Category: E-Mails

Date:     Sun, 27 May 2001 10:56:32 -0700 (PDT)

From:    Jay Schneider

Subject: Is this the end??  

I had a bit of a hammock mishap. 

I know, I know, it’s an overdone scene, a tired tale. You’ve all witnessed the man vs. hammock battle countless times, if not in person, then on t..v., probably involving Jon Ritter. But my injury did not come from my ineptitude at proper hammock mounting. On the contrary, I believe I am quite experienced and skilled in the ways of the swinging, net cradle (er, as the scholarly like to call it).  I even have my own. I’ve never actually used it, but that’s not the point.  Or maybe it is, considering if I had set up my own, I may not be wasting your time with this little blurb now. See, each time I’ve reached a beach bungalow, riverside balcony, or a mountain cottage that just screams ‘set up your hammock and lay in it all day long,’ there’s always been a hammock already in place. Upon finding a suitable bungalow on the island of Koh Pha-ngan, I again found a hammock ready and waiting for me on the porch. But this hammock was a good 4 feet off the ground, and nothing around to step up on, or hold on to and assist my mounting. After attempting several various methods, I finally found a way that, while a bit awkward as it resembled an Olympic gymnastics routine, I seemed to find success.  Reaching as high up the rope end of the hammock as I could with my right hand, then placing my left hand on the bunched up hammock-to-be part, I kicked my right leg up and over, so that I landed on the hammock (at this point, still essentially just a thick rope), and I quickly had all my four points on the line. This not being a very stable position, I immediately used my feet to spread out the netting and begin to create a stable cradle.  During this bit, my right arm is still awkwardly stretched out above and behind me, the only secure hold I have, but not a balanced one at all. Once my feet have made a bit of a cradle, it’s necessary to use my hands to further stretch the hammock out, to achieve a proper, resting place. This is a critical time in which I’m still essentially just sitting on a thick rope, but I must let go with my anchor (right) arm, and very steadily use both hands to finish the job. (There’s a move I did which would’ve made my high school wrestling coach proud, where I bridge up on my neck, raising my bum in the air so I can spread the hammock with my hands–it was really cool) For a few moments, perfect balance is required, and though I’d thought I’d gotten this part down, I guess I got cocky and ‘whump!’ on the ground was I.

My hands broke the fall, and before I hit the ground, my instincts took over and prioritized the situation. First, did anyone see me? My second, concern was my left leg, still in the hammock, toes entangled in the net.  No pain or problem as I lay face down, but not being as flexible as I was in my days of martial arts, I’m not sure that when I stand up, my hamstring will appreciate it. I did stand up without problem (no small task, standing up on one leg), freed my toes from their captor, released my leg, and flashed the “ok” sign and a smile to the Thai girl who witnessed the whole thing.

It wasn’t until later that I noticed strange red marks on my arm. At first, I thought it was a stain, but they wouldn’t rub off, and it appeared some sort of slight bruising, probably some broken capillaries as my arm scraped off the hammock. While eating dinner, a German guy asked about my arm:  “What’s that?”

“Oh, this? It’s, er, It’s a Hammock Hickey” (end of story)

So here I am in Bangkok enjoying the final hours of my Asian Adventure and sending out to you my final update.

It’s a lot of pressure, really, and I’ve been fretting for weeks on how to wrap this all up. I feel it’s a bit like the final ‘Seinfeld’ episode or Beverly Hills 90210, and your expectations may lead to disappointment.

I had thought about going for a ‘hi-lights collage’ of the past ten months (accompanied by nostalgic music, to add tears to your smiles–and it’d all be in slow motion ). But I’m sure you’ve all re-read each installment countless times already, and I think you deserve something new.

Another option would be to give you ‘out-takes’ and bits that didn’t make the final cut (that wild and crazy night I stayed in my room and played solitaire, for example), but I should keep some things private (lest the authorities find out), and I need to have some stories left to tell in the years to come without you cutting me off with “Jay, you’ve already told us about that time in Dharamsala you ate something bad and puked all over yourself as you walked home.”

Then there’s the ‘bloopers’ option: When writing about my hatred of donut-stealing monkeys (‘Beware the Monkeys’, India, December 2000) I accidentally typed ‘MONKEY-STEALING donuts’.

I could share with you some of the lessons I’ve learned through my experiences here: don’t believe that junk the media and our governments would have us believe about roosters crowing at the crack of dawn. I can attest they start way, way, way before there’s even a hint of light, and go all day long (and then some). More like CROCK-a-doodle-doo, if you ask me.

But instead I’ll just ramble on for a bit, and let’s just see where we end up, shall we?

As my time (and money) rapidly diminished, I had to carefully consider how to best use my time (and money). From the beginning, my plan (yes, dammit! there’s always been a plan…) was to spend the final portion of my trip on the islands, doing nothing but, well…being on the islands. The purpose of this idea was two-fold. One, it would provide me with a period of reflection for me and also an opportunity to look ahead and prepare for my future (reading up on American culture, perhaps studying from an American English phrasebook). The second fold (?), is so when I got back to the States and was working packing frozen chickens, or some other dismal job, I could constantly complain, “you know, one week ago I was on an island in Thailand…” At any rate, I spent nearly 3 weeks in the Gulf of Thailand, visiting the islands of Koh Tao, Koh Pha-Ngan, and Koh Samui. 

As I said (typed) before, the use of my precious time deserved careful consideration, and unfortunately, time and money constraints meant I often had to choose one thing over another. Some of you may question the decisions I made. Instead of a kayak trip through the beautiful islands of the National Park (as featured in ‘The Beach’), I had an eye exam and bought a new pair of glasses. I also chose to spend money on tailor-made suits, rather than cheap women and booze. And on my final night in Bangkok, I opted to finish this update, over catching one last ping-pong show in Patpong. But I assure you, these choices were all for the greater good.

But it wasn’t all serious, being responsible and preparing for the future (‘growing up’ is the term often thrown around). I did the requisite ‘fun in the sun (and rain on occasion)’ activities. Swimming, snorkeling, hikes to waterfalls, walks on the beach, tending to additional foot wounds, and I’ve already mentioned my hammock routine. On several occasions, I got my motor running and headed out on the island-ways (lookin’ for adventure, and whatever came my way…) renting a bike to race around the islands and explore. I even got to visit the police station (on the opposite side of the island from where I was busted, and my bike impounded) to pay a fine for not wearing a helmet (who knew?) And I finally got certified to dive, taking my PADI open water course, and continuing on to the advanced class. Again, I was wise to plan (yes, this was all part of the plan) my diving stint at the end of my journey. Had I gotten into it months ago, I would’ve spent the rest of my time and money diving. Diving is an unbelievable and incredible experience, and I was introduced to a whole new world. Also, now I can make critical comments when watching movies: “It’s great the Navy seals SCUBA-ed their way into the enemy’s headquarters, rescued the hostages and were whisked away safely by airplane, but they really shouldn’t fly so soon after diving.” or “Hey! James Bond is diving without a buddy!” 

And sometimes, I just sat on the porch of my bungalow, and stared out at the sea. It’s a beautiful and incredible world we live in, and I never let myself forget that.

So I made it back to Bangkok with a couple of days to spare, the master-plan calling for it. I figured my tattered T-shirts and grimey flip-flops may not get me very far in my life back home, so I needed time to go to the markets and bargain for NEW T-shirts and flip-flops. And in a totally unexpected and unplanned (see, my plan is flexible and can accommodate unforeseen happenings. A 10 month trip instead of 5, for example) turn of events, I met up with Julie again (‘Beautiful Dutch Girl’ featured in such episodes as ‘Rambo and Room Service’, Jan. 01 and ‘The Jay Luck Club’, Feb. ’01). We would have about a 4 hours window when we’d both be there, so we met for some noodle soup, and did some catching up.

It was nice, of course, to see my old travel-mate, but for me, it also helped make a proper end to my trip. Sharing our own adventures of the past few months and where our next steps would take us, in addition to exchanging gossip on other travelers and friends we both knew and had run into again, made it quite like the final minutes of a movie or t.v. show, where all the stories are wrapped up, and the minor characters are accounted for (“and remember Orlaf? well, he finally realized his dream of becoming a cricket herder…”). My point? While I can’t say I’ve given you a proper sense of closure for my time on the road, I certainly feel ready to roll credits and anxiously await the sequel.

It’s time to go home.

Am I tired of travel? Not at all. I haven’t been to a county I couldn’t easily go back to (though I won’t cry if I never see Delhi again), and I could easily spend another 10 months visiting these same countries (A serious consideration, now that I have glasses again–I mean, imagine how great Angkor Wat would look in focus, to say nothing of those erotic temple carvings!). And there are so many more countries I want to visit, I could easily fill a lifetime wandering the earth.

Too bad that’s not possible, right? Well, no, that’s not right. It actually, it IS possible. In fact, what I’ve realized over the past few years, and even more so in these 10 months, is just how much these things ARE in fact possible. It’s just a matter of deciding what you want.

But to travel forever is not what I want. I’ve got lots more I want to see and do, but no worries. Next time.

So why go home? Well, several reasons. For one, I started out on a 5 month trip, and parlayed it into 10. That’s a pretty good deal, I think. Oh yeah, and then there’s family and friends I haven’t seen for ages, and all that stuff.

But perhaps one of the strongest reasons (not forgetting family, yada-yada), is found in remembering what I want out of travel, and out of life. In my trip, as in my life, I like challenges, adventure, and keeping things interesting.  I feel I’ve been doing a pretty darn good job of it over the years, but that’s no reason to rest on my tuffet. Continuing on in Asia or heading towards Africa or South America, or so many other places would certainly keep me stimulated, and perpetuate my deep living of life. But if I really want a challenge and adventure, if I want the most bizarre experience in a place that would give me the greatest culture shock, I’ve gotta go home to the U.S.A.

So what do I mean by all this, dear readers? The adventures (and misadventures) are by no means over. Fear not, pets, my Asian chapter may be closing, but the adventures will continue…

Thanks for reading my ramblings, and sharing my travels with me. I also deeply appreciate all your e-mails and messages. Please keep in touch and let me know what’s going on in your lives. Take care, enjoy life and stay tuned…

Jay “To be continued…” Schneider

——————- (optional reading) ——————-

 This is to set the record straight and at least have my side presented in a fair manner.

On one of the final dives in the open water course, our instructor led us to a sandy bit of ocean floor where we removed our fins and were allowed to just play around. As we were all quite comfortable with our equipment, and we were being filmed and had a camera to play to, wackiness ensued. After getting our fill of flips, one-fingered push-ups, and Matrix/Crouching Dragon-style impossible kick/flip around/double kick again battles, the time had come, as planned, for a foot race. It is this race and what may (or may not) have happened that I should like to address. Without admitting to anything, there is no solid evidence to support the allegations that I pulled off Robin’s (or anyone else’s) mask.

— if his mask was in fact off (as he claims), his vision would have been impaired, and he cannot be expected to make an accurate identification of the attacker. — though several witnesses identified me, as we were all similarly dresses, it’s hard to make any positive ID.

— the only rules of the race were that we keep our feet in contact with the ground, and we couldn’t turn off anyone’s air. Anything else was legal, so even if I did (which I’m not saying I did), it was nothing illegal

— If I did attack Robin (and I’m not saying I did, nor do I even concede an attack occurred –perhaps he took off his own mask, eh?), he should take it as a compliment that I (or the offender) saw him as a threat.

— The video footage provides no evidence, as the view of the de-masking (if it happened) was blocked by the Swedish woman, who eventually won the event.

— Since I did not go on to win the race, my lesson (if I deserve one) should be that ‘a cheater never wins.’ But as I admit to nothing, the only thing I learned, and will now share with you is this:  “I should’ve attacked the Swede.”

Apr 15th, 2021 by The Jay Luck Club

In this episode, Jay heads to Chiang Mai and finally meets back up with Justin and Dan, just in time for songkran–the biggest, baddest water fight he’s ever seen. With the end of his journey near, Jay tries to speed his way through Laos, but learns some things shouldn’t be rushed. He also snubs actor Matt Dillon, a move he deeply regrets all these years later.

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Date: Fri, 4 May 2001 05:52:35 -0700 (PDT)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: “Here I am…”

 “…rock you like a hurricane!”

(sorry, I was at a restaurant the other day which played “Scorpion’s Greatest Hits,” and I just can’t shake the tune.)

Before we begin, I should like to talk about the length of my last update.  Most of you, I’m sure, prized each and every word, savored all 20-something-K, and were so engrossed and absorbed in my wacky/heroic/inspiring adventures that upon reaching the end, immediately stood up and cried out, “More, Jay! Tell me MORE!!!” (much to your own embarrassment if in the workplace at the time of your outburst). However, a few of you were cheeky enough to make snide comments about it. To those of you who had to pay dearly for your internet time (sorry, Ava), I apologize. The others, I suspect,, were fueled by envy and jealousy. No apologies there, as I’m thankful I could write so much about two months of my life, and pray I never reach a point when I can’t write more than a few words about my life.

(enough scolding)

In my last few weeks, I celebrated my fourth New Year in as many months and also made some serious decisions, which may affect some of you. But before I get to that (I’m sure my rambling e-mails have nothing to do with my inability to keep on track), I have a bit of a confession to make.

I did something a while back, of which I’m not too proud–I thought about filling out a job application for a position back home. I didn’t actually do it, mind you, but the thought’s as much of a sin as the deed. Fret not, my dear readers, my lapse in judgment had nothing to do with me becoming responsible about my future. I chalk it up to having nothing better to do (devil finding work for idle hands, and all that). I had some time to kill at an internet cafe (hour already paid for, caught up on my fan mail, no neighbor’s screen to read over the shoulder)and, and I just got to surfing around. Out of curiosity, I happened across some job listings. It put evil thoughts about careers, my job skills, experience, and what not in my mind, which I quickly squashed, clicking my way over to the ‘Survivor’ homepage, and catching up on what’s going on in the outback.

But my on the internet was not all bad. As many people do on such extended journeys, I dabbled in my own self-examination. I did a bit of searching for myself and after typing “Jay Schneider” into my search engine came up with some interesting (if not frightening) results. For example: Jay Schneider of M.S.A.M. Games writes, “Games and gaming have always been an important part of my life. I started  playing chess at 5, played in my first tournament at 8, and was the highest-rated elementary player in the United States” He also enjoys playing the game “Magic, the Gathering” and is apparently famous for designing a deck called the “Schneider Pox.” (I don’t quite know how I feel about the existence of such a thing.”)

And then there’s the page that begins his homepage by answering the question I’d been asking myself all these years… “Who is Jay Schneider?. . . Jay Schneider is an evangelist committed to the idea that the word of God holds the key to any true change of heart and life. ”

And yes, I have been writing ‘reverend’, ‘preacher’ and ‘internet evangelist’ as my profession for all my various visa forms and entry/exit cards this past month.

 And now, on with the show (finally),

Having it in me to ride a Thai train again, and unable to do so for my Malaysia–Bangkok leg, I was more determined than ever ride the rails to Chiang Mai, and went to reserve my ticket days in advance. But it happened to be nearing the Thai New year, and I was disappointed to find all sleeper berths were totally booked up for days to come–that is until I asked about first class. And so it was, that I rode to the Northern Thailand city in style, even receiving a complimentary Thai State Rail coffee mug. Nothin’ but the best for this kid. (though I want to make it clear that if any of you reading this should receive such a mug from me as a token of my affection, THAT particular gift is a precious item, sought out, selected, and given with all my heart.)

(hang on, it’s 6 pm. Thai National Anthem. Gotta stand….okay, I’m back.)

In Chiang Mai, I made my way to the thoughtfully named “Chiang Mai Guesthouse.” As most guesthouses in the area, mine offered jungle treks (in fact, it’s how they make their money, so there’s a bit of pressure), and not being too keen on this kind of package deal, I spent much of my morning politely refusing to sign on for the trek leaving the next day. (“Look, for the last time, I don’t want to go on your damned trek!”)

Already in town were Justin and Dan, two Americans I’d met in Nepal, and with whom I’d hoped to cross paths again. Though I came to Chiang Mai in style, my digs at the CM guesthouse couldn’t compare to the place at which Justin and Dan stayed. A little background: Justin lived in Chiang Mai for 3 months studying Thai kickboxing, and since that time frequently passes through his old stomping (kicking?) grounds for a few weeks at a time.  Consequently, he’s found a great top-end place, with very reasonable rates, particularly when staying long-term.  After waking up the boys and catching up on the past 5 months, Dan and Justin were confirming with each other about the hazy events of the previous evening (outside a local disco: a slight scuffle with a local lady-boy, which continued even after the participants were on fast-moving motorcycles — Man, I always miss the good stuff!), while I was captivated with the cable t.v., a/c, cable t.v., kitchenette, cable t.v., large bed, and cable t.v. They also had cable t.v., and I was content to spend hours catching up on my Mtv (finally got to put faces and names to those boy bands I’d been hearing all night, every night in Bangkok). Finally, I was dragged out of the room and up to the roof-top pool which commanded great views of the city. If you haven’t figured out by now, it’s not too shabby a place.

But it’s not just to impress me that the boys live so well in Chiang Mai, it’s actually a very reasonable deal, and since their ‘Big Trip’ (as they’ve dubbed it) is a rather lengthy one, it helps to have a base to come back to, a get re-charged before going back out again (why I’ve chosen disgusting, shoe-box rooms in Bangkok to do this, I still haven’t figured out).

Also, Justin’s taking advantage of the setting to study for the LSAT, and Dan plans to return in September, specifically for that same purpose. That afternoon, Dan was going to see what deals he could find at other hotels.  I, on the other hand, planned to go out and see if there were any tests I could sign up for, giving me an excuse to stay at such a place. (I bet if I chose to study for something like the Bar Exam, I could justify a good year or so in such a place!)

Anyhoo, in talking with Dan and Justin, they convinced me that a trek wasn’t such a bad idea, and they’d quite enjoyed their own trips. Since these were the guys who convinced me to shave my head and have needles rammed through my ear back in Nepal (Ears pierced in Kathmandu? What were we thinking?), I was sold.

So back at the Chiang Mai Guest House, I sheepishly asked about the possibility, and..er..if there was any way, I..er..ha-ha.. I mean.. of my perhaps getting in on that ‘damned trek’ that I earlier had no interest in. Signing my name on the sheet, I noticed just about all of the other trekkers were women, and immediately began to think this wasn’t such a bad idea after all. The trek is a bit of a ‘sampler’ involving some jungle trekking, elephant riding, riding a bamboo raft downriver, and staying with local hill-tribe villages. I had initially been turned off, knowing if I wanted to do serious jungle trekking, I’d need to go further out, and that the ‘staying with a hill tribe family,’ would in no way compare to my times in Cambodia or Nepal. Also, I’d done the ‘ride an elephant through the jungle’ thing the first time I’d been to Thailand, and it’s not a very comfortable ride.

As it turned out, the trek was good fun. This was all due to the other members of the trek, who were really great people (and I’m not just saying that because they’re being sent this same message). We had a good laugh (laughing with each other, if not at each other), and I was reminded that part of what I enjoy so much about travel is meeting my fellow travelers.  (Funny that meeting fellow travelers can also be what I hate so much about travel, but there you go.)

The ‘jungle trekking’ wasn’t much, but it was nice to hike around a bit, the elephant ride wasn’t nearly as bad as I remembered, and though I felt more an intruder (and paying customer) than a guest in the village ‘homestays,’ the bamboo rafting ride was good-wet fun! After we’d returned to Chiang Mai, we all spent time together until we each moved on our separate ways. I feel lucky to have met them, and hope we keep in touch, perhaps to meet again someday. (And I’m not just saying that in hopes of a free place to stay in, say, London/New Zealand, or wherever…)

Happily chatting and getting to know each other in the back of a truck on the way to begin our trekking experience, none of us knew what hit us (literally for a moment or two), when the first bucket of water smacked us.  We had just been introduced to ‘Songkran.’

‘Songkran’ is the Thai New Year, during which worshippers ‘bathe’ Buddha images. They also bless each other, sprinkling or pouring water over each other. At least that’s the theory. In reality, it’s the biggest, and greatest (assuming you’re a willing participant) water fight in the world.  For 3 days (officially, but some rogues are at it for a full week) from dusk till dawn, Chiang Mai was pure and utter, wet ‘n’ wild insanity. Cruising pick-ups trucks, loaded with water-warriors, armed with buckets and super-soakers, packed the streets around the moat. Foot soldiers held their ground on the sidewalks, drenching any car, truck, motorcycle, bicycle, and pedestrian passing by. No one immune, no one safe, everyone wet and soaked to the bone. Everyone is fair game: the armed, the unarmed; the old, the young; the wet, the dry; and even the truck full of monks. Fathers and mothers carefully instructed their children how to take aim and wollup the silly tourists. That older, innocent woman approaching with the bucket?  Mistake to let my guard down. She got me. She got me good. Sneak down the alleys and less crowded side streets? Those in ambush hit you harder, ’cause they get fewer targets. Empty gun in hand, run into a phone booth for protection from that approaching truck? Too late, I was spotted. The truck stopped, the booth door was opened and a bucket gently poured over my head, female attacker smiling all the while. No matter how wet you get, and how many times you’ve been hit, you never get used to the buckets of ICE WATER(!), which were far greater in number than I’d have liked. While the water pulled directly from the moat was warmer, you never feel totally at ease with the purity of its content. And through all this, there was nothing malicious about it. Smiles were always in fashion (except for the unsuspecting tourists who had hoped to actually sight-see and keep their cameras and valuables dry. I think if I let loose with a water gun on a total stranger back home, he (or she) may return the favor with a real gun, but there ya go.) It’s the coolest water fight in the world.

Songkran officially over, and finally dried out, I made the decision to move on. I smiled as we passed through the villages, the children still ‘at it,’ splashing every car to pass through. I laughed at the fun I’d had, and even more that I was dry inside a closed vehicle.

A vehicle which brings us (or at least it brought me) to Laos.

I LOVED LAO. It’s impossible to say which place is “my favorite” or “the best,” as I’ve had such incredible and varied experiences in many countries. That said, if someone caught me unawares (say, sneaking into my room and waking me in the middle of the night to the question, “What’s your favorite place?”) there’s a good chance ‘Lao’ would escape from my lips before I could say anything else). In spite of inadvertently visiting during the HOTTEST month of the year (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!), and apparently the only one in Laos who didn’t one way or another meet Matt Dillon (filming in Cambodia, on holiday in Laos), I LOVED LAOS!!!

I know, I know, I can hear the groans from here. After how much I raved and consequently typed about Indonesia, you’re all hunkering down for another long haul. But, I’ll just give you a few bits ‘n’ pieces (isn’t that what I said last time?), and leave the rest unwritten. “If you wanna know, you gotta go.”

+++ Slow Boat to Luang Prabang +++

From the border town of Huay Xi, I traveled down the Mekong for 2 days to Luang Prabang. I was assured that though the small cargo boat was slow, only 20 passengers would be aboard, with plenty of room to stretch out, relax, and enjoy the beauty of the countryside. Waiting on the landing, I noticed far more than 20 (closer to 40) waiting passengers, and one tiny boat, the floor of which was filled with dozens of 50 kg. sacks of rice. Hopes that ‘our boats’ had arrived yet, were dashed when we were all herded on to the boat.  “Oh, well,” I sighed to another traveler, “I guess we’re all in the same boat!”

(pause for laughter)

+++ Anything fo (pause again while you control your continued giggles) Anything for a Picture +++

Outside of Luang Prabang, there is a waterfall, and some others at my guesthouse were rounding up people to go to it one day. I was skeptical. Don’t get me wrong, I now and forever love waterfalls, but in many places I’ve visited, locals have caught on that foreigners like waterfalls, and it seems every city, town and hamlet advertises a ‘must-see waterfall’ half of which aren’t much more impressive than the shower in the shared bath.

These falls, though, were magnificent! A multi-tiered and huge set of falls, Huang Xi really did qualify as a ‘must see.’ The turquoise pools of water were not only beautiful, but thoroughly refreshing, and the whole excursion was the perfect way to escape the heat. (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). After climbing to the upper-most tier, and taking pictures frantically, some daring German decided to climb an overhanging branch, and jump into the pool below. I questioned the soundness of this idea, but since I had my camera in hand, decided it was my responsibility to capture the act on film, regardless of the outcome. The leap was successful and the guy turned out all right, at which point I realized I now had a picture of someone else taking the jump. Do I want to be an observer of life, or an active participant? Am I satisfied in the audience of life, or do I want to be performing on stage? yada, yada…handing my camera to a Danish gentleman standing by, I made my way to the tree. (for those of you who have been following along, I am insured again)

Having spent half my childhood in trees, I fancy myself a bit of a skilled climber and didn’t expect the climb up the tree to be a challenge. In the event, the climb was more difficult than the jump. The mossy, wet tree provided little traction, and the weak handholds crumbled with each touch.  My mother will be particularly happy to know that during this most difficult stretch, was not the waiting pool of water, but the jagged rocks of the falls. Anyhoo, I inched my way out on the limb, stood up, let out a “BANZAI’ cry, and leapt into the pool below. (The jump, though a good 10-12 meters, was easy to make since a crowd was watching, and a camera was waiting, no time to waste thinking about how far below I would drop.) The jump was quite a rush and upon safely resurfacing, I was glad I had ‘taken the plunge,’ as it were. The Danish guy yelled that I’d have to do it again because he couldn’t get the shot. Funny, I thought. Not an original joke, but one that had to be said. Climbing out of the pool, I realized he was serious. A local Lao man (eager to see the silly foreigner hurl himself out of a tree) what been standing between the photographer and me, and wouldn’t get out of the way. “That’s okay. I made the jump and I’m satisfied with that. I did it for myself and I don’t need a picture to prove anything to anyone.” “Really?” “…no, not really.” and I made my way back to the tree.

By this time everyone seemed to be jumping on..er..off the bandwagon, so I had to wait for an New York girl I’d been traveling with to jump. As I said before, the climb was more challenging than the drop, but it wasn’t until I saw someone else do it that I thought “oh, my god! I did that?” and the shakes set in. Still, I did climb again, confirmed the cameraman was ready, and tempted fate again. Anything for a picture, eh?

So how does this little bit (or is it a piece?) finish? well, the pictures have since been developed, and for reasons I can only begin to explain, instead of a picture of my death-defying (or at least ‘great and agonizing pain and injury’-defying leap), I have a partial snapshot of a Danish man’s feet. Back to Luang Prabang for a 3rd shot? Not necessary, the picture I took of the guy who pioneered the jump looks enough like me that I s’pose I can just claim that it’s me. Who will ever know?  oh, er…maybe you should forget I mentioned that last part.)

+++ It’s a Small World +++

Outside the small town Vang Vieng are numerous caves, and liking caves myself, I went out to go and see some. It wasn’t a long trek over the river and through the rice fields to the limestone cliffs, but it took me quite some time to get there, stopping every few steps to let out a series of expletives and curses (often involving some religious figure on a popsicle stick), totally unable to articulate with any grace and eloquence just how incredible and beautiful my surroundings were.  I developed a routine which went as follows: come to dead, dramatic stop, say something along the lines of “Holy <female relative> <popular expletive> <first name of prominent religious deity’s son> <another expletive> <last name> on a <choice here: same expletive as the first, else use the British term ‘bloody’> Popsicle stick! <previously unused expletive>! <one more curse for good measure> This is so <insert all previously used, and a few new curses> beautiful!”, take out camera, take several pictures, realize what a waste it was, knowing my snapshots could not capture it all with any justice, put my camera away, pull it out again figuring I may as well have a few with me in the shot, put the camera on an abandoned hut, run out to a chosen spot, press the remote control, moments before it clicks, realize I’m probably a bit low in the picture, jump up into the air just as the shutters goes, laugh at what an idiot I am for taking such a lame photo, but immediately do it again, perhaps to do it better, put camera away, begin my walk again determined to get on to my destination, take a few steps, repeat routine.

In the midst of one of these sessions, I found an unopened bottle of drinking water in front of me. Still cold, I knew it must have been dropped by someone recently, so I picked it up, knowing I was bound to run into whomever it was who dropped it. Having long ago lost track of the hand-painted signs directing me to the caves, I continued my way, giving the roaming herd of water buffalo plenty of room. Everyone says they’re no so bright, but I decided to give them credit that one of these days they’re going to figure out that in such large numbers, they could easily overtake me and my water bottle.

At last, I saw two foreigners on mountain bikes. Figuring it likely that a bottle of water could fall unnoticed from one on a bike(and them being the only two foreigners around), I headed in their direction, thinking I had found the rightful owners (note job skill: problem-solving). Approaching the couple, I hoped they were thinking “Gee, I hope someone finds and returns our water bottle” and not “At last! Finally, we’re away from all those other cursed travelers. We are truly alone and…”

“Hey, are you by any chance missing a bottle of water?”

The girl responded affirmatively and was quite grateful (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). She was very surprised and at my deducing it was theirs and returning it to them. I wasn’t so surprised by this (my brilliant mind making the solution to the’ Mystery of the Missing Water Bottle’ a matter of course), but I was surprised when the guy asked, “Did you teach English in Japan?”

James, had taught English in the town next to me. “It’s a small world” was the tune of the day, momentarily displacing Scorpion’s ‘Rhythm of Love’ (let us find together, the beat we’re looking for..)

+++ Wow! Beautiful! Number One!” +++

The three of us spent the morning hiking around the fields, exploring a number of caves and sweating more than I had previously imagined possible (April is the HOTTEST month of the year!). The views were stunning (I toned down my cursing commentary and made it suitable for family viewers, but we all suffered a similar fate, stopping every few paces to just stare about and comment on the land.) The caves, too, were spectacular, in their form, but also in a way that they’re just there. Of course, the locals have caught on, and there’s bound to be someone at every cave selling and entrance ticket, but then it’s up to you to just wander in to get lost/hurt/injured/dead on your own. It’s really a freedom that’s hard to come by in many countries these days. So we wandered, deep into the caves, again were in awe of our beautiful, though darker surroundings, and sweated profusely.

One cave, we did have a guide. In part because it’s so large (2-3 km; in wet season, it’s possible to swim inside), and also to point out all the beautiful formations. Now, caves round the world will often have some neat bits which resemble something else, and are kind of neat to see. This cave, too, had a ‘snake’s head’, ‘elephant’ and ‘flower’, for example. But they went a bit overboard, and we found ourselves stopping every two steps, as our guide pointed out another one. And as we went on, some of them took more stretches of the imagination, or just became absurd (and over hear is…er..a rabbit’s cheek! and look! a butterfly’s butt!). I admit I did think the ‘toilet bowl’ was amusing, and spot on, but others I would have been satisfied with the nameless, yet attractive formations.

And our guide, bless his heart, was able to direct us through all this with a very limited English vocabulary. At each stop, he would shine his light at the object of our attention, give it’s title (“donkey’s thumb!’) and enthusiastically say “Wow! Beautiful! Number One!” in such a way to not only make us believe it was actually one word, but also to impress upon us the joy and emotion we should be feeling at viewing such a thing. We would, generally, be quite amazed, but by the time it just began to sink in, our guide would be off with a “let’s go!” We did, however get a bit more out of the guide than the average foreigner, I’d imagine, as James, now teaching English outside of Bangkok, could speak some Thai (similar to Lao). I told him I was impressed with his Thai abilities, and he was equally impressed by ability to trek through the fields, climb rocks, and navigate the caves in my flip-flops. We all have our skills. (note job skill: able to successfully navigate a variety of fields with minimal support) Reaching our turn-around point (the cave continued on for another 2 km!), we reached our final ‘amazing formation.’ The guide, laughing, asked if I could identify the PHALLIC-looking formation in front of us. Gesturing to me and mine (a little too close for comfort, I dare say), he laughed, “and how about you?”

What could I say? “Wow! Beautiful! Number One!”

+++ Go with the Flow +++

Those of you who managed to read all my last update, will remember my tubing experience in Sumatra. In Vang Vieng, I once more hopped in a tube and rode downriver. Only in Laos, this was a totally different experience. First, there weren’t nearly as many Indonesians around. Second, unlike the wild, whitewater adventure of Sumatra, well, it’s dry season (April is also the HOTTEST month of the year!), so the river’s low, and very slow. So what took 5-10 minutes up the road by tuk-tuk, took 3 hours of drifting downriver. (Yes, that last sentence was a mess, what with the 2 ‘took’s and a ‘tuk-tuk’) Not that it wasn’t an unpleasant experience. While I would have enjoyed an adrenaline-rushing event (remember, I’m insured again), the slow drift downriver was a great way to sit back, relax and watch the world go by (Or perhaps it was watching me go by, I can’t really say). In many ways, tubing in Vang Vieng was much like Laos in general. It forces you to slow down and relax, and just enjoy what’s around you. Sure it’s possible to rush through the country, as I had originally intended to do, but I got a lot more out of it when I let myself drift on Laos time, soaking it all up.  I’m sensing I’m about to relate all this to a way to live and enjoy life and greater and larger things, so I’d better wrap this up and just say I recommend everyone float down a river in an inner-tube. I also recommend sunscreen (youch!)

 +++ Homecoming King +++

So, It’s May, and I’m in Bangkok, having just returned from 2 weeks in Laos. Why is this important? Because it’s not June (which it would have been had I stuck to an earlier plan keeping me another 2 weeks exploring Thailand and 30 days in Laos). Again, why is this important?

My plane arrives in L.A. May 28th.

But you’ll hear from me before then. Oh, yes, you will…

Gotta run. Perhaps because of my impending homecoming and my great expectations for the future, I’m reading Dickens’ novel of the same name (“Great Expectations,”‘ not “Impending Homecoming”), and I’ve just got to get back to it and see what the devil’s in store for Pip next…

Jay “Can someone pick me up at the airport?” Schneider

can anyone guess the song is stuck in my head now? Britney Spears’ “Ooops! I did it again.” Sorry for making it so long again, but the series is almost over, so enjoy it while you can.

Date: Mon, 2 Apr 2001 05:36:31 -0700 (PDT)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: Jay, the Aussie Surfer

U.S. State Department Travel Warning:
Office of the Spokesman Indonesia
February 28, 2001

The Department of State urges American citizens to defer nonessential travel to Indonesia and all travel to Aceh, Maluku, Papua, West Timor, Central Kalimantan (Borneo), and Central Sulawesi…Indonesia is experiencing a major political transition, and unrest and violence can erupt with little forewarning anywhere in the country. Bombings of religious, political, and business targets have occurred throughout the country.

Phew! I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m still recovering from the craziness that is ‘March Madness’. For those of you who are not so up in the world of sports, I’m talking of course about the Spring Grand Sumo Tournament in Osaka. Sad to say this year I wasn’t able to attend, but thanks living in this age of the internet, the daily results were always just a few clicks away (after a long, bumpy, cramped bus ride to a town with an internet connection, that is). But March isn’t just about sumo, folks, and I’m proud to say my students at Himeji Technical High School were invited to play in the National Spring tournament at Koshien, which, again for those of you who are unawares, is a VERY BIG DEAL. They lost the first round (internet keeping me in touch again), but for any kid who’s ever held a bat in Japan, just going to Koshien is a dream. And finally in college hoops, my own alma mater Cal (go bears!) was invited to the Big Dance, and in accordance with tradition, eliminated immediately.

So you may be thinking I’ve just spent the past 2 months surfing the net and checking the sports pages, but I also surfed real waves (ha-ha). Anyhoo, there’s lots to tell (sorry, it’s a long one this time) and I’d be glad to tell you after I share with you a childhood memory…

On far more occasions than I can begin to count, I remember, as a wee little Jay, watching t.v., playing with the neighbors or talking on the phone, and having my mother interrupt, directing me to do some necessary chore (feed the dog, clean my room, put out the fire I’d started in the living room, etc.), and I’d try and negotiate more time, “Aw, c’mon, Mom, just one more hour, please?”

I hope you’ve enjoyed this childhood memory.

 INDONESIA.

For the past 60 days (length of the visa), I’ve been falling in love with Indonesia. It’s been such an incredible 2 months, and I’ve had so many wonderful experiences, and “I’ll look back and laugh on this later, though I’m in excruciating discomfort now” adventures. There are too many instances of people being so helpful, inviting me to their homes, making sure I’m on the right bus (and off it at the right stop), eagerly wanting to tell me about their country, and ask about mine, whether we spoke a common language or not, and so many more wonderful images and beautiful places and unforgettable experiences. I know I can’t tell you everything, and I’ll try and keep it brief, but I’m warning you, this update could go on for a while (I hope none of you have work you should be doing!)

JAY THE AUSTRALIAN. Upon entering a country, one must fill out an immigration card, half of which is turned into an official, the other half which remains in the passport. The information is simple enough, name, profession, passport info, etc., but still it’s always a bit of a pain. (For me, I’m always stumped with what my occupation should be). So you can imagine my pleasant surprise when, after purchasing my ferry ticket from Singapore to Indonesia’s Batam Island, I was handed an immigration card, already filled out by computer. You could also imagine my puzzled surprise to discover that I was born in, and a citizen of…Australia. (Who knew?) Anyhoo, I said nothing (you can imagine my embarrassment at not knowing my own nationality), and the Indonesian official said nothing, so for the duration of my stay, I’d be Jay Schneider, Australian. (“Enjoy your stay in Indonesia.” “Thanks, er, mate.”)

SUMATRA. Four hour boat ride. Four hour bus. Hop on another bus, I was assured would arrive at my destination around midnight. Bus stops at midnight, everyone gets out and waits at a coffee shop until 6 am, we continue trip, at some point cross the equator for the first time in my life, by 8 am, I’m in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, reunited with my travel-mate Julie. Though I’d wanted to come to Indonesia for some time, it wasn’t on my current itinerary, so I really had no plan, just happy to be somewhere new. Julie had a plan. Many, in fact. And new ones kept popping up, or old ones constantly changing. I knew I needed to come up with my own plan. The “10 days in a muddy jungle wearing a self-made loincloth, killing a pig and drinking it’s blood” – trek (originally suggested by Julie) was nixed when she realized she wasn’t they type of person to go traipsing around, half-naked, in the muddy jungle for 10 days. I, on the other hand, put myself in that category, but conceded it’d be much more fun with a good friend, er mate, to do it with. (Where’s Ava when I needed her?) Instead, we spent our Sumatra days in the hills, on the lake, and on the coast. At one point I composed a poem about Chicken Fried Rice. On another occasion, while wandering around the streets of Padang, I was invited in to the police station, fed lunch, and offered a female officer’s hand in marriage. I declined (the woman, not the food), but it still was a great afternoon. Mostly, Sumatra was my introduction to Indonesia, and I was constantly surprised by how friendly and helpful the people were, freely giving advice and direction without trying to sell me something (still a bit jaded from India, I guess). And while we did our best to get off the ‘tourist trail,’ even when we were on it, we hardly saw any other foreign faces. It was rainy/low season anyway, but mostly, people are scared to come to Indonesia given what they’ve been reading in the papers and watching on CNN (see Travel Warning above). It’s a shame for the people who are missing out on such a wonderful country, and also for the locals who depend on tourist dollars, but I guess it works out great for those who do ‘brave’ to come here. After 2 weeks, we hopped on a Java-bound bus, and about 40 hours later, we were in…

JAKARTA (Java). Throughout my stay in Jakarta, people always made a point of showing me the American Embassy (fools! don’t they know I’m Australian?). It also happened to be rather close to where I was staying, and this was comforting, given the current instability of the country.

I had a scene in my mind of a helicopter evacuation from the roof of the Embassy, surrounded by a war-torn city. The Embassy’s American flag folded under my arm, I pause, looking around at the flames and the chaos, tears welling in my eyes, and then board helicopter, the last passenger on the last craft out of the country. Then, I’d put my arm around the Ambassador, comforting him, and say, “Don’t worry, sir. We’ll be back.” And he’d look back at me and reply, “Who the hell are you? What the hell are you doing here? Give me back my flag!”

But of course, this didn’t happen. In fact, even though demonstrations and protests were a daily occurrence in Jakarta, the really GOOD stuff (of the blood, tear-gas and flames variety) always happened just before of just after I was there. No luck, I guess… (Real briefly, the issue: Indonesia is in a bad way. Economy in the dumps, ethnic violence, separatist groups causing civil unrest, corruption as usual, yada-yada… Most people feel the current President, Gus Dur, has got to go, and demand his resignation. My entire two months in Indonesia, I spoke with no one who liked or supported the current President to any degree. He does have a minority of supporters, however, and they have declared they are prepared to shed blood to defend him. Makes for a rather dicey situation, eh?)

In spite of the lack of civil unrest in the city, I really enjoyed Jakarta. It wasn’t nearly the “armpit of Asia” it’s been made out to be (I think Manilla still holds that title). Most of the time was spent visiting Julie’s family friends, and at one point we ended up at a 2 year-old’s birthday party. We also sample a bit of the nightlife, and I left Jakarta with a good impression of it, and, truth be known, a desire to return. Not a bad spot at all.

YOGYAKARTA. Java’s number one tourist destination, and cultural capital was a bit strange due to the lack of visitors (domestic and foreign). All the places which guidebooks guaranteed would be swarming with tourist buses, were empty. And again, joss was not on our side. The steaming volcano of Mt. Merapi, just outside the city, had a major eruption, dumping ash on the nearby city of Solo, 2 days BEFORE we arrived. (I miss all the good stuff). But to make the best of it, we did all the cultural things there are to do, and saw the biggest Buddhist temple in (insert some geographic zone here). Of course, we annoyed the guards at closing time, refusing to leave before we exercised our God-given right to a sunset photo. A British bloke led the stand, and wouldn’t give an inch, his tripod firmly in place, waiting for the sun to dip behind the mountains. Andreas (German), Julie and I held fast as well. (The Japanese girl and her Aussie boyfriend couldn’t take the heat and broke ranks). We only needed a few more minutes, and these guards didn’t scare us. We’d all been to countries where guards carried large weapons. We got our shots, and because of our tardiness, had to climb a fence to get out of the locked temple grounds (it was that or spend the night and be first inside for the ubiquitous ‘sunrise shot’). And by the time we got to the bus station, all the busses had gone for the night. As we saw it, this was not a problem, but an opportunity. With all the cars on the road, somebody had to be headed back to Yogya. It took only 10 minutes for a tiny truck to stop, and while Andreas and Julie were figuring out who should ride in front, I was already halfway in the back, atop a comfortable load, looking at the clear star-filled skies above. We discovered half-way through the journey that the driver was not, in fact, headed to Yogya. But he drove us to a main road where buses were still running, pulled up alongside a bus and flagged it down for us. Again, I can’t forget how helpful the Indonesian people could be.

After a great week in Yogya, it was time to move on, and with an overnight stop for the obligatory ‘pre-dawn hike up a volcano to see the sunrise’ we arrived in…

BALI. I was a little disappointed with Bali. There weren’t nearly as many young, beautiful native women walking around topless, as I had been led to believe. In fact, the only Balinese woman I witnessed shedding her top in the heat of the midday sun was the grandmother of the family who ran the guesthouse at which I stayed in Ubud, Bali’s cultural heart. You can imagine my disappointment. Apart from this letdown, however, Bali was incredible, tempting me at every turn to spend the rest of my time there. Bali is very developed and heavily touristed, but it’s still possible to get out of the chaos, and back to the paradise (minus the scantily-clad maidens) it’s reputed to be.

Bali is where Julie and I, as planned, went our separate ways. Originally, our farewell adventure was going to be a motorcycle tour with a friend of hers from Holland. I had been excited about ‘easy-riding’ around the island, but Julie was on a tight schedule and only had only 5 days to do it, whereas I had no need to be in a rush. I felt it was best to get back on my own, do my own thing, in my own time.

Kuta Beach is the developed, resort center of the island, with Polo, Gucci and Ralph Lauren stores all in attendance, and the Golden Arches can be seen from any point on the beach. Families can feel at home in luxury hotels, and the not-so-family-oriented, can drink and dance the night away at any number of Kuta’s notorious (and naughty?) clubs. Not exactly an island paradise, but I had to at least check it out. Kuta’s also overrun with Japanese and Australians. But seeing’s how I’ve been missing Japan so much, and for this journey I am an Aussie, I found their presence comforting. There were also hordes of Javanese teenagers on vacation from school, snapping away pictures of the funny foreign tourists. (I should say now, that I think I was photographed more in 2 months in Indonesia, than I was in my entire 3 years in Japan.) So I decided to stay a couple days, but nearly stayed a month after meeting Antonio (Italian), Glenn (Washington, D.C.) and surfing (not a person, a water sport). Antonio, Glenn and I were all solo travelers who met up one day while touring some temples and what not around the island. We had a good day of it together, surviving the scorching sun, the hard-sells of the markets, and a monkey forest (those beasts are evil, I say, EVIL!). That night we hit the ‘scene,’ sending Antonio off to talk to Japanese girls, me feeding him what to say. It was a good laugh. We also came to an important decision: We would surf! Glenn had tried surfing before in Santa Cruz and Costa Rica, and Antonio had given it a go the day before, so I was the only true first-timer, but Papa Schneider’d taught me how to boogie board and body surf in Hawaii (17 years ago!) and I’d seen the cinema classic “North Shore” about a dozen times, so I had confidence. Good times were had, and not without some degree of success, enough to make me understand why the two Swedish guys in the room next to mine had been there a month. (“We surf a couple times a day, eat, read some books, go out at night, and do it all over again the next day.”) But a second day of surfing with Glenn (Antonio was on a plane back home), consisted mostly of floating/sleeping on our rented boards, in awe that and ocean could be so flat. This reminded me that the waves can be fickle, and made me think perhaps I’d better continue my adventures. If it’s my future to be a surf-bum, I can do that back in the States. For now, I’d leave it as a fun holiday diversion. Glenn also had to be on his way, his flight to Bangkok the next day, so I headed up to the black-sand beaches of Lovina for some snorkeling, and more low-key beach action. Lovina is smaller and quieter than Kuta, and far more beautiful, the rice fields and mountains undisturbed by “HARD ROCK CAFE – BALI” and the rest. Here, I met a family who invited me to stay with them (for several weeks!), the grandmother talking to me non-stop, unphased by the fact I couldn’t speak her language. I knew accepting their offer would result in my fluency of the language, but I think it would also have meant marrying the granddaughter, who, as beautiful as she was, at 14 years, just made me feel really old.

 I’ve traveled enough to know when it comes to transportation and schedules “Don’t ask, don’t tell.” Just get on the bus, and sooner or later (usually the latter) you’ll get there. So when I boarded my Java-bound bus at 3 PM, and then de-boarded again 2 hours later will all my stuff, sat around for another hour, only to board another bus, I wasn’t worried or concerned at all. It always works out. “No worry, no hurry, no chicken curry,” as my trekking guide in Nepal used to love to say. And so 15 minutes after boarding the second bus, when we didn’t move for the next 12 hours, again my feathers weren’t ruffled in the least. I just slept. When we did begin moving again, it took 3 hours to inch our way to the ferry, and the 30 minute ferry crossing took 2 hours, ending in a 1:30 a.m. arrival the next morning, as opposed to the “scheduled” 7:30 a.m. the second day. (16 hour bus ride —> 34 hours) What is time anyway? Besides, I got to know the other passengers really well, and one Balinese mother invited me back to Bali for a festival the following week. Again, a very tempting opportunity, but I think the fix was in here as well, her hinting that I could “remedy” my non-married status. (Her hints weren’t so subtle, along the lines of: “If you don’t like my daughters, I’m sure I can find you a very nice Balinese wife in my village. Balinese women are very hard workers and make very good wives.) Actually, her daughters were very nice young girls, but I’ve got my personal hang-ups about marrying a teenager.

Other bits on Bali: – It turns out the reason for my 13 hour bus delay was that demonstrations had stopped the ferries from running (for a day or two, I heard) so there was a huge backlog of buses and cars waiting to cross the channel. – Bali is one hour ahead of Java/Sumatra time. Funny that Julie and I didn’t realize this for 2 days. Funnier that it made absolutely no difference whatsoever. (Fortunately, she discovered on the day she had to meet her friend at the airport!) – During a festival period, I stumble across and honest-to-garsh, real McCoy, bona-fide cockfight! THAT was wild! (And I thought Mah Jong gambling was intense…)

JAVA. (again)

I had a mission in Java, and yes, it involved erotic temple carvings. As luck would have it, I ran into Andreas and the guesthouse, also on his way back from Bali and points further east, and he was a willing and eager partner-in-crime. The temple and carvings themselves were rather disappointing, being over-hyped to attract the tourists, I s’pose, but the several bus transfers and local transport adventures to get there and back (window seats on one bus–FRONT Window seats on the dashboard of a packed inter-city bus) made for a great day, and a reminder that often it’s the journey, not the destination, which make life great.

MY FOOT. During our adventure, Andreas had noticed my slight limp and makeshift bandage on my right foot and I confessed to him, what I haven’t yet told you, I had a slight ‘owie’ on my foot. I suppose I didn’t mention it because I’m still working out the details of the ‘shark attack’ story, which would sound infinitely better than the ‘attacked by an evil flip-flop with a grudge’ story that’s closer to the truth. The point is, I had a slight wound, of the open sore, pus-oozing out variety. Andreas offered some iodine so I could properly clean the cut, and this seemed like a good idea. “But I want to be here when you put it on,” he said with an evil grin. “I want to see you cry and hear you scream like a little girl!” I took off the sock I had protecting the cut, and showed it to Andreas. He screamed like a little girl, and ran out of the room, crying. When he returned (after he’d composed himself and I promised not to show it to him again), he demanded I go to a doctor. “You have to go to the doctor!” Andreas demanded. “You think so?” Jay ‘just walk it off’ Schneider questioned, “Maybe if I can…” “No! You are going to a doctor!” “Yeah, I guess tomorrow I’ll…” “No! Tonight! Now!”

Actually, we went out for dinner first, and met Christine, a Canadian graduate student who had been doing research in Kalimantan during the recent massacres and beheadings (over 400!), but didn’t hear anything about it until returning to Java. “After dinner, we’re going to a hospital, wanna come?” “er…” “c’mon, it’ll be fun!” “Can I bring popcorn?” And so the three of us piled into 2 cycle rickshaws and headed out in search of a hospital. We found one, with the staff seemingly content to be absorbed in the football match on t.v., and the party began. As the doctor and his attendant cleaned my wound, I directed Andreas, official photographer, to make sure all angles were covered, and though I thought she was joking, I could’ve sworn I saw Christine munching away on some popcorn. The doctor and staff said little, understandably upset at having the soccer match interrupted, and just shrugged off the happening of those strange and mysterious foreigners. They also didn’t give much in the way of explanation of the bag of drugs they gave me (again, I’ve been in Asia long enough to know the Doctors’ ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. Us westerners are sure strange wanting to know what medicines we’re taking and why), nor advice about dressing and re-dressing the wound, but at our post-party gathering at the hotel, we three examined all my goodies, and being the reasonably intelligent people we are, came up with a healing strategy. And the whole bit cost me a whopping $9. I’m uninsured again, so that came out of my pocket.

JAKARTA. (again)

Andreas and I rode in style to Jakarta, taking the ‘Business Class’ train, because the cheap one was full. We were rewarded with super comfortable seats, meals and snacks, and movies and music videos (Roxette’s Greatest Hits and Guns’n’Roses being my favorite!). Once more hoping to find the city in turmoil, and a country on the verge of revolution, we were disappointed, but had a pleasant time of it anyway. Again, I had a great time in this city, and left with a good impression.

THE 60-HOUR BUS RIDE TO SUMATRA.

I wasn’t trying to prove anything. I wasn’t trying to be cheap. I wasn’t trying to do anything extraordinary by taking the ‘ekonomi’ bus for 60 hours. You see, there’s this whole “A/C (air conditioned)” scam running in tropical countries, where it’s advertised as a luxury item. But 9 times out of 10, you end up freezing your ass off under the full-blast, non-adjustable AC, wondering how it’s possible to be so cold in such a naturally warm environment. Also, with the AC buses, they like pack on other ‘luxuries’ such as videos playing at full blast to help you through the wee hours of the morning when it’s too cold to sleep. Rather an unpleasant experience. Actually, prior to our non-AC bus ride to Jakarta, I told Julie I was a bit apprehensive about it, but the ride was quite comfortable, windows opened and closed to regulate heat, we slept well and when we got off the bus nearly 40 hours later, I felt good. In fact, I could have gone on longer if necessary. With this attitude, I wisely purchased a ticket for the ‘ekonomi’ bus, laughing at all the suckers boarding the AC bus next door.

Not all ‘ekonomi’ buses are created equal.

This bus had very uncomfortable bench seats, with non-reclining seats (actually, some reclined, though not by design, nor under anyone’s control). I had an aisle seat, and the man next to me, being a ‘sturdy’ fellow, naturally overflowed over into ‘my side.’ I didn’t think this would be such a big deal until they loaded on the passengers who would sit on stools in the aisle, thus restricting the ‘aisle-overflow’ prerogative to which those in my situation are entitled. During the night, on those few moments I did find sleep(by the 3rd night, you’re bound to be tired enough to get some sleep, regardless of the conditions), I would awake to find one aisle-dweller’s head on my shoulder, and another who had decided she’d sleep more comfortably with her rear on the corner of my seat. And so it went. For 60 hours. Think about that. 60 hours. Think about all that you have done for the past 2 1/2 days. In that amount of time, I was bussing my way to Northern Sumatra.

BUKIT LAWANG, LAKE TOBA, MEDAN (SUMATRA)

I spent the next week in Northern Sumatra (though, not so far north as Aceh, where the separatists and Indonesian army are fighting away), recovering from my bus ride, reflecting on my past 2 months in this wonderful country, and just plain relaxing. Thinking a jungle trek was not the best thing for my foot (much better now, by the way), my time in Bukit Lawang was spent hanging out on the river. I rented an inner-tube and tubed my way down the rapids. It was very unregulated, and certainly not the safest thing one could have done, but since everyone else was doing it, why not? Sure my butt banged over a number of rocks, but at least those rocks had been smoothed by thousands of butts before mine, making for a jolly-good ride. I certainly wasn’t alone, as hundreds of Sumatrans were up for the day, to ride the rapids, eat food, and play music till late. Mid-rapid, I met Metty, who reached out and grabbed my hand and asked “Hello, Mister, may we join you?” her brother and her sharing a tube. At the end of our ride, she invited me to join her family (BIG!) where I was well fed, before several more tubing runs, with as many as 8 or 9 of her family members linked together down the rapids. When we tired of this, we sat back and enjoyed the guitar-playing of her cousins (I think 1 in 4 Indonesians can play the guitar…) and thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon. At one point, I started to wonder if I should excuse myself and go see the afternoon orangutan feeding in the rehabilitation center (one of the things you’re ‘supposed’ to do when you come to Bukit Lawang’). Then, as if on cue, one of the funny creatures came down on the other side of the river, perhaps to check out all the commotion. It was a treat, not only for me, but for all the locals, as wild sightings are rare, without trekking deep into the jungle. It was a great day.

At lake Toba, I woke up, swam, ate, read, swam, ate, wrote, swam, slept, etc. most every day, save for a 6 hour stretch where I rented a motorcycle and cruised to a hot spring (and I mean HOT!).

And back to Medan, to arrange my ferry ticket out of the country (visa expires in 2 days), have Metty show me around town, and, since I’ve got some extra rupiah, and it’s only 40 cents/hour, catch up on my e-correspondence.

What’s next? Tomorrow, I regain my US citizenship, and head back towards Thailand, en route to Laos. And after that? Well, to know the future, it’s best to look at the past.

“Jay, don’t you think it’s about time you came home?” “aw, c’mon, Mom, just one..no..two more months, please?”

Smart money says I’m on US soil in June… Jay “G’day, mates” Schneider

Date: Mon, 8 Jan 2001 23:03:16 -0800,

From:   Betty Yu wrote:

To: Jay Schneider

Subject: Betty Who?

Hi Jay!

It’s Betty. The one who used to hang out in your apt on Channing all the time, but rarely when you were there. I don’t know how you managed to escape from me all those months.

I’ve been fascinated by your travels and Colin throws me a bone every once in a while and forwards me one of your emails. I’ve read two so far. In the first, you were crossing the border of Cambodia in your flip-flops and in the second you had progressed to partying with drag queens in Thailand. I think I’m missing a few events in the middle there but I can’t be sure.

Well, you mentioned that you would like to see some friends in the next few weeks and I just wanted to see if you’d be interested in checking out Taiwan with Colin and me at the end of January. We’ll be there from Jan 23-Feb 2. We can offer free housing, free food, free tour guides, and company (which will cost you a small fee). It would be great to see you. I know Colin misses you a lot and what could be more surreal than a reunion in the Republic of China? We’ll be staying mostly with my grandparents who actually speak fluent Japanese and I’m sure would love meeting you.

I hope this email finds you well and gives you enough time to make plans to meet us. I will assist in any way possible.

Looking forward to possibly seeing you in Taiwan.

Love,

Betty

Date:    Wed, 10 Jan 2001 23:04:55 -0800 (PST)

From:   Jay Schneider

To:     Betty Yu

Subject:    Re: Betty Who?

Betty…hmmm…you’re that tall African man I met in France, right? Glad to hear from you, and hope you’re getting used to life with one leg.  

(now I’ve screwed myself, how do I make the transition into seriousness? I can of course use the ol’ “but seriously…” but I hesitate to use that because it implies that I think what preceded it was so brilliant and hilarious. see how complicated life gets?)  

Anyhoo, funny how the world works, I was actually thinking of you, yes YOU, Ms. BETTY, yesterday while on a train. I know, I know, I’ll give you a bit of time to recover from the fact that in my wild life of pure adventure and excitement (you’ve missed out on shaven heads, donut-stealing monkeys, toe-stomping camels, and erotic temple carvings in between Cambodia and the gay bars of Bangkok), I would have time to think of li’l ol’ you. But I did.  

Now that you’ve recovered from the initial feelings of joy and elation, you’re feelings are probably rapidly turning to those of fear, wondering, “why would Jay be thinking of me? Is he plotting some revenge for something I did long ago and far away which he can neither forgive, nor forget?”  

Okay, I’ll explain. On a train in Malaysia, see a group of people signing (not autographs, but communicating with their hands) and a train (ha-ha, “train”) of thought brought you to mind, and I turned to my travel-partner and said, “I knew someone who was fluent in ASL. This really nice tall African man I met in France…”  

But seriously…  

Timing’s a bit off, as I’ve set so many wheels in motion which would make heading to Taiwan, oh, so difficult and complicated. (where were you a week ago, when I had absolutely no clue as to which direction I should go.  

But, but, but…I AM seriously going to consider it, because I’d love to see you guys, and it would be a great chance to get there. I’ll think about it over the next few days and figure out whether I can make it a reality.  

Will contact again soon  

Rabid Monkey, over and out.  

P.S. — I’ll add you to my mailing updates so you won’t have to depend on the bone-throwing. Also, back-issues are available upon request

Date: Fri, 2 Feb 2001 06:12:06 -0800 (PST)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: The Jay Luck Club

This update was made possible in part by Kenny Rogers, Amy Tan, and Dan Picciotto.

When we last left our hero…

I was about to board a train south to Malaysia with a beautiful dutch woman. So how did I end up in Taiwan on a nostalgic journey into a Chinese girl’s past and also becoming a Mah Jong Champion? And how do I manage to have my cake, and eat it, too? That’s what I hope to explain in this hastily-written update entitled “The Jay Luck Club”

Almost immediately from our Bangkok departure, I was glad to have Julie as a travel-mate. It’s great to have a partner not only for the company, but it’s easier to deal with the rigors and hassles of travel. For instance, while one person watches all the bags, the other is free and mobile to search for bus tickets, hotels, etc. It was also nice having late-night chat sessions when we felt like Kenny Rogers and the Gambler (they were ‘both too tired to sleep’). And it doesn’t hurt when your partner-in-crime is stunningly attractive.

After hanging out on the islands, and then spending 10(!) days in Bangkok, we both agreed it felt good to be “on the road again” (Willie, not Kenny, I know). Sometimes it feels good to strap on your pack, new day, new town, running for the next bus, being on the go, and this was our plan for the next 2 weeks. So after training our way to Butterworth, catching two buses, to get into the Cameron Highlands town of Tana Rata, we promptly dumped our bags, and stayed for a week.

Not that it was a bad decision. We arrived close to midnight, and after dark, in a strange town we knew nothing about, we were at the mercy of the handful of touts who met the bus. We put our trust in “Gil,” a bald-headed man with a goatee, who resembled a Malay Mr. Clean. It wasn’t so long ago that I shared both his profession and hairstyle, so I felt, perhaps we were kindred spirits. We made the right choice. He took us to the guesthouse he was living at, hill-top place at which the owner, Mr. Lee, made breakfast every morning. Tea was free all day, and there was a stack of late 80’s women’s magazines in the living room. The homey atmosphere, and perhaps my need to catch up on Cosmo (I missed the June ’87 “Tips to Catch, and Keep your Man” and the May ’89 “Lose the weight to look HOT at the beach this summer!” issues, gave us no desire to rush out of Tana Rata, and so we didn’t.

The mornings (the ones we didn’t sleep through, anyway) usually gave us great views of the surrounding hills and tea plantations. We were in no rush, sitting outside with the other guests, drinking endless cups of tea, while I searched for my name on Elle’s “Top 10 Men of the Year!” In the afternoon, we filled with walks and hikes in the surrounding jungle-hills, and a visit to the local tea plantation. It was still the rainy season, so sometimes our outdoor adventures got a little muddy, or we’d simply retreat to Mr. Lee’s and Seventeen Magazine.

And it wasn’t a bad place to spend my birthday, either. Of course, I have no wild and crazy stories of the red-light variety to tell, but it was a mellow, relaxing way to spend an otherwise insignificant birthday (by that, I mean, 27 is not much of a landmark as say, 16, 21, or, in the case of Julie, 30, which brought her to tears a few weeks back). Gil played me “Happy Birthday” on guitar as we sat ’round a midnight campfire, and I awoke to a birthday cake which Julie and Dom (British bloke and 4-month resident of Mr. Lee’s) managed to scrounge up. It was a good place to reflect on my past year, and look ahead to the coming one. Via e-mail, my mother was kind enough to refuse to wish me a “Happy Birthday” on the grounds that it seems like every day is my birthday. I conceded on this point–my life’s good.

Julie, apart from being magnificently gorgeous, is something of an internet addict. My plan, after leaving Bangkok, was to wait a couple weeks before checking in again. One day in Tana Rata, Julie needed to check her e-mail briefly, and I reluctantly decided to sit down and check mine, too. And this is where things get a bit interesting.

I got a message from Betty Yu, my ex-roommate’s (hereafter: Colin), girlfriend. (I also got a strange message with the subject header “Do you like sexy girls?”, but that’s a different story). Betty and Colin had plans to go to Taiwan and visit her family. They decided to call my bluff and test my “people-oriented” travel philosophy I talked about in my last update. Would I like to come to Taiwan and meet them? The wheels, started turning. I hadn’t seen them in 3 1/2 years, when I left for Japan, and they left for New York. It would be great to see them, and also a great opportunity to see Taiwan, what with “inside connections” and all. But more than actually seeing Betty and Colin, I liked the idea of just “popping over to Taiwan” to meet someone. (I’m imagining a telephone conversation something like this. In obnoxious, snobby accents, of course:

Col: Jay, ol’ boy, long time no see!
Jay: Col! Fabulous to hear from you, ol’ sport! How are you?
Col: Smashing, just smashing! Where are you these days?
Jay: Oh, I’m in Malaysia this week, Singapore the next, you know how it goes.
Col: Smashing! Say, ol’ chap, the Betts and I will be in Taiwan next week, visiting the
family, you know.
Jay: Oh, fiddlesticks! You are a lucky one! I wish I had that chance.  Fabulous for you,
ol’ man.
Col: Well, that’s what I wanted to chat with you about. See, the Betts had this
smashing idea. Why don’t you just pop on over and join us for the week?
The Betts: Oh, do come, Jay. We would so love to see you. It’ll be such a lark. Splendid,
really.
Jay: Well, I guess I don’t see why not…why, yes, I suppose…YES, I’ll call some people,
and see what magic I can brew up.
The Betts: Splendid!
Col: Smashing!
Jay: Fabulous! Fabulous idea, you two!
Col: Well, ol’ guy, the credit goes all to the Betts!
Jay: Well, then, Heaven’s to Betts, eh?
(etc.)

But Taiwan’s not exactly on my route, and it would take some doing. Plus, I really enjoyed traveling with Julie, and she’d even invited me to continue on to Indonesia with her. It wasn’t an easy decision to make. (You know, you can’t have your cake and eat it, too. Even birthday cake.)

In the end, it was a zero hour deal, which brought everything together, on the Malaysian island of Penang. For reasons, I don’t quite understand, Penang is a major center for cheap airline tickets (it also has a lot of rats, but again, that’s a different story), and since, after a few days in Kuala Lumpur, Julie and I were going there anyway, that’s where the final decision would be made. The night we arrived, it was late, so all shops were closed, the next day was a Sunday, and again, nothing open. So Sunday evening I went to sleep knowing the next day things’d be sorted out. It wasn’t a restful sleep, however, as moments before my eyes shut, I did the math and realized that Betty and Colin’s flight to Taiwan could be at any moment (they were waiting for me to let them know if it was going to work, and I was waiting for the shops to open, oblivious of the date). The next morning, I was out on the street looking for an open travel agent, and an open internet cafe, both things taking a while on this sleepy Monday morning. I found a ticket for a reasonable price, but that would be useless if I couldn’t contact Colin. Run to a computer, e-mail to Colin, then send a desperate plea for help from people who may know Colin’s number and his parents’. To be so close to making it all work, I wasn’t about to give up easily and was figuring even if they had already left, perhaps I could get contact information from his parents. I was considering my options, and about to log-off, when I got a message from Colin. We’d connected, a few hours before they were about to leave, and well…a few days later we were all together in Taiwan.

At this point, I have to give a big thanks to Dan Picciotto. For reasons he can’t explain, Dan decided to check his e-mail at a time he never checks his mail, read my plea for help, called Colin, and gets major props for the assist. Thanks, Dan, the following adventures couldn’t have happened without you.

I was able to spend a few more days with Julie before bidding a teary-eyed farewell (the tears were all mine, she could hardly contain her smile at finally getting rid of me). She on a boat to Indonesia, me on a plane to Taiwan.

Chinese culture is not something so foreign to me. After all, I’ve spent time in Chinatowns all over the world (that’s a joke, people). But it was my first time to a proper Chinese country, and I was lucky enough to tag along on the Betty Yu roots tour, visiting Betty’s friends, and stomping grounds from her childhood.

The Chinese New Year means lots of family, and lots of food. I don’t think a day went by where I didn’t meet another cousin, or eat far more food than my body wanted (don’t get me wrong, the food was DELICIOUS!!!) I met her grandparents, cousins, sisters, nieces, nephews, parents, and even spent the night in her brother-in-law’s home, a man who made his millions racing pigeons (that’s NOT a joke, people). Apparently, Colin and I are the only people in the world who have met so many of her relations (I lost count after 50).  

We visited temples, night markets, Betty’s old kindergarten, and some historic street with the intriguing in the idea, yet in the event disappointing name “touch breast” street. And one day, when it was felt our sight-seeing saturation point had been met, after a flurry of faxes and phone calls by Betty’s mother, we ended up spending an afternoon getting massages. Colin and I were a little fuzzy on how the decision was reached, but we certainly didn’t complain. (well, Colin did a bit. There was bruising.)

But no Chinese New Year can pass without some serious Mah Jong, and play we did. Colin and I were first-timers, but Betty’s family was eager to teach us. We learned the basics, the terminology, and with a lot of coaching, began to play. After a bit, Betty’s cousin told us we would never really learn to play unless we played for money. Suddenly, it all made sense. The friendly invitation, the lure of free food, accommodation, and tour-guides to come to Taiwan, all part of a clever ruse by Betty’s family to hustle the unsuspecting white boys out of their money. Colin and I were to be the suckers. Well, THIS sucker, wasn’t going to be having any of it, and it was I who was laughing loudest as I left the table that night, the winner. And two days later in a different town with different players, with Betty’s childhood friends suggesting we play a game in the hopes of reversing their losing-streak, it was THIS sucker who walked away (“know when to walk away, know when to run” -Kenny Rogers) with the biggest winnings. Yeah, don’t mess with THIS sucker. (I really need to stop calling myself that.)

Eventually, the week was up, and time for me to return to my life on the road, and continue my SE Asian adventures. It was great to catch up with Colin and Betty, and I’ve secured space on their floor (what, I’m not good enough for the couch?) when I back in the states, homeless, jobless, looking for some Mah Jong action to get me through the week.

And now? I’m in Singapore, where I needed to deal with some passport issues, getting new pages, and fixing the lamination which was coming off (I suggested duct tape, they weren’t having any of it). It is interesting to note that a new US Embassy was dedicated here in 1997 by William Jefferson Clinton. Interesting, that is, if you like US Embassy trivia, or, like me, you have a map which predates 1997, and has the old embassy marked, several kilometers away from its current site.

Tomorrow? Catching a boat to Indonesia to catch up with Julie who is (say it with me) beautiful. Pop over to Taiwan to see my friends, back down to Indonesia to continue traveling with the girl, I guess sometimes you can have your cake and eat it, too.

more from the road…

Jay “Ain’t no sucker” Schneider

P.S. — I was almost certain March would be my return month, but my money’s been going a lot further than expected (thanks to my Mah Jong winnings), so while it’s still a possibility, the smart bet is on April. I’ll give 30 days’ notice.

Date: Sun, 7 Jan 2001 05:52:45 -0800 (PST)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: Rambo and Room Service

Happy 2001, dear readers! I’m hoping this first installment of the new year  finds everyone healthy, well, and enjoying life as much as I am. 

I won’t bore you with the details of my countdown festivities, since I’m  sure  it’s a tired old story to the many of you who were also watching a drag show  in a red-light district gay bar.

And no, pets, Santa Claus did not find me this year (I’ll chalk that up to lack of a forwarding address, and not a reflection of my behavior). Fortunately ‘Uncle Chuck’ came for a visit, and not only insisted on sponsoring my holiday but demanded I upgrade my standard of living. Being the considerate fellow I am, and not wanting to disappoint my ol’ college buddy, I didn’t argue. 

Though it was sad to part from my shoebox room in the guesthouse who’s slogan reads “If the neon lights don’t keep you awake, the 24-hour Britney  Spears/Backstreet Boys/techno fest will,” I soon adapted to life in the Siam  Intercontinental. Admittedly, it was rough at first, going from a guest house staff who laughed at me each time I found a cockroach in my bed, to a  uniformed man who saluted me each time I passed (I made a point of walking by this gentleman as often as I could). When the swimming pool, driving range and pleasant strolls through the gardens got too much for us, we could always retreat to our room with its comfortable, proper beds,  air-conditioning, and…cable! Not just any cable, but cable with AMERICAN  FOOTBALL! 

It was nice to see a friend from home, not only for his wallet, but also for  the sight-seeing and exploring of Bangkok’s cultural sites. See, none of my  female friends shared my desire to discover exactly what the ‘ping-pong’  show at the go-go bars is all about. 

But it wasn’t all saluting and ping-pong shows. We soon headed south to the islands where I could visit another friendly face Ava, a fellow ex-English teacher from Japan. It was great to see her again, catch up on the past 5  months, and threaten her with blackmail (see previous update: ‘Joe Camel’),  but also to see her doing so well in her new job. Working as a  divemaster (dive-mistress?) in Ko Lanta, she seems really happy and in her element. During my stay, I heard countless divers praise her divemaster-ing skills. I almost felt like a proud parent, and  tears willing in my eyes, I hugged Chuck and cried “Our little Ava’s all  grown up.”  Chuck promptly slugged me, and I promised never to do this again. 

While Ava was off diving, Chuck and I, who were not certified and  didn’t have the time to take a course, entertained ourselves exploring the  island and it’s caves, hanging out on the beaches, and lounging in Ava’s  hammock (though, not at the same time). 

We also rented motorcycles and raced around the island like fully-insured maniacs (yes, I finally got more health insurance). No exciting mud stories this time (dry season), but I did try my hand at taking other people’s lives into my hands and carried passengers. Here’s what I  learned: Ava riding on the back is far, far more enjoyable than Chuck, but a beautiful Dutch-Indonesian woman beats them all. (Sorry, Ava; no  apologies, Chuck) 

Well, it all had to end at some point, and Chuck and I headed back to  Bangkok so he could catch his flight back home. Our farewell dinner was  ‘Room Service and Rambo’ night, the penguin-suited man wheeled in our fresh  sea food, as we  watched ‘First Blood,’ the original (and by far the best) Rambo movie.Classy. 

So what’s next for our hero? Well, apart from a return to a budget  lifestyle, let me explain. 

My basic plan (and I’ve always had one, despite what most of y’all are thinkin’) is to explore Laos/Northern Thailand and Malaysia/Singapore, and then pack it up and head for home. But I may not follow the nice itinerary  I’d come up with prior to the holidays. Seeing Chuck and Ava reminded me how nice it is to see friendly faces, and travel/hang out with people you get on with. Though I’m always meeting great people on the road until now  I’ve been ‘doing my own thing’ not altering my schedule too much in order to travel with, or meet up with people. And it felt right to do so. 

But my plan for the new year is to be more people-oriented, and I’ll gladly mold my schedule to accommodate friends. For example, I may travel a  bit with Ava when she finishes the season, or I may try and meet up with the two American guys who convinced me to shave my head in Kathmandu. (Though  I’m a little upset with them as I just found out they missed their chance to be extras in a Bollywood movie because they overslept. I’m so disappointed.) So my plans and routes may have me hopping around and backtracking a bit, and it may even lengthen my trip a few weeks (no,  really, I am coming home) but I think it’ll be for the best.

So what does all that mean for right now? I’m heading for Malaysia. 

(see above: ‘beautiful Dutch-Indonesian woman’) 

will write again 

Jay “don’t forget my Birthday, January 14th” Schneider

Date: Wed, 20 Dec 2000 09:33:34 -0800 (PST)

From: Jay Schneider

Subject: Joe Camel

Comrades!

I’ve returned to the Oppressive Kingdom of Siam. Though having been spared the colonial yoke of Imperialist European powers, capitalist bourgeois opportunists still abound, exploiting the workers and oppressing the peasants, poisoning minds and thwarting the revolution. But fear not, The Great, Unfailing Wisdom of The Party will heroically lead the masses to the proletariat dictatorship under which all will finally be free and equal!

(I’ll explain this, I promise I will…)

The final 2 weeks of my India trip, on the surface, could seem pretty straightforward: I traveled through Rajasthan, then headed to Calcutta to fly out. But this was made all the more interesting due to two factors. First, I had no business doing all I did with such an absurdly low amount of money. Second, I went to Calcutta from Jaipur (Rajasthan’s capital) via Bombay. (Those of you needing some geography assistance can feel free to take some time and look at an atlas.)

The Money Issue—

In past mailings I’ve mentioned my ‘meager means’ and ‘limited funds’ and so first off, I should like to clarify this point a bit.

I’ve had a bad habit, when traveling, of carrying far too much money with me. This habit, I decided, was not a good one to take with me to India, a place infamous for its scams, theft, and other things which make travel so ‘character-building.’ So prior to my departure for the sub-continent, I took a reasonable amount of cash and traveller’s cheques (traveler’s checks) for a couple of weeks in Nepal and a few months in India, and a bit for emergency, leaving the rest and my credit card in my safe deposit box in Bangkok.

Interruption — I must say it’s so cool to have a safe deposit box in a foreign country. Sure it’s no Swiss bank account, and admittedly I sometimes store my dirty laundry in it, but it’s still really cool and I can say things like “I have the negatives in a safe deposit box in Bangkok, in case you get any funny ideas…” (This is true, I have incriminating pictures of Ava, naked in front of Himeji Castle. Why she would do such I thing, I’ll never quite understand…)

So, I left with a more-than-adequate budget, and spent 2 months in Nepal instead of 2 weeks (time and money very well spent, though). When time for India came around, the money was understandably low.

Now, India’s a cheap country for travel, and I could’ve spent many months hangin’ out in some cool places, but my goal wasn’t just to go for as long as possible on as little. I had big plans, and little things like ‘money’ and ‘lack of it’ weren’t going to get in my way (power of positive thinking).

Off to the Indian state of Rajasthan. Really cool forts and palaces, colorful turbans on men with funky mustaches, and, what we’ve all been waiting for, CAMELS!

Yes, I did my camel safari, and it was so cool, I’m thinking of taking up smoking (Joe Camel lives!). I spent 3 days and 2 nights in the Thar Desert, which straddles the India-Pakistan border. Though, my camel was a bit of a slacker, had a bad eye and stepped on my toe (this, I believe, had nothing to do with his lame eye. It was personal.), the scenery was spectacular (in that way that barren nothingness can be), and I slept in the open air, on the dunes under the stars (and a few blankets–winter’s cold in the desert).

Camel Treks are heavily marketed for the tourists Rajasthan, so I was a little worried that it’d be a bit like Disneyland, but it wasn’t at all. And while “riding a camel through the desert” sells it to the tourists, and is great for telling the folks back home (as I’m doing now), what was most enjoyable for me were the things that weren’t necessarily so unique, such as cooking over an open fire, and sleeping out in the open under a full moon. These are things that I’ve done before, and it’s my desire to do again and again.  

Each night, I went to sleep giddy and giggling, having one of my frequent “damn, my life is so good” flashes, and woke several times rewarded by views of the constellations and a full moon. Also, in the late, quite desert night, I discovered that the sound of urine hitting the sand is REALLY LOUD!  

Okay, what was the icing on the camel cake? What made this already wonderful trip so much more unique and cool? After a long negotiating session, a complex and elaborate package was arranged. I got the camel safari, 2 free nights’ accommodation (the safari was booked through the guesthouse), one free meal, and as many cups of chai as I could drink while I stayed with them. They got a small amount of money, and, get this, my watch! Trading a watch for a ride on a one-eyed camel (even toe-crushing camels) is so cool, in that “having a safe deposit box in Bangkok” sense of the word.  

Meanwhile, back at the ranch, money low and butt sore, and drinking a lot of chai, I relaxed around the guesthouse and was approached for more negotiations (I thought they were after a draft pick). I was offered a job. I went with one of the staff to the city of Jodhpur, which many tourists come to on their way to Jaisalmer (where I did the camel safari). My job was to tell other tourists about their hotel and camel safari. For this, they would pay for my expenses, and give my 200 rupees a day. I didn’t like the thought of “going to the other side” and becoming one of the touts I despised so much, but I had no objections to advertising their hotel and safari, as they were good products. Besides, you know my money situation, and my plan had been to hole up in Jaisalmer doing nothing (and eating nothing) for a few days.

Anyhoo, I had fun meeting loads of travelers (ran into friends I’d made elsewhere, and met a guy who’d cycled through China, Pakistan and now into India–got me thinkin…) and was very honest and forthcoming in what I was doing (my employers would have been disappointed, I’m sure). I only did this one and a half days, because I wanted to get on the road again, but now I’ve got that touting, er, I mean “Public Relations and Advertising” experience employers love so much…  

Jaipur, is home to a number of forts, palaces, and really cool astronomy instruments, but the most enjoyable was running into a friend I’d made in Delhi, and going to see a Hindi movie, Bollywood Blockbuster: “Mission Kashmir.” Action, song, dance, tears, romance, I can see why it was one of the hits of the year (but had I seen one of the hundreds of other “hits of the year” I may not have been able to tell the difference between them).

During the intermission, the man in front of us turned around and started speaking Hindi. When he realized we couldn’t understand, he spoke English, and asked why, if we couldn’t understand Hindi, we had come to see a Hindi movie? I answered that while I couldn’t understand Hindi, I had no trouble understanding the movie. Actually, that’s not true. I could understand the basic plot: super-cool army leader’s son dies. Supercool guy, wearing a mask, goes on mission to kill Muslim terrorists. One of the men killed was survived by a son. Sad wife of supercool guy suggests adopting the orphan. They do. Orphan has some issues, having witnessed a bloodbath in which his father was gunned down by a masked man. Finally, in a dream in which the supercool guy’s son appears and dances around in his underwear, everyone becomes happy and they all play cricket. One night, the now-happy boy (orphan-boy, not underwear-boy) finds the mask, puts two and two together (and the mask on), and decides to try and kill supercool guy. Failing, he runs out the window into darkness. Time passes, and we know this because supercool guy has a different hairstyle and a mustache. The orphan boy (now a supercool guy in his own right), returns as part of a Muslim terrorist group…. etc. (sorry, we’re not even at the intermission yet. It goes on and on, and eventually, after much singing and dancing in the strangest moments, it all works out, and they’re a happy family again (minus the mother whom the orphan mistakenly killed while trying to knock off his foster-dad, supercool guy.)  

My point is, I had no difficulty following plot, but, as one raised in a different culture, I couldn’t understand the spontaneous outbreaks of singing and dancing around trees and fake gardens. Cultural differences, I guess…

After leaving Jaipur, I would be spending 55 out of 65 hours on a train, and decided I may want something to read. Checking all the bookstores, my budget couldn’t cover anything more than an Archie comic, and those were over-priced and wouldn’t last me long). What I needed was the maximum amount of pages, for the least amount of rupees. Content was of little importance. Finally, I stumble upon a store filled with dusty, and worn books, which looked promising. Oh, yeah, on the window was painted “Soviet Books.” Communist and Socialist essays, literature and propaganda of all sorts could be found, at VERY reasonable prices. “The Soviet Union: a Successful Future” was a particular bargain. I stocked up on “The History of the Communist Party in the Soviet Union,” “What is the Party?” and “The Theory of Revolution” for a piddling 30 rupees (60 cents). (And now, the ‘Comrades’ intro makes sense! It all comes together!)  

You may be wondering why I didn’t go directly to Calcutta, but instead traveled hundreds of kilometers out of my way to Mumbai (formerly Bombay) for only a matter of hours. No, this time the answer is not as simple as “Erotic Temple Carvings”. I can’t really explain it other than to say I just had to go. It’s Bollywood, home of the stars, glamour and glitz, not to mention the Indian Mafia and red-light districts. But, it’s more than that, it was sort of a calling from my childhood. I remember standing in line outside my 2nd grade classroom next to J.P. and looking through the window at a globe, making stupid, 2nd grade jokes which all ended “…in BOMBAY!” and this was enough to send us into hysterics. I really don’t know why, but I suppose it requires a 3rd grade level kind of logic and humor. Anyhow, I don’t expect you to understand, and I’m not sure why I’m choosing to share this childhood memory with you all, but something about actually going to this place which almost 20 years ago had no meaning to me other than a faraway place whose name would induce laughter, well it was just something I had to do, even if only for a matter of hours.  

And the simple explanation: why would I choose to spend 55 out of 65 hours on a train just to catch a glimpse of a place? Because I’m that cool. (See earlier definitions of ‘cool’ above.)  

40 train hours after Bombay, and a day and night in Calcutta later, I left India with 100 rupees in my pocket (it would have been 120, but the security guy who searched me at the airport suggested I give him some so he could buy himself tea. He was so cute with his toothless grin. I just couldn’t resist making my final ‘donation’ to India.)

Final thoughts?

I’ll rip-off, and misquote and modify-to-fit-my-purposes a bit from William S…..(I forget)’s book “Are you Experienced?” (A great read by the way). The set up: two fresh, first-time travelers arrive in a dormitory in India, and find an experienced, “cooler” traveler lying about…

“Hi!”

“Peace.”

“Wow, it’s really hot here, isn’t it?”

“Let me guess, you’re new here, right?”

“Yeah, just off the plane! How long you been here?”

“Oh…” he says, chuckling slightly in that way an adult laugh’s at a child’s innocent question “long enough…long enough. Long enough to love it….and hate it.”

“So, what’s that, like a week or something?”

Merry Xmas and Happy New Year for all those to whom it applies!

I’ll be hangin’ on the beaches of Thailand for a while with a Berkeley friend (Chucky) and another friend I’m going to try and blackmail (Ava).

Until next time,

Jay “on holiday till 2001” Schneider

Date:     Mon, 3 Dec 2000 22:52:36 -0800 (PST)

From:   Jay Schneider

Subject:   Beware the monkeys…

A few things before we get started:

In my last update, I told you Nepal is 5 hours 15 minutes ahead of GMT.  This was, of course, a mistake. The correct time difference is 5 hours FORTY-FIVE minutes ahead of GMT. I apologize for the confusion.

And while on the topic of confusion (no, this isn’t about the US presidential election I ended up not missing after all), some of you have been asking when I’m coming home. Others are under the impression I’ll be home before Xmas. I think I understand why you may be confused. Your mistake was in believing me when I said, “I’ll be home for Xmas.” You should have known better than to trust my young and naive words. The fact is I won’t be home for Xmas (Thailand, again), but you can expect me after about 4 or 5 countries (don’t worry, one of them’s really tiny).

And now, on with the show…

After finally getting my visa for India, I left Kathmandu, and after a long, uncomfortable bus ride (they don’t let you sit on the roof at night), and a brief side trip to the birthplace of Buddha, I left Nepal. It was a spectacular 2 months, I hope to make it back someday.

Walking into India is a bit chaotic, and it’s quite easy to miss the immigration check post, wedged in between shops, food stalls and street vendors. Fortunately, when I tried to get my passport stamped by a woman selling eggplant, she pointed me in the right direction.

I had finally arrived in India, and all the bad things meant to happen did.  At the end of a long, cramped bus ride (half my butt had a seat!), before I could get off the bus, some man was kind enough to take possession of my backpack (I was able to grab it back through the window), and the travel agent from whom I was to pick up my already-paid-too-much-for train ticket, held said ticket for ransom using a most ridiculous and absurd scam.  Finally, at the train station, I spent several hours waiting for a train which seemed not to exist, and nobody seemed to know anything about. It finally arrived, and I slept hard and well, only being woken by hungry mosquitos, and thoughts of malaria, which I have yet to contract.

At last I arrived in Varanasi, India’s holiest city, on the holiest river in the world, and stayed for a week. The touts, pushers, and ‘friends’ weren’t nearly as bad as I’d prepared for, but it took a day or two to realize this, and finally I relaxed, let my guard down and simply enjoyed myself. I hung out on the Ganges, sunrise, sunset, and under a full moon, and watched the bodies burn and corpses float down the river. aaah…so relaxing.

Next was Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, and a number of other, until quite recently very affordable sites and monuments. I spent a huge amount of money in one day, and enjoyed bitching about the India-wide price hikes with other travelers and people in the tourist industry. To be fair, perhaps tourists should share more of the burden of protecting world heritage sites and other points of interest. But when you’re low on funds, and only weeks ago could have paid pennies instead of dollars (Taj Mahal, 40 rupees —> 960 rs./ Red Fort, 2 rs –> 235 rs., for example), bitching and whining seems like the right thing to do. And it’s a lot of fun, too!

My next stop was Khajuraho, and if you’ve never heard of it, I hadn’t either until my guidebook flipped open by chance to that section. It’s a little bit out of the way (“on the road from nowhere to nowhere” — Lonely Planet), I had to do some backtracking (“…but most travelers fit it in between Varanasi and Agra” — LP “D’oh!” J.S.), and a bit costly (UNESCO World Heritage Site = $$$), but while reading my guidebook on the train to Agra, something captured my attention. Three words: Erotic Temple Carvings.  Okay, actually, just one of these words motivated me to ride a crammed train, two rickshaws, and so, so full bus for 8 hours (half-butt on seat!).  Man, oh, man, it was worth it. I’ll refrain from saying more about the carvings as mixed-company and minors may read this list.

Delhi, for a couple days, mostly to do errands (train/plane tix, laundry, e-mail…), and then up to the Pakistani border to Amritsar, home of the Sikh’s Golden Temple. I spent the night in the pilgrim’s lodging and ate in the temple kitchen. In spite of my being sick (not to be confused with Sikh), of the fever, ache, and cough variety, I really enjoyed my time there. The temple is open to all, and many people were very helpful and friendly to me, and here’s the kicker, didn’t once ask me for money. Even the room and food are free. Of course I gave a donation, but after weeks of feeling nobody will even tell you the time for free, it was a refreshing change of pace. Also, the Sikh’s are bad-ass, and quite proud of their assassination of Indira Gandhi. Lesson learned, the Sikh will help and serve all–but don’t fuck with ’em. (sorry, ‘f-ck’. mixed company and minors…)

And finally on to Dharamsala, which apart from being home to His Holiness the Dalai Lama and Tibet’s Government-in-exile, is also rather cold. I was further North than even Nepal, though the altitude was not as high. In spite of the cold, I was happy to be back in the Himalaya, and realized I really love the mountains.

In addition to experiencing a slice of living Tibetan culture (something nearly impossible to do in Tibet), I enjoyed many fine walks and hikes, and came to a better understanding of the Buddhist Philosophy of the impermanence and suffering of life, when a monkey stole my donut. (I think the same thing happened to Homer Simpson once…)

There are many opportunities to take classes in Tibetan Buddhism/Philosophy, yoga, and meditation retreats where you don’t talk for 10 days, but I needed something a little more practical and down-to-earth. I chose a 6-day hand healing course taught by Lama Lobsang Thamcho Nyimna, a recognized thulku (reincarnation, though of whom, I never found out). My health insurance had just expired, so I figured being able to heal myself was the most practical thing I could do.

Naturally, with my study of Japan and Asian cultures, I’d learned quite a bit about Buddhism, though mostly second-hand, as a means to better understand literature and culture. In Dharamsala, I decided the time was right to more directly and deliberately study Buddhist philosophy, and had some difficult questions. For instance, does love and compassion for all living creatures include cockroaches? Because, Buddhism makes a lot of sense, and I’d be tempted to sign on, but I’ve got a thing against cockroaches, and a firm belief that if I see one in my home, it must die at all costs. So I went to the Security Office and asked when the Dalai Lama would have his next public audience, but no dates have yet been fixed. I decided to address my issues in my own private meditation, though I began with a simpler question: Will my path to enlightenment be hindered by swiftly kicking donut-stealing monkeys?

But D-sala wasn’t all monks and meditation. My guidebook told me that it was a good place for chocolate cake, and always wanting to experience local culture and foods, I experienced as often as possible. I never questioned why this Tibetan community in Northern India would have chocolate cake as a local specialty. Ours is not to ask why, only ‘where?’ and ‘how much?’

And to show that old habits die hard, I spent the evenings volunteering, teaching English to Tibetan refugees.

Finally, healing certificate in hand, chocolate cake in stomach, no hair on head (I had it shaved again), it was time to bid farewell to Dharamsala. I did discover, however, that the following week, there would be a festival celebrating the 60th anniversary of the god-king’s installment as Dalai Lama. He would make speeches and prayers, and perhaps I could have the chance to meet him. I struggled with this decision for days. Even without the festival (and chocolate cake), Dharamsala is the kind of place where one can easily spend a month. But I realized it was time for me to move on.  Even the Dalai Lama could not fill the void inside me. The emptiness I feel is a result of missing the Pushkar Camel Fair, and I knew it could only be satisfied by heading south to Rajasthan, and finding an adequate substitute.

I’ve got a camel safari in my future. Jay “Camels, Ho!” Schneider