It’s been a long while since I posted up anything remotely personal. It’s been a weird, weird year full of ups and downs and side to sides. But now I feel like I’m back in the right frame of mind to start circulating my thoughts around this crazy cyberspace of ours. I’ve been writing plenty, but more for my own satisfaction and analysis than anything else.
I suppose the biggest things on my mind of late have been my career and my physical fitness. I’m not going to talk about my career on here, because I have things in the works, and I certainly have no intention of jinxing it.
So instead I’m going to talk about this physical vessel of mine that I’ve put through so much over the years.
When I was younger, I was one fit bastard. I could run uphill at speed, I could swim fast, lift weights, fight, climb, and get up to lots and lots of mischief (for hours at a time, with little need for breaks). I loved army life. All the discipline and the focus was great for me. It made me realize I could do things I previously never thought were possible. Then all that changed when I started working in the professional world. I no longer had time to do all the mad things that made me feel so alive, and my health plummeted while my body fat sky rocketed.
I took control of that towards the last quarter of 2010, when I sent myself off to Lanna Muay Thai Boxing camp in Chiang Mai, Thailand, and I started to claw my way back to physical health, one painful step, kick, and punch at a time. I’ve dealt with it earlier on in my blog, so I’m not going to say much about it, except for the fact that it was a crucial step for me in reclaiming my former glory.
Since that first step, things have naturally gone up and down for me as well, but the prevailing trend has definitely been an upward one. The last few months have definitely been the best ones. I’ve managed to drop a lot of body fat (currently sitting around 14-15%) and managed to increase lean muscle mass significantly.
I’ve had a lot of realizations and learning experiences along the way, and I’ve learned so much about my body. From conversations with people, to having my nose stuck in books, to all the time spent in the gym, I’ve learned. A great deal. And there’s so much more to learn with each mental milestone I reach. One of the greatest learning sources within the last few months though, has definitely been my trainer, Soo Boon Ang. Soo Boon is one crazy motherfucker in the best sense. He’s daring, not afraid to tell it as it is, has years of experience in the field, and most importantly, the man is living proof that what he knows, works. Of course, my body goals are vastly different to his, in terms of size, but the man is a treasure trove of fantastic information, and a nice guy to boot.
My training with him began about 8 months ago, but my first lot of sessions with him weren’t as great; not because of anything to do with him, but it was to do with my own state of mind. I was going through some drama at the time, and I just wasn’t feeling it. I got the impression I kinda disappointed him, which made me think that really, the person I was disappointing the most was myself. So I laid low for a while, and then one month before I was due to return to New Zealand, I got back on the wagon, and haven’t looked back since.
This time, things were different. I had taken the time to research more about building lean muscle and maintaining low body fat. But most importantly, my mind was in the zone for it. Y’see, at that point in time, I’d just come out of a one year relationship, then for three weeks solid after that, I boozed and binged enough to put a galley of pirates to shame. When the alcohol fog from that madness lifted, I looked at myself, smiled, and told myself it was time to give Soo Boon a call. Best. Decision. Ever.
In one month, I had lost a reasonable amount of fat and gained a bit of lean muscle. Soo Boon was happy with my progress, but what he didn’t tell me was that he was expecting me to come back from my two months in New Zealand at square one again. Might have happened in the past, but not this time. When I was in New Zealand, I spent a great deal of time in the gym, eating well, relaxing with outdoor activities, meeting new women, and working on my tan at the beach. If only every day life was so ideal that you could actually do that all year round. The world would be a much better place indeed. A friend from Malaysia came to visit for three weeks, so me, him, and my best buddy filled our time up with exploring the great outdoors, and doing a ridiculous amount of laughing. Usually at each other’s expense.
During that trip, I visited the gym no less than three times a week, and supplemented it with light cardio in the form of brisk walks, and increased heart rate thanks to all the hot young lovelies strutting their stuff in bikinis everywhere. Running has never really been my thing. I could do a lot of it when I was younger, but to be perfectly honest I never really looked forward to it. At all. So anyway, the kicker is, I get back to Kuching, contact Soo Boon, tell him that I’m ready to train again, and send him a photo of my progress. What I got back from him was precisely what I wanted to hear. The conversation held a lot of expletives and disbelief. Then, when he saw me in the flesh, he told me he expected me to go the opposite way and slack off.
So all in all, I packed on a few good pounds of lean muscle and dropped the fat, and made my trainer happy. Since I’ve been back, I put on a little bit again over the festive season, but nothing that can’t be shredded fairly quickly. My maintenance work before I got back to training with Soo Boon was hampered for at least a good week due to a nasty burn I got on my arm. Yes, I set myself on fire. No, I’m not going to go into it, because I am so sick and tired of retelling the story. I can say that my body has done a tremendous job of healing up what was a really rather nasty burn in a very short amount of time, and I credit that to being fit, eating well, and taking the right supplements. Admittedly though, I had a few dark days when I initially thought I’d be out for a while. But no! I always knew I had a bit of Wolverine blood in me somewhere. I used to tell my sister all the time. She never believed me.
So now I’m back on the program. I started with Soo Boon again last week, but I’d like to think of this week as the official beginning point, because of the ease-in period that’s always required when you get back into heavy training. I suppose the reason why I’m writing all this for the world to see is for a very simple reason. I have now put it out there. This is what I want to do. This is what I want to achieve. This is my mind over my muscle, over all my fears, faults, demons and weaknesses. And I shall prevail. There’ll be setbacks, no doubt, but at least now I’m on the path to achieving that body I always felt I deserved. I don’t want to feel self conscious ever again if I’m on a beach with my shirt off. I don’t want to look at myself when I’m alone and not like what I see. Enough is enough, and it’s time for some action.
Watch this space. The transformation begins.
Time to kick some ass, 2012!
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Monday, January 10, 2011
Dispelling myths and the benefits of barefooting it.
The last few months have seen me make some pretty important discoveries when it comes to health and fitness. After a few years of ignoring my healthy former self, I’ve given myself the good ol’ proverbial boot up the ass to get my health back to what it used to be, and in doing so, I’ve learned some intriguing things, which I thought i’d share with you.
The first gem of knowledge is this; chuck out your running sneakers. They’re doing you damage. I first got switched onto this by my Muay Thai instructor in Chiang Mai when I was training there. I saw him putting on these rather unusual shoes, which were like toe socks, but in shoe form. They were very thin, but had enough rubber on the bottom to prevent cuts and scratches, and not enough rubber to obstruct natural foot movement. I quizzed him about them and he said that they were the best things he’d ever worn. He said that he had to relearn how to run, because when you run with jogging shoes on, you typically run heel-to-toe, which is NOT the way our feet are designed to move.
It makes sense. Millions of years of human evolution made the foot a remarkably well adapted load bearing device. But only if it is using its natural range of motion. When we wear bulky sneakers, it reduces a lot of the contact that our feet have with the ground in the delusion that less contact is better. Studies have already proven that the opposite is true. Sneaker wearing joggers may acquire far more injuries than those who take the barefoot approach, for the simple reason that the foot is not moving naturally; placing undue stress on different parts of the leg NOT designed to run in that manner.
Since then, I got myself Vibram Five Fingers, the same ones that my instructor was wearing, and I can already feel increased strength in my legs, as well as an improvement in posture and agility. My girlfriend despises the way they look, and I get plenty an odd stare while out and about in them, but just like all good things, it takes time for people to accept them. Plus, I've never been one to care too much about what others think anyway. Go here to check them out http://www.vibramfivefingers.it/eng/produtcs.aspx
The second revelation is that I’ve been doing my weight training wrong. All wrong. When I was younger, I took the gym very seriously and used to lift weights relentlessly, in a vain attempt to get bigger, because I equated that with being healthier. The stuff that I’ve learned recently dispels that myth.
FACT: Isolation weight training does more harm than good. For the layman, isolation weight training involves isolating the rest of your body to focus on one specific group of muscles to target during exercise. Kind of like your typical frozen barbell curl over a rest. The reasoning behind WHY this is bad for you is painfully simple, and should have been just that obvious all along... and when I read the following, I slapped my forehead out of frustration. YOUR BODY DOES NOT WORK IN ISOLATION!
No! Muscle groups are supposed to work together, and when you isolate particular muscles (for aesthetic appeal) you are putting your body at a higher risk of injury.
Instead, do exercises that involve many different muscle groups and get them all firing at once. Gone are my old notions of just working on my arms and chest! That is merely aesthetic fluff. Bodybuilders are NOT strong at all, relative to their weight, and they have poor fitness as well as a higher chance of chronic injury. The human body was designed to operate naturally, so if you want to get really strong, think “mountain man” exercises. You know, the simple stuff, like lifting big rocks and throwing them down a hill. You get the idea.
After all, what is the point of having big and bulky muscles if they can't efficiently do what is required of them? Training in this way will reduce the bulk and allow the muscle fibre to grow much more densely, which is called Myofibrillar Hypertrophy, compared to Sarcoplasmic Hypertrophy, which has much more fluid in the muscle fibre and is less capable of intense muscular exertion. It's kind of like having a Chevy Camaro '69 hotrod with a dinky little 2500cc engine in it. Pointless. Be the stealth fighter. Have a muscular, compact body that exerts a lot of strength.
For more specific exercises, you should consider doing squats and lunges and deadlifts, as these actively engage your upper and lower body, as well as activate the largest muscles in your body; your quads. If you do these, I guarantee you will find your general strength levels increase. For upper body, go back to basics. Forget about all these fancy schmancy variations of isolation exercises. Go back to the benchpress. If you want to vary this, you can do decline and incline to work on the upper and lower pectorals. Kettlebell exercises are great too. Google "kettlebell" for a list of exercises you can do.
But most importantly, if you really want the strength gains, it is HOW you do these exercises that really matter. Most gym instructors will be getting you to do sets of 3 or 4 at 12 to 15 reps. Or, even worse, reps to failure. All this does is just tear the muscle fibre and gets it to build bigger, but not denser and stronger. This explains why I have, in the past, won arm wrestles against guys with arms much bigger than my own. For REAL strength, go with the heaviest weight you can possibly do, and do two sets of 5 to 6 reps. And make sure you are going nice and slow. Fast and jerky is crap. It won’t help at all. The worst thing you can possibly do is to do reps until failure. If you rep to failure, you're training to fail. This simply does not build dense muscle, and causes more problems than is worth the added mass.
Follow these pointers for your exercise, and I guarantee that you will build stronger, more efficient muscles that are less prone to injury. Plus, denser muscle has higher energy consumption, so the added bonus is that the more lean and dense muscle you put on, the more fat you’re burning even when you’re standing perfectly still. BONUS!
Lastly, I am going to raise a controversial topic. Stretching. STOP IT!I have found that since I have stopped stretching pre-workout, I have completely eliminated injury. This doesn’t mean that it won’t happen ever again, but it does reduce the chances of injury. The theory goes that by stretching before a workout, you are actually tightening your muscles instead of relaxing them, putting yourself at greater risk of pulling a muscle. If you want a really good warmup before a workout, do a light jog instead.
Researchers have found that intense static stretching actually reduces maximum force production during exercise. Which makes sense! It’d be the same as an Olympic deadlifter doing a whole bunch of benchpresses just before his event. It’s stupid, and injures you. So STOP IT! If you want the best for your muscles, stretch lightly AFTER your workout, during your cool down. This will actually help your muscles condition, as they are already warm, and will not likely cause injury.
So there you have it! Three health and fitness tips for the new year.
Let me spell them out again for you in summary.
1. Run barefoot. If you don’t want to go completely barefoot, get vibram five finger shoes. They’re amazing.
2. Do low rep, low set exercises with heavy weights. Only do exercises that involve many muscle groups at the same time. Remember, your muscles weren’t designed to work in isolation.
3. Do NOT stretch before workouts. Although this is common practise, it is not necessarily the right thing to do. Anyone that tells you to stretch before exercising is misguided. The scientific data is there. If you don’t believe me, google it, and you will see a mass of information on why stretching pre-workout is bad for you.
Anyway, thus endeth another rant. Happy new year, and I hope that everyone out there achieves their health and fitness goals for the year.
The first gem of knowledge is this; chuck out your running sneakers. They’re doing you damage. I first got switched onto this by my Muay Thai instructor in Chiang Mai when I was training there. I saw him putting on these rather unusual shoes, which were like toe socks, but in shoe form. They were very thin, but had enough rubber on the bottom to prevent cuts and scratches, and not enough rubber to obstruct natural foot movement. I quizzed him about them and he said that they were the best things he’d ever worn. He said that he had to relearn how to run, because when you run with jogging shoes on, you typically run heel-to-toe, which is NOT the way our feet are designed to move.
It makes sense. Millions of years of human evolution made the foot a remarkably well adapted load bearing device. But only if it is using its natural range of motion. When we wear bulky sneakers, it reduces a lot of the contact that our feet have with the ground in the delusion that less contact is better. Studies have already proven that the opposite is true. Sneaker wearing joggers may acquire far more injuries than those who take the barefoot approach, for the simple reason that the foot is not moving naturally; placing undue stress on different parts of the leg NOT designed to run in that manner.
Since then, I got myself Vibram Five Fingers, the same ones that my instructor was wearing, and I can already feel increased strength in my legs, as well as an improvement in posture and agility. My girlfriend despises the way they look, and I get plenty an odd stare while out and about in them, but just like all good things, it takes time for people to accept them. Plus, I've never been one to care too much about what others think anyway. Go here to check them out http://www.vibramfivefingers.it/eng/produtcs.aspx
The second revelation is that I’ve been doing my weight training wrong. All wrong. When I was younger, I took the gym very seriously and used to lift weights relentlessly, in a vain attempt to get bigger, because I equated that with being healthier. The stuff that I’ve learned recently dispels that myth.
FACT: Isolation weight training does more harm than good. For the layman, isolation weight training involves isolating the rest of your body to focus on one specific group of muscles to target during exercise. Kind of like your typical frozen barbell curl over a rest. The reasoning behind WHY this is bad for you is painfully simple, and should have been just that obvious all along... and when I read the following, I slapped my forehead out of frustration. YOUR BODY DOES NOT WORK IN ISOLATION!
No! Muscle groups are supposed to work together, and when you isolate particular muscles (for aesthetic appeal) you are putting your body at a higher risk of injury.
Instead, do exercises that involve many different muscle groups and get them all firing at once. Gone are my old notions of just working on my arms and chest! That is merely aesthetic fluff. Bodybuilders are NOT strong at all, relative to their weight, and they have poor fitness as well as a higher chance of chronic injury. The human body was designed to operate naturally, so if you want to get really strong, think “mountain man” exercises. You know, the simple stuff, like lifting big rocks and throwing them down a hill. You get the idea.
After all, what is the point of having big and bulky muscles if they can't efficiently do what is required of them? Training in this way will reduce the bulk and allow the muscle fibre to grow much more densely, which is called Myofibrillar Hypertrophy, compared to Sarcoplasmic Hypertrophy, which has much more fluid in the muscle fibre and is less capable of intense muscular exertion. It's kind of like having a Chevy Camaro '69 hotrod with a dinky little 2500cc engine in it. Pointless. Be the stealth fighter. Have a muscular, compact body that exerts a lot of strength.
For more specific exercises, you should consider doing squats and lunges and deadlifts, as these actively engage your upper and lower body, as well as activate the largest muscles in your body; your quads. If you do these, I guarantee you will find your general strength levels increase. For upper body, go back to basics. Forget about all these fancy schmancy variations of isolation exercises. Go back to the benchpress. If you want to vary this, you can do decline and incline to work on the upper and lower pectorals. Kettlebell exercises are great too. Google "kettlebell" for a list of exercises you can do.
But most importantly, if you really want the strength gains, it is HOW you do these exercises that really matter. Most gym instructors will be getting you to do sets of 3 or 4 at 12 to 15 reps. Or, even worse, reps to failure. All this does is just tear the muscle fibre and gets it to build bigger, but not denser and stronger. This explains why I have, in the past, won arm wrestles against guys with arms much bigger than my own. For REAL strength, go with the heaviest weight you can possibly do, and do two sets of 5 to 6 reps. And make sure you are going nice and slow. Fast and jerky is crap. It won’t help at all. The worst thing you can possibly do is to do reps until failure. If you rep to failure, you're training to fail. This simply does not build dense muscle, and causes more problems than is worth the added mass.
Follow these pointers for your exercise, and I guarantee that you will build stronger, more efficient muscles that are less prone to injury. Plus, denser muscle has higher energy consumption, so the added bonus is that the more lean and dense muscle you put on, the more fat you’re burning even when you’re standing perfectly still. BONUS!
Lastly, I am going to raise a controversial topic. Stretching. STOP IT!I have found that since I have stopped stretching pre-workout, I have completely eliminated injury. This doesn’t mean that it won’t happen ever again, but it does reduce the chances of injury. The theory goes that by stretching before a workout, you are actually tightening your muscles instead of relaxing them, putting yourself at greater risk of pulling a muscle. If you want a really good warmup before a workout, do a light jog instead.
Researchers have found that intense static stretching actually reduces maximum force production during exercise. Which makes sense! It’d be the same as an Olympic deadlifter doing a whole bunch of benchpresses just before his event. It’s stupid, and injures you. So STOP IT! If you want the best for your muscles, stretch lightly AFTER your workout, during your cool down. This will actually help your muscles condition, as they are already warm, and will not likely cause injury.
So there you have it! Three health and fitness tips for the new year.
Let me spell them out again for you in summary.
1. Run barefoot. If you don’t want to go completely barefoot, get vibram five finger shoes. They’re amazing.
2. Do low rep, low set exercises with heavy weights. Only do exercises that involve many muscle groups at the same time. Remember, your muscles weren’t designed to work in isolation.
3. Do NOT stretch before workouts. Although this is common practise, it is not necessarily the right thing to do. Anyone that tells you to stretch before exercising is misguided. The scientific data is there. If you don’t believe me, google it, and you will see a mass of information on why stretching pre-workout is bad for you.
Anyway, thus endeth another rant. Happy new year, and I hope that everyone out there achieves their health and fitness goals for the year.
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Bugging out
Out of any given hundred people, how many do you think would actually have what it takes to survive when the shit truly hits the fan? 40? 30? I think the real number would probably be closer to 5. I’m talking about collapse of civilisation as we know it, anarchical uprisings, dangerously depleted food and energy sources. Apocalyptic stuff, sure... but when you take a good hard look at the way the world is going these days, I sometimes feel that it’s plausible that it may just happen in my lifetime, or that of my children after me.
Ladies and gentlemen, I am not a pessimistic paranoid crank that collects weapons and associated paraphernalia because I think big brother is out to get us. Nor am I a doomsayer. But I would consider myself a realist. And a practical one at that. I have always liked to live my life by the mantra, “Hope for the very best, but prepare for the absolute worst”. Albert Einstein once said that he knew not what weapons World War III would be fought with, but that he knew that World War IV would be fought with sticks and stones. Apt indeed. Considering the rapid pace of technological advancement, and our increased and still growing ability to export death to further and farther corners of the globe, you wouldn’t be foolish to spare a moment or two to mull over the finer details of exactly what you would do if faced with such a situation.
I am not here to discuss what may happen, how, or when. My aim is to confront you with this possibility, and, hopefully, impart a bit of “useful paranoia”. What is useful paranoia? Well, it’s situational awareness, which comes in many forms. Useful paranoia is when you’re walking down a dark street late at night to get back to your car, and you have anticipated the worst thing that those shady characters down the street could possibly do to you; at the same time you’ve figured out your game plan in case they get the brazen balls to try to jump you. Useful paranoia is when you just met someone that gives you a bad vibe, and despite the fact that they haven’t done anything YET, you make up your mind to steer well clear of them in the future. Useful paranoia is about looking down the alleyway of life, ready to act if needs be. Useful paranoia. Use it. I’m sure many people’s last thoughts in life revolved around wishing they had.
They say there is a fine line between genius and insanity. I’m happy with people thinking I’m insane for the time being. I just don’t want them knocking on my door WTSHTF (when the shit hits the fan). Many people, upon seeing my collection of survival/tactical gear ask "Why do you have gas masks? That’s just creepy.” Fine by me buddy. Pigeonhole me. Just don’t come to me when poisonous gases somehow make their way onto the streets. It’s happened before. It will most likely happen again. Possibly in your neighbourhood.
Is it just me, or do other people notice that natural disasters across the globe have taken a serious upwards spike in recent years? Look at Hurricane Katrina. As soon as buildings collapsed, so did society. The good ol’ Southern people took to looting and killing QUITE easily. Let’s face it. Humans are not inherently good. We are subject to base emotions and instincts, and when everything recognisable around us has gone, we forget our morals too. Not all people, of course, are hardwired this way. The ones who don’t commit heinous acts of mayhem fall into two categories. 1. Those who become victims of said crazies and 2. Those who are self sufficient, can meet the survival requirements for themselves and loved ones, as well as defend themselves to the very end. I sure know which one I am.
Most people haven’t even considered, I mean REALLY considered what they’d do in the event of an emergency. Sure, they might have a fleeting thought or two about it, but it’s usually more along the lines of “I think I’d head over to my mate Dan’s place. He’ll know what to do”. Let me illustrate this point by providing you with a quote from Kurt Saxon, the founder of modern Survivalism. “The difference between one who prepares and one who doesn't is more important than a difference of opinion. If you prepare to survive, you deserve to survive. Those who can, but won't prepare, don't deserve to survive and the species would be better off without them. If you have the kind of intellect that's geared to survival, it may be a matter of genetics. Your neighbor may lack these survival genes. Therefore, becoming his means of survival could not only doom both of your families to death, but if you should make it, you would have enabled a non-survival type to further pollute the gene pool.”
Harsh words they may be, but the improvident are the improvident. It seems though, that more people are starting to take heed to the importance of survival, even if only on the surface. There are now a plethora of different “survival” shows on TV, all pandering to the couch survivalist, who sits there happily in the delusion that watching a few shows increases his chances of survival as he munches on his bag of chips. Those shows may be mildly informative, but unless you actually start taking some preparatory steps towards ensuring your sperm actually survives you, you’re just another dead duck in the water, I’m afraid.
Take heed. I am not delivering you survival knowledge. That is yours to seek out for yourself, and is to be acquired and refined over a lifetime. But I will provide the interested among you with some basics to consider.
Plan out an escape route in the event of a disaster. Be it caused by war or natural disaster, consider what routes you would take, and what routes you would adapt to if the others are compromised. Don’t think that you can go all the way by vehicle. WTS truly HTF, it’s most likely that major roads will be jammed and that petrol is scarce. Plan to go by foot. Have a destination in mind that will allow you to survive indefinitely, or at least for the time being while you find somewhere better. Better still, physically go and find such places and know the terrain and the resources available.
Prepare. Prepare by getting together a “bug-out kit”. This is an assortment of items that will hopefully help you for the required amount of time it takes to acquire new resources. The bug out kit should include items like water purifying tablets, basic medicines and bandages, food and water supplies to last at least three days, and any survival gear that would help that is not too cumbersome. Remember, it’s about survival. If it’s slowing you down, it’s decreasing your chances. Ditch it.
Build a network of like minded people that you can rely on that you can co-operate with. I stress the word “co-operate”. If they’re leeches, ditch them too. What matters most is you and yours.
Learn survival skills. Go out into the wilds whenever possible and just practise living it rough. Learn what things are good to eat and what aren’t. Those berries may look safe and delicious, but they may also have you bleeding internally if you make the wrong decision.
Learn self defence. Learn how to use weapons, so if needs be you can use them to protect yourself. Learn how to fight unarmed as well. It is never a good thing to inflict violence upon your fellow man, but if push comes to shove, defend your life at all costs, or at least give a good show of dying trying. As for myself, I believe it is best to have a gun and not need it, than to need one and not have one. However, at the end of the day, your greatest weapon is your mind.
Exercise regularly. Maintain positive thinking as the driving force in your life. An unsettled mind does stupid, irrational things.
If at the end of your life, you have safely navigated it without having to deal with such issues, count yourself lucky, and do not think for a second that preparing yourself for something that never happened was a waste of time. Consider yourself wiser and stronger for it, as it would have made you a better person. A prepared person is a calm and well adjusted person. There is nothing better than having the confidence in yourself to know that regardless of what life throws at you, you have the ability and knowledge to endure.
I sincerely hope, dear reader, that I have given you some food for thought. And if you are like me, you will value the importance of preparedness. I truly hope no crisis ever befalls you, but I hope even more so, that if it does, you will live to fight another day.
MadManDan
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Chiang Mai Part Two
The next few weeks following the last entry have become a bit of a blur. I stopped writing diary notes on my days, so the story will go as I remember it.
During my time at the gym, I made friends with some fantastic characters who I mentioned in my earlier post. The most notable of which I describe in no particular order. Britt, an American from Connecticut, who is deadly beyond words despite his unassuming character. A Krav Maga instructor and martial arts teacher, was also a professional guitarist in a former life. Top notch guy. Emilie, studying environmental sciences, hails from the Reunion Islands; a far flung French outpost that lies close to Madagascar. I have never personally known a person from these lands, so it was a great privilege. Cammie, another American, this time from Florida, is a JAG officer in the making. Just before she heads off to join the US military early next year, she has decided to take some time off and travel around. Hopefully if I ever get myself in trouble in some far flung middle eastern country, I can call her to my aid. Tom, the idealistic peace loving Belgian. A social worker by trade. A person who has devoted himself to living the nomad’s life. A man who enjoys the company of fellow travellers and loves to learn about new cultures and new ways of thinking.
These few people really made my trip, and I don’t think an entry into this journal would be complete without giving them some background info. I spent my days and nights with these people, chatting about a huge range of subjects, including politics, religion, culture, geography, philosophy, and of course, the ever-important and all encompassing love of music. Between Tom and I, I reckon we solved the world’s problems several times over with our many conversations on the deck of our dwellings.
Anyway, to get into some of the activities that I did while I was in Chiang Mai, firstly must come the gun range. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a love of weapons; especially things that make a loud bang. I went there twice. The first time was with Emilie. It was her first time shooting, so she was very happy to have a veteran shooter at her side as she pulled her first trigger. The gun range was run by the third battalion, a part of the army devoted to making the army more accessible and understandable not only to civilians, but to foreigners as well. Ammunition is not cheap. For 30 rounds of .38, 30 of 9 milli, 50 of .22, and 30 of .45 ammo will cost you about 400 Malaysian Ringgit, but as a shared cost, it’s not too bad, I suppose. Still, coming from New Zealand where ammunition is relatively cheap, I balked at these costs, thinking how cheap it was to buy this ammo over the counter, or how much cheaper it would be to reload all this ammo on my own die press at home in my garage. Ah well, when in Rome, I suppose.
I have to say, both times I was not impressed with the staff at the range. They are a bunch of overzealous teachers who seem to think everyone is a complete beginner, and will needlessly instruct the gun-savvy to the point of irritation. That is, until you give them an angry scowl and shoot the target three times from twenty feet on the bull’s eye within an inch grouping. That shuts them up, so I found. The first time I went, we also used a .22 M4; a ridiculous contraption that fired semi and full auto. As ridiculous as it was, I must admit it was quite a bit of fun spraying steel man-sized targets on full auto. Quite satisfactory, I must say.
The girls loved the shoots. It was interesting to see the array of weapons they had available for the general public, and it was more interesting to note the absence of correct gun-range protocol that exists in most, if not all developed countries. For instance, loaded or unloaded, you never point a firearm, whether intentionally or unintentionally, at a person. These rules seem not to apply in Thailand. At any New Zealand range, you would literally find a boot planted so far up your ass that you’d be tasting boot polish for the next month if you so much as thought of doing the unthinkable. The range officers also had the most sophisticated of hearing protection. They used .45 calibre shell casings and inserted them, hollow end inwards, into the ears. The stuff of hard men, for sure. Interesting. The range of weapons they had was varied. There were 12 gauge shotguns, .38 revolvers (the Smith and Wesson with the Hogue grip was the best), A LOT of 9 millis, including Beretta, Glock, Taurus etc, .22 cal rugers, as well as a lone 1911 .45 ACP Browning; one of my all time favourites. I’m still surprised that they only had one .45, but oh well. The problem with common sense is that it’s not all that common. A fantastic calibre that is accurate and fun to shoot, with a truckload of stopping power.
Anyway, I could rave on for ages and ages about guns, but for those non-initiated among you, I will spare you all the tech details. It was fun. It was a chance to smell the cordite and imitate the famous Ed Harris quote of “I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning” from Apocalypse now. I relish the days where I have the heavy smell of gunpowder reeking from my hands. I truly do.
With the guys, I also visited a few music joints, as well as a few night markets. These were always fun affairs. We’d drive there in convoy on our motorbikes and jump out to sample the local food, walk, talk, joke and eat. There was a place favoured by the guys at the gym; a reggae spot called Roots Rock Reggae, that boasted high quality live bands. The place was popularised by one of the trainers at the camp, a fellow by the name of Tay Win. Now for the ladies that are reading this that may possibly go to Kiat Busaba Muay Thai camp in the future, beware of this man. He is the consummate wannabe manwhore that was the ridicule of all at the camp.
A bald, short man sporting a goatee and ridiculous tattoos, Tay Win considers himself quite the ladies’ man, and will only very reluctantly train guys over girls. It’s usually when there are no girls present during training that he will do so, much to his chagrin. Anyway, he told many of us that he was a bouncer at this club, but it turns out that he is merely a waiter there. One with obviously a reputation to upkeep, as his image is adorned on one of the murals on the walls of the club; an image of him with hand extended, presenting a white girl with flowers. There’s also a rather cheesy large photo of him with his best “blue steel” look, daringly enticing stupid white girls into his nonexistent lair. Yes, I may be harsh, but I call it as I see it. This was the only one of the staff at the camp that I truly disliked. There’s always at least one, right?
Regardless, we had many good nights there bopping our heads to the wholesome Reggae music belted out by local musicians. My favourite band there also happened to play my favourite Thai reggae song quite often; a song sung by the Thai band Job2Do, a song called “Doo Der Tam” which, I daresay, most visitors to Thai islands would be familiar with. As I was doing my best to stay away from the devil drink, I didn’t go out that much, but when I did, it was fun and entertaining, and a good chance to talk shit and make fun of idiots like Tay Win.
Training carried on as usual throughout this time. I saw many people come and go from the camp. There were some nice people there, but there were also the usual dickheads that seem to inundate the fighting scene. As a tattooed person, I genuinely felt bad on behalf of all the other tattooed people that there were some real assholes with tattoos. It seems that to a lot of people in the fighting world, having a tattoo seems to give you the license to be an arsehole. They strut in with their lame ass tattoos and proclaim dominance over others for the simple fact that they think they’re bad. What a joke. In fact, I quite often felt that many people, upon seeing my abundance of ink, shied away from me on suspicion I was just another asshole.
Training carried on as normal in between our outdoor excursions, and our days in the gym were always hot, sweaty, and tiring. The trainers were all interesting people in their own right. Some had been in the circuit for years, with many fights under their belts. Some were juniors who had been with the club for a while, and helped train people like me under the watchful eyes of their seniors.
I had fun while I was there, and certainly learned a lot about myself during that time. I may just go back one of these days to do some advanced training. But until then, I’ll remember to keep my fists high and clenched, and my weight on the balls of my feet.
To Kiat Busaba Muay Thai Gym,
Thanks.
For everything.
During my time at the gym, I made friends with some fantastic characters who I mentioned in my earlier post. The most notable of which I describe in no particular order. Britt, an American from Connecticut, who is deadly beyond words despite his unassuming character. A Krav Maga instructor and martial arts teacher, was also a professional guitarist in a former life. Top notch guy. Emilie, studying environmental sciences, hails from the Reunion Islands; a far flung French outpost that lies close to Madagascar. I have never personally known a person from these lands, so it was a great privilege. Cammie, another American, this time from Florida, is a JAG officer in the making. Just before she heads off to join the US military early next year, she has decided to take some time off and travel around. Hopefully if I ever get myself in trouble in some far flung middle eastern country, I can call her to my aid. Tom, the idealistic peace loving Belgian. A social worker by trade. A person who has devoted himself to living the nomad’s life. A man who enjoys the company of fellow travellers and loves to learn about new cultures and new ways of thinking.
These few people really made my trip, and I don’t think an entry into this journal would be complete without giving them some background info. I spent my days and nights with these people, chatting about a huge range of subjects, including politics, religion, culture, geography, philosophy, and of course, the ever-important and all encompassing love of music. Between Tom and I, I reckon we solved the world’s problems several times over with our many conversations on the deck of our dwellings.
Anyway, to get into some of the activities that I did while I was in Chiang Mai, firstly must come the gun range. Anyone who knows me knows that I have a love of weapons; especially things that make a loud bang. I went there twice. The first time was with Emilie. It was her first time shooting, so she was very happy to have a veteran shooter at her side as she pulled her first trigger. The gun range was run by the third battalion, a part of the army devoted to making the army more accessible and understandable not only to civilians, but to foreigners as well. Ammunition is not cheap. For 30 rounds of .38, 30 of 9 milli, 50 of .22, and 30 of .45 ammo will cost you about 400 Malaysian Ringgit, but as a shared cost, it’s not too bad, I suppose. Still, coming from New Zealand where ammunition is relatively cheap, I balked at these costs, thinking how cheap it was to buy this ammo over the counter, or how much cheaper it would be to reload all this ammo on my own die press at home in my garage. Ah well, when in Rome, I suppose.
I have to say, both times I was not impressed with the staff at the range. They are a bunch of overzealous teachers who seem to think everyone is a complete beginner, and will needlessly instruct the gun-savvy to the point of irritation. That is, until you give them an angry scowl and shoot the target three times from twenty feet on the bull’s eye within an inch grouping. That shuts them up, so I found. The first time I went, we also used a .22 M4; a ridiculous contraption that fired semi and full auto. As ridiculous as it was, I must admit it was quite a bit of fun spraying steel man-sized targets on full auto. Quite satisfactory, I must say.
The girls loved the shoots. It was interesting to see the array of weapons they had available for the general public, and it was more interesting to note the absence of correct gun-range protocol that exists in most, if not all developed countries. For instance, loaded or unloaded, you never point a firearm, whether intentionally or unintentionally, at a person. These rules seem not to apply in Thailand. At any New Zealand range, you would literally find a boot planted so far up your ass that you’d be tasting boot polish for the next month if you so much as thought of doing the unthinkable. The range officers also had the most sophisticated of hearing protection. They used .45 calibre shell casings and inserted them, hollow end inwards, into the ears. The stuff of hard men, for sure. Interesting. The range of weapons they had was varied. There were 12 gauge shotguns, .38 revolvers (the Smith and Wesson with the Hogue grip was the best), A LOT of 9 millis, including Beretta, Glock, Taurus etc, .22 cal rugers, as well as a lone 1911 .45 ACP Browning; one of my all time favourites. I’m still surprised that they only had one .45, but oh well. The problem with common sense is that it’s not all that common. A fantastic calibre that is accurate and fun to shoot, with a truckload of stopping power.
Anyway, I could rave on for ages and ages about guns, but for those non-initiated among you, I will spare you all the tech details. It was fun. It was a chance to smell the cordite and imitate the famous Ed Harris quote of “I love the smell of gunpowder in the morning” from Apocalypse now. I relish the days where I have the heavy smell of gunpowder reeking from my hands. I truly do.
With the guys, I also visited a few music joints, as well as a few night markets. These were always fun affairs. We’d drive there in convoy on our motorbikes and jump out to sample the local food, walk, talk, joke and eat. There was a place favoured by the guys at the gym; a reggae spot called Roots Rock Reggae, that boasted high quality live bands. The place was popularised by one of the trainers at the camp, a fellow by the name of Tay Win. Now for the ladies that are reading this that may possibly go to Kiat Busaba Muay Thai camp in the future, beware of this man. He is the consummate wannabe manwhore that was the ridicule of all at the camp.
A bald, short man sporting a goatee and ridiculous tattoos, Tay Win considers himself quite the ladies’ man, and will only very reluctantly train guys over girls. It’s usually when there are no girls present during training that he will do so, much to his chagrin. Anyway, he told many of us that he was a bouncer at this club, but it turns out that he is merely a waiter there. One with obviously a reputation to upkeep, as his image is adorned on one of the murals on the walls of the club; an image of him with hand extended, presenting a white girl with flowers. There’s also a rather cheesy large photo of him with his best “blue steel” look, daringly enticing stupid white girls into his nonexistent lair. Yes, I may be harsh, but I call it as I see it. This was the only one of the staff at the camp that I truly disliked. There’s always at least one, right?
Regardless, we had many good nights there bopping our heads to the wholesome Reggae music belted out by local musicians. My favourite band there also happened to play my favourite Thai reggae song quite often; a song sung by the Thai band Job2Do, a song called “Doo Der Tam” which, I daresay, most visitors to Thai islands would be familiar with. As I was doing my best to stay away from the devil drink, I didn’t go out that much, but when I did, it was fun and entertaining, and a good chance to talk shit and make fun of idiots like Tay Win.
Training carried on as usual throughout this time. I saw many people come and go from the camp. There were some nice people there, but there were also the usual dickheads that seem to inundate the fighting scene. As a tattooed person, I genuinely felt bad on behalf of all the other tattooed people that there were some real assholes with tattoos. It seems that to a lot of people in the fighting world, having a tattoo seems to give you the license to be an arsehole. They strut in with their lame ass tattoos and proclaim dominance over others for the simple fact that they think they’re bad. What a joke. In fact, I quite often felt that many people, upon seeing my abundance of ink, shied away from me on suspicion I was just another asshole.
Training carried on as normal in between our outdoor excursions, and our days in the gym were always hot, sweaty, and tiring. The trainers were all interesting people in their own right. Some had been in the circuit for years, with many fights under their belts. Some were juniors who had been with the club for a while, and helped train people like me under the watchful eyes of their seniors.
I had fun while I was there, and certainly learned a lot about myself during that time. I may just go back one of these days to do some advanced training. But until then, I’ll remember to keep my fists high and clenched, and my weight on the balls of my feet.
To Kiat Busaba Muay Thai Gym,
Thanks.
For everything.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Chiang Mai - Week One
Thursday 23rd September 2010
As I write this, I’m on board a train bound from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. The journey is not a short one. A full 15 hours spent traversing the countryside. I boarded the train from Palumphong station at 2:30pm, and arrive there at 5:30 in the morning. My reasons for going to Chiang Mai are numerous. There comes a time in your life when you wake up in the morning wondering what the hell you’re doing with it. When you drag your hungover sorry ass over to the mirror, and you hate the person that greets your eyes. When you feel like you’ve lost the fire that once epitomized the person you once were; a personal fire that set you far apart from others.
I’ve made this personal quest to reclaim that fire. I rest the laptop I’m writing on now on my belly that has grown in recent years. It used to be flat and rock solid, but it now grows sideways because of my love of booze. For years I thought that alcohol and I were good casual friends, but in the last year I’ve realized that it’s been invading my personal space and becoming one of those annoying, nuisance friends instead. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not intending on giving up entirely. It’s fine in moderation, but the lesson I am going to teach myself is that of moderation.
To those of you who know me, you’d know that I exhibit some extremist tendencies. I have always been one of those “all or nothing” kinda guys. In some cases this behavioural trait has served me well. In some, it has worked against me. The lesson of moderation is one I aim to teach myself. In all things that are not self destructive, I shall revert to my previous programming. In those that are, well, they’re gonna have to put up with a new program.
The train ride is beautiful. We’re passing mountains and valleys, and scores upon scores of padi fields that hold host to a huge number of different bird species. My seat is in the last cabin of the train; the sleeper bunk. Men and women selling food noisily make their rounds up and down the train, selling their produce and rousing passengers from their sleep with their constant cries. Every so often, we pass ancient temples that dot the landscape; their towers still standing watch over this peaceful backwater.
I sit thinking about the challenges that lie ahead. I wonder about what the camp will be like. I wonder what people I will meet. Knowing me, I will manage to find good people who, like myself, see the world in a slightly different way, and I’m sure that over the next month, I will have many good conversations. Night is slowly tightening its grip now, and the scenery is getting more and more mountainous, which explains the rapidly chilling air. Time to convert my seat into my bed. Will write more when I am settled.
Friday 24th September
I arrived in Chiang Mai early this morning. I woke up at 5AM to check out the scenery before the train reached the station. It was magnificent. The train blared past beautiful bamboo forests and lush hillsides as it followed the track cut through the mountains. At the station, I caught a tuk tuk to the camp, and the driver smiled happily when I told him the address. “You learn Muay Thai? Very good!” He said approvingly. It’s been years since I have been in Chiang Mai, and it was nice to drive around in the early morning, before the monstrous traffic snarls kicked in.
The man who owns the gym, Andy, is an intense, wiry, and wise fellow. Tall and toned, with penetrating eyes, he speaks softly and gently, and smiles often. He strikes me as a good teacher, and a good man. Canadian by origin, he has lived in Thailand for the last twenty or so years, and built this camp with his wife, Pom. Andy’s a no nonsense sort of guy. After settling down in my accommodation I went over to introduce myself, and find out what I needed for the month to come.
The gym itself is simple. The entire training area is sheltered from the rain by a high corrugated steel roof supported by steel struts. On the wall by the mirrors rest countless photos of visitors past, as well as photos of the champions that the camp has produced. I read a few articles that Andy has put up about diet and lifestyle to help fight Cancer. Later I find out that Andy suffered a terrible mouth cancer, which explains his blackened and painful looking front teeth. Two boxing rings are at the rear of the training area. There is a speedball, and numerous kicking bags that are suspended by steel supports across the gym.
I will begin my training tomorrow, and spend the rest of the day getting what I need, and settling it.
Saturday 25th September
Bloody hell. These early morning starts are gonna take some getting used to. Got up at 6AM to get ready for training. It turns out that not everybody begins training at this time. People do the training they feel they can do. I piled into Andy’s truck with his dogs and a few other people, and he drove us to a big park by the foot of the mountain. It was a beautiful park; complete with a lake and lots of little “water restaurants”, where you sit on bamboo platforms atop the water and enjoy your food. The daily morning run consists of running around the lake; approximately four kilometres. As I spluttered along the road, I realised just how out of shape I’ve become over the years. I recall my army days, where I used to run 6km three times a week, go to the gym 3 times a week, on top of whatever we were doing when we went away for training. Back then, I could still keep up with the best of them, but this morning I grimaced and growled as fit little Thai boys raced past me with no apparent effort. Little runts. Grr.
After the run, training began with about ten minutes of skipping, bouncing up and down on a rubber tire to get the calves warmed up, then shadowboxing. Shadowboxing is a very important part of martial arts and boxing. It gives you the opportunity to visualize your opponent, and the chance to analyze your technique. It is through a mixture of shadowboxing and actual fighting that you actually improve your skill level. Without these things, you may as well be doing ballet.
The next part of training began. Pad work. By my dear friend, Wang. Wang is an angry little Thai trainer. He stands about five foot two, constantly smells of a heady cocktail of beer, sweat, and tobacco no matter what time of the day, and loves nothing more than torturing stupid farangs (foreigners) like me. The commands are belted out, and the corresponding knees, feet, fists and elbows fly towards the pads that he holds. It took me a while to figure out his style at first. “Keek! Pan! Ebow! Nee! Apkat! Ja! (Kick! Punch! Knee! Uppercut! Jab!)” The trainers take turns with all the people present, so everyone gets a turn. Padwork goes on for sessions of approximately three minutes, then break is called, upon which you drop to the floor, do ten pushups, get a minute’s rest, and then resume training. The amount of rounds you do is entirely up to you. After four rounds of being chided and attacked by the vicious little Napoleon, I bowed out of the ring for some water.
Training was done by around 9:30. A well deserved break was in order for the hot part of the day. Afternoon training began at 4PM. It began with another 4 km run around the town area. I have to say I didn’t enjoy this run at all. The narrow streets are crowded with hawker stalls, pedestrians, dogs, as well as the many cars and motorbikes that wind their way through the crazy little backstreets. I got chased by a dog further down the road at a less crowded stretch. I shall remember that dog. He’s getting a stick to the face the next time he tries it. The rest of the training was exactly the same as the morning, but with varying degrees of intensity, as well as more people in the gym. It seems that most people opt for afternoon training instead of doing both morning and afternoon sessions. Anyway, enough training. Food calls. Let’s see what the hawker stalls have for me tonight.
Sunday 26th September
No training today. This is the only day where there is nothing formal going on at the gym at all. People can still use the facilities if they wish, but for most people, this is a coveted day of relaxation. I used my time today getting a motorbike sorted for myself. I saw in town a few places that rented big bikes. By big, I mean bigger than the crappy little 125cc’s that everyone drives around. I dunno, those things just don’t do it for me. I always feel safer on a bigger bike, and it’s what I’m used to. After a very hostile argument with a nasty old local woman who was trying to rip me off, I found a good rental shop that offered a Phantom; a 300cc single cylinder bike. Not ideal, but it would do for now.
You will not believe my luck. I write this entry tending to my wounds. On my very first day of getting a bike, I have had an accident already. No, it wasn’t my fault. No I wasn’t doing something I shouldn’t. I was driving down the main road, minding my own business. This lunatic taxi driver pulled out of a side street right in front of me, giving me no time to brake. Instead of ploughing straight into it, I chucked him the bike, and rolled on the ground. Furious, I picked myself up and stormed over to the taxi, which was occupied by passengers in the back. The douchebag got out and smiled at me. Smiled! Grrrr... After trying to absolve himself of all guilt, he tried to jump back into the taxi. I opened the door and dragged him out and pulled him over to the side of the road. A shop owner at the corner saw the whole thing happen, and he helped me to call the police. I didn’t crash the bike! I’m certainly not going to pay for the repairs either!
Police arrived, and we dicked around for about another hour before a motorbike ambulance arrived to patch me up. In the chaos, I had injured my shoulder, smashed my palm into the ground, badly grazed my left elbow and my right knee, as well as tore off part of a thumbnail.
Great. Fantastic. That’s all I bloody need. I called up my friend’s mother, who lives in Chiang Mai. She was kind enough to go to the police station with me and help me sort out the mess. The bastard still wasn’t claiming responsibility even though it’s as plain as day that he was in the wrong. They have a weird system, the Thai police do. It seems that even though someone commits a traffic offence, the police would still rather you negotiate with the other person instead of having to do paperwork. Gasp! That would actually mean that they’d have to do their job! Shock/horror. Anyway, finally got all that sorted, and I’m off to bed. Grumpy. Let’s hope I don’t get blood all over the sheets.
Monday 27th September
No training for me. Period. Not only am I sore as hell from the accident, I have also started getting a cold, which was, no doubt from the train ride. A lot of hot and cold and wet and dry moments always give me a cold, and there were plenty of them on the train ride. Sooo, I’m sitting in bed, pissed off as hell, watching Al Jazeera news. At least that’s one good thing. I have a half decent TV which will keep me entertained whilst I convalesce and heal up. I’m not a happy camper at the moment.
Wednesday 29th September
Sitting in my room listening to very dark and angry metal. I’d be happy to dig Mr. Murphy up from his grave, revive him, and kill him all over again. Screw you Mr Murphy, and your goddam law.
Friday 1st October
Well, things are slowly getting better. Not as bleak as the last few days. Trained today, rather gingerly I might add. Wang doesn’t seem to care that I’m in pain. His training methods only involve more and more pain. It hasn’t been the best of starts, but hey... que sera sera. Let’s just hope my body stays in one piece long enough for me to get home. Andy advises me to just train through all the pain, which I’ve been doing my best to do, but it also doesn’t make sense to me to punish my body when it’s screaming at me to stop. In hindsight, I think the last few days have been made even worse by the fact that I’ve been suffering a degree of alcohol withdrawal. Back in normal environs, it’s usual for me to have at least a drink a day. I’ve been lying in bed having some rather evil thoughts. Here’s to a better tomorrow.
Sunday 3rd October
What. A. Day. I thought that I’d finally suffered enough that Mr. Murphy would leave me alone for a bit. Today was an easy day to begin with, but towards the end of it things got ridiculous. Went to the local mall to top up my cellphone credit. It took 20 minutes for them to get it loaded on my local THAI simcard, for christ’s sake. Don’t ask me why. On the ride home, I had an impending feeling of doom as my stomach started wobbling and my guts felt like they were about to rupture. Just as I started to get a handle on it, my motorbike, which I swapped after the crash (for a better one) decides to give up the ghost on me. Dead battery. Zilch. Nada. Absolutely bone dry dead. Great. So, making sure that I kept my sphincter puckered, I pushed the bike down the road in amongst peak hour traffic and weaved it to a quiet backstreet so that I could see what was wrong with it. I pulled out my phone to call the rental company, but then I stopped short of calling because I wanted to check the bike out thoroughly first before getting them to come. I absent mindedly put the phone on the seat, then checked everything.
Nope. Still not working. I rolled the bike over to some shade, as it had started to rain. I recall hearing a ‘plop’ sound, but didn’t think any more of it, until I went to go for my phone again. You know when that moment of rage and frustration dawns on you? When you realize you’ve just done something entirely idiotic? Yep. Turns out my phone dropped into the drain on the side of the road. I looked up and down the entire length where I moved the bike. Nowhere to be seen. I concluded that it must have dropped underneath the layer of silt and muck.
As if things could get any worse. There was no alternative but to stick my hand in that shit and fossick around until I found it, which I eventually did. Covered in slime and having been submerged for a good few minutes, I was sure it was a goner. I wiped it off, stuck it in my pocket, and looked wildly around for something or somebody to kill. Screw it. I wheeled the bike back around the corner to a small police stand, where I saw one lone policeman manning the booth. In simplified English I asked him if he could help me call the rental company. He was quite nice, and helped me as much as he could. It’d be a bit of a wait before they turned up, so I decided to get myself cleaned up. Kill two birds with one stone. I pulled out my dirty phone as I walked into a small restaurant, showed them the phone and asked them if I could use the toilet. Success! Managed to drop the kids off at the pool too, and get rid of my burning guts. With clear bowels and a clean hand and phone, I walked back out to the bike.
I suddenly remembered that there was a bike shop not too far down the road. After thanking the officer I wheeled the bike some two hundred metres down the road. Not easy, considering it was a very heavy bike. The guys were nice. They tried starting it a few times with success, but it would eventually cut out again. I asked them if they could help call the shop and update them on my whereabouts. Within a short amount of time, the guy finally came, and swapped bikes with me, telling me he would have the battery replaced by tomorrow. I took that bike and headed straight to the liquor store. Screw it. It’s been an absolute rat-shit week, I’m sore, sick, and am away from loved ones. I have had a hell of a time, and all I care about right now is a drink.
I bought a mini bottle of whiskey and headed home, popping into the convenience store by my lodging for some mixer. I saw Britt, a pleasant American guy who I got on with quite well. He asked me how my day was. “Ya don’t wanna know!” came the growled, exasperated response. Headed straight back into my room and cracked open the whisky. Condemn me if you will, for imbibing in the devil drink, but considering the hellish week I had, and my fragile state of mind, I just wanted a damn drink.
Headed out later that night with my Belgian friend Tom and my friend from the Reunion Islands, Emilie. Tom got shitfaced and we all had loads of fun. We drank to a better upcoming week for me. Gladly accepted. Cheers guys. You have to be able to laugh at yourself. Otherwise you just end up crying. Oh, the kicker? I checked my phone again later that night. By some strange twist of fate, my phone was fine, although it certainly didn’t appear that way at first. No dreaded disco dance of death as I switched it on again. The cover that I had for it had somehow spared its fragile circuitry, although it took a while for the speakers to dry out. Through all the shit that happens to you, there’s always something to be grateful for at the end of the day. If you look hard enough.
Thus concludes my first week. More to come.
All credit goes to a certain special someone who helped me maintain my sanity, via telephone from Malaysia :)
As I write this, I’m on board a train bound from Bangkok to Chiang Mai. The journey is not a short one. A full 15 hours spent traversing the countryside. I boarded the train from Palumphong station at 2:30pm, and arrive there at 5:30 in the morning. My reasons for going to Chiang Mai are numerous. There comes a time in your life when you wake up in the morning wondering what the hell you’re doing with it. When you drag your hungover sorry ass over to the mirror, and you hate the person that greets your eyes. When you feel like you’ve lost the fire that once epitomized the person you once were; a personal fire that set you far apart from others.
I’ve made this personal quest to reclaim that fire. I rest the laptop I’m writing on now on my belly that has grown in recent years. It used to be flat and rock solid, but it now grows sideways because of my love of booze. For years I thought that alcohol and I were good casual friends, but in the last year I’ve realized that it’s been invading my personal space and becoming one of those annoying, nuisance friends instead. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not intending on giving up entirely. It’s fine in moderation, but the lesson I am going to teach myself is that of moderation.
To those of you who know me, you’d know that I exhibit some extremist tendencies. I have always been one of those “all or nothing” kinda guys. In some cases this behavioural trait has served me well. In some, it has worked against me. The lesson of moderation is one I aim to teach myself. In all things that are not self destructive, I shall revert to my previous programming. In those that are, well, they’re gonna have to put up with a new program.
The train ride is beautiful. We’re passing mountains and valleys, and scores upon scores of padi fields that hold host to a huge number of different bird species. My seat is in the last cabin of the train; the sleeper bunk. Men and women selling food noisily make their rounds up and down the train, selling their produce and rousing passengers from their sleep with their constant cries. Every so often, we pass ancient temples that dot the landscape; their towers still standing watch over this peaceful backwater.
I sit thinking about the challenges that lie ahead. I wonder about what the camp will be like. I wonder what people I will meet. Knowing me, I will manage to find good people who, like myself, see the world in a slightly different way, and I’m sure that over the next month, I will have many good conversations. Night is slowly tightening its grip now, and the scenery is getting more and more mountainous, which explains the rapidly chilling air. Time to convert my seat into my bed. Will write more when I am settled.
Friday 24th September
I arrived in Chiang Mai early this morning. I woke up at 5AM to check out the scenery before the train reached the station. It was magnificent. The train blared past beautiful bamboo forests and lush hillsides as it followed the track cut through the mountains. At the station, I caught a tuk tuk to the camp, and the driver smiled happily when I told him the address. “You learn Muay Thai? Very good!” He said approvingly. It’s been years since I have been in Chiang Mai, and it was nice to drive around in the early morning, before the monstrous traffic snarls kicked in.
The man who owns the gym, Andy, is an intense, wiry, and wise fellow. Tall and toned, with penetrating eyes, he speaks softly and gently, and smiles often. He strikes me as a good teacher, and a good man. Canadian by origin, he has lived in Thailand for the last twenty or so years, and built this camp with his wife, Pom. Andy’s a no nonsense sort of guy. After settling down in my accommodation I went over to introduce myself, and find out what I needed for the month to come.
The gym itself is simple. The entire training area is sheltered from the rain by a high corrugated steel roof supported by steel struts. On the wall by the mirrors rest countless photos of visitors past, as well as photos of the champions that the camp has produced. I read a few articles that Andy has put up about diet and lifestyle to help fight Cancer. Later I find out that Andy suffered a terrible mouth cancer, which explains his blackened and painful looking front teeth. Two boxing rings are at the rear of the training area. There is a speedball, and numerous kicking bags that are suspended by steel supports across the gym.
I will begin my training tomorrow, and spend the rest of the day getting what I need, and settling it.
Saturday 25th September
Bloody hell. These early morning starts are gonna take some getting used to. Got up at 6AM to get ready for training. It turns out that not everybody begins training at this time. People do the training they feel they can do. I piled into Andy’s truck with his dogs and a few other people, and he drove us to a big park by the foot of the mountain. It was a beautiful park; complete with a lake and lots of little “water restaurants”, where you sit on bamboo platforms atop the water and enjoy your food. The daily morning run consists of running around the lake; approximately four kilometres. As I spluttered along the road, I realised just how out of shape I’ve become over the years. I recall my army days, where I used to run 6km three times a week, go to the gym 3 times a week, on top of whatever we were doing when we went away for training. Back then, I could still keep up with the best of them, but this morning I grimaced and growled as fit little Thai boys raced past me with no apparent effort. Little runts. Grr.
After the run, training began with about ten minutes of skipping, bouncing up and down on a rubber tire to get the calves warmed up, then shadowboxing. Shadowboxing is a very important part of martial arts and boxing. It gives you the opportunity to visualize your opponent, and the chance to analyze your technique. It is through a mixture of shadowboxing and actual fighting that you actually improve your skill level. Without these things, you may as well be doing ballet.
The next part of training began. Pad work. By my dear friend, Wang. Wang is an angry little Thai trainer. He stands about five foot two, constantly smells of a heady cocktail of beer, sweat, and tobacco no matter what time of the day, and loves nothing more than torturing stupid farangs (foreigners) like me. The commands are belted out, and the corresponding knees, feet, fists and elbows fly towards the pads that he holds. It took me a while to figure out his style at first. “Keek! Pan! Ebow! Nee! Apkat! Ja! (Kick! Punch! Knee! Uppercut! Jab!)” The trainers take turns with all the people present, so everyone gets a turn. Padwork goes on for sessions of approximately three minutes, then break is called, upon which you drop to the floor, do ten pushups, get a minute’s rest, and then resume training. The amount of rounds you do is entirely up to you. After four rounds of being chided and attacked by the vicious little Napoleon, I bowed out of the ring for some water.
Training was done by around 9:30. A well deserved break was in order for the hot part of the day. Afternoon training began at 4PM. It began with another 4 km run around the town area. I have to say I didn’t enjoy this run at all. The narrow streets are crowded with hawker stalls, pedestrians, dogs, as well as the many cars and motorbikes that wind their way through the crazy little backstreets. I got chased by a dog further down the road at a less crowded stretch. I shall remember that dog. He’s getting a stick to the face the next time he tries it. The rest of the training was exactly the same as the morning, but with varying degrees of intensity, as well as more people in the gym. It seems that most people opt for afternoon training instead of doing both morning and afternoon sessions. Anyway, enough training. Food calls. Let’s see what the hawker stalls have for me tonight.
Sunday 26th September
No training today. This is the only day where there is nothing formal going on at the gym at all. People can still use the facilities if they wish, but for most people, this is a coveted day of relaxation. I used my time today getting a motorbike sorted for myself. I saw in town a few places that rented big bikes. By big, I mean bigger than the crappy little 125cc’s that everyone drives around. I dunno, those things just don’t do it for me. I always feel safer on a bigger bike, and it’s what I’m used to. After a very hostile argument with a nasty old local woman who was trying to rip me off, I found a good rental shop that offered a Phantom; a 300cc single cylinder bike. Not ideal, but it would do for now.
You will not believe my luck. I write this entry tending to my wounds. On my very first day of getting a bike, I have had an accident already. No, it wasn’t my fault. No I wasn’t doing something I shouldn’t. I was driving down the main road, minding my own business. This lunatic taxi driver pulled out of a side street right in front of me, giving me no time to brake. Instead of ploughing straight into it, I chucked him the bike, and rolled on the ground. Furious, I picked myself up and stormed over to the taxi, which was occupied by passengers in the back. The douchebag got out and smiled at me. Smiled! Grrrr... After trying to absolve himself of all guilt, he tried to jump back into the taxi. I opened the door and dragged him out and pulled him over to the side of the road. A shop owner at the corner saw the whole thing happen, and he helped me to call the police. I didn’t crash the bike! I’m certainly not going to pay for the repairs either!
Police arrived, and we dicked around for about another hour before a motorbike ambulance arrived to patch me up. In the chaos, I had injured my shoulder, smashed my palm into the ground, badly grazed my left elbow and my right knee, as well as tore off part of a thumbnail.
Great. Fantastic. That’s all I bloody need. I called up my friend’s mother, who lives in Chiang Mai. She was kind enough to go to the police station with me and help me sort out the mess. The bastard still wasn’t claiming responsibility even though it’s as plain as day that he was in the wrong. They have a weird system, the Thai police do. It seems that even though someone commits a traffic offence, the police would still rather you negotiate with the other person instead of having to do paperwork. Gasp! That would actually mean that they’d have to do their job! Shock/horror. Anyway, finally got all that sorted, and I’m off to bed. Grumpy. Let’s hope I don’t get blood all over the sheets.
Monday 27th September
No training for me. Period. Not only am I sore as hell from the accident, I have also started getting a cold, which was, no doubt from the train ride. A lot of hot and cold and wet and dry moments always give me a cold, and there were plenty of them on the train ride. Sooo, I’m sitting in bed, pissed off as hell, watching Al Jazeera news. At least that’s one good thing. I have a half decent TV which will keep me entertained whilst I convalesce and heal up. I’m not a happy camper at the moment.
Wednesday 29th September
Sitting in my room listening to very dark and angry metal. I’d be happy to dig Mr. Murphy up from his grave, revive him, and kill him all over again. Screw you Mr Murphy, and your goddam law.
Friday 1st October
Well, things are slowly getting better. Not as bleak as the last few days. Trained today, rather gingerly I might add. Wang doesn’t seem to care that I’m in pain. His training methods only involve more and more pain. It hasn’t been the best of starts, but hey... que sera sera. Let’s just hope my body stays in one piece long enough for me to get home. Andy advises me to just train through all the pain, which I’ve been doing my best to do, but it also doesn’t make sense to me to punish my body when it’s screaming at me to stop. In hindsight, I think the last few days have been made even worse by the fact that I’ve been suffering a degree of alcohol withdrawal. Back in normal environs, it’s usual for me to have at least a drink a day. I’ve been lying in bed having some rather evil thoughts. Here’s to a better tomorrow.
Sunday 3rd October
What. A. Day. I thought that I’d finally suffered enough that Mr. Murphy would leave me alone for a bit. Today was an easy day to begin with, but towards the end of it things got ridiculous. Went to the local mall to top up my cellphone credit. It took 20 minutes for them to get it loaded on my local THAI simcard, for christ’s sake. Don’t ask me why. On the ride home, I had an impending feeling of doom as my stomach started wobbling and my guts felt like they were about to rupture. Just as I started to get a handle on it, my motorbike, which I swapped after the crash (for a better one) decides to give up the ghost on me. Dead battery. Zilch. Nada. Absolutely bone dry dead. Great. So, making sure that I kept my sphincter puckered, I pushed the bike down the road in amongst peak hour traffic and weaved it to a quiet backstreet so that I could see what was wrong with it. I pulled out my phone to call the rental company, but then I stopped short of calling because I wanted to check the bike out thoroughly first before getting them to come. I absent mindedly put the phone on the seat, then checked everything.
Nope. Still not working. I rolled the bike over to some shade, as it had started to rain. I recall hearing a ‘plop’ sound, but didn’t think any more of it, until I went to go for my phone again. You know when that moment of rage and frustration dawns on you? When you realize you’ve just done something entirely idiotic? Yep. Turns out my phone dropped into the drain on the side of the road. I looked up and down the entire length where I moved the bike. Nowhere to be seen. I concluded that it must have dropped underneath the layer of silt and muck.
As if things could get any worse. There was no alternative but to stick my hand in that shit and fossick around until I found it, which I eventually did. Covered in slime and having been submerged for a good few minutes, I was sure it was a goner. I wiped it off, stuck it in my pocket, and looked wildly around for something or somebody to kill. Screw it. I wheeled the bike back around the corner to a small police stand, where I saw one lone policeman manning the booth. In simplified English I asked him if he could help me call the rental company. He was quite nice, and helped me as much as he could. It’d be a bit of a wait before they turned up, so I decided to get myself cleaned up. Kill two birds with one stone. I pulled out my dirty phone as I walked into a small restaurant, showed them the phone and asked them if I could use the toilet. Success! Managed to drop the kids off at the pool too, and get rid of my burning guts. With clear bowels and a clean hand and phone, I walked back out to the bike.
I suddenly remembered that there was a bike shop not too far down the road. After thanking the officer I wheeled the bike some two hundred metres down the road. Not easy, considering it was a very heavy bike. The guys were nice. They tried starting it a few times with success, but it would eventually cut out again. I asked them if they could help call the shop and update them on my whereabouts. Within a short amount of time, the guy finally came, and swapped bikes with me, telling me he would have the battery replaced by tomorrow. I took that bike and headed straight to the liquor store. Screw it. It’s been an absolute rat-shit week, I’m sore, sick, and am away from loved ones. I have had a hell of a time, and all I care about right now is a drink.
I bought a mini bottle of whiskey and headed home, popping into the convenience store by my lodging for some mixer. I saw Britt, a pleasant American guy who I got on with quite well. He asked me how my day was. “Ya don’t wanna know!” came the growled, exasperated response. Headed straight back into my room and cracked open the whisky. Condemn me if you will, for imbibing in the devil drink, but considering the hellish week I had, and my fragile state of mind, I just wanted a damn drink.
Headed out later that night with my Belgian friend Tom and my friend from the Reunion Islands, Emilie. Tom got shitfaced and we all had loads of fun. We drank to a better upcoming week for me. Gladly accepted. Cheers guys. You have to be able to laugh at yourself. Otherwise you just end up crying. Oh, the kicker? I checked my phone again later that night. By some strange twist of fate, my phone was fine, although it certainly didn’t appear that way at first. No dreaded disco dance of death as I switched it on again. The cover that I had for it had somehow spared its fragile circuitry, although it took a while for the speakers to dry out. Through all the shit that happens to you, there’s always something to be grateful for at the end of the day. If you look hard enough.
Thus concludes my first week. More to come.
All credit goes to a certain special someone who helped me maintain my sanity, via telephone from Malaysia :)
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Big trouble in little Thailand
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| From sept 2010 |
So it’s been a long, long, loooong time since I’ve posted anything here. I have been writing material for the blog, but as life has been even more interesting for me than usual, I haven’t gotten around to it. Sorry. It will appear one day soon.
I’m back in Kuching now, after about six weeks in Thailand. It’s been an experience and a half. I spent a month in Chiang Mai on a personal quest to eliminate myself of alcoholism and to get myself fit again. Well, I’m still drinking, but I’m happy to report that it is entirely in moderation these days, which is precisely the lesson I intended to teach myself upon embarking on this trip. Y’see, I’ve always had somewhat of an extremist nature. All or nothing. Bone dry sober or stinking drunk. Pushing the limits of my body’s endurance, or not at all. Risking my neck in adrenalin fuelled pursuits or taking it easy. Seldom any inbetween. It’s not that I get that messy when I drink (well, with a few exceptions from time to time) but I suppose I just got sick of spending so much money on alcohol, then waking up feeling like my tongue’s been dipped in battery acid and my eyeballs have been buffed by 80 grit on an orbit sander. Not to mention the fleeting morning memories of stupid things I did or said the night before (that’s when you start praying that it only occurred in your dreams). Did I do that? No. Yes! Ah shit.
I started the trip with a lovely friend and fellow hedon by going to Phi Phi island in southern Thailand. Her and I spent about six days there relaxing, bumming around, visiting all the nice beaches and restaurants in the area. Heck, we even made it to Maya bay, the place where the movie “The Beach” with Leonardo DiCaprio was filmed. Phi Phi, despite being very touristy, was a good start. I got a chance to clear my head, as well as focus on what was to come. We laughed lots, had fun at the expense of local names and words, as well as the character of the people there. Everything was “no heb”. “Can I get a watermelon shake please?” No heb. “This looks good. Can I get the sweet and sour fish please?” No heb, despite it being a prominent feature on the menu. “Do you do laundry?” No heb. Infuriating, but funny at the same time. She found my passionate hatred towards flies hilarious; lunches and dinners punctuated by my frequent “fugoff” gesticulations while swatting away the verminous little bastards. It’s like how the saying goes eh? If you don’t laugh, you cry, and since I’ve been taking the time to find the funnier side of life, it has bestowed its rewards upon me.
At my insistence, we spent part of a day plunging ourselves off a perfectly good cliff. The boat waited for us, packed to the rafters with sane people, whilst we jumped out and paddled off to climb up a cliff face, only to throw ourselves off the top into fish riddled waters below. After a few attempts, she sustained a rather nasty water-slap to the ass, and I endured a rather painful moment of hydro-testicular compression, after which we called it quits. I didn’t want to be up on domestic violence charges, after all, the marks on her ass could have been easily construed as excess friskiness. Anyway, after much fun, games and laughter the relaxing soon came to an end, and I reluctantly said goodbye to my beautiful companion and began my journey to Bangkok.
I stayed for two days, checking out the muay thai fights at Lumpini stadium. It was fun, but Bangkok always starts getting to me fairly quickly. The whores, the bars, the pollution, and the general pushiness of the people never sits well with me. I recall walking back to my hotel, passing a few gogo bars on the way that were packed with fat old western men, and young impoverished Thai girls looking for a way out,whilst children played amongst that hellish environment. Incredulous. At least in Malaysia, despite some of the ridiculous religious laws we have here, you would never see such a thing. At the end of my second day I went to Hualampong train station and boarded the train that would take me to Chiang Mai. It was a 15 hour train ride through some gorgeous terrain. As night fell, the cabinmate helped me convert my seat to a bed, where I lay in the heat and humidity with the windows open, only to be rudely awakened by a rainstorm which left me absolutely drenched as I desperately tried to put up the archaic and rusting windows to save me from further deluge. But the ride was beautiful. We passed rice fields, ancient temples, mountains and villages, which finally wound its way to my destination. At 5AM I was greeted by beautiful rolling mountains covered in lush green foliage as I rubbed my eyes and yawned myself awake. A brief tuk tuk ride took me to the camp, where I was to spend the next month learning the rather simplistic yet deadly art of muay thai.
I’m not going to talk too much about Chiang Mai here, because I feel it deserves an entry of its own, which I have been writing in my spare time. All I will say for now is that it was an interesting time of introspection, clarity, focus, and great conversation with some fantastic people that I met there. I managed to reduce my alcohol consumption, and for the first time in a long time, I was finally thinking clearly once more. My time in Chiang Mai came to a close and I said goodbye to those lovely people that I had met along the way, and picked up my backpack once more to head off to Koh Phangan, the birthplace of the fullmoon party.
I was greeted at Koh Samui airport by Eing, my fellow hedon, who had travelled up from Kuching to spend the next few days with me in paradise. From there we caught a jet boat to Koh Phangan, and went straight to the hotel. My belief in karma has been wavering as of late, due to my keen observation of human behaviour, but we were pleasantly surprised by the upgrade that we had been given by the hotel. I still don’t know how we got it, but I wasn’t too concerned by how, but rather, by what the upgrade was. A private pool, a separate “living area” which consisted solely of a rather large daybed, romantic lighting, and thick curtains, right next to the private waterfall that trickled down to feed the pool, as well as a luxurious traditionally decorated room, complete with a starlight shower and a hot tub. Life is good. Needless to say, we didn’t actually get up to too much outside of the resort. Funny that. Oh, we did make it outside once in a while, to have brief misadventures on quad bikes. I spent a few hours absolutely fanging it around the dirt tracks that abound around the island. Decked out in combat gloves, singlet and combat shorts, and a skull facemask to protect my precious lungs from the dirt and diesel fumes kicked up by trucks I menaced the countryside by drifting all over the place. Ahhh, now that’s living! One bastard roadworker threatened to throw a can at me for no good reason other than that I was probably enjoying myself too much. Prick. Go work in the hot, blistering sun. Leemeealone.
On the day of the full moon party, a quick trip to the magic mountain bar to pick up some “provisions” was in order for preparations for the night to come. Supplies locked and loaded, we climbed aboard the jet boat with about 30 other people from the resort , and after an amazing ride in, complete with an even more amazing lightning show from a passing storm system, we were unceremoniously dumped into the water right on the beach. What greeted us was an assault on the senses. Loud music blaring from every single corner of the beach. Crazed, drunken revellers for as far as the eye could see. Swirling lights. Fire. More drunken people. Sex in the air. We took perch above the spot where the fire skipping was being held. To those uninitiated among you, this is basically a long length of rope doused in gasoline and set alight, held by two guys on opposing platforms, and swirled around maniacally. Anyone who dares enter the inferno skips furiously before inevitably being whipped by the rope and falling on their ass. We watched this for about an hour atop the platform than ran perpendicular to the fire skipping; a platform that allowed people to slide down between two poles of fire, waiting for our magic to kick in. What a hoot. People falling everywhere. The show ended when the rope burnt through and snapped; catapulting itself onto the platform and wrapping itself around panicked party goers. One girl caught the raw end of it, and was set ablaze before she ran screaming and splashing into the piss filled sea to douse the flame’s fury. Which reminds me. Government health warning follows. NEVER. EVER. Go near the water at Haad Rin beach unless you want a good dose of a million people’s urine. Yes, people openly piss in the sea. No one seems to care. The toilets are smelly and inconvenient to get to, and you risk losing your friends if you wander
too far. You have been warned.
We wandered around, letting the freaks entertain us. Some idiots climbed the scaffolding that was set up in the water which was to later be used for a massive sign that would be set alight with fire; a great backdrop against the inky sky punctuated by the beautiful pale moon that stood sentinel to the chaos below. Some folks had some hilarious getups. There was one group that had come bodypainted as the Na’vi people from the movie Avatar. A rather retarded batman wobbled precariously on the scaffolding. Some hideously repulsive fat dudes wore neon yellow speedos and nothing else. Girls were, par for the course, scantily clad. No complaints on the latter though. There was no shortage of eye candy, however there was also no shortage of disgusting female trash either. One girl, high on god-only-knows-what, writhed around as if possessed. A very intoxicated midget dressed as a sailor said hi to every girl that he passed, without the slightest success. Passed out people littered the beach. We met these hilarious girls who took the opportunity to snap photos of themselves atop these coma victims in some rather compromising poses. One of these such poses involved the girl taking the comatose from behind with a rather large, imaginary strap-on. Legendary.
We finally came to rest at a stop where the music was to our liking. Deep, hard electrofunk driven by dark, tribal bass; a pulsing primitive sound that had the revellers going apeshit. We had been bodypainted earlier with neon paint. My friend had beautiful floral designs down her arm and back whereas I adorned myself with flames running all the length of my right arm. Next to our music station was another bodypainting place, which had neon lights, so we used the opportunity to take some awesome photos. One guy, impressed by our photos, came up and chatted to us, also posing alongside us for some laughs. More good times and hilarity ensued.
My bucket, (traditional alcoholic fare on thai beaches; consists of a bucket with a small bottle of the poison of your choice with a mixer of your choice, and copious straws) seemed to be a magnet for foot traffic every time I set it down on the sand. Even with my camera bag next to it, and even though there was ample space for said foot traffic to walk around it, people seemed to be drawn to it, and kicked sand into it. For christ’s sake! I haven’t been drinking like this in a while! Leave my bloody drink alone!! At least my rage entertained Eing, even though there was so much happening around us to keep us smiling.Despite the plentiful entertainment, 5 hours had passed and it was time to go home. Our boat was leaving at 4am, and when we looked out into the surf, we realised that it was about to leave without us. Waving and shouting, we jumped into the surf, with me carrying my camera high above my head. Typical. Just typical. We were the last people out. FILO – First in, last out. But no one seemed to mind. Everyone was having too good a time, and we sat by this Australian couple with whom we shared some ridiculous inebriated banter with.
I won’t say too much more about the rest of the night, except that it was good. More than good. The next day was spent convalescing. Much pool time was involved, and we took some hilarious shots of me jumping butt nekkid into the pool from the banisters. There are a couple of facebook worthy shots that preserve my modesty, but i’m still debating whether or not to put them on facebook, just for shits and giggles. Ah hell, it’s not like I have an employer anyway. Ahh the bliss of self employment. We had a beautiful last supper, and concluded our wonderful time by lighting a floating lantern, making a wish, and casting it away to the starlit heavens above, and said goodnight to each other. The morning after that we boarded the jet boat, only to board two more planes to return to Kuching, where my family and my beloved new car awaited the prodigal son’s return.
The bastard taxi driver in KL nearly made us miss check in; firstly by taking forever to refuel his car which should have been done prior to picking us up, and secondly, by allowing his piece of shit cab to suffer a tyre puncture on the way. We made it though, and suffered the classic army situation of “hurry up and wait”, enduring a 50 minute flight delay, courtesy of my good friends at Air Asia. I suppose that’s why they have hot stewardesses dressed in hot red. It almost makes up for the lost time. Ogling is a centuries old male pastime, only made better by successive generations of skimpy and skimpier female clothing. Approaching the airstrip was unnerving. Angry lightning bolts streaked to the left and right of the plane as we touched down. Beautiful to watch, but I must admit I felt the ol’ sphincter pucker up more than once. We touched down safely amongst the thunderous, clammy tropical air, and made our way out. The driver was waiting for me there with my new car. Shit, and there I was hoping for good weather so I could put the top down and roar my way home in style, but that was not meant to be. Ah well, que sera sera. I gunned the engine all the way back to casa de Ling, where my beautiful family awaited me. My two year old niece greeted me at the door, blubbering and clinging onto me like a forlorn monkey babe that had been separated from its prized banana. Aww the sweet little thing... It’s good to be home. No, it’s great. Homecooked food has penetrated even my dreams whilst on the road, and my mother had a lovely meal all ready for me. Bless you, ma.
There’s so much that has happened in the last few months that simply can’t be shared in one blog entry, so I promise you, dear reader, I will spend the next few entries updating you on my misadventures.
Expect some inane stuff. Expect some deeply introspective thought. Expect some philosophizing. But more than anything else, expect to enjoy yourself as you see the world through the eyes of this MadMan you call Dan.
It’s been a blast
Friday, August 20, 2010
Partyin' Penang
The last day in Langkawi was not particularly the best. Waking up with a dreadful hangover didn't exactly improve my mood before realizing that I had to rush to the airport to book my ticket to Langkawi for the afternoon before it was too late to do so.
Cops. Bloody Malaysian, corrupt bastard cops. So there I was riding around Langkawi helmetless as I always do. But hey, on the last day Mr. Murphy decides to pay me a visit and tells me that I've been getting away with the common sense approach to biking on an island for too long. So after booking my ticket, I pull out of the airport on my motorbike, skull-masked and all... and don't get 10 metres before a bloody overweight bastard cop on the pavement flags me down. It must be my incrementally advancing age that stopped me from revving full throttle and tearing down the strip, because I know the younger Dan would have done so.
After having to bribe the cop (for the very first time in my whole 26 years, I might add!! I shall expand on West Malaysian Police corruption later) I headed back to John's place, packed my bags, had lunch, said goodbye to friends and made my way to the Lapangan Terbang. The plane ride was interesting. I had to practically punch the overweight Indian gent beside me awake so as to not-so-politely ask him to cease his horrendously loud snoring. Yeah. It was baaad. As was his B.O., which I'm sure I was not the sole person that suffered it. I later received muted applause from surrounding passengers for my efforts.
Landing in Penang, I caught a taxi to Georgetown. Georgetown really is the hub of all interesting things for backpackers to see in Penang. Sure, it may have a touristy vibe, but to be perfectly honest, the rest of Penang, excluding Batu Ferringhi, doesn't really have much to offer for the traveller, as it mostly consists of drab shophouses with no character. I spent some time on the mainland that day too; taking photos and walking around conversing and scaring locals with my Chinese and Malay skills. But my backpack was set down in Georgetown.
It's a place with so much character. There is just so much for the photographer to immerse himself in. Traditional buildings greet your lens on every corner, and the locals going about their daily business just demand a couple of surreptitious shots here and there. I've been in Penang many a time before, but this time I decided to settle for a backpacker hotel right on Jalan Pinang; one of three places called "Banana hotel". Don't let the dodgy name fool you. It was all I needed, and it made me happy. As usual, I got royal treatment from the staff for the mere fact that I was a white looking man that spoke all the local lingo, and had a Malaysian passport. Later that night I went to the 711 next door to pick up provisions and met a fantastic girl who had the decency and bravery to invite a pale-skin mohawked Malaysian to party with her and her friends. What a good night that was.
The main clubbing area in Penang is around Georgetown, and the top clubs there are Mois, and a place with the questionable name of Slippery Senoritas. Upon ducking into ""SS" as it is called, I realised that I had been there many a drunken moon ago with some other friends. But Mois was rockin' that night. We were treated to VIP goodness, all thanks to my svelte companion, and we rocked it out all night to some funky tunes. Yeah, this white boy can dance. When the mood is right, anyway.
I woke up with yet another pounding headache the next morning amongst other things, and was greeted upon my entrance from the hotel by a local crazy who insisted on trying to pat my mohawk for its originality. Dude... hangovers and crazy people trying to rub your head really don't go well together. Regardless, after getting some local grub in my system I booked my tickets for Bangkok and spent the rest of the available day taking loads of pictures of a place that has always held a special place in my Malaysian heart. The combination of the delightful food that is only found in Penang, mixed with the street scenes and interesting people watching made the rest of the day a joy. Even with an evil hangover.
I had an interesting conversation with a local at a bar while quenching my ""mat salleh" thirst for beer on a hot day. Hair of the dog, you know. "Waiyah.. you look like ang moh (white man) but can speak local aaah... I got business opportunity for you, you know!" "Really?" I replied. "Yah! Got lot of frustrated housewife in mainland you know! They kena love young man like you! Can earn good money, you know??!!" I politely declined, bought him a round to shut him up and was on my way.
My travel agent was an awesome dude. A true minority in the makeup of Malaysia. A muslim Indian. He offered me a ride to the airport because he had to pick up his children further afield anyway. His wife was in the car too, and we spoke freely about all the things that concerned us as Malaysian citizens; from our unique perspectives as different constituents from within the Malaysian population. They shared their concerns about their children growing up in a Muslim country that marginalised them as being less "pure" muslims than Malays, simply because of the fact that they were Muslims of a different genealogy. I spoke of the prejudices that the Chinese face, despite our economic prowess, and spoke even more of the unique situation that I have always found myself in; being half European and half Chinese in a muslim country. Eventually, we got on to the grand subject of the next elections. Much laughter filled the car on that trip, as well as moments of silent reflection... no doubt on the matter of the gravity of the subjects we so vainly disguised with laughter.
I got to the airport and thanked my kind new friends, and boarded the plane to the land of a thousand smiles.
Arrivederci Penang... Hello Bangkok.
Cops. Bloody Malaysian, corrupt bastard cops. So there I was riding around Langkawi helmetless as I always do. But hey, on the last day Mr. Murphy decides to pay me a visit and tells me that I've been getting away with the common sense approach to biking on an island for too long. So after booking my ticket, I pull out of the airport on my motorbike, skull-masked and all... and don't get 10 metres before a bloody overweight bastard cop on the pavement flags me down. It must be my incrementally advancing age that stopped me from revving full throttle and tearing down the strip, because I know the younger Dan would have done so.
After having to bribe the cop (for the very first time in my whole 26 years, I might add!! I shall expand on West Malaysian Police corruption later) I headed back to John's place, packed my bags, had lunch, said goodbye to friends and made my way to the Lapangan Terbang. The plane ride was interesting. I had to practically punch the overweight Indian gent beside me awake so as to not-so-politely ask him to cease his horrendously loud snoring. Yeah. It was baaad. As was his B.O., which I'm sure I was not the sole person that suffered it. I later received muted applause from surrounding passengers for my efforts.
Landing in Penang, I caught a taxi to Georgetown. Georgetown really is the hub of all interesting things for backpackers to see in Penang. Sure, it may have a touristy vibe, but to be perfectly honest, the rest of Penang, excluding Batu Ferringhi, doesn't really have much to offer for the traveller, as it mostly consists of drab shophouses with no character. I spent some time on the mainland that day too; taking photos and walking around conversing and scaring locals with my Chinese and Malay skills. But my backpack was set down in Georgetown.
It's a place with so much character. There is just so much for the photographer to immerse himself in. Traditional buildings greet your lens on every corner, and the locals going about their daily business just demand a couple of surreptitious shots here and there. I've been in Penang many a time before, but this time I decided to settle for a backpacker hotel right on Jalan Pinang; one of three places called "Banana hotel". Don't let the dodgy name fool you. It was all I needed, and it made me happy. As usual, I got royal treatment from the staff for the mere fact that I was a white looking man that spoke all the local lingo, and had a Malaysian passport. Later that night I went to the 711 next door to pick up provisions and met a fantastic girl who had the decency and bravery to invite a pale-skin mohawked Malaysian to party with her and her friends. What a good night that was.
The main clubbing area in Penang is around Georgetown, and the top clubs there are Mois, and a place with the questionable name of Slippery Senoritas. Upon ducking into ""SS" as it is called, I realised that I had been there many a drunken moon ago with some other friends. But Mois was rockin' that night. We were treated to VIP goodness, all thanks to my svelte companion, and we rocked it out all night to some funky tunes. Yeah, this white boy can dance. When the mood is right, anyway.
I woke up with yet another pounding headache the next morning amongst other things, and was greeted upon my entrance from the hotel by a local crazy who insisted on trying to pat my mohawk for its originality. Dude... hangovers and crazy people trying to rub your head really don't go well together. Regardless, after getting some local grub in my system I booked my tickets for Bangkok and spent the rest of the available day taking loads of pictures of a place that has always held a special place in my Malaysian heart. The combination of the delightful food that is only found in Penang, mixed with the street scenes and interesting people watching made the rest of the day a joy. Even with an evil hangover.
I had an interesting conversation with a local at a bar while quenching my ""mat salleh" thirst for beer on a hot day. Hair of the dog, you know. "Waiyah.. you look like ang moh (white man) but can speak local aaah... I got business opportunity for you, you know!" "Really?" I replied. "Yah! Got lot of frustrated housewife in mainland you know! They kena love young man like you! Can earn good money, you know??!!" I politely declined, bought him a round to shut him up and was on my way.
My travel agent was an awesome dude. A true minority in the makeup of Malaysia. A muslim Indian. He offered me a ride to the airport because he had to pick up his children further afield anyway. His wife was in the car too, and we spoke freely about all the things that concerned us as Malaysian citizens; from our unique perspectives as different constituents from within the Malaysian population. They shared their concerns about their children growing up in a Muslim country that marginalised them as being less "pure" muslims than Malays, simply because of the fact that they were Muslims of a different genealogy. I spoke of the prejudices that the Chinese face, despite our economic prowess, and spoke even more of the unique situation that I have always found myself in; being half European and half Chinese in a muslim country. Eventually, we got on to the grand subject of the next elections. Much laughter filled the car on that trip, as well as moments of silent reflection... no doubt on the matter of the gravity of the subjects we so vainly disguised with laughter.
I got to the airport and thanked my kind new friends, and boarded the plane to the land of a thousand smiles.
Arrivederci Penang... Hello Bangkok.
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