Casting off the Shackles

Rest assured, I will continue the blog and finish the third instalment of the Viner story.

Being back 'home' has left me confused and lethargic. I struggle through my days in a near state of delirium and am being viewed increasingly as an eccentric in my rigid corporate environment.

The pressure to restrain my rather outgoing personality is causing great distress, cracks are appearing and odd comments occasionally burst forth causing discord and confusion in the office.

Tomorrow I face a sort of star chamber inquisition where I must justify my presence in the office to a table of superiors who, in a way I can not quite fathom, have become a sort of omnipresent spectral force chewing away at my will.

A breaking point has been reached. Change is in the air.

This very day fate intervened and I managed to find a cheap ticket abroad, departing very soon - before the end of the month. Sitting in my cubicle, struggling to write my "value added report" an impulse came over me and I pulled out my credit card and purchased the ticket.

The fact that I actually HAVE a credit card is distressing enough. I am totally unprepared for travel. Money is going to be very tight. I'm taking a bold leap into the maw of madness, but I feel like Atlas after a visit from the Death Star.

Tomorrow, emboldened and impaired from lack of sleep I will stand before my masters, denounce the meeting as a witch hunt, tender my resignation, and shrug off my chains.

Sweet freedom!

My plans are not at all well thought out. Far from it, this is a blind impulse born of sheer desperation, but I feel damn good about it.

As for this blog, I have barely scratched the surface of what I have wanted to tell. I have purposely refrained from starting the big stories, the grand events that have shaped me into the creature I am today. There is more, so much more that it will get to the point that anyone believing this to be a work of non-fiction will be considered quite mad.

Stay tuned. This may very well end up being my career.

God knows I'm no good for anything else.

A State of Mind

I am in awe today.

The Blackberry is leading me on merry adventures, through twisting office passages, up barren stairwells, and through mazes of cubicles. I pass the Minions, pecking away at their computers, gossiping lightly or taking nourishment out of steaming styrofoam cartons of gruel.

My disguise is nearly complete. I have managed to find a black cashmere trench coat from Holt Renfrew at a local Salvation Army for $14.99. Now I can walk confidently; one of them. As I approach the secretaries, a look of uncertain fear can be seen in their eyes, an expectation of an important meeting they had no knowledge of. Relief floods them when reveal I am only there to attend to their printer. They can relax. I am not important after all. But I look the part. As someone who was once mistaken for a homeless person by homeless people, I am now mistaken for an executive. Fluidity, adaptation. Be the role.

I am free.

Free to move around without attracting attention, silently walking among what can only be described as chaos built on unfathomable layers of human folly.

I plunge into the passages of the underground, walking between towers. Crowds of tunnel dwellers move nimbly through the brightly lit, marble labyrinth or sit, eating slop ladled out by smiling uniformed attendants from colourful establishments.

Christmas shoppers struggle with their bags of wrapped trinkets, chatting lightly in anticipation of material elevation. Stern businessmen stand in groups facing each other, contemplating abstract numbers with grim consternation. Enormous flashing televisions bark an endless stream of nonsense from the walls thrumming out a deep baritone over the constant staccato of insect chatter.

As one tower underbelly transitions into another, a brief respite from idle luxury materializes in the form of a subway entrance. The floor is covered in streaks of grime and puddles of melted, salty snow that has slid from high, fashionable boots. Bearded men wearing strange hats and necklaces play guitars while briskly walking people offhandedly toss change into the empty cases without stopping to listen. Silver airtight doors are constantly nudged open as the unceasing mass sweeps through to the bowels of yet another tower, identical apart from a new shade of marble.

I am ushered along, in amidst the flow. There is no need to navigate, every time I try, I find myself alone in a dead end or cul-de-sac where well dressed people sit on benches enjoying a brief rest from the swarming, endless line of walkers.

I am carried along to my destination, keys cards flash out to unlock the elevator, and doors. I nod to the secretary, and enter a huge room of cubicles. Strange green shoots grow from pots on ledges. I can’t identify the species. Curious, I stop, reach out and touch one. Fake. Plastic, wiped down occasionally by uniformed late night cleaners to remove the dust that would shatter the illusion. What can grow under this harsh, unnatural fluorescent lighting?

Rows of them, tapping at their keyboards, secured in their cubicles adorned with teddy bears and photographs. I pass, some lift their heads, most are too involved. In the kitchen I find my printer and set to work.

The Blackberry gives a buzz, and I turn onward to another destination. Another walk through the tunnels, more doors to beep open with my card. Another office.

I am in awe today.

I am a stranger here.

I have returned only to continue to travel.

In Good Company

"Yeah, I know them. They're Gooks! GOOKS!"

I cringed, sheepishly looking over at the table of Koreans beside us. Barry was a very large man, and even when he wasn't drunk and bellowing, his normal speaking voice could probably be heard clear across the bay in Puerto Galera proper. The horrid scowl he was aiming in the direction of the Koreans didn't improve the already tense atmosphere.

It was New Years. I was staying in a beautiful little resort a couple kilometres outside the town of Puerto Galera in the Philippines. At my table was an eclectic mix of individuals, all of them at least 20 years my senior.

Greg, a hardened New Zealand Navy cook stared at his plate, saying nothing.

Greg lived in a house on the resort grounds with his Filipina wife. He spent every other month at sea and, when back, usually polished off a bottle of vodka before noon on a daily basis. That was just to warm him up.

"I spent a lot of time in Russia" He would explain with a toothy grin when questioned about his drinking prowess. I had heard the story; he had been stationed in some god forsaken place in Siberia with no company but a few Russians who couldn't speak English, and an endless supply of vodka.

"GOOKS! GOOKS!" The Koreans didn't react, I was sure that most of them could speak English, and even if they didn't, it was well known as a derogatory way to address them.

"It means 'Post Office'" Barry said, glancing our way with a grin.

It didn't. But I was not going to contradict Barry, and incur the attention of his unpredictable wrath. He had spent time in Korea, Songtan in fact, with the US Military. But, not as much time as I had. I knew their language far better than he.

As I had been a fixture in Songtan for the past few years, it was a pivotal area of our friendship. In his more sober moments, usually in the morning, we would sit and recall fond memories of the place. He had been there almost two decades before I, but it had changed little it seemed, as we exchanged stories of our exploits up and down Aragorn Alley and The Strip.

"Barry..." The Colonel said softly, trying in vein to quell his growing senseless anger.

The Colonel was famous in these parts. An elderly, dignified Filipino war veteran, he had single handedly stopped the rebellion against Marcos. Being a crack pilot, he had strafed the hordes of angry Filipinos gathering outside the palace, killing an unknown number, and sending the rest fleeing for their lives. It was an experience he wasn't proud of, but he was a soldier, and defending the corrupt Marcos had been his job. He was a war hero, and men of his stature were held in very high regard here, even though Marcos is universally hated to this day.

The Colonel was also a figure of infamy in Puerto Galera. He was well known for getting drunk, pulling out his .45 pistol, and shooting people.

"He's shot 5 people here in the last 4 years!" Greg had exclaimed, beaming. "Don't worry, he caught them creeping around here at night, this place is one of the safest places you can stay in the Philippines, EVERYBODY knows The Colonel!”

And so it seemed, but that had not stopped the assassination that had taken place a few months ago.

"It was right over there" Greg had said, motioning with his chin as we were sitting in the dining area one beautiful morning. The man had come in, and ordered a beer and light meal. Upon finishing, he got up, walked to the order desk, and shot the owner's brother in the head. After firing two more shots to make sure the man was dead he turned and politely addressed the horrified diners. He apologized profusely for the inconvenience, and urged the diners to finish their meals. Then he paid up, and casually sauntered down the kilometre of unpaved dusty jungle track that connected to the main road.

"No, you're safe here" Greg had reassured me after noting my expression upon hearing this. "I've got my 9mm, The Colonel is a crack shot with his .45, and Barry! Barry is armed to the teeth, and everybody around here knows it!"

Yes, I was in good company.

"Gooks! I know them! Suck your dick for two bucks!"

Barry had completely destroyed the pleasant dining atmosphere by now. Greg, tired of this behaviour, had gotten up and walked off, joining his family at another table. The Colonel slumped in his chair, and I remained silent. It was uncomfortable, but I didn't want to abandon the table just yet. Despite his off moments, which were frequent, I enjoyed Barry's company.

"I know Gooks! I know...SOJU!" His deafening voice taking on a sly tone.

A couple of the Koreans looked over.

"Yeah, now I got their attention! Soju! Soju!" He continued, cracking a wide grin. The Koreans smiled back.

Barry had the uncanny ability to carry an impossibly fearsome scowl at one moment, then suddenly transform his face into an impishly disarming grin. It was something to behold, and it had worked on the Koreans, temporarily relieving the tension.

I picked at my food. The evening had started off well. All the guests had gathered in the restaurant for the banquet that the staff had prepared. Spirits were high, and the Filipinos joined the residents while The Colonel stood up and made a speech. After the applause Barry had leapt up and cut into the lechon pig, presenting it to The Colonel. "The Colonel gets the first taste! He's the Patriarch!" He shouted to the cheering diners.

But now, the party was nearly over. Several of the guests had already fled back to their rooms. Barry was impossible to ignore, and he had single handedly ruined New Years.

I took advantage of the momentary lull, and abandoning my plate, returned to my room. As I sat at my laptop, I could hear Barry engaging in a loud argument with Adella, Greg's sister in law. I really liked Barry, he was great company when he was sober, but famous for this type of behaviour when drunk. I felt like a bit of a traitor for abandoning him.

"He has no friends - except us" Greg had told me later. "He does that all the time, until everybody leaves and he ends up drinking alone"

I thought about Barry in my room; a sad, lonely old man, emotionally crippled by his experience in Vietnam. He lived alone in the Philippines, moving from one place to another when those around him made it clear his presence was intolerable. He was a tragic figure.

It was starting to approach midnight, and the firecrackers that had been going off in town became a constant roar. I walked out of my room through the darkness, passing the open air restaurant. Barry was there, sullenly sitting alone, drinking in the now fully abandoned restaurant. I made my way to the beach, lit a cigarette and watched as the first streaks of colour exploded up from the other side of the bay. Smoke was rising from the town, and cheers could be heard above the constant sound of the firecrackers.

"Don't look there, look here!"

Barry had come up behind me, and pointed in the direction of the small isthmus that connected our island to the mainland.

"They do this every year, and spend a lot of money - wait for it!"

Just then a barrage of light split the darkness. Fire roared up into the sky and burst into colour.

Barry went wild with delight; he began to prance around screaming "I love you FIlipinos! I Love you!" I watched his huge silhouette against the back drop of exploding colour.

It was a fantastic show, made all the better by the brushfire that almost immediately sprang up on the hills.

"It's burning, it's burning!" Barry screamed with abandon.

The show continued, and in cadence the flames rose to a height of thirty or more feet.

"Watch out! Shit's coming down! Shit's coming down!" Barry was laughing hysterically. We were being bombarded with the expended, burning casings. I flung my arms up to shield my head and began to laugh uncontrollably.

We stood there and watched the crescendo, the sky lit up with a frenzy of explosions, smoke rising in a pillar from the town, our connection to the mainland cut off by wild brush fires, all the while being peppered from above by burning bits of cardboard. Barry screamed with delight "All for us! All for us!"

It was a moment I'll remember forever, Barry had been transformed as if the fire had burned the bitterness and anger from his very soul. I felt renewed, charged with pure energy. It seemed, somehow, like my entire life led up to witnessing this very instant in time. I became profoundly aware that there was a pure spirit deep down in every one of us, and no matter what was done to shroud it; it would forever burn with the intensity of that moment.

Finally, it was over. I walked back through the darkness to my room, overcome with emotion and in deep thought. Reaching my door I looked up and saw that for several miles up and down the coast, the flames of wild fires were licking the sky.

The Scams of David Viner, Part 2 - The Investigation

Click here for part one.

I was furious. Not only did I feel outsmarted, but Viner had befriended me, and betrayed my trust. He has stolen my book, and being a micro budget traveller at this point, was counting on reading to pass some of the duller moments. The near nightly ritual of longingly watching friends go out to places that were well beyond my meagre financial resources.

Five hundred baht is not a lot of money, but it was to me at this time. It could have paid nearly a weeks rent or bought endless amounts of precious water needed so desperately in the tropics. Just recently, I had been delighted to discover a water machine hidden in the bewildering market across the street that sold a litre for 2 baht, if you brought your own bottle. The book has cost quite a bit as well, I thought, as I tallied up the damage Viner had done to me.

The more I thought about Viner the more curious I became. Here was a man of obvious intelligence, with all the hallmarks of an upper class education and upbringing. What was a man of his pedigree doing, wandering around the backpacker's slums scamming travellers for the equivalent of $15 dollars each? I started to get very interested in finding out as much as I could about this mysterious man.

I began to wonder if he might be a wanted criminal, on the run for executing high level confidence tricks among the English elite. Perhaps he was being pursued by Interpol, hiding amid the labyrinthine streets of Bangkok, forced to lower himself to conning backpackers to survive. Or maybe he had already worked the richer areas of the city, and was resting on his laurels, keeping his skills sharp, waiting for the heat to die down.

Also considered was the possibility that he was a murderer, affiliated with some kind of mafia or a human trafficker. He could have been operating a boiler room - the possibilities were endless. It came across my mind that he could be a very dangerous man. Sometimes, it's better not to inquire too deeply into the reasons a man chooses to live in the nether regions of Asia.

Admittedly, the trick he had pulled on me was a crude one, and upon reflection, I felt a fool. But he had done it so smoothly and effortlessly that I was sure he was capable of much greater feats in his unusual choice of occupation.

Nonetheless, I had a great deal of confidence in my own abilities, and was determined not to be outsmarted again. I had, by now, ceased to be angry and was driven by curiosity. I wanted to know his story.

I went out to look for Mike, who I hadn't seen since I had met Viner. Perhaps he could provide some clues. It turned out that Mike had gone, and his urgent business downtown had actually been another one of his futile attempts to re-enter Burma, and return to his beloved Mandalay.

I decided to go to the guesthouse where I knew Viner had stayed. In Thailand, to check into any hotel, a passport is required; your details are taken down and are sent off weekly to the police. This was the law. But rules in Asia are seldom followed, especially in Bangkok, whose underbelly of crime was rotten to the core. If one has the money, anything is possible, legal or not.

I walked past the festering mattresses lining the alley leading to the filthy guesthouse that Viner had previously occupied. On entering, I was greeted by the owner who was working the desk. I politely asked if I could take a look at his registry.

“Why?” His eyes were suspicious.

I relayed the story, which seemed to amuse him greatly. He cackled with delight at my determination to track down a man for a mere 500 baht. Giving me a big grin revealing blackened, uneven teeth, he tossed the registry my way. I eagerly opened the tattered book, flipping through the yellowed pages, and scanning for Viner’s name. There, about half way down, on the last page I found his entry, and more importantly his passport number!

I was delighted. Borrowing a pen and scrap of paper, I took it down. I examined his signature, a dignified, looping script carefully penned with a steady hand. I committed it, as much as I was able, to memory. My broken toothed friend was looking on, interested now and eager to help. I asked him if he remembered this man, and described him. He confirmed that he did.

I proceeded to extract the following information from the owner. Viner had checked in with an expired, British passport, which had the corner cut off. The excuse he gave upon checking in was the same story he had told me. He had been carrying a simple plastic shopping bag, and nothing else. He had been a model, quiet tenant, and caused no problems. He had left no information about where he was going, but he had mentioned that his previous lodgings had been on Rambutree, just off Khao Sahn road.

The owner seemed delighted in these proceedings, and was of eager assistance. It amused him to no end that this unusual guest, staying at a place that only the down and out frequented, turned out to be a confidence trickster. He wished me the best of luck, and I left with his jabbering laughter following me out the door.

Armed with this new information, I proceeded to walk to Rambutree. The bus was too expensive, as saving two baht could buy me a litre of water. I didn’t mind, I was pleased to have a project, which cost me nothing, to occupy my time. I strolled down Samsen Boulevard over canals, and past the shops in the sweltering heat. The canals in Bangkok were always of interest to me, as they simultaneously appeared to be choking with both pollution and life. Buying a small steam bun for lunch, I stopped on a bridge. Tossing in a few crumbs of bread and watching the surface explode with hungry fish vying for a meal, I marveled at the sight.

Walking on, I passed what I had nicknamed “The Mysterious House of Purple Stained Cats”. A place owned by an ancient woman, selling unknown dried substances out of large jars. There were always at least a dozen cats outside this establishment, patched with inexplicable purple blotches. I never did find out what she was selling.

Eventually, I reached Rambutree, and started checking guesthouse registries. Most of these guesthouses were staffed with young, overworked and underpaid Thais. They were unconcerned at my request to see the registry, and would hand it over without trouble. I scanned for Viner’s name, and passport number, finding nothing in the first few guesthouses. This didn’t take too long, as I knew his check-in date at Broken Tooth’s. It was easy to follow the entries, and select the appropriate page. However, as failure mounted, I started to get discouraged. Perhaps he had other passports.

The heat was draining me, as I finally stood before a guesthouse that I knew was infamously populated with heroin junkies. I hesitantly walked in; passing a few of the emaciated, hollow eyed denizens, and opened the registry that was sitting on the abandoned counter. And it was there, that I found the name and unmistakable signature of my target, David Viner.

“What are you doing?” shouted the voice of the owner who was returning to his station. He slammed the registry shut. I raised my eyes to see a seedy looking Thai man, who was eyeing me with suspicion and distrust. A few of the residents who were slouching in the lobby looked up listlessly. I attempted to explain my plight to no avail. “I don’t give information on our residents, get out!” I knew that there was no arguing. This man knew full well knew the nature of his guests, and both he and I didn’t want any difficulties. Any further pursuit along these lines could get me in deep trouble, and easily in over my head. There was a distinct probability that this guest house was owned by, or had direct connections with the Thai mafia. There was nothing to do but leave this distressing environment. I walked out, dejected, with the empty eyes of the hopeless inhabitants silently following me.

The trail had gone cold, and there was nothing for it but to splurge, and treat myself to a frosty beer Chang to reward myself for my efforts, and quell my thirst in the unrelenting heat. I had known for a long time where the cheapest beer on the street was sold, and turned heel to the alcoholic equivalent of the heroin guesthouse.

This place was usually busy, and I was forced to share a table with one of the many drunks who could be found here from opening until closing. Sipping my beer, my new companion engaged me in conversation, and I started relaying my tale.

“Viner!” an angry voice exploded from the table beside me. I looked up to see a decrepit, crippled old man, seated in a wheelchair with fire emanating from his suddenly lucid eyes.

“That bastard!”

I had found another victim of the notorious David Viner.

Check back for Part Three - The Confrontation

A Side Dish of Cockroach

We were having dinner below decks, The Captain and I. It was a risk, as we had left the cockpit unmanned. Nobody was present to watch for oncoming merchant ships, but it was our nightly ritual to sit down to a proper dinner in an attempt to interject a bit of civilization into what was a thoroughly uncivilized affair.

The Captain was a gruff old fellow, a no nonsense type of red blooded American with the old can-do attitude one rarely finds in the breed nowadays. Through our journey he had managed to repair or jurry-rig everything that had broken down on that tired old vessel. And a frightful list of things had gone terribly wrong already.

The Captain had purchased the ship for a mere six thousand dollars. A 54-foot sailing ketch that he had picked up in the Caribbean; it had been all but been destroyed in a hurricane. He had proudly showed me some pictures of his new acquisition during our initial first few days at sea. It had a hole in it the size of a Volkswagen bug. It was afloat, and he had somehow patched the gaping wounds and restored the lines of the hull, but it was not much improved from its original condition.

We had had several dangerous encounters with merchant ships already. When you are on a collision course with an oncoming ship, a great number of things have to be considered quickly. As a sailing vessel, We were the slowest and least manoeuvrable thing on the ocean. The law of the sea granted us the right of way, and these giant behemoths were obligated to yield, and change course to avoid us. This had not happened once. Attempts to communicate had failed, every time.

There is precious little time to make a decision upon first spotting an oncoming vessel. From the moment its light becomes visible, you have between three and ten minutes to alert the ship, or fall off course. It was hard to believe when staring out at that endless expanse of horizon. But horrible, crushing death can come upon you that quickly. And we we running dark, without a radar reflector. It was in The Captain's infernal temperment to consider lights and radar useless.

On one occasion, early in the journey, I had spotted an approaching vessel. It was night, and I had misread its trajectory, believing it would pass behind us. Almost too late, I realized my mistake. I flung myself below and scrambled to the radio.

"Merchant Ship! Merchant Ship! We are on a collision course, fall off, fall off!" I was met with silence on the radio, no matter how many times I repeated my desperate message. My cries into the radio had awoken The Captain, and shrugging off sleep, he dashed through the companionway to assess the situation for himself. Immediately grabbing for the ten million candle power beam, he shone it up to illuminate the voluminous expanse of sail. The white sails lit up, reflecting the light, creating a beacon that could be seen from horizon to horizon.

We waited.

Still the Juggernaut plowed through the sea toward us.

"We have to fall off!" The captain shouted.

We had no choice and no time to spare, I could now make out the hull of the ship in the darkness, and hear the sea parting as the great weight of the thing pushed relentlessly forward.

He leaned on the tiller, turning hard to port, mindless of the now wildly luffing sails.

There was always a chance that the ship could change course, or respond to our message too late, creating a new collision course, but we had no option at this point, the beast was upon us.

The roaring of the parting water of the ship's passage could now be heard over our own engine. I watched as a black monolith blotted out the stars to our starboard. It couldn't have been more than one hundred metres away. As it passed I stared up in amazement, shocked at this trespass of the unbroken horizon I had looked out upon for so long.

It left us wildly bobbing in the turbulence of its wake. The powerful engines creating a deep, throbbing hum that sent a violent vibration through our tiny vessel. We watched silently as its roar gradually softened, and it eventually disappeared from view.

"Goddammit!" The Captain cursed. "Asleep at the helm! Or more likely playing cards and drinking below decks!"

"If he had hit us, we'd have been done for!" The Captain exclaimed.

"Well," I asked, "wouldn't he have come back and searched for survivors?"

"Are you kidding? They'd have run us down and never felt a thing!"

Our dinners were hardly a relaxed affair, with this omnipresent threat lurking deep in the inky night all around us.

A large cockroach scuttled across the floor. The Captain paused his meal long enough to lean over and kill it with the flat of his hand. He stabbed at the corpse with his fork, picking it up and scraping it off onto the side of his plate. Undaunted, he turned his attention back to the remaining portion of his food.

“Damn things eat each other and just keep breeding” He grumbled.

It was true, the cockroaches were an invincible force of procreation, and no amount of slaughter could slow their ever increasing numbers. However, it was in The Captain's nature to never give up.

I finished up my meal, and made my way out into the frigid night, to watch.

The Scams of David Viner, Part 1 - The Encounter

Living in Bangkok there is never a dull moment. All you have to do for entertainment is park yourself on the street, and observe the chaos that continually swirls around you. It never fails to provide amusement. But, on occasion, no matter how careful you are, that vortex turns in an unexpected direction, and suddenly envelopes you.

Walking up the street I spotted Mandalay Mike. Mandalay Mike was a point of curiosity in that he was not abnormal in any way. A congenial, good natured, intelligent American fellow, he seemed completely out of place amid the outrageous characters that populated that town. He had spent the previous year or two in Burma, eventually getting deported for political reasons, and was a fixture on our little soi.

The street was littered with tables on the sidewalk, each being serviced by the adjacent establishment. The foreigners, by some unconscious agreement, had chosen this particular table at which to gather. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact the the prettiest girl on the street served us.

As I sat down, Mike was just standing up, proclaiming some urgent business somewhere in town. I was left with his companion, who I had never met. I took a moment to look for character flaws or any obvious signs of derangement, you can never be too careful.

He was an elderly man with a dignified air. His white hair, gold rimmed glasses and neatly clipped beard gave the impression of class and intelligence. His use of the English language was masterly, and he spoke with a cultivated London accent. I was impressed by his demeanor and in the the first few minutes of conversation, found myself enjoying his company.

After the initial pleasantries and a few keen insights were exchanged, I asked him whether he was enjoying his time in Thailand. After a subtly vague, reluctant answer I was left with the idea that something was wrong, and I presented the question again, this time more firmly.

He took on a weary yet slightly embarrassed expression as if he was reluctant to burden me with his problems. He told me that he had been robbed at a Starbucks while turning for a moment to place the newspaper back. His bag, passport, wallet - everything had been taken. I was shocked and asked him how he had been getting by, noting the cold beer in front of him. He replied that he had spent the first three days at the airport, until the idea came upon him to pawn his wedding ring. That had provided the modest amount of money needed to stay at the shoddiest guesthouse on the street and the comfort of a cold beer in the heat of the tropics. But, he added, not to worry, his Japanese wife on Hokkaido was in the process of sending some money, and all would be rectified soon.

I was overwhelmed with concern for this poor old man, and immediately offered to help him financially, to get him by in relative comfort for the next couple of days, until his money arrived. He reluctantly allowed me to force a 500 baht bill into his hands, and spent the rest of our conversation in praise of my good nature.

For the next two days I would meet David at our table and delight in his conversation. He was intelligent, and well versed on a great number of topics. It was some of the most enjoyable conversation I've ever had. I offered him a book I had just bought to ease him through the duller moments before his money arrived.

David appeared to enjoy my company as well. For a further three days he would be waiting at the table, cold beer in front of him, eager to pick up where we had left off the previous evening. I started taking note of his beer consumption, and began to get suspicious. After asking when his his money would finally arrive, he told me there were no Western Unions on Hokkaido, so his wife had to travel quite a distance to get to one. I knew that Hokkaido was the most remote area of Japan, I even had an old friend who lived there, but I found it hard to believe there was no way to wire money from the island.

The next day, David was not there. I had been suspicious the night before, and I was sure he had picked up on it. A couple more days passed, there was no sign of him, he had vanished from the street. During that time I had called my friend in Japan and asked about the presence of Western Unions on Hokkaido. he told me Hokkaido was not the Canadian Arctic, and of course there were Western Unions there. Further investigation on the internet provided me with proof that indeed, Hokkaido was all but riddled with them.

I'm not a vengeful person, but it bothers me a great deal to be outsmarted. Besides, he had taken my book. I vowed to find this David Viner, and make him pay.

Click here for part two

Six Months in Korea, Temporary Escape

Tonight, I fly out to Bangkok. Six months in Korea have left me a broken shell of my former self, and I can hardly wait to struggle through my day, hop on a plane, and fly off this cursed rock for awhile.

Korea is easily the most annoying country I’ve ever had the opportunity to spend time in, however I’ll attempt to focus on the good points, which, bizarrely enough, generally involve near fanatic Christians.

These people have been so kind and attentive to me, that I hope some day I’ll have a chance to express my gratitude in return. Most of these Christians are my fellow co-workers, and they almost shower me with gifts on a daily basis, they are always sensitive to my moods, and will make a Herculean effort to ferret out what’s wrong in stuttering broken English if I appear less than my jovial, radiant best. They are easily some of the kindest, most selfless people I’ve ever met.

My experiences in Korea have been limited, but there have been interesting points to consider.

I’ve attended a Korean traditional wedding, which sadly, is fairly rare nowadays as the Korean youth attempt to mimic everything American. It was very interesting, and rather short, but it involved a great number of traditionally clad, costumed drummers madly dancing around the entire wedding party beating a great rhythm out on traditional Korean drums. They spun long tassels perched on their hats by rotating their heads to the beat.

The bride was Chinese, and she was not supposed to smile, but she couldn't help breaking out in laughter as she passed me and our eyes met, we were the only two foreigners there, and it must of seemed to her that any Westerner would have found her elaborate costume, and heavily painted face an amusing sight.

A chicken in a box was also somehow involved, and I was almost expecting a ritual slaughter, but it was merely presented to the new couple. On being taken from the box, the chicken promptly staged a daring escape and a long chase ensued, involving all the costumed drummers until she was finally run down and deposited, indignantly, back into her cage.

I’ve visited the Korean Folk village, where traditionally costumed Koreans, live in traditional Korean dwellings and engage in traditional Korean activities all day. I witnessed them making rope, candles, threshing grain, planting rice and mending fences. In the centre of all of this inexplicably stood a mini theme park and video game arcade, the noise emanating from here spoiled what would have been a very tranquil setting.

I’ve done my best to teach about one hundred and fifty Korean children, ranging from four to eighteen, with almost no resource materials in a terribly disorganized and chaotic setting. Some of them are incredibly snarky, some of them are really great kids. When I leave this place I’m really going to miss a few of my favourite students.

I’ve been lost in the mountains only to be rescued by passing Korean motorists upon finally descending to some unidentifiable road, in an unidentifiable town. Much of Korea looks exactly the same, and the roads are unnamed. My benefactor was so taken by my manner that she went out of her way to go to my school to tell Mrs. Lee what a nice person I was.

I’ve done all night pub crawls both here and in Seoul, stumbling back home, Korean style while the sun peeks over the mountains. One night in Seoul I was lost and hopelessly incapacitated by Korean traditional wine.

My state of mind was such that I couldn’t find the station where I was to wait for my bus. I had to take a thirty-dollar cab ride home. Usually these nights involve my fellow teachers in this area, but I’ve lately been going out with Koreans, my co-workers.

One, who is named Jin, is a nice guy that is trying his best to break his culturally ingrained programming. He keeps taking his accounting certification, and failing, but he has no real desire
to pursue the dreary life of a number cruncher, and I’m afraid I’ve kindled his imagination with stories of my exploits as well as radical ideas such as straw bale building. He comes from a wealthy family, and I suspect he is the ‘Black Sheep’. I like him, and I have some hope in rescuing him from his terrible, eventual fate. The Koreans are in awe of my drinking ability, modest as it is among standards in the West.

I’ve dined in traditional Korean restaurants, one under the shadow of the Korea's largest Buddha, whose giant visage peers benevolently down on you amid the mountains.

Some experiences, as minor as they are, will stay in my memory forever. I was walking home from dinner one night with Julia, a car’s headlights was illuminating the surface of the local river. Coils of mist were flowing down the river, offering a mystical, truly Asian scene. I managed to take my attention away from the neon lit internet cafes and restaurants, the identical condos, the car headlights, and for a moment I had a clear experience of ancient Asia, and a scene in which I saw clearly had inspired their art and philosophy through the long ages.

So it goes.

Now it’s back to the Kingdom for a couple of weeks, to wander amid the squalor, golden palaces, elephants and the constant shock that is Bangkok.

A Dull Weekend

I was thinking today that posts are reflecting only one side of my experience. You are only getting half the story, there is another, less exciting aspect to life overseas which will be the subject of this post.

This weekend was a bit of a disappointment, Emily is sick with something horrible like scarlet fever, so I didn't make the long awaited trip to Dae-Gu, in a small notion of compensation, I took another trip up to Suwon. I only stayed there for a few hours, but my suspicion that Suwon is far superior to my little village is confirmed. Drunken university students roam the streets, there is a shopping mall and a movie theatre and even a small red light district where stone faced prostitutes are sullenly showcased in brightly lit windows, watching with dread at the prospect of you entering their establishments. Trust South korea to make prostitution boring.

I was tempted to stay the night in Suwon, drinking in the pubs until the first bus was available to shuttle me back home, but I was with Julia and thought that it would probably be better to head back with her. I regret it now, as the remainder of the weekend was filled with a tedium I have rarely had to endure so far in my travels. My boredom was so complete, that I was forced to engage myself with the dreaded chores of cleaning my apartment, and washing clothes. I am now the proud new owner of a drying rack, and a cotton mat. Pictures adorn my walls - the long awaited moment in which I have hung my Naga picture, hauled all the way from Thailand has finally arrived. It now looks as if I'm fairly settled in, and I'm playing with the idea of spending more than the planned six months in Korea. If so, I need a computer, the initial investment will end up saving me money as I donate a weekly fortune to the local internet cafe here.

A good portion of my day was spent hand scrubbing my clothes. There was a week that went by awhile ago when I realized that my feet were getting stinky. I assumed that my shoes had simply trod too many miles amid the filth of the streets in Bangkok, and I cast my mind back to strolling through markets, with a mixture of fresh pig's blood and dirty water flowing beneath my feet. I reasoned that I probably needed new shoes. The true reason was far more horrifying. I was not cleaning my socks properly. One day I got out the old washer board I found in the corner and started running my socks along it, startled at the black water that was streaming out from the freshly washed socks. Surprised, I redid my entire load using this technique and apparently my lacklustre approach to washing was nowhere near adequate. Unfortunatlely, I managed to scrub right through a couple of socks rendering them useless. I have now settled in the happy medium of gentle scrubbing for long periods of time.

It's a terrible chore, and tonight I was idly entertaining the notion that once the science of genetic engineering came along far enough, I would turn myself into a sort of ape man thus negating the need for clothing. My reverie continued, imagining an entire class of ape men, freed at last from the drudgery of cleaning socks and able to devote their time to advancing the fields of art and science to previously unimagined heights.



Washing the kitchen floor was a surprising experience as well. Taking stock of the situation, I noticed that there was a drain in the centre of the floor, and all that was required of me was to dump a mixture of bleach and soap on the floor, proudly employ my new mop and simply push the dirty water directly down the drain.

I took a look at the floor. For some reason it was filthy enough to pass for a stretch of sidewalk in Klong-Toey. The reason for this was unclear, why would the entire apartment be spotless except for the kitchen floor? The unfathomable mysteries of Asia yield their secrets hesitantly, and after awhile you just get used to accepting situations that are created by a bizarre system of logic which is very likely you will never be privy to. Even if I had the owners present, and they spoke perfect English, there would be little point in asking about the situation, as they would probably give me an answer that was simply indecipherable to my poor western mind.

Armed with what seemed like a sound, logical plan, I went ahead and dumped the water on the floor which immediately turned black. That's when I first noticed that the mysterious logic of Asia was going to work against me in this endeavour. The drain appeared to be situated at the high point of the floor, neatly directing all the water sharply away from it and toward the low point which was conveniently located where a bundle of electrical conduit came up from the floor below, containing, of course, live wires.

I gaped in horror for a moment, and then embraced the insane faith that my three dollar, Bangkok special Teva knock offs would surely protect me from any lethal doses of electricity that was sure to stream across the floor at any moment. Leaping in front of the conduit I worked the mop to try and push the water into the drain, to no avail. Apparently a good portion of the apartment had to be entirely underwater before the drain would function as my first glimpse had promised. I took my chances and started to squeeze mopfulls of grimy water down the sink. Luckily, the conduit was well insulated, or waterproof, and the theory of my lifesaving Teva's remains untested.



On another day, after a shower, as I was getting dressed I heard two sharp cracks and then the horrible crash of shattering glass coming from the bathroom. I flung open the door only to see that the bathroom floor was entirely covered with broken glass. It took me a moment to realize where it had come from as the mirror was intact. It was the medicine cabinet door, which had inexplicably popped out of its housing and crashed down on the floor. I examined the housing, which appeared suited to the task of holding up some glass, but the evidence was before my eyes. I cleaned it up after work, leaving some glass on the drain to test an old theory of mine.

One night, as Jordon, Lee and I were sitting beside a horribly polluted stream in Toronto, which we call 'The Purple River', which on occasion turns purple downstream of the Coke plant, Jordon chastised me for throwing and breaking a beer bottle in the middle of this lethally contaminated stream. He informed me that for generations, men and dogs would be hobbled by crossing the river and I had now condemned all future dogs in the area lame by my thoughtless act. I told him that the running water would wear the glass into attractive little brown stones within a week, or less. I am happy to report, that after a mere week of showers, my glass has worn down enough to have now slipped through the drain and disappeared. So Jordan, you can rest easy.

These are some of the duller moments associated with life in small town Korea, but as I explore further, Korea is starting to seem a more attractive place to stay. After this month, I will decide whether to stay longer, but I have the feeling I may be here for a year. I've tossed away good jobs before, only to have suffered through some of the most miserable times of my life.

It's a mistake I'm not eager to repeat.

An Uncomfortable Entry into Japan

In Asia, people are quick to distrust anything outside of normal behaviour. Even in Asia's only first world country, Japan, appearing slightly abnormal is asking for unwanted attention. Immigration policies are tight in Japan, and they have a no nonsense attitude towards anyone breaking the law. There are more foreigners in Japan's immigration jails than anywhere else in the world.

So when Japanese airport security spotted me, with my long hair, cheap Sheik tailored suit and plastic multicoloured travel bags they stopped me and asked where I was coming from.

"Thailand" I said.

"Ohh" A thoughtful pause and appraising once over with their keen and penetrating eyes. "What do you have in your bags?" They asked gently, their gaze never leaving mine, waiting for my reflex reaction of guilt.

Now I am terrible dealing with authority. I feel guilty, even when I haven't done anything, and tend to get increasingly nervous which, of course, raises the suspicions of my inquisitors. It didn't help that I had no sleep, and was dealing with the kind of hangover only Chang beer can give you.

I answered casually, without pause. "A knife."

This took them back a bit. They weren't expecting this at all. For a moment they blinked in surprise, and then replied "Do you mind if we search your bags?"

"Sure!" I tried to appear casual and upbeat, immediately taking my old Uncle Henry folding knife, given to me by my uncle when I was seven years old, out of the side pocket of my knapsack and slapping it on the counter. Surely, I thought, they will realize that this knife had been with me all my life, and travelled all over the world with me, saving my life on many occasions. They have to note the worn leather sheath, partially chewed by an old dog of mine when she was a puppy. They must see all of this, and understand, I thought naively.

They started rummaging around in my knapsack, pulling out more contraband. My Opinel carbonate carving knife, and a switchblade lighter combo I had bought on Khao Sahn road in Thailand. I had packed in such a rush and been so hungover that I had totally forgotten about this stuff. A sinking feeling of despair came over me. I was in big trouble.

At this time they trotted out a laminated coloured book and presented it to me in that respectful Japanese way. I flipped through a couple pages of pictures of brightly coloured tablets before my mind finally engaged and I realized their intention was to inquire if I was muleing any illegal drugs.

Relief flooded over me. Here was something I could state with authority. With a slightly insulted air of disgust, I passed the book back and shook my head in the negative. How could they accuse me of this? With impeccable timing, they pulled a pill case out of my bag containing tablets of herbal medicine looking exactly like those I had seen in their book. Cold fear came over me, I was going to jail.

"What is this?" They asked gently but sternly.

"Uhhhhh, eyebright" I replied lamely.

"Eyebright!" They exclaimed with incredulity.

My mind was racing. How am I to explain western herbs, herbal medicine and their effects to increasingly suspicious Japanese security who's English was severely limited. My only hope was to be thrown in jail until the pills were analyzed and then perhaps, if I was lucky, released.

The Japanese system of justice is not like ours. If you stand accused of something, you are assumed to be guilty simply because you have been accused. It's not a good country in which to get in trouble.

As I stood wondering what to do one of the security officers was rummaging around in my cheap plastic bag. This bag was filled with junk, all sorts of odds and ends I had bought on impulse, and for some reason had decided to haul to Japan rather than just toss them out. He slowly raised two hands out of my bag, each one holding a slingshot.

There was an uncomfortable silence as they decided where exactly they were going to start with all of this. I had to do something, but what?

"Why do you have the knives?"

Why they chose to ask me this rather than about the pills was a bit of a surprise to me. I can only assume that since they were the first things that had been found, they were simply working in a linear fashion which is often the case in Asia.

An unbidden idea came to my mind, I started talking about Shoji. Shoji is Japanese woodworking, traditional construction and design. A subject which I found fascinating and luckily was well versed in. I waxed eloquently about my desire to learn Shoji, how I was impressed that it was all done by joinery, with no nails involved. Explaining that I was from Canada, where the Cedar trees needed for this type of construction were plentiful. I praised the beauty and simplicity of the design. By this time I had all but forgotten my predicament as I warmed to my topic. I eventually concluded that my trip to Japan was to study this fascinating art from the inventors and masters themselves, the Japanese.

I had not noticed, but during my speech they had repacked all my bags. I looked into their now friendly faces, warmed with proud smiles and they said "You're free to go, enjoy your stay in Japan, and good luck."

I could hardly bring myself to believe it. No further questions about the pills or slingshots. No detention or jail. No confiscation of my precious Uncle Henry. Just a friendly waves of dismissal.

They delay had cost me dearly. I caught the first train into Tokyo and by the time I got there I had seven minutes to navigate the enormous JAL terminal and catch the last bus to Osaka.

When I finally arrived and met my friend who had lived in Japan for a decade, I recounted my story.

"A knife!" He exclaimed. I can't believe they let you in with a knife, I've never heard of anything like this!"

"Three knives" I corrected him.

Objects over Africa

Takoradi harbour is not the most pleasant place in the world to live. It's a fairly filthy place, and while not the busiest harbour in the world, it still had enough merchant ship traffic that I would be occasionally called upon to move our sailing vessel so that some monstrosity could come in and dock in the spot we were occupying. On occasion, we had to anchor overnight while the ship unloaded her goods, or got loaded up with the produce of Ghana. Mostly cocoa beans, which are some of the best in the world.

It wasn't the most tranquil place to sleep. No matter how much I had drank or how little sleep I had the previous night, I was always awoken sharply at 5:30am. While the Captain was disgusted with any sort of sleep beyond this time, I was often able to force some leeway with him, but there was no arguing with The Gravel Cruncher.

At 5:30 every morning, immediately beside our position on the docks, The Gravel Cruncher would roar to life. After a few minutes of priming its ravenous belly, it would pour about 10 tonnes of gravel into a metal receptacle. The racket this created was impossibly loud and rendered sleep absolutely impossible. Even if I managed to sleep again in the interval between the motion of its insatiable jaws, I would be jarred awake on the next pour. Eventually, I would have to face the fact that I might as well drag myself out of my bunk, and face what the day brought me, no matter how hard my head was pounding.

So it was that I was relieved when we took to sea again. Our mission, sail in a back and forth pattern according to precise co-ordinates while taking depth soundings at regular intervals to create a 3d map of the sea floor. This required some precise handling of our overworked little sailing vessel, and, while the Captain had the last word, I was more or less his equal in matters of authority with regards to navigation.

It was a sunny day when we departed, I manoeuvred our beaten up little tub out of the harbour with care and said goodbye to the Gravel Cruncher and a welcoming hello to the silent West African coast.

We made good time getting to our coordinates taking only a few hours, and set to work immediately. It was monotonous work, but the sea has a way of casting a calming spell over your consciousness making just about anything bearable. In my off moments I would find myself with an empty mind, staring at the motion of the waves, with no memory of how long I had been in that state.

Darkness falls early and with great regularity in the tropics close to the equator, and at dusk we held a meeting to have to The Captain announce we would work daylight hours only. At night we were to "stall" against the current and wind. This involved keeping a night watch, and to raise just enough sail in an attempt to maintain our position. My hopes of getting a good night sleep were dashed, as I would have to stay up half the night with Peter, the Dive Master, showing him the ropes. We were assigned first watch and we were to wake The Captain and Jeff, the Dive Instructor halfway through the night for their turn.

After supper Peter and I sat in the cockpit. I had instructed him on the use of the GPS and our finiky Autohelm 4000, and on the basic handling of the vessel. I was satisfied he knew enough to watch alone the following night. Darkness had fallen and we were stalling well against the mighty Guinea current maintaining a more or less static position.

The unpopulated coast was visible as a dark shadow a few miles away. There were no lights or settlements in this area and we were treated to pitch blackness and utter silence apart from the glimmering stars and the gentle lapping of the waves. It was 9 o'clock pm and we we talking quietly about travel and diving. That's when things took a turn for the weird.

It was sudden and shocking. A blue light descended on us from above, starting gently and growing rapidly in intensity, all the more shocking because the silence remained uninterrupted. Peter had been in the middle of a sentence and cut himself off himself shouting "What the FUUUCCC...!". time seemed to slow down, and I sprang into action.

We could not see directly above. Sailing vessels equipped for bluewater have what's called a bimini over the cockpit. A canvas tarp that shields you from the sun, unfortunately it was blocking our view of the source of the steadily growing light. I glanced in the water to see the shattered reflection of the object and determined that it was directly above.

Peter was frozen in mid curse, and I acted unthinkingly. I dove in to the air towards the gunnel, twisting my body so that I was facing upwards, determined to see whatever it was. Time seemed to slow even more, flying through the air looking upward at the dimishing bimini and expanding view of the sky. I seemed to know exactly where it was and as the last inch or two of bimini retreated I remember thinking "this it it!".

As soon as my eyes came into contact with the source of the light, at that very instant, there was a flash. It was so bright, I remember seeing blue sky and white clouds. The night had turned to day. The next thing I remember I was sitting back in the cockpit facing Peter and seeing the daylight actually retreat over the horizon, as darkness enveloped us again. Apart from Peter's exclaimation, there had been dead silence all this time. I checked my watch, it was 9pm.

Peter was frozen in shock, staring off into space. I broke his trance by saying "What was that!". Peter's eyes rolled in his head, he shook himself back to consciousness, and replied forcefully "Nothing!".

"Nothing!" I replied in utter disbelief, knowing full well he had seen what I had. "What was that light?"

I could see his mind desperately searching for somehow to explain it to himself and remain sane. "It was....probably a helicopter or something" he ventured. Knowing how tightly the mind likes to grip its own version of reality, I didn't want to push him too far, and I was fascinated in watching the process of denying one's own senses in favour of long held beliefs and assumptions about what is possible. I tried one more time. "But Peter, there was no noise..". He didn't answer and the rest of our watch was spent in silence.

I didn't mention the incident to Jeff or the Captain upon waking them up, and took along time to fall asleep myself, thinking I almost preferred The Gravel Cruncher over these presented conundrums of reality.

The rest of the mission proceeded uneventfully, and after a week we had our data, which ended up providing a incredibly boring relief map of the sea floor. It's only feature was gently rolling sand dunes. A few days after landing I brought the incident up with Peter again. He had no memory of it anymore.

He had expunged it from his mind entirely.

I thought about this for a long time.

I still do.

One Night In Bangkok

There is just no telling where you're going to end up by making the simple decision to go out for a drink in Bangkok. The plan started off to hit Khao Sahn for a beer, I thought I'd phone Pom and Sun, a couple girls I had met the other night at Gulliver's and meet up with them. Sun is a beautiful girl with almost no English ability and Pom has a good personality. Decent enough company.

Before I left, I thought I'd get the energy level up and bit, and had a Red Bull with a couple pre-beers, I then enlisted my Canadian feminist friend Kat and a Japanese guy to tag along. This turned out to be a bit of a killjoy, as Kat was totally disgusted as soon as we walked into Gulliver's upon observing all the Western men having fun with Thai girls.

Taking some responsibility for their enjoyment, I walked them to one of my favourite outside bars on Rambutree, deposited them at a table, and promptly bailed back to Gulliver's. Pom and Sun were there, but had already engaged themselves with a bunch of English guys. It's not a disheartening prospect to be alone at Gulliver's, and it doesn't take long to find some company, I ended up at the table of a drunken Isaan girl who was waiting for her friend.


After a bit of dancing and drinking, as the bar was closing her friend returned from whatever mysterious errand she was on. A Chinese Thai, heavily made up, it wasn't hard to guess what she had been up to, turning a quick trick at a nearby guesthouse with some Foreigner. She reeked of sex.

They invited me to hit Sukhimvit, and I had nothing better to do, so I tagged along. Leaving the bar I spotted a young western guy with his hands all over a transvestite, oblivious to the fact that he was feeling up a man, I wasn't about to enlighten him, let him learn the hard way.
A quick taxi to the infamous Soi three, near Nana This is where all the prostitutes leaving the bars due to the early closing times collect themselves looking to freelance. A great number of foreigners are drawn here for the prospect of doing business without paying the bar fine. It's quite the scene.



We ended up hitting an Egyptian restaurant ordering Arabic tea and coffee. The Isaan girl, who had been eyeing me all night runs to the gutter and begins vomiting loudly and repeatedly. She's down for the count, and I'm left with Nani, the Chinese Thai freelance prostitute.

Nani had ordered while I was in the bathroom, and I'm surprised when the waiter carts a large water hookah out on the patio and throws some mysterious coals into it. I make a small attempt to inquire what exactly it is that I'm going to be smoking, but the booze is setting in pretty hard, and I'm up for just about anything. We take turns drawing from the pipe and sipping Arabic tea garnished with mint leaves. I start to get a mellow feeling.

Eventually some old fellow ambles by, notes the Isaan girls situation and tosses her into a taxi, Nani tells me it's her grandfather but he looked far too young. I use the moment to quickly duck inside pay the bill, and mumble an excuse to Nani before disappearing into the gloom.

I decide to take a stroll around and take in the atmosphere, a transvestite lurches out of the darkness and follows at my heels for half a block. I ignore the ungainly creature until it slinks away.
I sit briefly at a table of dancers from Nana disco, but I'm soon drawn away in search of water as the hookah has made my mouth incredibly dry. I pass table after table of prostitutes, some alone, some in groups and some with western guys. Another hideous transvestite grabs me and I have to deal with another proposition. I still can't find water.



Eventually I explain my situation to a couple of girls sitting alone, and they invite me to take their water, we get into a bizarre conversation that could only take place in Bangkok. They're prostitutes in Singapore, and consider themselves a cut above the riff raff that surrounds us. One of them is really annoying, and expects me to entertain her, I tell her that she's not doing anything for me, and that quite frankly I'm not going to put out the effort. She takes off in search of a more amiable foreigner, and I chat with her friend for awhile. Interesting girl, I like her, she was going to be married to an English guy, but his parents wisely put the kibosh on the arrangement, lucky for him.

The girl is cool, but my eyes are now getting heavy, I give her a friendly goodbye, flag a taxi and hop in only to note that the driver is far drunker than I am. I give him directions, he tries to charge me about 1000% more than it should be, I laugh and tell him in Thai he's not fooling me. The price is then dictated by the meter, as it should be, and we speed off into the night. I'm not sure if it's the smoke, the booze or my attitude at the moment, but when he stars puking out the window as he drives I feel nothing but amusement.

I tip him ten baht as he lets me off.

Night Walk Home

Teaching can be brutal, it had starting to wear me down a bit, and the continual chess games I was playing with Mrs. Lee were doing nothing to improve my nerves.

To alleviate some stress, I decided to stroll the few kilometres home. It was a pleasant walk, and totally incomprehensible to the Asians why I’d want to endure this kind of torture. When I mention walking for more than 15 minutes, most of them say ‘it’s impossible’. So I didn’t tell anyone to avoid the pleas of accepting a drive and warnings of my imminent death on the side of the road. I just skipped out and started, slinging my Korean schoolbag over my shoulder. After a kilometre or so, I was between towns on a charming country road, surrounded by rice paddies full of chirping frogs. The familiar smells of clover patches did a lot to improve my mood.

I had awoken today ready to quit because I was sure Mrs. Lee was delaying my pay for a week, but it turns out that I'd just lost track of time. It’s seemed like I’d been teaching years but apparently it’d only been two months – unless the two schools were working in tandem to manipulate me. It was possible, but I didn't have the energy those days to bother about a weeks pay. After this money came in on the weekend, I’ll be in a better position having enough cash to flee the country at anytime. I really wanted to stick it out at least six months, but I had a difficult job, and I was hoping that with habituation, it would get easier.

The countryside here is beautiful, it was so nice to spend an hour walking enveloped in a cloak of darkness, washing the memories of the day away. Packs of kids screaming and demanding, not listening, talking in class, interrupting. Teaching can be very difficult. Tomorrow will be worse, seven classes with no break, but then, thankfully it’s the weekend.

The outskirts of Toon-Jon consist of a shanty town, where poor Koreans scurry about in their aluminium roofed hovels, or squat in the dirt smoking cigarettes around piles of burning garbage. I pass through and a few curious eyes turn to follow me. I’m not in the least worried as even if there were trouble, I have enough pent up nervous energy after class to single handedly decimate a horde of emaciated, looting Koreans. But there is seldom any violence here, and I’d be in far more danger walking in downtown Toronto.

Over an ancient bridge spanning a sickly, trickling creek and into Toon-Jon proper, with it’s condos surrounded by budding tomato plants bursting up through plastic bags in neat little rows, tended by withered twisted old ladies. Into my house. I briefly considered lying down, attempting to finish Atlas Shrugged, but Ms. Rand starts a book far better than she finishes one, and I dropped my bag on the floor, changed into sandals and marched out the door to purchase some water, and come to the PC room here.

These Koreans towns are busy places, full of blinking signs of sharply contrasting colours displaying pictures of animals with huge smiles, looking absolutely delighted at the prospect of being butchered and eaten. Drunken Korean men lurch down the street holding each other up, spending their few brief moments away from work rapidly drinking themselves into submission with Soju, the national hooch. On occasion they take notice of me, and once in awhile aggressively demand conversation, which I try and avoid.

The weekend plan was into Seoul, I was planning on drinking and hopefully catching a friend's David Bowie act if he was playing on Saturday. I was too tired on Friday to do anything after the grueling schedule. I was hoping the following week I would have Internet and cable TV at home, So I could entertain myself there rather than spending money here at the internet cafe. I was also expecting my long awaited meeting with Mr. Han, who wanted me to write…something for him. It was a chance for extra cash. Mondays were inexplicably dropped from my schedule, which was fine with me. I could make more with private students anyway. And I didn’t mind the recovery time.