To Cambodia

The Thai flag flies beside the Skytrain rails. Beyond, the city of Bangkok.

The train to Chong Nonsi.
The reception desk at the Thong Lo Dental Clinic.

The lobby of the Thong Lo Dental Clinic. The man in the frame is the doctor who fitted my tooth.

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After a breakfast of bread with jam and butter at the hostel, I found my way to the Ekkamai Train Station, past stands selling whole chickens and sweets and smoked ribs and bags full of what looked to be white entrails. I took the green line to the dark green line, and took the dark green line to Chong Nonsi. My goal: withdraw enough cash for my immediate dental bills and my imminent journey to Cambodia.

I've learned something about asking for directions, and this applies especially to countries where English isn't necessarily well known: ask more than one person before you commit to a route. I walked up to one man, and said "Excuse me. Could you tell me how to get to the Citibank?"

He stared at me blankly with mottled brown eyes. I had an idea. I pulled out my wallet and slipped out my Citibank card far enough for him to see the logo.

He gave a little cry of recognition and then pointed down the road in the direction I had just come from. I was incredulous. "What? Really? It's not this way?"
He shook his head and kept pointing. Now, I was reasonably sure I had been heading the right way, since I was reasonably sure that's where the station attendants had told me to go. So I walked around the corner and had the luck of spotting an Indian restaurant with patio seating. Indians seem to speak fantastic English as a rule. The waiter was, as I had hoped, Indian, and he spoke excellent English. He took me outside and pointed over the top of the opposing line of shops to an imposing office building with shiny blue-tinted windows. "Right there," he said.

Ten minutes later I had my money, but my appointment was close at hand and time was short. My bags became oppressively heavy as I ran through the suffocating humidity and heat of Bangkok, back to the station. By the time I caught the train I was dripping sweat. Thanks to a combination of luck, common sense, and a half-remembered map, I made it to the clinic on time.

And so, the morning after my arrival in Bangkok, I was seated on the plush cushions of a new-looking couch in the sleekly modern and impeccably clean lobby of the Thong Lo Dental Clinic, waiting for the doctor. It was just after eleven thirty am.
Five minutes later, an assistant in a pale yellow uniform called my name and led me up two flights of gleaming white stairs to the dentist's office. We discussed my options. Either I could have the standard procedure done, or I could opt for an immediate-load implant. In a standard implant procedure, the implant is sutured over and allowed to gradually and safely integrate with the bone over a period of several months. An immediate-load implant, on the other hand, assumes that the bone is healthy and strong enough to immediately support a functional implant with a crown.
Several factors made me a good candidate for the immediate-load procedure, including my age and the fact that implantation would immediately follow extraction (meaning the bone around the socket would not have time to deteriorate). We decided it was probably worth the risk to have an immediate-load implant procedure performed to replace the broken tooth. However, I decided at the doctor's urging that, instead of a permanent crown, I would have a lower-quality temporary crown cemented in place- the reason being that after extraction of a tooth (even with immediate implantation) the gum line will inevitably recede slightly around the base of the implant. It seemed like a good idea to fit a permanent crown after the gum (not to mention the implant itself) had stabilized.
After the consultation, another doctor took a complete mold of my mouth and matched my natural teeth for color against a palette. It would take three days for the lab to prepare for my surgery. And that was that. I was off to Cambodia.

I gathered up my bags and made once more for the Skytrain, which I took to Mo Chit. From Mo Chit Station I was to hire a motorbike to take me to the bus station. I approached a gaggle of orange-vested men lounging under the train station footbridge with their scooters. One of them walked up to me with a smile. I said "Morchit 2 Bus Station."
"Fihty Baht. OK?"
"OK." And I was handed a helmet.
This was my first experience as a passenger on a two-wheeled vehicle, and on that little bike, screaming through highway traffic on uneven roads with the speedometer hovering around 90 km/h, all I could do was hold on and trust that the relaxed attitude of my driver was the result of long experience and didn't necessarily imply a fatal indifference to death.

Within two hours I was on an air-conditioned bus to the border town of Aranyaprathet, talking to the first in a long line of Swedes I would meet on this trip. We were handed a small box lunch which would turn out to contain:

1) A single piece of bread, coated in butter and sugar.

2) A cup of room temperature water.

3) A small packet of instant coffee (there was no hot water, so I pocketed it).

The solemn face of the King follows one always in Thailand.

Watching from highway overpasses, standing guard in a gilded frame outside of a new research building, peering out through the windows of the driver's cabin on the bus to Aranyaprathet.

For a time, the road hugged close to a reed-choked river, lined with palm fronds and sprawling complexes of shacks roofed with tin. Every few kilometers or so, an ornate riverside monastery would present itself at the edge of my vision as a searing coagulation of lush golds, reds, and blues.

There are signs on the trains in Thailand instructing you to give your seat to "children, the elderly, and monks." I passed many monks on pilgrimage in Cambodia, all wearing plastic sandals and draped in orange robes, often bartering for souvenirs or smoking.

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Night had fallen by the time the bus pulled in at Aranyaprathet. The hostel in Siem Reap was expecting me around 10:30 pm- I had just a little over three hours to get there. Now was the time to gird myself against the myriad scams I had been warned about. I shrugged off the touts and tuk-tuk drivers, making for a cluster of motorbike riders. The plan was to take the bike to the border, pay $20 for a Cambodian visa, then try to hook up with other travelers heading for Siem Reap.

I wound up on the back of a female driver's motorbike, with a young boy riding up front. She had agreed to take me to the border for sixty baht. The air howled past us as we gained speed on the thoroughfare, jockeying for space with all manner of traffic (animal-drawn carts, scooters, cars, motorcycles, trucks, bicycles...). My eyes streaming in the wind, I soaked in the warmth and the moisture and the sent of the night. A little over twenty-four hours ago it had been winter.

Without warning, we made a sharp right turn onto an unlit dirt road. The driver stopped the bike in the driveway of a squat open-fronted building and motioned for me to get off. The building was lit with unshielded fluorescent lights, and three or four men were sitting around a table in front, drinking beer. I was on my guard, barely managing to stifle alarm. I had been warned of fake border-crossings.

I turned to the driver. "The border. Border. Poipet. I want to go to the border." She indicated the building with an outstretched arm. "This is not the border," I said. After a few more moments, I gave up on communication and took a closer look at the building. A man got up to greet me.
"Cambodia visa?"
"Yes, I need one. But I'm going to get it at the border."
"Oh, no. Closed. No more. Very late," he tapped his watch.
"I was told the office was open until eight pm."
"Border crossing, yes, but visa only until seven."
I checked my watch. It was 7:35. I glanced back at the motorbike driver, who was reclining on the bike with the boy on her lap. I was sure she had been paid to take me here. But I was uncertain as to what to do. Perhaps the man was telling the truth. Perhaps I would make it to the border only to find that the visa office was shut. All I knew for certain was that I had twenty-five minutes to make it across that border.
"How much for the visa?"
"1,200 baht." ($36)
"That's ridiculous. It should only be $20 at the border crossing."
"No more visa. Only here."
"This is a scam, and I know it."
"Look, who you can trust? That's the Cambodia consulate." He indicated a nondescript white building. "If no trust Cambodia consulate, who do you trust?"
I was getting sick of this back-and-forth and I was running out of time. I couldn't be absolutely sure he was lying, and besides I doubted the driver would take me to the border until I had bought the visa. "Fine. I'll do it. But hurry."
I rushed through the paperwork, then handed the man my passport and half the money, and watched him walk off into the night. One of the men at the table called me over and offered me a beer. The cap was still on tight. I accepted it gratefully. When I asked for a bottle opener one of the men grabbed the bottle from me and popped the cap off with his teeth before handing it back to me, with a smile.
I downed the bottle just in time for the man's return. I took back my passport, checked the visa (it looked real enough), paid the rest of the inflated fee, thanked the men for the beer, and got back on the motorbike. I now had less than fifteen minutes to make it across the border before it shut for the day. In three minutes I was off the bike and jogging for the immigrations office through streams of cart-towing peddlers returning home after a day of hawking their wares on the border.
The official was just conscious enough to stamp my passport. Of course, the visa desk was still open. I just sighed.

Then I walked through the doors of the immigrations office and into Cambodia.

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My first memory of Cambodia is of a young man smiling at me from a backdrop of cheap hotels and dingy administrative buildings, his teeth shining white through the dark. "Hello! Where do you go?"
"Siem Reap."
"Ah, Siem Reap! Very dangerous here at night. Bad men. Mafia."
"Yes, I know. I didn't have a choice. I'll watch out," I said, raising my fists in mock defense. I trod through deep red dust toward a large roundabout in the distance, with many cars and scooters and people. People were milling about everywhere, bumping into one another, shouting, laughing. The sky was black. I stepped around a suspicious looking puddle, and when I looked back up the man was still following me.
"My brother owns a taxi!" he said. "He can take you to Siem Reap. Many would not take you so far so late at night."
"How much?"
"1,400 baht." ($42.36)
"That's about what I thought. I'm looking for some other people to split a cab with. It's too much for me to pay."
He paused for a moment. We had arrived at the roundabout, which was a large asphalt ring circling a parched hillock. All manner of moving objects appeared in the headlights of the waiting cars.
"Alright!" He said. "I'll find another. I find another, 800 baht. OK?"
"700."
"OK, 700. You wait here please." He indicated a sagging metal bench under a canvas awning.
I sat down with a sigh. I was in a strange place, waiting an unspecified amount of time for a man I knew I couldn't trust. Fifteen minutes later, I was debating whether or not to stay when the man returned, smiling broadly. "OK, come!" he said.
He led me through the tightly packed traffic of the circle to an unmarked Toyota Camry with a cracked windshield. He motioned for me to get in the front passenger seat. There were two other people in the back, and he squeezed in with them. "You have riel?" he asked.
"No, I was going to change my money in Siem Reap."
"Oh, no good. Pay in riel. This is Cambodia! Not Thailand! I know place here, very good price."
And so I was dragged to a grimy concrete box with a small sliding window. Inside was a tired-looking woman on a chair, and a shirtless man asleep on a carpet.

Here, I made several critical mistakes:

1) I was lazy. I had knew that a dollar was worth roughly 4,000 riel, but when I handed over 2,000 baht ($61) to the teller, I didn't check the rate I was getting and I didn't count the money. I was too tired to run through the calculations and the darkness made it difficult to count the unfamiliar money. I asked for a receipt (just in case- ha ha!), but I didn't even look at it. If I had, I would have found "1,000 X 600 = 600,000" printed on it, which is nothing more than a bunch of random numbers the teller punched into her calculator to make it seem like I was getting a proper receipt.

2) I let the man take the cab fare directly out of what I was handed from the window. Between the suspect money changer and the man's sticky fingers, I lost about $35 right then and there.

2b) Not only did I let the man hold (and almost certainly steal) my money, I paid before arriving in Siem Reap. This fact would become important very soon.

3) The bastard asked me for a tip, and I gave it to him. Of course, I didn't realize until later that he had robbed me.

The man saw me to the cab, then disappeared into the night. If I ever see him again, I'm going to sucker punch him.

Finally, motion. The car swung out of traffic and onto the highway. A sign read "Siem Reap 140km."

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The driver didn't speak a word of English, but I made disjointed small talk with one of the other passengers. The fact that everyone in the car but me was Cambodian should have been a tip-off. In fact, no-one in that car but I was going to Siem Reap that night.
The taxi pulled over and let one of the men out. There were three of us in the car then- myself, the driver, and another man who I'm convinced was also a part of the scam. I was content to sink down into my seat and close my eyes and hope I would be delivered to Siem Reap on time.
"Hello, friend?" It was the man in the back seat. I turned around. "Hello. The driver says you only pay to go Sisophon." Sisophon is less than a third of the way to Siem Reap.
"I paid to go to Siem Reap, and the driver knows it."
"Yes, I know. But he says you only pay Sisophon."
"Tell him to take me to Siem Reap, and get the rest of the money from the guy."
"He doesn't know who you talk about."
"The man. His brother."
"He said you only pay go to Sisophon."
This continued for fifteen extremely frustrating minutes. Finally, I pretended to break down. "Alright. How much does he want to take me to Siem Reap?"
They conferred in Cambodian for a moment. The man in the back seat wrote a number on a piece of paper and passed it up to me. It read "1,800 baht" ($54). No way in hell was I shelling out 1,800 baht to these scummy pricks.
"Alright, I'll pay. But after arriving in Siem Reap."
"You sure? Maybe spend the night in Sisophon. I know someone get you a room. Good price."
"No, I have a room in Siem Reap I've already paid for. I'm not going to stay at your friend's guest house."
We drove on a while in silence. Of course, I intended to ditch the cab as soon as it arrived in Siem Reap. I was fed up with people trying to victimize me. I'd happily shout it out with them in a police station, but they'd have to out-and-out rob me if they wanted another cent.
Then came an abrupt turn onto a dirt road, and another. We were in between two rows of shacks. There wasn't a light anywhere. The driver stopped the car, opened the door, and shouted something into one of the shacks. A fluorescent light flickered to life inside. I could see a woman with bleary, sunken eyes through wide gaps in the siding of the shack.
The man in the backseat leaned forward. "The driver needs 750 baht for gas money."
"Gas. Here?"
"Yes, he goes to buy gas. He needs money."
"He can use what he has."
"No, no money."
"I saw the man hand the driver money. He can use that money to buy gas."
"No, no money. 750 baht."
"He needs 23 dollars more for gas money?"
[ETC]
This escalated slowly, until it was almost a shouting match. I was livid at the whole situation. I felt that my words had no power. Frankly, I was scared. But damn them. Damn them. I made up my mind. I made sure nothing had slipped out of my pockets, grabbed my bags (which I had the sense to keep close to me), and threw open the door of the cab. After making certain I was leaving nothing behind, I kicked the door shut as hard as I possibly could with the heel of my shoe, denting it. Then I was off into the dark, determined to hitch-hike to Siem Reap or walk. I checked over my shoulder repeatedly to make sure I wasn't being followed. I didn't feel like being run down in the street by an enraged Cambodian cabbie and his accomplice.

Eventually I found the highway and started walking. As it turned out, I was walking in the wrong direction. But no matter. I hailed a passing scooter, said "Siem Reap," and was taken instead to a gaudy hotel in the middle of nowhere. Somehow I wasn't surprised. One of the managers walked out to meet us, and was kind enough to act as an interpreter. The driver of the scooter made a call on his cell phone "to find a taxi."
"He says he found a taxi to take you to Siem Reap for fifteen dollars."
"Great. Can he take me there?"
"Yes. Be careful."

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The "taxi" was an ancient Honda in a small village off the highway, with six people inside it (if you don't count the baby). I hopped off the scooter, and paid the man 40 baht. A short, fat kid sauntered over to us.
"My friend'll take you to Siem Reap," he said with a very good accent. "Ten dollars."
At this, the driver of the scooter said something in Cambodian like "You idiot. I told him fifteen dollars."
But I said "Sure, ten dollars. But I'll pay after arriving."

I squeezed in the back of the sedan. The suspension groaned and sagged under the weight of the passengers as the car swept onto the highway. It soon became apparent that the only English words any of them knew were "OK" and "no." I amused myself by venting to myself in Japanese and watching the night sky through the back window. Never have I seen a sky so black, with so many stars.
I don't know whether I was surprised or just relieved when the car actually arrived in Siem Reap just before 11 pm.

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I took a long shower at the hostel, changed into comfortable clothes, and went for a walk to the Old Market to clear my head. This was a mistake. I got no peace at all. I was harried constantly by tuk-tuk drivers and bike drivers and hawkers and pimps and drug dealers and beggars. When I collapsed into bed later that night I was more relieved than exhausted.

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Arrival in Bangkok

At Manila Int'l Airport, written in magic marker on a notepad. Note the retro typewriter. When I came back here on my return trip, the sign had two red lipstick kisses on it.

View of the drop-off area of the Suvarnabhumi Airport (BKK) [Thanks to Wikimedia Commons for the Photo]
Terminal D5 at BKK. Credit again to Wikimedia Commons for the photo. Incidentally, this is the very terminal where I caught my return flight.



The patio of the Wanderlust Hostel, with free live music. Alvi, the manager, is dressed in green.
Chong Nonsi, Bangkok.


"The city of angels, the great city, the eternal jewel city, the impregnable city of God Indra, the grand capital of the world endowed with nine precious gems, the happy city, abounding in an enormous Royal Palace that resembles the heavenly abode where reigns the reincarnated god, a city given by Indra and built by Vishnukarm"


Bangkok glowed through the air beyond the cabin porthole like a bed of coals smoldering in the dark. The internet travel guides were full of strident warnings of fraud and grift- all kinds of petty scams aimed at unsuspecting foreigners. Don't ride in a meterless taxi. Don't take the minibuses. Pay after you arrive, if possible. Know the exchange rates, and count your money. Beware of touts and don't believe a word they tell you. Choose motorbikes over tuk-tuks if you have a choice but never, never let a tout ride with you. In Bangkok, bribery is rampant, money is synonymous with power, and everyone is fair game.

As dawn broke over the train to Narita Airport earlier that day, I was having a conversation with a man named Ida. I had been reading a book in my usual unsociable way when Ida-san leaned over and asked me what I was reading. That's how I was sucked into an hour-long conversation with a strange, deeply thoughtful man about the chronic ills of society.
Ida is a man of sixty-five years with regular features and metal-framed glasses. He had kicked off his shoes to reveal fluffy yellow socks.
The conversation was in Japanese, but Ida seemed to have a good English vocabulary, which he would employ occasionally for emphasis. I was tired and feeling somewhat uncommunicative, but I did my best to carry my end of the conversation and Ida for his part was determined to impart his thoughts to me.
The conversation went something like this:
"You must understand, I am a very foolish old man. My IQ is probably somewhere around 85 points- a genuine idiot. You seem very smart. Your IQ is probably around 130, right?"
I didn't know how to take that, at all. "I don't know."
"Well, I may be stupid, you know, but I'm also old. I understand how things work. That's a result of experience. You may not think it's fair, since you're so young, but I've come to realize that wisdom can only result from experience." He paused to adjust his glasses. "When I was your age, I hated being told that I would only understand things 'when I got older.' But now, at 65, I have experienced a great deal of things; learned a great deal of things. Really, I think I only started understanding things clearly a week or two ago."
"Well, I always try to be open to experience. So what did you understand?"
"Well, when I was in school, we learned about something called 'The English Disease.'"
"'The English Disease?'"
"Yes- that was used during the decline of the British Empire. The English Disease was a manifestation of a sick society and it ultimately lead to the collapse of the Empire. The same thing is taking place in Japanese society. Japanese society is sick. It's a chronic illness. I think it started during the economic bubble of the 60's. The Japanese started to lose their way- to lose their identity. You know what I mean?"
"What's a 'chronic illness?'"
"It's the opposite of 'acute illness.' You understand 'acute illness'?"
"Yes."
"Well, the Japanese seized onto this idea of an ideal capitalist society, but they forgot their old nationalism. People began acting selfishly."
"I see."
"I'm not saying this is a problem in itself. But what we wound up with is a world steeped in hypocrisy and deception."
"'Hypocrisy?'"
He pulled out a dictionary, looked it up, and handed it to me.
"Ah," I said, "But hypocrisy is almost a given in any society. What did you mean earlier when you were talking about a chronic illness?"
"Well, take the building of a house for example. Forty years ago you could get a house built in two weeks for $20,000. Now it would cost ten times as much and take three times as long. People are acting entirely in their own interest. No care for others."
"Isn't some of that a result of inflation?
"Well, that's true. But the real problem is the natural naivety of human beings. Here I am talking about naivety! My daughter doesn't respect me- and it's because I'm a foolish old man with an IQ of 85. But I think you've heard of Murakami Haruki."
"Of course."
"Well, you know how he won that literary award recently?"
"Oh, no, I hadn't heard."
"Well, he won the Jerusalem Award for literature, and he wasn't keen to accept it, at first. But he figured that the award ceremony in Israel would give him a platform, and he had something to say."
"So what did he say?"
"He said that human beings are like eggs, right? And these eggs are pressed every day against a wall of hypocrisy and lies and they break one by one and that's no way for society to be. You understand what I'm saying?"
"Yes, I think so."
There is a girl asleep on the train, in a corner seat in the opposite row, balled up with her knees to her chest.
"There is a fundamental conflict between the fragility and natural naivety of human beings and the deceptive, evil world in which they live. We live in wonderfully democratic society, but we've focused too much on the individual and forgotten the big picture."
The train switched tracks then, swaying slightly. The girl's suitcase- a grey hardcase- began to roll down the isle toward the back of the train. A man got up, caught the suitcase, and wheeled it back to her. She was still asleep.
"That's what I mean," he said. "Take your dental work, for instance. You shouldn't have to go to Thailand for that! They should do it here, for five or six hundred dollars. There are people who can't afford to go abroad."
"Speaking of which, where are you going?"
"I'm going to the Philippines. I can't stand the winter here! I'm an old man, remember. But I've heard that the dentists in the Philippines are cheap- maybe I'll get some work done there myself," he laughed.

That night I descended into the jaws of the Eurasian Continent. The plane shuddered on landing and swung broadly from side to side before straightening out. Ground temperature and time of day were announced prior to deplaning, but I was completely unprepared for the humidity that enveloped me as soon as I stepped from the cabin doors. I had been swallowed, and pressing in on me from all sides were the steaming viscera of a living city.
As I shuffled towards customs and immigration with my fellow passengers I took in the surroundings. BKK is a modern marvel- a gleaming, palatial structure of soaring steel beams and cables and glass panels, all highlighted with electric blue lighting. After immigration, I walked through the exit to the car-park and immediately started sweating in the humid air. I stripped off my outer shirt and hailed a taxi. After making sure the meter was running, I asked the driver when we would arrive at the hostel.
"Oh. Sorry," he laughed. "Only English little bit."
"That's OK. I was told it would be about 200 baht."
"Yes... 200. About."
Pulling out onto the expressway, we gathered speed as we passed under an enormous gilded portrait of the King of Thailand, Bhumibol Adulyadej (Rama IX) labeled "Long Live the King. 1946-2010" in Thai and English.

In forty minutes we had arrived, and I stepped out of the cab into the heat and spotted the blue Christmas lights which I had been told would mark the entrance to the Wanderlust Hostel. I paid the driver, opened the gate, and walked through. The Wanderlust is two side-streets removed from the major Ekkamai Road, which is itself a branch, or "soi" of the central Sukhumvit highway. The address system in Thailand is horrendously confusing. Major roads are named for the areas they pass through, meaning that the name of a long road might change several times as it passes through different towns. Side streets branching off of the major roads are called soi. Soi are numbered in either ascending or descending order, with odd numbers on one side and even numbers on the other. The even and odd soi don't necessarily advance evenly, so soi 49 for a given road might be directly across from soi 18. If a new road is constructed between two existing soi, it is designated with a compound number (for instance 7/1 if it is between soi 7 and soi 9). Major soi might have their own name in addition to their number designation, as well as their own soi (e.g., Ekkamai is Sukhumvit's 63rd soi). House numbers on a given soi might not follow any order at all. Also, streets do not obey any sort of North-South grid so it's all but useless to try to navigate with the cardinal directions. Instead, directions might be given in terms of Bangkok's major landmark, the Chao Phraya river. The river, however, is so tortuous that at some points in the city one may be north, south, and east of the river simultaneously. To make matters worse, representations of street and place names in the Latin alphabet are not consistent, making research beforehand very tricky.

The hostel struck me immediately as clean and friendly. The owner, Alvi, is honest, self-possessed, and fun. When I checked in, the hostel was so full of young travelers like myself that two people were sleeping on the floor for lack of beds. Alvi handed me a bundle of sheets, and gave me a little tour.
"This is the refrigerator. It's full of cold beer and bottled water. Feel free to take what you like but make sure I know so I can add it to your tab." There was a definite Australian tint to her speech.
I took a glance at the sink next to the refrigerator, where a hand-written sign hung: "Unless you brought your mother with you, do your own dishes!"
She lead me upstairs to the air-conditioned second floor. "This is the bathroom. I can only promise you warm showers, not hot. But you may get lucky."
The rest of the second floor was taken up by bunk-beds. I took a shower, made my bed, and set an alarm for 8 am.

The next day would see me in Cambodia, under less than auspicious circumstances.

"Spring" Break: The First Ten Days [Part 2]

Chinatown in Yokohama.
Nihei Haruto-san, with the biggest catch of the day down at the Honmoku Sea Fishing Park on Sunday.

An amusement park in Minatomirai, Yokohama. The ferris wheel puts on a great light show at night.
A group of about 300 protesters demonstrating against a proposal for local suffrage for permanent foreign residents in Shibuya. Many of the signs read "No Voting Rights for Foreigners" or "Suffrage for Foreigners Violates the Constitution." The blue sign on the right says "We Will Stop It! No Local Voting Rights for Foreigners."


Hey all... updates from my trip to Thailand-Cambodia are forthcoming, but I wanted to post pt. II first for... chronological reasons.

The evening of the 30th of January, I was not in the best of spirits. Still feeling a little hungover, and grappling with the fresh necessity of expensive major dental surgery, I began walking slowly towards Fabien's apartment in Gotanda. He was throwing his 21st birthday party later that evening, and I was having a hard time deciding whether or not I should actually show up and contaminate the party atmosphere with my new snaggletoothed melancholy.

On the way there I passed by a stack of several dozen coffee cans next to a vending machine. On closer inspection, I realized they were all full and unexpired. Drugged up on pain-pills and full of venomous self-loathing, I slipped five or six of the cans into my backpack and walked away.

I did my best to be cheerful at the party, but my heart wasn't in it. Sorry, Fabien! The cheese was delicious, though, and there were more than a dozen people there more inclined to party than I was, so it was fun in the end.

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The next morning, Daniel texted me to say that he had become violently ill the night before, hadn't slept, and wouldn't be able to make it out fishing. And that was his last day in Tokyo! Alas!

After debating our options for a little while, Haruto and I decided to go fishing together anyway, despite not knowing one-another at all. He took the train to Sakuragi-cho station in Yokohama, and then a bus from there to the Honmoku sea-fishing park.

I rode my bike for 30 confusing, distracting, dangerous urban kilometers. I got lost five times, at one point passing through a long, desolate stretch of superhighway overpasses and coastal heavy industry. It was Sunday afternoon, so cawing seagulls were just about the only life evident in those vast industrial parks. It was the bleakest scenery I've ever seen in Japan- a sea of concrete slabs and factories and warehouses. And it was cold. Then at last, and nearly at the end of hope, I found the true eastern coast of Japan. I felt as if I had come to the end of the earth. The factories dropped away on either side of me and I was looking out over the Pacific Ocean.

The Honmoku Sea-Fishing Park is a series of latticed metal gangways stretching out into the Pacific Ocean. Evidence of shipping and industry is all around- the coast for miles in either direction is crammed with silos and factory stacks and shipping cranes. The water is peppered as far as the eye can see with ships of all sizes- fishing vessels, tugs, and gargantuan freighters plowing slowly through the distant whitecaps.

Haruto came to meet me in the lobby (where you can rent fishing equipment, get something to eat, or buy some bait prior to heading out to the breakwater). I was expecting things to be a bit awkward, but the inherent serenity of fishing seemed to absorb all of my tension. It helped that Haruto's girlfriend, Ayako, had come along at the last moment.

The piers were packed with people, and all of us, it seemed, were equally unsuccessful at fishing. Then around 3:30pm, as the sun was beginning to slant across the water, we started catching these little silver fish. Not edible of course, but it was fun to catch something. Someone nearby pulled in some sort of tasty-looking flatfish. In the end, I went home empty-handed, but I suppose don't mind. It was just nice to see the ocean.

On the way back I impulsively hooked up with a group of a dozen or so professional-looking bicyclists, and managed to keep pace with them for over ten kilometers, despite my woefully shabby equipment. I'm not sure what they made of the sudden addition to their team, but I kept with them until we hit the Tsurumi River, which I followed home through the deepening dusk.

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Monday, Misaki-sensei invited me out to a dinner with two of the students who weren't able to make it to the first farewell party. She said it would be "lonely" if it were just the three of them... hee hee. It was a relief to sit down at the table and get warm, since outside was all freezing rain and sleet. The menu was very traditional Japanese, written in cursive brush (and thus almost totally illegible to us foreigners). Thankfully, Misaki-sensei took care of all the ordering. I hadn't even heard of about half the dishes she ordered and I couldn't tell you what I ate, but it was beautifully prepared and expensive. I think one of the dishes included fish testicle gelatin. It was a tremendous learning experience.
Sensei made certain to ask us our sincere opinion of the course, and we had a good discussion about what worked and what didn't. She really cares about teaching well, and I respect that very much.
Misaki-sensei footed about half the bill this time, but made it very clear that we were to invite her out and treat her "next time."
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Tuesday was Maya's birthday! Honestly, I wasn't looking forward to yet another dinner out- but I couldn't help having fun. The venue was far less terrifying than Daniel's- an izakaya called Watami. Dishes were small, delicious, and reasonably priced. Fun was had by all, although my favorite part of the night was watching shows on my computer with Maya afterwards. I think next time we watch something together, though, we'll go to her place. After all, she has a TV now :3 .

I think I can post soon about my crazy adventures in Thailand and Cambodia, since I have an 11 hour layover in the Philippines tonight and nothing else to do!

"Spring" Break: The First Ten Days [Part 1]

Misaki-sensei, hands-down my favorite teacher of the semester.
After the last of the presentations, she took us out to a really nice izakaya (Japanese tavern) specializing in fugu (blowfish :X).
This amazing car was just sitting on the central drive of Keio's Hiyoshi campus. Check out the license plate.
A couple of other people were taking pictures, and joking about just climbing in and getting a feel for the seats. Mm, the smell of leather and wealth.
Spotted a stormtrooper on the way from Shibuya to Harajuku. I think it's part of a new Star Wars-related ad campaign by Adidas... but then again maybe he just favors the impenetrable defense of Imperial full-body armor for his walks.
There is too much cuteness in the world sometimes...

(Harajuku).
Daniel snuggles up to a Birthday Ghoul at The Lockup in Shibuya (yes, that's a wig).
Happy Birthday to you too, Fabien!



[How I Nearly Got Arrested, Then Broke in My Front Teeth and Partied for Three More Days]


I have been lucky enough to experience an unprecedented torrent of fun and madness these last ten days- but where to begin the tale? Ah yes...

Well, before I get on with the story of how I was nearly arrested, I would like to discuss my Revelation of the Day. Today's revelation is that I'm kind of a dick sometimes.

I gave my big final presentation on cannabis a week ago. The presentation itself went off without a hitch- the problem was the Q&A session afterwards.

I am a compulsive procrastinator, meaning I frequently feel like I just cannot work (e.g. on tomorrow's speech) until the last possible moment. I need the adrenaline rush that comes with deadline-defying acts of late-night academic heroism. So I gave my presentation on two hour's sleep, completely wired on caffeine and dangerously high-strung, but functioning well. A little bit too well. Sometimes I slip into these moods (particularly when under the influence of caffeine) where I'm very alert, but I come across as uncomfortably intense and it's almost impossible to have a comfortable, balanced conversation with me. I tend to be irritable and impatient.

Oh well. I won't go into specifics, but suffice it to say I was way too confrontational during the Q&A session, and I regret it. Bad me. The worst thing I could do after delivering reasonably successful rhetoric was to lose my audience by being combative. Lesson learned.

Back to the story...

As you know, I found my bike sorted in with the bulky trash behind a condominium, and then took it without anyone's permission, figuring no-one would mind. The fact is, I was never completely sure of the history of that bike. Perhaps it had been stolen, and stashed where I found it. Perhaps it's illegal in Japan to take a bike under any circumstances, or perhaps it had been sold to a scrap-yard and wasn't ownerless after all.

Point is, I was on shaky legal ground when the police stopped me on my way from Harajuku to meet Maya for book-shopping in Shinjuku. I had just crested a hill and was beginning the descent when I noticed the white-gloved palms of two uniformed policemen, unmistakably signaling me to stop. As I pulled over in front of the patrol car I already had a pretty clear idea of what this was about. Bikes are important in Japan- all bikes are registered to their owners with the police. Bike theft is also a big concern for police here, and foreigners are generally regarded with a little more suspicion than the average Japanese. Especially wild-haired foreigners riding utterly incongruous powder-blue bikes.

The taller of the two policemen walked up to me as I rested the bike on its stand, and asked me "Japaneezu OK? OK?" holding up both hands. He reacted with obvious relief when he realized I could understand Japanese, then asked me straight out "are you the registered owner of this bicycle?"

Oof. Here's where I must have started to seem awfully suspicious. "Uh... I don't think so... that is, the bike is mine, but I found it."

"...'found' it?"

"Yes, in a garbage dump. It was unrideable- the back tire was punctured. And I repaired the brake cable myself."

"So then you took it, without permission?" he said, smiling disingenuously.

At this point I hesitated. The shorter cop (hunchbacked little creep) almost sneered, showing me his yellowed teeth. "You can't just take other people's bikes, you know..."

"Yes, I know. But this bicycle was abandoned."

"I see," said the taller one. "Well, as you may be aware there have been numerous occurrences of bicycle theft recently. If you would be so kind as to speak with us briefly at the station, I am sure we can clear this up right away."

At the station, the taller (and more polite) officer took a detailed statement, asking me to sketch the place where I found the bike, probing for inconsistencies in my story. I think this was done largely in order to waste my time while someone in a back room of the station called the registered owner of the bike. It was a tense few minutes. What would happen if they couldn't get through to the original owner? What would happen if, through a freakish turn of chance, the bicycle was stolen?

I was halfway through the fourth retelling of how and where I picked up the bike when an officer I hadn't seen before came out of the back room and whispered something into the ear of my interrogator. They paused, then nodded to one another.
The first officer leaned over the desk, and said "We have contacted the original owner of the bicycle. It seems she did in fact intend to throw it away. Thank you for your time."

"Thank you, officer. What should I do if I get pulled over again?"

"If that happens, I suppose I must ask that you cooperate with us once more."

And that was that. Although now every time I get on my bike, I know I run the risk of being hauled off once again by the cops. Oh well, the bike was really cheap : )

After escaping the clutches of the Yoyogi policemen, I rode off for Shinjuku, where Maya had been waiting the whole time. We bought a ton of books at a great bookstore called Kinokuniya- I picked up a copy of Gravity's Rainbow in English, as well as Spanish for Dummies and a Spanish language edition of Love in the Time of Cholera, which I swore at the time I would struggle through and finish reading by the end of Spring Break. That's still my intention- I just need to learn Spanish first.

I spent the following four days strolling around Shibuya and Harajuku with Maya... shopping for clothes, seeing the sights, taking things slow. Spring Break had just begun, and I had time on my hands at last. The problem with nice clothes, though, is that they're expensive. They also make me acutely aware of how badly fitted and unattractive my old clothes are. On the other hand, I finally have some nice clothing, and I'm starting to learn how to dress well. Oh, sweet vanity.

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And then came Friday night, the night of Daniel's birthday / farewell party. I lost a few teeth. Let me explain...

The night began ordinarily enough. I joined up with Daniel's group by the statue of Hachiko, near that enormous scramble crossing in front of Shibuya Station. I had been told that the venue for the party was an izakaya. Knowing Daniel, this seemed a little tame. However...

The izakaya we went to is called "The Lockup." From street level, we descended two flights of stairs and found ourselves in a dark, cramped tunnel of artificial rock. We pressed on past a series of alcoves containing monsters, skulls, dismembered bodies, chains, gore... Lighting came solely from a series of irregularly placed blacklights and electric candles. As I descended into the bowels of this place, I felt as if I had entered a freakish nightmare. Shrieks and a rattle of chains echoed around us. I stepped on a weird soft spot in the floor, but I couldn't see my footing in the murk.

After what seemed like a long time, we emerged into a chamber lit entirely by rows of blue plasma disks on the walls and floor, where we were greeted by a young woman in a short-skirted police uniform. She handcuffed some of us (Daniel and Fabien, I think), then lead us through the dungeon. The booths were all closed in, with barred windows and low ceilings.

We were lead to our table and served drinks and bubbling cauldrons full of noodles and meat and vegetables in broth. Every half hour or so, the lights would go out and heavy metal music would be pumped into the room as men in monster costumes ran from booth to booth terrifying anyone they could find. A couple of minutes into each outbreak, a few of the policewomen would begin chasing the monsters around, firing at them with cap guns. Eventually, peace was restored. I made plans with Daniel and his friend Haruto to go fishing the following Sunday.

After dinner (and a fair bit of drinking), Daniel led us outside to drink more. This is usually how things are with Daniel- I should have known the moment the paper cups and hard liquor came out that we were in trouble. To be fair, the liquor I mention was a bottle of Jack Daniels I had gifted him earlier that night, so I am indirectly responsible for some of what followed.

There were repeated raids on the nearby convenience store in search of booze and snacks, and one of the girls threw up on herself. Daniel's friend Okubo went for a nap on the downtown Shibuya pavement, and several unknown Japanese guys tried valiantly to rouse him with patriotic drinking songs, and almost carried him off in their arms. Eventually, all of the girls had left and it was just us guys, drinking and carousing.

Things get very hazy leading up to my dramatic fall in the McDonald's. At one point I remember a Japanese girl asking me if I was British (I had on a tweed vest- I think that was why).

So... yes. I was carrying a tray of food. I believe, based on the nature of my injuries and eyewitness reports, that I attempted to climb the stairs to the second level of the McDonald's, where everyone had retreated from the cold. At some point I must have tripped or blacked out because I fell hard. The next thing I remember is Daniel wiping blood off of my forehead with a napkin. Someone had salvaged the tray after I dropped it, but as I bit into my Big Mac I became dimly aware that all was not quite right with my mouth.

As fact would have it, I pulverized one of my front teeth in the fall, breaking it clean off and exposing the pulp, as well as cracking it down to the root. The tooth next to that one was loosened and received hairline fractures. In all, I damaged or destroyed at least three of my front teeth- but I didn't let it get in the way of having a good time.

When I woke up on Saturday afternoon (having returned home on the first train), the first thing I did was find an English-speaking dentist who could see me immediately. Dr. Enatsu performed a palliative partial root canal with professionalism and efficiency. He is a phenomenal dentist, and I cannot thank him enough.

But I am going to Thailand in less than three days. Why? Because as it turns out, it would cost almost seven thousand dollars to get the surgery I need in Japan. I need the damaged tooth removed, and a titanium screw drilled into my skull to hold a replacement porcelain crown. Another of my teeth might need a similar level of attention. Such idiocy! I can't believe I fell down drunk in a McDonald's, for the love of god. If I had to lose teeth, the least I could have done was get in a bar fight over a lady's honour. I look like Alfred E. Neuman. My self-respect is at an all-time low. But on the bright side, I get to see Bangkok!

[The tale continues in Part 2]...
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