A Take on Thailand and Tourism


A sightly beach and turquoise waters nearly line the main landing strip at Phuket airport, setting the tone right for the scores of sun worshipers as they touch down.But first-time-Thailanders will quickly find that there is a lot more to the country than water and sand.

Granted, Thais are out to make a buck and swarm Westerners, hawking "Taxi!", "Massage!", Cigarettes!", and a few other choice goods and services. But break out past Phuket and its prodigal Patong Beach, and you begin to get a better sense of what this country and its people are about. In our view this is a must-see country. But be advised: when it is high season, go to where it is low.

The American

Jump to Tang Sala, on the Thai island of Ko Pa-Ngan. Tang Sala is the main port town of Thailand's second largest island in the Gulf. Together with Ko Tao and Ko Samui, Pa-Ngan balances Thailand's island offerings on the West side of the peninsula, such as Ko Phi Phi and Ko Lanta in the Andaman Sea.



It's 10:00 at night, and Kate and I stand at the docks talking with a Danish couple, waiting to board an overnight ferry to Surat Thani, on the eastern shore of the mainland. The boyfriend is a paramedic; the girlfriend a nurse - both are taking a break from the dreary winter of Northern Europe for an island hopping tour. Our idle chatter is interrupted by an American man in his late 50s holding a half empty one-liter bottle of Thailand's premier local brew: Singha.

Highjacking the conversation, he tells us how the boat he lived on in Florida was swept away in a hurricane and that he will head back to the States when his insurance claim comes through (he's been waiting five years) or when his social security starts coming through (will have to wait another five years), whichever comes first.

The American has been retracing the steps of his adolescent travels. His father had worked for the CIA through the 50s and 60s, likely intwined in the goings-on in run up to the Vietnam War. Thailand was the primary base of operations for the U.S. army during that era.

He barely recognizes the people anymore, he says. "They're out for the money these days - no smiles without dollars." And the landscapes have changed drastically - from deserted beaches to lines of bungalows and resorts, which have supplanted Pha-Ngan's wreath of mangroves. He is looking forward to returning to Florida.

We boarded the ferry and chatted for a while longer about things of less consequence. Turning in, he left to brush his teeth and then lay down on a disgusting mattress next to a snoring monk.



I retreated to the stern, into the roaring of the diesel engines, to crack open a Singha of my own and watch the wake chase the dimming port town. I thought about the American's disappointment, and how it was in such stark contrast with the incredible time I had just had on Ko Pha-Ngan.

Dodging the Full Moon Party

Ko Pha-Ngan is roughly the shape of a "Q". The "O" of the "Q" is is dotted with fishing villages, rocky and sandy beaches, the ubiquitous bungalows, and, admittedly, a number of eyesore resorts. The interior is carved up by meandering roads, dominated by mopeds and tuktuks, a covered pickup with seats along its bed for 10 or so passengers.



The jungle bubbles up in the center of the island, pushing the roads up in steep in- and declines. The island has its own special brigade of ambulances that comb the network for injured tourist moped drivers who haven't quite mastered the technique of peaking hills with 15 horsepower (imagine driving up Lumbard Street in a John Deer). They ascend sure enough, but halfway up the hill, they realize their acceleration won't get them to the top. You can't go down backwards (too steep), and you can't go up (also too steep), so they plop on their side, pinned down by their vehicle until help arrives.

Spring- and rain-fed streams also cut through this mountainous jungle in steps of water falls and turgid pools until they make their way into the Gulf of Thailand. Clambering to worn ropes and vines, Kate mustered the courage to climb the slippery stones of one such waterfall and jump off a boulder into a pool, not knowing for sure where the submerged rocks below might lie.



And so the island continues, peppered with Buddhist temples and lookouts with magnificent vistas, the smell of burning leaves and bark mixed with the scent of lime, curry, and seafood as you pass through the towns. A fine way to take it all in is to stand on the tailgate of a tuktuk as the driver darts to the destination - part safari; part roller-coaster.

Roads don't get you everywhere on this island. To reach the isolated coves and beaches, visitors need the utterly endearing long-tail, a shallow-hull boat equipped with a noisy motor and a propeller at the end of a long shaft. This construction allows drivers to quickly pull the prop out of the water to avoid rocks and coral. A heavy beam in the front acts as a counter balance to the long engine apparatus, and is arguably the most appealing part of the vessel, adorned in ribbons in veneration of the Buddhist gods - that they may protect the boat, its captain and cargo.

Moored above the reefs, the long-tail is the ideal platform for snorkeling. Just roll off the side and you're in the thick of Thailand's ocean life: pufferfish, fan, shelf, and branch corals, crabs, pairs of angelfish and schools of sardines.



Moving from the "O" to the stem of the "Q": This little peninsula, known as Hat Rin, sends out mixed signals. Sunset beach, on the east, offers the quietude found on most of the island. Sunrise beach, on the west, on the other hand, is a venue for mass debauchery and shenanigans, mostly during its renowned Full Moon Parties. The bohemian town separating the two beaches becomes inundated with revelrous party goers from all over the world, who kick it on the beach with infusions of alcohol and other choice substances.

The popularity of these parties has grown so much over the years that Hat Rin now holds parties for each of the moon cycles. Although not adverse to a fine selection of drinks, Kate and I simply didn't have a sufficient number of tattoos and piercings to partake. All for the better, I suppose, considering the full-mooners didn't get going until around midnight, peaking with the sunrise. Sunrise was when Kate and I usually sprang out of bed, bent on the next jungle tour, snorkeling trip, or elephant ride.

Irresistible tourism

And this is where I began to empathize with that middle-aged American. While growing up there in the 50s and 60s, in spite of linguistic, religious, and cultural barriers, this man got on with the Thais. Sharing time and experiences with one another, feeding one another's curiosity and learning - simple human fellowship. Now when Westerners step off the boats, many Thais just see dollar signs (or bhat signs) with legs.

On our way out to Sail Rock for a day of diving, our dive master, a retired British officer quite familiar with the island, filled us in a little on this point. "When someone comes up with a good idea for business here on Ko Pa-Ngan, Thais from all over the country move over here, copy the idea and offer it up at a lower price," he says. I guess that's capitalism, but when I later told the American about this, he chuckled, and noted, "It wasn't always that way."

Whether for the partying or for the attractions, many people come to Ko Pa-Ngan - and to all of Thailand for that matter - with beaches on the brain. I admit, I did too. I wanted to snorkel, dive, and chill, and perhaps do a few tours. But can I honestly say the people of Thailand were an incentive? Unfortunately not. Fortunately, spending two days with our tour guide Jay, a young mother native to Ko Pa-Ngan slapped my brain out of selfish mode, at least for a while.

Jay runs tours to support her young son. He stays with his grandmother during the day, while Jay works from 6 a.m. - 10 p.m., guiding mostly Brits and Germans across the island via tuktuk, longtail, and elephant. Her earnings go toward his schooling, which is not even subsidized by the Thai government. She had darker skin than most Thais, which made her huge smile that much brighter. And she did love to smile - and laugh - and make everyone around her laugh.



Jay collected us along with a group of English gals from our bungalow resort, near sunset beach (the lax beach on Hat Rin). This was our introduction to the island's inland sights. The next day she escorted us on a long-tail to several bays and beaches. Her boss, Gon, a portly, feisty man with inexhaustible enthusiasm, joined us on one day as well, spurning us on up the cliffs. Tour operator by day and bartender by night, Gon had a devious habit of poking your belly or grabbing your foot and massaging it when you didn't pay attention to him - then asking for 200 baht for the privilege. When the conversation got stale, he broke out in Thai song...and didn't stop for a good 10 minutes.



Ultimately, the chats with Jay (and serenades by Gon) between destinations - about the direction of the country, their interpretations of the tenets of Buddhism, the trials and tribulations of making ends meet, and the best places to find good food and cheap beer - were just as memorable as the activities. And, no, they weren't just fishing for bigger tips.

So it's a two way street, I guess: If you not only make the effort but go out of your way to learn from and understand the background and motivations of Thais scratching by, they may go out of theirs to see you as something different than a dollar bill.

Unavoidable tourism

A meteor shower scraped the night sky half-way to Surat Thani. A few hippies had set their alarms on the sleeper boat to make sure they didn't miss the show. A girl in her early 20s reluctantly got off her pre-soiled mat and leaned out a window for a look.

The hippies were heading home or to the beaches on the other side of the peninsula - probably after some yoga retreat or jewelry-making course. We, too, were on our way to the islands in the Andaman, in total a 26 hour trip with boat and bus from Tang Sala to Ko Phi Phi Don. It was here where we encountered a Thailand overrun by the tourism trade.

Don's beaches were sublime; its waters everything the brochures say they are. Its close neighbor, Ko Phi Phi Leh, was the choice backdrop to the film version of "The Beach," starring Robert Carlisle, Tilda Swinton, and of course slender stud Leo DiCaprio. Indeed, at the bus station in Surat Thani, while we waited for the line to take us to Krabi, where we would catch the ferry, a curt Thai lady ritually dropped in the DVD to get travelers in the mood. But what "The Beach" and the brochures fail to show is the throngs of boats in those pristine coves and the loud crowds of tourists that shroud the stretches of sand.

When we pulled into Maya Bay on Leh with our tour group for a bit of beach combing and snorkeling, we entered the maritime equivalent of a tailgate party (but without the beer). Boats moored a few meters apart and swimmers in every gap between them. On land, plump and pasty Europeans let their skin sizzle on the beaches.

The kicker was hands-down the large cruiser that came in from Singapore. The large vessel moored furthest out from the beach, and dropped its human cargo into the water around it. Each Singaporean wore the standard mask and fins, but also a bulky yellow foam life vest. It was a hilarious sight, as they bobbed their faces into the water for a look and were then pulled back by excessive buoyancy - for nought as it were, as at the depth their boat had moored, they were at least 20 meters above anything visible. I felt I was watching a parody of another DiCaprio movie - Titanic - as the masses of Asians flailed about around the boat reaching for each other in desperation.



The day trips on Don were nonetheless fun, and we saw an array of sea life. But after two days of experiencing these islands processing their tourists almost in assembly-line fashion, it was time to head home. There were no Gons or Jays to be found here - only dollar bills with legs.

The Real Asia: Ho Chi Minh City

You don't have to travel very far from its airport to reach the thick of Ho Chi Minh City. The city announces itself with irritating hums and honks from swaths of mopeds clogging its arteries. Somehow traffic flows, but I saw at least three collisions between bikers during my 20 minute drive from the terminal to my hotel. One was at slower speed, and it was humorous watching the two men stand up, brush themselves off, nod in mutual apology and drive off as if it were part of some expected ritual.

Formerly known as Saigon before the North Vietnamese defeated their capitalist brothers to the south, HCMC is still the hub for innovation in the country, and it - not Hanoi - is the steward of the recent free-market resurgence in the country. Make no mistake, it is still a socialist republic with a single, heavy handed ruling party. But unlike its much bigger communist neighbor, China, only 2.3% of Vietnamese citizens are actually card-carrying members of their nation's communist party.

Nevertheless, communism and its history in and influence on the country is difficult to miss - most notably at the War Remnants Museum. Situated smack dab in the middle of the city, this quirky homage to the Vietnam war displays abandon tanks and other contra either left by the U.S. and French or brought into the city by the Viet Cong when it took the city in 1975. The placards under the specimens cater shamelessly to the party's take on the times: "This M24 tank was commandeered by the liberating forces...," a subtle snub at the museum's 95% U.S. patronage. The museum houses other, darker exhibits as well.

At the Reunification Palace, two Russian-built tanks - of the same model that broke down the building's gates to secure the Norh's victory - stand proudly in the courtyard with a fresh coat of army green. The palace was built in 1966 for South Vietnam's president. It has been left as it was taken in 1975 and opened up as a museum. Historical significance is the only thing making this structure worth visiting, and perhaps the shell of an F4 Phantom in the back lawn.



An odd thing about HCMC is that everyone wants to take you for a ride - literally. Walking for several hours through the city, I was courted continually by moped drivers offering to show me around the entire city for 30,000 dong. I had to laugh at the image of myself, 6' 4" clinging to a 5' 2" Vietnamese man on the back of a rickety Vespe. I politely declined each offer.

Really, the best way to get around HCMC is by foot. You would miss too much with motorized transportation. And the thrill of crossing a HCMC street, dodging cars, busses, and bikes alike, doubles as an extreme sport (Maintaining eye contact with the person's bike you are going to step in front of is key).



The only issue with walking is dealing with the street hawkers. For example, a young girl approached me as I was sitting at a corner, getting off my feet and admiring the Notre Dame cathedral. She was hellbent on selling me flowers, employing the rule of the five whys to counter my refusal. "You want to buy a flower," she said in perfect English. "No thank you," I said. "Why?" she replied. "Because I don't have any money," I lied. "Why?" "Because I don't have a job." Why? "Because I'm not so bright," "Why?" I gave in: "How much?" I paid 5000 dong for a wilted carnation (which she probably picked from a nearby park). I realized my mistake when several more children emerged from their hiding places to sell me postcards, kleenexes, coconuts, Vietnamese flags, and other trinkets and mementos. The savvy flower salesgirl strode away grinning.

Masters of buoyancy

It's the ball to the boot of peninsular Malaysia - the country's Sicily if you will. The island of Tioman is a 90-minute ferry ride from the costal town of Mersing. Kate and I packed our courage to brave the deep and investigate the wrecks and wildlife of the island's extensive coral mantel.



With an longstanding fear of having her head underwater, Kate was a champ. After mastering equalization problems in her ears (known as a "squeeze", she descended swimmingly to 30 meters (100 feet). There we were greeted by sunken fishing vessels, rays, sea slugs, hawksbill turtles, brain coral, and fishes of overwhelming variety.

But it was not all underwater sightseeing. We were there on a mission to secure our advanced diver certification. And that is what we did. Two days of theory and three days of dive after dive, we made it - thanks to a great guide and a little Actifed.

Here are a few shots of the course, the tribulations, and the rewards:

Having fun with Shibuya square (渋谷区)

Not much of a post. Just having some fun. This is Shibuya square, shot from the upper-level of a Starbucks in Tokyo. The rain was coming down, and it was fun to catch the commuters with their umbrellas popped and scrambling to their offices.

The real Asia: Tsukiji central fish market (築地市場)

Japan's stoic fishermen trade billions worth of fish a year at the Tsukiji central fish market. This covered labyrinth boasts tuna, octopus, salmon, sea urchin, crab, prawn, oyster, abalone, flounder, sea bass, and any other fruit of the sea imaginable (and many that are not). Styrofoam cases filled with fish and ice line the corridors, chilling the lanes through which traders lug their laden barrows and recklessly steer their gas-powered carts.

The smell is conspicuously un-fishy. It is all fresh, brought on shore no more than an hour ago. It is 5:00 a.m., and we hitch a ride on a barrel-engine go-cart, holding on tightly as the driver swerves between piles of the day's catch. Our destination is the main attraction: the wholesale tuna trade.

The viewing section in the hall is packed with tourists, some of whom are making their last stop of a long, no-doubt alcohol-charged night. A uniformed man frantically pleas with the masses to shut off their flashes, lest the bidders' view of rows of tuna be hampered during the intense auctioning. The bells sound, and the bidders' shouts echo through the frosty arena and the flashes intensify.

We squeeze out of the crowd and into a slight drizzle. We seek shelter for our cameras among the fishy catacombs, where traders are already processing their purchase. A stout man in a T-shirt and hachimaki smokes a cigarette with the corner of his mouth while his hands are busy pushing a tuna torso through a band saw. Another trader performs surgery on a smaller specimen, removing fin and bone, while a woman, presumably his wife, counts yen bills in a small wooden booth next to him.

Strangely, the maze leads us seemingly intentionally to an aisle full of sushi shops. We sit down to a cup of tea and delve into a bowl of miso soup and several slivers of sashimi on sesame rice. It is 7:30 a.m.

Launchn' at Clarke Quay
Along the Singapore river at Clarke Quay you will find an amusement park niche, a small plot of land with two rides. The first one is an upside-down bungee, which Kate and I braved during her folks' visit. The second one is a subject of another story.

The real Asia: Noida, India

Those who have travelled to its neighbors often mock Singapore with the name "Asia Light." Having recently traveled to Delhi, Beijing, and Shanghai - within a week's time - I now understand why. And I now often scratch my head at those backpackers you sometimes see here, as if they were roughing it. There is no "roughing it" in Singapore.

To be fair, Singapore should pride itself on its efficiency and cleanliness - it often makes Germany feel like a Haitian squatter colony - but it is this immaculateness that makes the city so "un-Asian." As I am slowly learning, there is a real Asia still to be discovered. My first true encounter with Asia was Delhi.

India's capital

While peering out the window before landing in Delhi, I saw an expanse of varying shades of brown, a vision of what the dust bowl must have been decades ago in America's breadbasket. I stepped out of the cool Air India Boeing and into to a kiln. At this time of year, temperatures in Delhi range between the searing 44°C (111°F) in the day and a "balmy" 38°C (100°F) in the evening. Passengers then squeezed into a bus that took us to immigration. Because hygiene didn't seem to be a high priority among the guests, I'll just say that the short ride was an olfactory adventure.

Greeting us at the gate stood brown men in brown uniforms, brown berets, surgical masks, and with AK-47s. The Indian government wasn't messing around when it came to swine flu. As I stepped off, hoping for a bit of relief, they herded us into a group more cramped than on the bus. They examined us from a short but safe distance, looking out for any telltale sniffles and coughs, hoping to weed out those who had not come forward to the appeals the stewardesses had made in flight: "If you are not feeling well, or have flu like symptoms, please notify one of our cabin crew immediately."

Cleared of any illness, the travelers were allowed to pass and exploded into a an arena of health-check stations. Once cleared there, it was on to immigration, where disgruntled bureaucrats stamped visas without acknowledging the humans to whom they belonged. Passport marked, baggage collected (under suspicious looks from the security guard), I walked briskly past customs and into the chaos that is Indira Gandhi airport.

Saving me from the torrents of saris and kurtas was a small man, named Dabby, I think. Dabby wore the whitest suite I had ever seen. He donned newly bleached trousers, shirt, jacket, gloves, socks, and even white shoes. Looking excitedly into the eyes of each white person who approached (and saddened as they walked past), he held a printed sign with the text "MR. PERRY." "Close enough," I thought, and introduced myself. His perfectly white attire did not flatter his smile, which he cut upon shaking my hand.

Dabby drove me 30 minutes to a Radisson in the Delhi suburb of Noida. A Chinese manager met me at the doorway and took me up to my room, insisting that I leave my baggage below. With my MacBook and XH-A1 in the bags, that made me a little nervous. But no sooner had I entered the room, a bellhop slipped each bag through the door. I threw open the heavy curtains to see a group of youngsters in an intense game of cricket, as the sun set into the smoggy, dusty horizon.



On business

The whole purpose of this visit was to meet with one of our customers, a particularly special one. Unfortunately, I am not allowed to go into detail just yet, but an article on their business will be published soon. If you end up reading the piece, you'll see that the route from the hotel to the customer was nearly as interesting as the discussion with the CEO.

For the whole day, I had a very gracious colleague (see below) looking out for me, showing me the good Indian cuisine, driving me to the customer, giving me a tour of the office, and bringing me back to the hotel. He had more important work to do, I am sure, as he is responsible for several accounts in the area. Yet he treated me as if I were a customer. I was impressed not only with his hospitality, but also with his ability to dodge stray cattle on the highway and outmaneuver traffic cops attempting to pull him over for talking on his blackberry while driving. Thanks for the experience, Tarun!



Because this journey was for work, I had limited time to see anything beyond the route airport-hotel-customer. No Red Fort, no Jama Masjid, no trinket shopping. But after a short walk through the draught stricken suburb of Noida, chatting with security guards, watching another pick-up cricket match, fending off a small beggar child who clung to my leg until I coughed up 10 rupees, I did feel like I had properly been to India. Albeit not long enough.

The race to Lamanai

The New River is a twisty, meandering tributary that cuts through much of Belize. Along its shores nest hundreds of species of birds and an odd croc (yes, croc, not gator). The New is also the most direct route to one of Belize's most renowned historical sites: Lamanai.

Lamanai was established around 300 B.C. and was occupied all the way up to the 17th century by Mayan peoples. Lamanai itself means "submerged crocodile," which seemed logical, as the ruined state gives it a much lower profile than it must have had in past centuries.

I've slapped a few clips together from our excursion. If you look closely, you may see the group of Mennonites on tour.

The crossing

Twenty or so miles north of Orange Walk lie the ruins of Cerros, an ancient Mayan outpost overlooking the natural harbor near modern-day Corozal, Belize. The only way to get there is with a 4x4 with plenty of ground clearance. As soon as you get off the beaten bath, you get on the battered path, resembling Verdun at around 1917. It's slow going unless you want to blow a tire, and that would be quite a pickle given the seclusion.

About three miles in (that's about twenty minutes), we came to what looked like an insurmountable barrier: the New River. All we could see on the other side was an illegible sign and what looked like a wrecked barge.

While contemplating whether to turn and head back, we noticed the barge getting ever so slowly closer. Faint cheesy melodies from a low-amp boom box betrayed the presence of a crew.

It was a makeshift ferry, cranked back and forth across the river by two diligent locals. You pay a small fee for passage, and they'll get you across. But one of the gents had no qualms about handing over the cranking duty to an overly ambitious gringo.

After disembarking, we headed on toward Cerros...strangely, the ferry was the highlight of the trip. A week later we learned that only a few days after our crossing a couple had forgotten to put on their parking break while on the same ferry. Let's hope their insurance covered that mishap.

Tris learns to fish

Kate's brother in Belize, Tris, learned to fish on an outing with his grandfather. We sat back and enjoyed the lesson. Although you don't see the action so much here, Tris ended up catching more than anyone on the boat. The catch got cooked up a few days later back at an Orange Walk BBQ - Marie Sharp was again a most welcome guest.

Tris's grandfather is a versed outdoorsman. He's less the trapper-woodsman and more the jungle trekker, who decades ago led hunts through the rain forests of Central America. He had some valuable fishing tips to impart his grandson.

Kate launches "Flog"



Food of all kinds is everywhere in this country. Singapore's culinary artifacts are many and manifold, thanks to the four cultures that have meshed here over the last few hundred years.

In her food blog (or "Flog"), Kate is documenting her dining experiences like a true mushroom taster: there are many young adventurous ones, and many old cautious ones - but hardly any old adventurous ones. Let's see how long she lasts before we have to rush her to the ER.

In suspense

This is the cool thing about high-rises in Singapore: window cleaners. They provide welcome distraction at work....Malaysian migrants polishing up the glass and giving you a sideways stare. I put this one on the spot.

A bit of photography

Kate has posted some of her albums on "A bit of everything." A good range of people, places, and things. She'll be keeping this updated regularly, with lots of stills from Southeast Asia. Looks like Malaysia will be next.

The art of piñata...smashing

Pupils at an elementary school in Orange Walk demo their piñata-bludgeoning skills just before Christmas break. Belizeans have their own art to the tradition. Here a run-down of the techniques.

Oh, what you can get in a can

These were all firsts for me: Green tea in a can, a barley drink in a "can," and...



...Colt 45 in a can. Had to travel half the globe to find that one. I'm not sure which is worse, that they actually offer it, or that it costs 2.50 a can.

Betty: the second coming

Not two months ago did I drop my faithful Betty off to the caprices of her next owner. It is therefore with solemn anticipation that I look to her successor...who officially arrived on the market this week. Sorry Betty I, for my fickle loyalty. Betty II, see you in a year or so, I hope.

If this doesn't make you want to enroll your kids in Chinese classes...

...I'm not sure what will. This is a campaign that has been launched by the Promote Mandarin Council. Those who value linguistic diversity may not agree with the goal of the campaign; those who enjoy cute commercials won't care. These kids are impressive, and make me wish my brain cells hadn't hardened around red-neck English and a bit of High German.

Everybody loves teacher Badhra

Badhra, Kate's good friend and one-time host mother from Belize, is a popular teacher - even when she isn't teaching. Kate and I got to experience the admiration her former students still have for her. Pretty amazing, really - at least I don't remember wanting to hug my second or third-grade teacher so much.

The things you learn

You can learn a lot through a walk in Chinatown: which camera stores NOT to buy at, that a small bakery in the neighborhood called "Backstube" is quite popular among the locals, and how to prepare eel for dinner. That last one was particularly inspiring. Not for the squeamish.

Photo essay to bridge the gap

Some camera work during our exploration. The captions tell the story (be sure to click on the cartoon dialog box in the lower left corner).

A bit of everything...as you haven't seen much of anything here

OK, Tramps Abroad is still on - but I doubt the frequency of the posts will keep up with what is going on over here (heck, I'm still working on posts from Belize). Therefore, Kate has seceded - to set up her own photo-blog on Singapore, and she is much more loyal than I to her readers. She already has several posts from our excursions and mishaps. 

Here it is: a bit of everything. 

Kate's photo-blog is much cooler, obviously, because she uses Mac software and photos she takes. I will still be here though, wallowing in my Web-app inferiority.

Ms. Bravo-Bhasin has a go at culture shock

As I prepare to write up a first impression of Singapore, I wanted to draw some attention to an adept describing of culture shock. Travel novels are often the literature of choice for those researching a new country (I recommend works such as Paul Theroux’s Dark Star Safari or Bruce Chatwin’s In Patagonia), but they are usually too specific - and too long. When it comes to succinctly capturing the psychological tugs of culture shock, Marión Bravo-Bhasin pegs it.

The book in which these few paragraphs appear is actually a series – appropriately named Culture Shock!; Ms. Bravo-Bhasin writes the installment on Singapore. But the feelings she relates in five stages could apply from Columbia to Cambodia; Juneau to Jakarta.

Culture Shock

Stage one: the honeymoon

Everything is new and exciting. The best thing to do is learn to observe with curiosity and interest; learn to focus on the similarities and how we are really very much alike. 

Stage two: initial confrontation

Difficult times and crises in daily life begin to occur as the focus shifts from the similarities to the differences, which are suddenly everywhere! Communication may be a problem and feelings of dissatisfaction start to creep in. You may even feel discontent, impatient, angry, sad, and generally a little incompetent as you try your best to cope. 

Stage three: Gradual Adjustment

You begin to gain some insight and understanding of the new culture, and a feeling of pleasure and sense of humor may be experienced. The environment is more familiar and a feeling of wanting-to-belong begins to take over. You start to evaluate and compare the old ways and the new ways, and may encounter some confusion over your own identity as a result. 

Stage four: Adaptation

A greater integration into the new culture occurs and you start to get solid feelings of belonging and ease. There is increased enjoyment in new customs and ways of doing and saying things. It becomes clear that the new culture has good and bad things to offer. You then start to realize that there will be things you will miss when you return home. 

Stage five: re-entry shock

Moving back to one’s country of origin has new consequences and you may find that things are no longer the same (because of course, you are no longer the same).

Copyright © 2006 Marshall Cavendish International (Asia) Private Limited

Now, with a staggered start, Kate and I had both made it through the list in Germany over the course of several years. Before I go into any detail about Singapore, I’ll just say we are already straddling stages one and two.

It's time: our home for the next year

One more document to go, and we are off to Singapore for the year. We'll swing by the immigration office here in Germany one last time for what is called Sondererlaubnis für langfristigen Auslandsaufenthalt. That monstrous term is what we need so that the German border guard doesn't send us back to Singapore at the end of our stint (in which case the Singaporean border guard would send us back to Germany, and we would be caught in a perpetual 12-hour Quantas flight).



The dates are set: February 28, 2009 - February 28, 2010. What happens between those dates is a toss up. But supposedly, I will be working and writing, with a pronounced focus on APJ (Asia-Pacific Japan) content. The real winner in the deal, however, is Kate, who will be attending just about every course imaginable: Yoga, cooking (thank God), occupational therapy, photography, German (ironically), and perhaps even scuba diving.

We don't have a permanent place yet, but we will be spending the first month in the Orchard Rd. district. The relocation service has hooked us up with some whacky modern digs in an imposing glass prism of a building near SAP's offices.

So if your in the mood for a visit to Asia but don't necessarily want to forego the comforts of Western living, by all means, look us up in Singapore. And if you do want to forego those amenities, then just crash at ours for the night, and head out to Cambodia the following day - we're easy.

Kate will be setting up her own Photo site pretty soon, to visually document our excursions. We'll provide the link as soon as it's ready. Of course, we will also be keeping the Web lines open with intermittent blog posts and videos. So stay tuned, and let us know what you're up to as well.

We'll see you when we see you.

Belize a la carte

It's been a month since we returned from our month-long trip to Belize. Preparations for our upcoming trip (stay tuned) have kept us from posting the vids, stills, and summaries. So we are posting an overview of the terrain we covered along with several quick and dirty videos of the highlights, which we compiled while "on site." Enjoy! (Some vids may be without sound, unfortunately).

Adventure a la carte


View Larger Map


I took all the videos out...will replace soon with better ones. The sound was all kacked.

My pickney grew up!

Visiting Belize was like a homecoming: seeing my Belizean family, my Belizean home, and my former students. I was surprised to see that most things around the town had stayed the same. The stores, the restaurants, the city plaza, the tortilla factories, and even my old school hadn't changed very much. I felt like I had never left. 

However, my students, "my pickney," in the local Creole parlance, changed dramatically. So much so that I even had to ask a few of them who they were. They all looked so much older, wiser, and much more grown-up. 

When they came to visit, I caught myself doing double and triple takes, amazed at the young adults that they had become. These were the same children who sang and danced around my classroom; who recited the entire poem of Shel Silverstein's "Sick"; who played kickball with the passion only kids can have; who completely obliterated what I thought was an indestructible cockroach pinata; who hugged my waist so tight I couldn't move.

Now they are as tall as I am (if not a little bit taller).

Of my original class of 22, I got to see four of them during this trip. Unfortunately, three more came by after we had already left. 

Thank you Steven, Kimberley, Mareli, and Adreli for stopping by and finding me. Sorry I missed you Edgar, Cindy, and Jonathan. I'm so very proud of you and who you have become. Next time I'm in Belize we are having a class reunion. Maybe even with a cameo appearance of "Freddie."

Garifuna beats in Hopkins

About 14% of Belize's population is Garifuna, an ethnic group with Afican roots who predominantly dwell in the central-eastern district of Stann Creek - mostly in its capital, Dangriga (Garifuna people also live in Guatemala, Honduras, and Nicaragua). Their history is complex and often tragic, but the Garifuna people have persevered through the centuries - their culture, music, and dance, for example, were recently recognized by Unesco as a "Masterpiece of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity."

Just south of the Garifuna capital lies the small beach town of Hopkins, where Kate and I stayed for two nights with the Colemans. On one of those evenings, we encountered a group of Garifuna musicians playing at a nearby drumming center. Six percussionists, with drums, shakers, and turtle shells gave us a show and a short tour of their music.




As Kate and I learned, Garifuna drum beats also form the foundation of "Punta Rock," a popular, contemporary genre comprising a mix of fast beats (everything about Garifuna music is fast) and electric instruments. Andy Palacio, the Belizien artist of the lead-in music in this video, did much to broaden the appeal of this music across the globe. You can find out more about his sad yet inspiring story here.

Thanks to the folks at the drumming center for their hospitality and the long, entertaining hours of rhythm.

At home in Orange Walk

We have been gone a while - a month to be exact. Hence the radio silence on our blog. Our excuse: Belize.

We have many videos, photos, and thoughts to process before we can duly describe this beautifully diverse country. In the meantime, here's a short video of an average day at the Colemans' in Orange Walk, our gracious hosts and diligent guides through the weeks in Belize.