not to lose faith but it is becoming harder not to. Another car pulls in. It is nice, we don't even bother getting up, it can't be for us. A young girl pokes her head out of the car.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">"You guys need a ride or not?"</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/wellington.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/wellington.0.jpg" border="0" /></a>We get in the car. Her friend (or sister) is around the same age and sits shotgun. The trunk is small and can only fit Jane's bag. I put mine on my lap and we squeeze into the back seat. The passenger offers us beer and potato chips. I take stock of my situation. Two young girls pick up hitchikers and offer them beer and chips...and they say movies are not realistic.</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">It turns out the driver was a single mother. After about a half hour of driving, she pulls over. The car is overheating and she has to pour cold water over the engine. We sit for a while until the car cools off. She drives us the rest of the way to Nelson. We force her to take gas money</span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;"><a href="http://static.flickr.com/43/123092799_4fda50c432.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/43/123092799_4fda50c432.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></span><br /><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Nelson is a beautiful town. It reminds me of the Hamptons. We plan out our three days in Abel Tasman and get some falafel. I pick up a Maori pendent. It is a bone hook, a water sign that provides protection for travelers. We find our Hostel, and prepare food and supplies for our next three days in Abel Tasman.</span>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1144908570038931652006-04-13T11:23:00.000+09:002006-04-17T13:57:51.720+09:00<em><strong><span style="font-size:180%;">The Uneasy Alliance Continues</span></strong></em><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br />Sorry for the lask of posts. I got back from New Zealand to find that my computer was sick and needed to be sent to the computer doctor. Apparently the old addage "an apple a day keeps the doctor away" is not applicable if you yourself are an Apple.<br /><br />And for all of you PC naysayers who want to take this opportunity to give me shit about saying how great macs are, save it. In 6 years this is the FIRST problem i have ever had, and it's a hardware problem at that. On top of it, Apple picked up my computer... in JAPAN, whisked it away to fix it, and returned it FIXED within TWO days. I am curious how many PC manufacturers would do the same.<br /><br />Did I mention that they picked up my computer... from my doorstep... in JAPAN?!?<br /><br />Anyhow, internet at work has been down as well, AND my phone was disconnected (since New Zealand completely depleated my finds, I have been broke like a joke, until tomorrow, PAYDAY!!!!)<br /><br />Needless to say, I have been completely cut off from all communication with anyone who lives outside my cell phone's service area. To the untrained eye, it may seem like this is just another lame excuse for why I don't update my blog often enough, but thats why God invented eyeglasses.<br /><br />Anywhom, onward with tales from New Zealand. After the first day and our initial absailing adventure we were beat. Whoever said that absailing (same thing as rappelling, except rappelling is the French word and absail is the German word) was easy is 1) a dirty lying sinner, and 2) would DEFINATELY not be able to cut it on what we did the following day: the Lost World.<br /><br />Lake, if you are reading this, you would best understand how I am about to rate this thing... this was something on par with riding around the desert on an ATV and drinking tea with bedouins. We hiked to a secluded area where the cave entrance was. On the way, we had a few opportunities to look down into the area surrouding the cave entrance through holes called the "window" and the "chimney". This was the lost world. The view looking down in was amazing, you basicly see another wooded area with trees and a river flowing, but 100 meters underground, like something out of a science fiction novel about an underground civilization.<br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/124073377_a3d75063dc.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/124073377_a3d75063dc.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br />We eventually reached the absail site, a nice bar holding a rope which we would clip on for our 100 meter descent. Now, I love a god adventure, and God knows I'm not really afraid of dying, but there is something humbling about the experience of lowering yourself 100 meters with no more than a quick instructions on technique to go by. Of course, we did it and once we reached the bottom, we relaxed by the river of this beautiful underground world and had some lunch.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">(Jane and I dangling 100 meters, about to begin the absail)</span></em><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/37/124073379_64c69f9a82.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/124073379_64c69f9a82.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Now here is where I really didn't think things through. They packed more than enough lunch for everyone, but most of the people had what they could eat leaving many leftovers, which of course we didn't want to lug through the caves. Everything needed to be eaten, and of course human trash compactor that I am I took care of the rest. After about 4 sandwiches, a quart of milk, and a box of cookies, I started a 7 hour hike/swim/climb, all the while combating some icky tummy.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>(maybe if I ate less, it would have not been so hard to squeeze through there.)</em></span><br /><br /><br />The only diwnside to how extreme this thing was is that I couldn't take any pictures. At first I scoffed at their rule saying that I cannot bring in a camera, however in truth at NO POINT in the 7 hours was there more than a moment or two when I had two hands free enough to snap a photo. Moreover there was no place to safely tuck dangle or attach a camera without it being thwacked against rocks and such. This was not a walk in the park by any means... no seriously, we were in a cave (aren't you paying attention?)<br /><br />Fortunately though, one of the guides was slightly more experienced than Jane and I were and had a camea onhand for the occasional shot.<br /><br />Ok, so we entered the cave and right away got <a href="http://static.flickr.com/42/124073376_6e2acc44e0.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/42/124073376_6e2acc44e0.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>soaked... so it would be THIS kind of a cave, eh? After wading through a river for a while, we had to walk around behind a waterfall to the otherside. Sounds easy? Well, had this been one of those new fancy caves with halogen lighting, central air and a starbucks inside it may have been, but this was just an old fashioned cave so it was dark as a mofo save the tiny lamp on our helmets. Needless to say navagating in the dark through an extremely narrow passageway with cold water cascading on your head and shoulders is not a simple task. At the end of the watefall, you find ourself completely disoriented.<br /><br />One of the guides later explained that we could have made it to point B without creeping through the waterfall, but 1) that would be no fun at all and 2) that ordeal is in fact the final test before a point of no return. You see once you really get into the caves, there is no quick exit and no way out but to keep going. There are also several places where some people may not be able to squeeze through, or (if not strong or surefooted enough) could get severely injured (even die, but we'll get to that) The waterfall represents the final point where if someone is not physically or mentally fit enough to endure can turn around.<br /><br />Our group was hardcore as all hell though and we all made it through. Waded for a bit further and climed up to a higher level until we reached our next task... the Jaws of Death. This was a small (and wonderfully jagged) hole in a big rock that was just large enough for a person to tuck and slip through before plummeting (about 7 meters or so) back down into the river. We all made it and went on to the next obsticle, the Witches couldron.<br /><br />This was another waterfall, but much more powerful thn the first. It formed a cauldron at the base. For those of you who forget Earth Science, a Cauldron is basically a deep bowl formation at the base of a waterfall. The pressure from the waterfall creates a condition where the water spins around the formation stirring it up like a witches cauldron. Were one to be trapped in the cauldron, you would be sucked underwater and into the mix. With that degree of peril clearly explained to us, the guides explained that the next task would be to spiderwalk up the rock infront of a waterfall directly above the cauldron. One slip, and you got problems.<br /><br />We all made it up there too (we had no other choice). As we continued into the cave, we passed a small hole in the roof where some sunlight came through. This hole was called "cow-hole." Why? Well, apparently on the otherside of the hole is a nice grassy mountain where coes tend to graze, and occasionally these cows will fall into the hole plummeting to their death, and giving the eels a nice steak dinner. Stupid creatures... We kept going past "cow hole" until we reached the next challenge, this being the one and only optional challenge: a cliff dive. We had to climb another waterfall, only this time, we were not climbing in front of or behind the rushing water, but head on. As with most things, there was simply no other way. We did this one at a time. After climbing, up the waterfall, I stood on a cliff over black water. Thats the fun part about swimming around in a cave, with the total lack of light all water seems to be black and abysmal. There are also submerged jagged rocks providing adequate opportunity to crack your skull open. The task was to jump off the cliff and into thefreezing black water with only the a vague point in the right direction (i.e. the guide saying "try to aim there"). Here is where props MUST be given to Blackfoot. Obviously I did it. I don't need to tell anyone that I did it, everyone recognizes I am not afraid of jumping off of things, but Jane was the ONLY woman in the group to jump off the cliff, and whats more, she joined the rest of us in pulling off a front flip. Well done Jane... clap clap.<br /><br />Next was the walk through the Eels Bedroom. This is named as such because the caves are filled with eels, which are for the most part harmless. This one particular stretch, however, was a huge vault where the eels slept. We were about thigh deep in water and had to walk the far stretch using only the cave wall to guide us. It was COMPLETELY pitch black as we had to keep our lights off so as to not wake (or more importantly piss off) the eels. I think i still have scabs on my hands from that cave wall!<br /><br />After all of our little missions, we were due for a short break. The caves in Waitomo are best known as the "glow worm caves" because they are filled with glow worms. Not the little glow worms that we had as kids, but the <em>Arachnocampa Luminosa</em> larvae. These larvae are unique to New Zealand and live pretty crappy lives. For the<a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/waitomagloworms3.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/waitomagloworms3.jpg" border="0" /></a> majority of their life, they are in the larval stage hanging off things (in humid places) glowing in order to attract prey. Their genus is Arachnocampa because of their spider-like way of using nets to trap prey. They do this until they mature and become insects which look like mosquitos. The problem, however, is that unlie mosquitoes, these buggers (get it?) have no mouths so they can't eat. They starve to death and die within a few days. So they are born, attract pray using shinyness while they mature, and then they die. Basically the bugs's entire life is puberty.<br /><br /><div align="right"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">(glow worms)</span></em><br /></div><div align="left"><br />So, we all climbed on some flat rocks, turned off our lamps and lied down while looking up at the glow worms. Pretty impressive, ne?<br /><br />We walked out of the cave and back into daylight and a 2 kilometer hike back to HQ where a steak dinner awaited us. We toasted, shared a few laughs, returned to the hostle and slept like babies that night. As Jane pointed out, this is how fuc#*d up our jobs are... this is what we have to resort to in order to unwind!<br /><br />By the way... this was only day two. <a href="http://static.flickr.com/56/124073378_c3a3f01a9e.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/56/124073378_c3a3f01a9e.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a> </div><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/37/124073380_eef8996486.jpg?v=0" border="0" />Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1144209775388076842006-04-05T08:57:00.000+09:002006-04-05T13:07:34.886+09:00<strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;">BLACKFOOT IS A SCURVY RAT!</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:180%;color:#ff0000;"></span></strong><br /><span style="color:#ff0000;"><span style="color:#000000;">If, perchance anyone had the chance to visit <a href="www.xanga.com/mr_mephisto">Mr. Mephisto's blog</a>, you would have a chance to see wat sort of rotten scoundrels pirates really are! The photos of me are libelous and clearly doctored. There is ABSOLUTELY no evidence of me partaking in any sort of bubble baths, especialy a pink one at an alleged "Love Hotel." Moreover, the photos of me apparently "sleeping" with my mouth gaping open is a boldfaced lie. I would NEVER in a million years fall asleep on a bus while Jane was sitting next to and talking to me. I was clearly singing Day-o by Harry Bellafonte in that picture and Blackfoot took advantage of the occasion to discredit me. This sort of behavior only proves that pirates are not men (or women) who can be trusted!</span></span><br /><br />Anyway, please allow me to humbly seperate fact from fiction here.<br /><br /><span style="color:#000000;"><u><span style="color:#0000ff;"></span></u></span><a href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123091202_3408a9d10d.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123091202_3408a9d10d.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><strong>FACT:</strong> I took the Chuuo express to Narita airport giving me MORE than ample time to catch the flight. Meanwhile, the Narita Express which was transporting Blackfoot to the rendez-vous point was delayed. No doubt they knew that they had such a rotten scoundrel as a stow away and stopped to search the train. I told Blackfoot a million times, if she wants to live a life of sin and decadence, she should at least have the foresight to avoid mass transit.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>Anyway, this was precisely the scene as I waited for her to arrive and I watched our plane to take off. </p><p>When the Salty Scourge of the Seven Seas did finally arrive, we were forced to go to Chiba to purchase new tickets. As the day of running around had us smelling pretty nasty, we sought refuge in the Peacock Love Hotel in order to take showers and a quick nap. </p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091178_ca8285f4cf.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091178_ca8285f4cf.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p><strong>FACT:</strong> We did find HP in order to revive our weary selves. I traded in a crappy shield that I had found while Blackfoot (who hordes gold on every level, and won't pass a coin without picking it up) purchased some. </p><p>Blackfoot is indeed correct about one thing, if it was not for the HP, we would have never survived the night in the hostle (and f'n FREEZING) Narita airport. </p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>Now, before I allow for Blackfoot to continue her rampage of lies, I will provide a truthful account of our arrival in auckland and our first cave dive.</p><p>Once we arrived in Auckland (via a 2 hour layover in Hong Kong), it became clear that our trials in Narita were the end of our bad luck. I still attribute all of our travel woes to the god that I apparently vexed when I left an offering most dishonorable at Fushimi Inari back in November when Julie came to visit. In any case, by the time we made it to Auckland, it was thankfully clear that the gods were through toying with me and allowed to things to go perfectly. We made it thorugh customs and straight into the city mere moments before the one and only bus leaving for Waitomo departed on its 3 hour trip.</p><p>When we arrived in Waitomo, we checked into the hostle and went to the information center to plan out our trek to South Island where we hit a brief snag. Apparently it would take over a day to travel to the South Island for our hike, and many of the busses we wanted to take were not running the days we needed them to. We only had one choice, and that was to make our cave dive that day.</p><p>Now pause for a second and re-read the past few paragrahs if you need to. Thats right, no mention of a hotel or a good night's sleep anywhere. It is still the day we arrived in NZ, and during the previous 48 hours we were in Japan (with a less than comfortable night in Narita) Hong Kong, and a total of 14 hours in a plane not to mention the bus ride to Wellington. Now the crazy lady at the information center wanted for us to spelunk on the SAME DAY? She wanted us to absail 70 meters into a hole, jump into icy black water with naught more than inner tubes to keep us afloat, crawl through tiny crevaces AND climb out alive? Was she insane? Did she think we we were idioTs???</p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123091393_6f3c7eae61.jpg?v=0"></a><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/38/123091393_6f3c7eae61.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/38/123091393_6f3c7eae61.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p>I mean... do we LOOK like idioTs?</p><p>Well, of course we did it... the day we arrived we jumped into a cave... </p>Here are pictures from the first cave dive:<br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091541_bf50fbfcfb.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091541_bf50fbfcfb.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The hole. and Jane lowering herself into it...<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091673_872e0ae22d.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123091673_872e0ae22d.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/41/123091716_26470dc37e.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/41/123091716_26470dc37e.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>A view from in the cave.<br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/43/123091761_e335e2c859.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/43/123091761_e335e2c859.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />deeper = wetter<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/35/123092098_aa1cf15c12.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/35/123092098_aa1cf15c12.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123092032_42eb6e62f6.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123092032_42eb6e62f6.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />So obviously when people met Jane and I there was the initial misconception that we were dating, this misconception is usually remedied within an hour by certain behavioe. On the left is evidence of such behavior. After turning a corner and being surprised by a waterfall, I COULD have warned Jane of the impending deluge. Even after she was soaked, I COULD have laughed while offering her a hand of assistance. Of course, I did neither. Instead, I set up my camera to record the occasion. I wish I recorded a video because not only was the event funny, but the reaction of the people around us was great. I tried to explain to everyone that she would have preferred the photo anyway. I know I did.<br /><br /><a href="http://static.flickr.com/36/123092295_6c48150e4f.jpg?v=0"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/36/123092295_6c48150e4f.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>5 hours later, we victoriously re emerged. We noshed down a quick dinner and PASSED OUT in the comfy beds of our hostel.<br /><br />I'll leave it at that for now, the adventures will continue in the next post. Let's see what kind of lies that trecherous Blackfoot will come up with first.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />TO BE CONTINUED...Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1142461329254714592006-03-16T07:00:00.000+09:002006-03-16T13:27:20.570+09:00<div align="left"><span style="font-size:180%;color:#cc0000;"><strong>A Busy Month<br /></strong></span><br />(Insert excuse for not updating sooner HERE)<br /><br />Ok, now that that's taken care of, perhaps some pictures of us at the mountain? Spring skiing has begun..<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1740.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_1740.jpg" border="0" /></a>We are indeed marvelous.<br /><br /><br />Take note of that.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />And more sillyness...<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/CIMG5424.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/CIMG5424.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/CIMG5426.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/CIMG5426.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/CIMG5430.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/CIMG5430.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/CIMG5437.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/CIMG5437.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />A WONDERFUL birthday.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_0953.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_0953.jpg" border="0" /></a>Way back when I returned from Hokkaido, was treated to a nice surprise. Jen sent a box of birthday decorations from the US which Joycie had set up for my return.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_0954.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_0954.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_0955.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_0955.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Later that night, a birthday dinner around my kotatsu, and two different cakes for the birthday boys (mine was an espresso ice cream cake soaked in khalua. Brandon's was chocolate-strawberry... both made (along with a delicious Guamish dinner) by master chef Joycie .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1768.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_1768.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1755.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/IMG_1755.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Next... the arrival of the Dark Lord BROOKLYN<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00700.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00700.0.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/littlest%20lord.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/littlest%20lord.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/little%20lord.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/little%20lord.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/lord%20brooklyn.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/lord%20brooklyn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />With the Dark Lord's bidding done, I was given leave to go to Niigata for a day at the beach.<br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/beach.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: pointer; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/beach.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><span style="font-size:130%;">There actually is a pen 15 club after all...</span> </div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br />It's in Niigata. The beach was only a stop on the way to the Hodare Matsuri in Nagaoka where people come from near and far to pray at the base (not the tip) of a giant 12 foot 1300 pound dong.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00781.0.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00781.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></div></div><br /><br /><br /><br />Thats right, it was a penis festival. It had all the elements of a normal Japanese festival...<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00798.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00798.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00826.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00826.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />It had girls in kimono, kids playing taiko drums... It just ALSO had dong.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00718.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00718.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, the routine was to pray to the giant wooden dong (past the stone wangs) and thendrink some sake. Next, a holy man would hand you a branch of some sort and wish you happiness. As penis festivals are usually associated with fertillity and potencey, I steered clear of most of the rtuals, just watching from a distance.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00806.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00806.jpg" border="0" /></a></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That was until a Japanese guy grabed me and handed me his spot on the yoke holding up the giant wang.<br /><br />Of course, the more adventerous girls in our group took their chances and rode the giant wang.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00852.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00852.jpg" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/DSC00849.1.jpg"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; CURSOR: pointer" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/DSC00849.1.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway... that was that.<br /><br />Tomorrow is graduation day, then New Zealand with Mephisto (of the Pirate Delegation), but perhaps the best news of all is that some good sumaritan decided to plow my driveway (which has been covered in over a meter of snow since January).<br /><br />The Dark Lord is MOST pleased.<br /><br />-Rex outKarma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1140155011297450822006-02-17T13:54:00.000+09:002006-02-23T17:09:56.286+09:00<div align="center"><strong><span style="color: rgb(204, 0, 0);font-family:arial;font-size:180%;" >Nakano Boys Hit Hokkaido</span></strong></div><p><br />I spent a while trying to figure out whether to spell "Nakano Boys" with a s or a z (like the kids are doing thee days). Since it is a moniker that is not of our design, I can only make assumptions as the the proper spelling. <a href="http://static.flickr.com/21/100459539_2438d5042c.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/21/100459539_2438d5042c.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /><br />But I digress.<br /><br /><em>The</em> <em>best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.</em> Last week proved Robert Burns' quote to be a major understatement.<br /><br />Now to preface. Brandon and my birthday are 8 days apart (for those of you who are updating your Rich scorecard, my birthday was February 4. No, I don't mind that you didn't call. I do recognize I live on the other side of the world. Thank you for the belated birthday wishes.) In the spirit of the great Brooklyn Birthday Extravaganzas that were once held at stately Funk Manor in Carroll Gardens, I decided that a vacation (the only thing that could compare) was in order. Brandon and I planned it out, and then I turned over organizing control to Brandon's superior Japanese.<br /><br />Now we may not seem like the most organized guys, but in the end, B and I managed to organize the trip to a T. On February 4, with tickets and an itinerary in hand, we (Brandon, myself, and Stokes) headed to Hokkaido for a week of snowboarding in Niseko and a glimpse of the Sapporo snow festival.<br /><br />And that is when the real fun began. On the way to the airport (thankfully Matsumoto and not Tokyo) we got a call. The flight was cancelled due to snow in Hokkaido. No prob, lemons/lemonade and that hole bit. We stayed at Aaron's place in Matsumoto and had some (sorely missed) Thai food.<br /><br />The next day, we put our game faces back on and were ready to go. We reached the airport with no news of cancellation... so far, so good. Flight was delayed. No problem. It was once we were actually on the plane that the next challenge would present itself.<br /><br />You know when you are running for a train in the subway and you catch it in the nick of time? You feel a great sigh of relief cuz all ifs good with the world. You caught your train. The train makes its first stop, and its not the first stop you were expecting. Then you get that feeling inthe back of your neck when you realize that this is the wrong train. This train is not going where you are.<br /><br />Apparently, in Hokkaido there are two airports. They are also a 15 minute train ride from one another (or so the train schedules promise, but let"s not delve into that...yet.) While Brandon spent the previous night planning out every train and transfer from Sapporo Airport to Niseko, this was entirely moot as we were not going to Sapporo airport, but to Chitose airport.<br /><br />To all people that live in Nagano: do you know how you keep bragging about the wonderfully punctual transit system here in Nagano? Well, if you are not bragging, if you are doing anything other than singing the praises of whomever's job it is to oversee transit operations, then you are severely neglect in giving Jack his jacket. In Hokkaido, the rules of punctuality go out the window. The trains come when they feel like coming, and a 15 to 20 minute stop between stations while snow is cleared from the tracks is far from unheard of. Such was the case during our (quickly becoming) disastrous first day in Hokkaido. We had to get from Chitose Airport to Sapporo, and with each moment of delay we were becoming dangerously close to missing the last train up to Niseko. </p><p>After arriving in Chitose after the scheduled departure of our train, Brandon, who despite the clockwork German plans that he designed, was defeated. Still, we ran around the train station inquiring about every train or bus that could possible get us to Niseko, but at every turn we came to realize the sad truth that all was lost. We had to face the fact that there was a good chance we would lose yet another day on the mountain.</p><p>Or so it seemed. Apparently, delays can also be a blessing, and as such, our train to Niseko (the one we thought we had missed) was waylaid at the station. Without a second thought, we sprinted to the track (with bags and snowboards in tow). </p><p>Damn you Murphy...damn you and your stupid laws. As we reached the track, the train, our salvation was pulling away. It was official. Everything that could have gone wrong did. </p><p>We refused to be taken down like that. Time for a choice: declare the day a loss and party it down in Sapporo and try again next time, or take a taxi to Niseko and indulge in a victory cigar following our triumph over all the bad luck that could go a traveler's way?</p><p>The answer was clear and few minutes later, the three of us, four snowboards, and a driver were crammed in a tiny cab, ready to embark on a 3 hour car trip through meters of snow to Niseko.</p><p>We reached our Ryokan, though; victorious, triumphant, and ready for bed.</p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/25/100449418_9886646791.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/25/100449418_9886646791.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>The next morning, we headed for the hill. In Nagano, I am lucky enough to be learning how to snowboard on a great mountain during a season that has been generous in it's supply of wonderful powder. That being said, the snow in Niseko was unparalleled. The powder was so light, it was like boarding on a cloud. The trails were great, the weather was good, even the food was pretty damn good (especially a kickass brick oven pizzeria that was about 100 feet from the gondola.</p><p><br /></p><p></p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/100459543_f52fc01b0c.jpg?v=0"></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/100459543_f52fc01b0c.jpg?v=0"></a><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/34/100459543_f52fc01b0c.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/34/100459543_f52fc01b0c.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/32/100449419_3275501db8.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/32/100449419_3275501db8.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" ><em>Quick, guess which one is me and which is Brandon<br /></em></span></p><p style="text-align: right;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" ><em>Also, us at Niseko and a cool shot of me strapping in</em></span></p><p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" ><em><br /></em></span></p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/31/100460065_3a87cd05e8.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/31/100460065_3a87cd05e8.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/28/100460061_36191bd754.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/28/100460061_36191bd754.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br />After some boarding, we took a day trip to Sapporo to see the snow festival, as well as Jane and Akira of Yamagata Pirate fame. I'll let the pictures speak for themselves.</p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/25/100449420_41e5661180.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/25/100449420_41e5661180.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/39/100458474_b681711bf6.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/39/100458474_b681711bf6.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/29/100458901_339d19f0be.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/29/100458901_339d19f0be.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a><a href="http://static.flickr.com/30/100459542_d7b3217fb0.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/30/100459542_d7b3217fb0.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/29/100458901_339d19f0be.jpg?v=0"></a></p><p></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/29/100458901_339d19f0be.jpg?v=0"></a></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" > I'm not sure what that is sculpture with the dog ia supposed to be.<br /></span></em></p><p style="text-align: right;"><em><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" >I tried to make my own snow sculpture</span></em></p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/32/100458906_191344fcc6.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/32/100458906_191344fcc6.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>Fortunately, the rest of the trip went smoothly (with the exception of my finger nearly rotting off due to frostbite). On the last night, we met a really chill dude from Australia named Robbie who partied with us. As usual, my streak of meeting people from countries that I WILL visit in the future lives on. Right after I visit the Italian girls that Lake and I met in Egypt (go figure) I'm goin down under to party it up with this dude.</p><p><a href="http://static.flickr.com/25/100459537_97ed2c81ee.jpg?v=0"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right; width: 320px;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/25/100459537_97ed2c81ee.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></a>Ok, if I put off posting this one more day, it just aint gonna happen, so I'll end the adventure there. Good times had by all.</p><p>Oh, and for those of you who are supa quick, you may have noticed that there is a film strip looking thing to the right of this post (towards the top). That is a link to my flickr.com site. Rather than try to put all my pictures on these posts, most of them will be on the flickr site. I uploaded some pictures to it, and i will continue to do so. Click on it every now and again to see what I have been up to.</p><p><br /></p><p align="right"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 400px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://static.flickr.com/27/100459540_686be7974b.jpg?v=0" border="0" /></p><p align="center"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 153);font-size:85%;" ><em>(above) Shot from the planeride home. Lake Sewa in the foreground, Mt. Fuji in the background. We really do live in the most beautiful prefecture.</em></span></p><p align="right">-Rex out</p>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-21790219.post-1138770895200759152006-02-01T13:27:00.000+09:002006-02-01T18:43:48.170+09:00<img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; width: 592px; height: 88px; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://i.xanga.com/furry_raccoon/dailyp_logo.gif" border="0" height="74" /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><strong>RACCO</strong></span></span><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><strong>ON TO XANGA:</strong></span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-family:times new roman;"><strong>"SHOVE IT!"</strong></span></span></div><p align="left">Actually, I used a different string of expletives altogether. Seriously though, screw Xanga. Bastids actually have the nerve to not only charge me to use their service, but then have the inane audacity to stunt my already challenged blogging by imposing a 10 meg limit on photo uploads!</p><p align="left">For the second month in a row, halfway into the post Xanga put the kabbosh on my update. It's my fault really. I feel ashamed for my failure to realize that I was being taken for the proverbial ride. I assumed that it was normal for one to pay for a service.</p><p align="left">The problem is, (and I will make this rant quick so as to not detract from the scrumtrulescent post that really sparked this whole thing), I made the same mistake with Xanga that a good amount of people are still making with America Online. It cracks me up that my father, though slowly becoming more and more tech savvy, continues to pay the monthly America Online bills. Current "selling out" aside (and I am of course speaking about Google's decision to put out a version for use in China that censors words like "democracy" and "human rights") Google has taken a great leap forward in the world of big business while most companies are stuck in the mud of Reganomics. Google offers unsurpassed, premium service and it doesn't cost you a cent. They figured out a way to allow for the most superior email platform (with 2 gigs of server space and growing) a superb search engine, and various other services that make AOL's signature "channels" seem like the network television to Google's fiber optic cable.</p><p align="left">Anyway, that's the reason for the change. Now without further interruption we return to part two of today's post...</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/Jenkotatsu.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/Jenkotatsu.2.jpg" border="0" /></a>So, in my living room, Jen learned about the glory of the kotatsu while Sean said a muffled "thank you" to Micha for providing <a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/Seanfuon.2.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/200/Seanfuon.2.jpg" border="0" /></a>comfortable (and heated) futons. They were most good.</p><p align="left">Of course in the spirit of New Years tradition, we made dinner. As I have become somewhat tired of food made entirely of fish, fish flakes, fish scales, fish bones or fish eyes, I FINALLY managed to convince Sean to allow me to make something different for a change. So we made Tacos.<br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/tacos.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="left">Dinner was good. They don't have cilantro in this cursed land so we had to go without the guacamole (which is a crime). We also learned that if you use Enchalada seasoning for taco meat, you get AMAZING tacos...While if you use taco seasoning on undercooked rice, yo get SHITTY rice.</p><p align="left">Drew (who proved this trip to be nothing short of a champ) aided in my sanity by fixing the clothing bar in my closet (which falls on me every day). He also provided much entertainment with his Family Guy Season 4 dvds.</p><p align="left">Of course, between the full stomachs, they day of snowboarding and onsen, the warm futons, and the soothing sounds of the Five Peters we were passed out long before midnight on New Years eve. We set an alarm, woke up at the stroke of midnight, wished each other a happy new year (Jen did something with coins) and we went right back to sleep. </p><p align="left">The next day, our journey began as we set out for Kyoto.</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/tori.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/tori.jpg" border="0" /></a>If you thought the tori gates at Fushimi Inari were the coolest things in the world, try seein them at night. The 2 hour hike around the gates was excellent. It would have been incident free if Jen (aka Lil Miss Adventure) hadn't insisted on leading Sean, Dru, and I off the path and into the unlit and unpaved path through the woods. I don't know why we listen to her.</p><p align="left">The upside is, this time I didn't do anything to offend the gods, so we passed through unscathed.</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/kyo%20mizu.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/kyo%20mizu.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left">The next stop was Kiyu Mizu Dera. The thing about Kyoto is it is hard to go into how beautiful everything is because everything is truly great. It is definitely my favorite city in Japan. At Kiyu Mizu, Sean and Jen walked the "love stones." If you successfully walk between the two, you apparently have luck in love. While they did this, I showed Dru my own brand of love.</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/hit%20dru.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/hit%20dru.jpg" border="0" /></a>So after a few days in Kyoto, we set out to Osaka. At Kyoto eki, we hit a snag. I lost my cell phone. As my cell phone is also a 3 megapixal camera, this means I also lost a memory card full of photos, my direct connection to Micha (who would pick us up when we returned to Nagano) as well as my ability to call hotels and hostels to inquire about vacancy. </p><p align="left">Fortunately, after an hour of growing gray hairs looking for the phone, I listened to the sagacity of one Mr. Holohan and called it. Sure enough, in the most honest country in the world, somebody picked up and met me with my phone. I love this place!</p><p align="left">Osaka fulfilled the most basic of our needs: food and video games (and shopping for Jen.)</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/harram.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/harram.jpg" border="0" /></a><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/taiko.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; float: right;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/taiko.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><p align="left">On the left, Dru and I let out a heartfelt "HARRAM!" at what was one of the most delicious seafood meals ever.</p><p align="left">On the right, Sean and I DOMINATE the taiko game while Dru watches out for pirates who would scorn at our ninja mirthmaking.</p><p align="left"><a href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/stitch.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; float: left;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/stitch.0.jpg" border="0" /></a></p><br /><br /><p align="left">Jen spent most of her time trying to win a Stitch. She ended up just buying one.</p><p align="left">After Osaka, we made our way to Tokyo. Of course, I have to mention that Sean was sick because he didn't heed my warning and he ate with a fork that fell on the floor. SO for the first day in Tokyo while Sean was germed out in the hotel room, Jen Dru and I went into Harajuku. Jen, to gawk at the stores, Dru and I to clean up her drool. </p><p align="left">We ended up at the Park Hyatt (of Lost in Translation fame) for classy drinks and fine fine Jazz music (by a woman from Brooklyn who was a regular at the Blue Note... Small world ne?)<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/hyatt.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/hyatt.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> </p><p align="left"><br /></p><p align="left"><br /></p><br /><p align="left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/hyatt.jpg"><br /></a></p><p align="left"><br /></p><p align="left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/hyatt.jpg"><br /></a></p><p align="left"><br /></p><p align="left">The following day, we went to watch some Sumo wrestling at the tournament opener. Below is the title bout where E. Honda faced off against Man Titties for a battle royale.</p><p><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center;" alt="" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/sumo.jpg" border="0" /></p><p align="left"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/bridge.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/bridge.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p>We checked out the Imperial Palace, and then returned to Nagano for some Karaoke...</p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1482.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/IMG_1482.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1480.0.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/IMG_1480.0.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p><br /></p><p><br /></p> <p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/1600/IMG_1489.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/4818/2207/320/IMG_1489.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a></p> <p>Ok, regular posts from now on... I promise.</p><p align="center">Same bat time, new bat channel.</p><p>-Rex out</p>Karma Bumhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11315344474501458681noreply@blogger.com1