Mount Wilson Writers

Shanghai, The Whore of the East or The Paris of China, choose your favorite moniker. Of course, the debauchery of olden days was obliterated by Mao’s communist regime more than 50 years ago. It took a 25 hour train ride from Guilin to finally get here. I purchased a soft bed for the arduous ride to help smooth the travel time. I sat in my bunk with three Chinese who shared tea and bite size candy with me and attempted to converse with absolutely no luck. A couple in the adjacent compartment gave me a tear drop shaped grapefruit the size of a baby’s head that I subsequently shared with my own bunkmates.
I spent many hours staring from the train car and dreaming, watching the farms approach and fade, rice stalks bundled in piles. We zoomed past swiftly flashing foreign faces and faded weather-beaten orange houses. Children waved from the fields as the express train spit into the future at drastic speeds. I sat in the dining car and romanticized the early days of train travel, imagining myself amongst road-weathered baseball players chomping cigars and playing cards, me with the day’s scorecard in my felt cap, pen and writing tablet in the ready position. But I had to remind myself that I was in China, which wasn’t difficult to do. Men and women encircled, jabbered the gibberish of language unknown to me.
I shared a taxi to the hotel with a young Israeli couple I met on the train. The youth hostel that I am currently calling home is a converted hotel of a bygone 19th century era that once housed such distinguished guests as Albert Einstein, Scott Joplin, Thomas Edison, and Ulysses S. Grant. I hear their ghosts creak upon the old wooden floors and squeak across the polish of the gigantic art deco lobby. Now, the former suites have been stuffed with dorm beds but the charm of the past is still evident. The gilded fireplaces remain and the wooden balconies lend a view across the Haungpu River.
Shanghai itself is a mix of two eras, both of western influence. The river cuts through the two worlds leaving a stark juxtaposition. On the western bank is the area known as the Bund. The architecture is European in design. Both the French and English controlled the port of Shanghai shipping silk, opium, tea, and other goods and the Bund was their district. This area was later occupied by both the American and Japanese navies. During the period of English occupation the Bund was home to the decorative Customs House, brownstone banks, villas, and lavish hotels, all of which still stand today, though the red flag of China flies conspicuously atop each of the buildings. Also during the heyday of this era most of the area posted signs that read “No dogs or Chinese allowed.” Today, The Bund is one of the two defining characteristics of the city and tourists from all points snap pictures of the buildings that represent a heady era full of intrigue, chicanery, and luxury long since passed. From the opposite side of the river, the facade of the Bund certainly resembles the waterfront of the Seine. And when the whipping wind strikes the shore in the evening I cant help but be reminded of San Francisco.
The east side of the Haungpu is the new city and, the Chinese hope, the first great financial center of the 21st century. Only ten years ago this area was a patchwork of farms and outlying slums but metamorphosed into a futurist skyline. The most visible symbol is the Oriental Pearl TV Tower, the largest in Asia and the third largest in the world. On the viewing deck housed in a purple sphere Chinese push and shove for the resplendent view. Just down the boulevard is the sight of the third tallest highrise in the world, only outclassed by the Petronus Twin Towers in Kuala Lumpar and the Sears Tower in Chicago (also now surpassed by the 101 building in Taiwan- ed). For some reason this observation deck is far less crowded yet houses perhaps a finer vantage point for viewing the entirety of the city. The lot next to this monstrosity is the beginnings of what will be the tallest building in the world. Though at the moment construction has stagnated, mostly based on the IMF financial crisis of 1997 that is still being felt across Asia. So now the half finished giant stands sleeping, awaiting the funds to reawaken the project.
Yesterday, after enjoying the sights of western influence and indulgence, I wandered into the district that is known as the old city, where the Chinese have resided for many years. As I ambled down the dusky street a cacophony split my ears. Fish peddlers draped their goods from clothes hangers and shouted prices at pedestrians. Vendors sold everything from fruit and nuts to live turtles. Bicycles screeched and sped, ringing bells and barely avoiding accidents. laundry hung drying out of second story windows. And the red light emanating from lanterns cast an eerie glow upon the street. Children grabbed my arms and old men laughed at the sight. Women argued in an indecipherable tongue, shook and pointed fingers. My legs were wobbly from a day of pounding the streets and the colors and sounds swirled in front of me as if in a dream.
Though Shanghai is long past its storied prime, a certain charm still exists down the back alleys and waterways. And if one isn’t careful its easy to imagine the dapper businessmen, gangsters, and coolies, running rampant through a once thriving city. But alas time moves forward and Manhattan, Paris, London, and Shanghai of the 1920’s and 30’s is but a quixotic memory. And time pushes on for me too, onto Beijing tomorrow.

October 2001
We decided to take a weekend journey and a break from the chaos of Beijing. In reality chaos is impossible to flee in China, one point three billion residents and all. Mark and I debated about exactly where we should spend the two days because the distances between relevant or intriguing sights in China are unbearable lengthy. Travelers which I had met along the way suggested certain points of interest but the proposal of Mark’s students appeared to be the best option. On Thursday night we booked two hard sleepers for an overnight journey to Jinan, seven hours south of Beijing by train, the home to Tai Shan mountain, the birthplace of Confucius.
The train was scheduled to depart at 10pm on Friday night and we whiled away the meantime sipping beers in a Korean restaurant adjacent to the central station. I was nursing a head cold and Mark felt the genesis of what would later turn into dysentery, a bacterial infection that has been known to incapacitate entire troops (More on this unfortunate occurrence later). But at the time, we were eagerly looking forward to ascending another peak. Tai Shan is considered the number one mountain in China apparently based on its religious significance, and throngs of natives flock to the peak to pay reverence. The two of us, with a certain degree of vanity, were hardly intimidated by the 1600 meter (approximately 5,000 feet) peak. As the adventure unfolded I lamented my nonchalance.
The train ride was painless, and though Chinese talked loudly beneath us, we were both able to fall asleep on our respective cots by 11pm. My sleep was so sound in fact, that i awoke with shock as the attendant shook my sleeve and warned us of our arrival in a half hour. I shook the cobwebs from my dream clouded eyes, hopped off the top bunk, brushed my teeth, and sat staring at the dark countryside forever fading. The air was cold and the sun still slept as we made our way down the station corridor towards the ticket office to purchase return seats before we traipsed off to the trail. Much to our chagrin the train returning to Beijing that night was full, forcing us to buy standing room only tickets, a circumstance neither of us was looking forward to. Chinese trains are harrowing enough with a seat, the thought of standing for seven hours on an overnight train after a hike was nearly unbearable. But we tucked away the the reality of our return and immersed ourselves in the present task at hand. We hired a minibus to take us to the trailhead and by 5:30 am we were hiking.
The trail was already buzzing with activity, though the shops and restaurants were still closed. Overnight hikers sauntered down the hillside barking in the thin light of a new morning. Elderly Chinese practiced Tai Ji along the trail, swiveling pelvises in the frigid air of the foothills. Mark and I trudged slowly, both of us feeling slightly sluggish, realizing there was indeed no need to hurry. After about fifteen minutes we stopped for a light breakfast of muffins, fruit, nuts, and water with the light of the sun gradually penetrating the darkness.
As we continued on it was apparent that a young man clad in a jogging suit was following us and desirous of our attention. On his handheld transistor radio English news could be heard. We were aware he was interested in us and not in a way we found becoming. We slowed our pace to allow him to pass but he dawdled. Once he was past us we stopped for a rest to lose our suitor, but instead of continuing on he pretended to look inquisitively at an old rotten tree. Finally our hint was taken and he pressed onward. But this would not be our last encounter with the fancy boy.
Though the trail began to show signs of life it was still relatively quiet as we trudged upward. None of the vendors or hawkers were out in force and we found this leg of the journey to be quite pleasant. After about an hour and a half of our ginger pace we sat a moment to rest in front of a temple where large joss sticks fogged the air with a pungent aroma. From this vantage point we spied a cluster of buildings less than a mile a way. I couldnt believe that we had already neared the summit, it wasnt yet 8am. We scoffed at those that told us climbing to the top would induce crawling, we were almost there. The grey steps grew steeper and i huffed to the landing that we had seen from the temple below. Early morning hikers stood snapping pictures, drinking tea, and staring at the monstrous peak that loomed in front of us. It was at this point that I realized with tired legs, that we were only halfway up the mountain and the most treacherous leg was certainly ahead of us.
It was here that we once again met up with our admirer who inquired of me “did you like the coming?” No response. He soon danced away to leave Mark and I to discuss the rest of the climb. It was clear the trail shot straight up the gorge on the right side of the peak, while a suspended cable car cut up the left side. We agreed that it was necessary to hike up but perhaps tram it back down. The air grew colder as we ascended and the peak loomed large in the distance. at the halfway point we realized that it was possible to take a bus up from the bottom and then hike the additional three miles, thus explaining why the first half of the trail was relatively quiet.
It is important now to take a step back to look at the scene and the reaction of the Chinese when they see the only foreigners in the vicinity. Stalls hawking confucian goods, drinks, and other knick knacks lined either side of the trail. And, as at all the tourist attractions I have been to in China, it is apparent that the vendors and the other Chinese know very little English. Before we knew it we were being “Hallo”ed into oblivion. Their knowledge of the language halts at about that point. But not the vendors, they can throw in a few extra words to really entice you, varying upon what goods they are hawking. The most common is “Hallo, look, Hallo,” as if the extra hello will instanteously convert an uncertain buyer. Other catchy phrases include “haloo, drink, hello,” “hello, bike, hello” or if they are selling Mao’s little red book of sayings the sales pitch is “hallo, Mao, Hallo.”
From the halfway point to the summit, Mark and I ran a gauntlet of “Hallos” in all shapes and sizes until the aggravation reached a boiling point. It was cold, it was steep, and the entire mountainside sat in frozen time watching the two Americans slowly make their way up the mountain.
A bit past the halfway point a man stood holding a small costumed monkey in his hand. I tried to snap a picture but he (the man not the monkey) told me i had to pay to snap a photo. So i handed over the 5yaun ($0.60) and posed with the lovable primate as Mark took the picture. at least the monkey kept the “hallo monkey on leash, hallo” to himself, though by the look on his face i knew he was thinking it.
It was about this time that we ran into our effeminate devotee again and he zig zagged up the stairs from left to right mocking our struggle. He would occasionally glance back and shoot us a filthy toothed smile. for once I was pleased when another vendor accosted us pushing fake coins and ivory horns in our face. The man clinked two coins to together and in Chinese asked us “Sounds good doesn’t it?” Mark responded in Chinese “It sounds bad.” Next he asked if we liked the ivory, Mark responded in Chinese again “it’s terrible, I’ll throw it over the cliff!” To which the fellow vendors hopped, laughed, and hooted in sheer delight. Even the vendor himself let a smile surface to his face, he knew the goods were fake he just never figured a foreigner could tell him so.
Finally we found ourselves at the summit, sweat soaking us to the bone (not good for a cold in hindsight). I was exhausted having exerted far more effort than I thought would be necessary. I didnt think it would be a walk in the park but i hadnt counted on the steepness factor. At the top I stood shivering as a crowd buzzed around the red temple lighting joss sticks in sacrament to Confucius. All I could think about was a hot tea and somewhere to dry the sweat off my shivering limbs. A wet mist hung at the summit and the view of the valley below was obscured. Incense smoke mingled with the cloud layer. We found a tea shop and sat ourselves down at about 11am. The tea quickly warmed my shivering bones and the subsequent bill made me even hotter. 30 Yuan for two cups of tea, only four dollars for you rich Americans out there, but remember, a bottle of beer only costs 2 Yuan ($0.25) here.
Mark and I made our way to the putrid smelling bathroom to change out our wet clothes into long underwear, sweaters, and dry socks. The weather didnt lend much of a respite, the cold made it unbearable at the top, and after a lunch of fruit and muffins, we decided to take the cable car back down to the halfway point. We shared the cab with a Chinese couple with horrid teeth. Mark did his best to converse with them as i stared down into the valley below.
The most comical moment of the adventure greeted us after we stepped off the cable car and sat on a stone wall for a bit of a rest. A pudgy faced, bespectacled older man took one glance at us, didn’t say “Hallo,” but instead immediately burst into a hearty laugh. He didnt look back but continued to chuckle as he shuffled out of sight and down the hill, his laughter echoing across the hills. This sent mark and I into a fit of hysterics, not exactly sure why he had reacted as he did. As the sun finally emerged in full force, the air crisp with mountain smells, we realized this was the purest moment of the day. It lifted our spirits and we smiled and chuckled the remainder of the descent.
We reached the bottom, our legs and feet sore from the stomp, and immediately found a small restaurant to eat a second lunch of msg drenched vegetables, syrupy pork, and paper thin and paper tasting bread, with a beer each to wash it down. At this point it was nearing 3 oclock in the afternoon and we decided to head back to the train station to see if we could catch an earlier ride home. As luck or divine providence would have it there was a 3:3o train back to beijing, and though we would still have to stand, it was certainly better than waiting another 8 hours for our originally scheduled journey. We would be back by 11pm and this kept our attitude positive.
We sat ourselves on newspapers between cars in the crowded train and within a half hour, as the train began to clear, we had seats with a small table. we played cards, drank beer and laughed about the compact though arduous journey of the day and previous night. This was the highpoint and unfortunately it spiraled from then on. After a brief nap I awoke with a migraine headache compounded by the Chinese music, banging and wailing, screaming from the speaker above my head. Mark felt in full force the onset of the nasty dysentery which incapacitated him for the following four days. we wracked our brains in an attempt to figure the source of his ailment. Perhaps he had acquired it in xinjiang, but finally we realized that it had been laying dormant since his summer trip to nepal waiting to spring at the most inopportune moment. For a few nights I sat up in fear for my friend’s life as well as my own health.
At the moment the antibiotics seem to be accomplishing the task and Mark’s physical and mental makeup is stronger than I have seen since the fateful weekend trip. we joke that none of our journeys are without debacle, from camping trips to cross-country attempts, and for the first time it seemed that we had finally rid ourselves of these demons. But, for the time being, chalk up another adventure gone awry in the ambivalent and unbiased face of nature.

Currently I find myself located in Yangshuo City, Guangxi Province. If you’re scrambling to find it on the map, don’t bother, though it is situated near Guilin, which is a bit easier to locate. The landscape here is surreal and I think best surmised by the Lonely Planet guide as they refer to the innumerable camel-hump hills as “Dr. Suessish.” These peaks vary in size and shape and the city of Yangshuo is encircled by them like a spiked dog collar. It’s difficult to draw comparisons or find an adequete metaphor to relay the visual effect of the surroundings. Many of the hills resemble the cartoonish strructures of the Spanish architect Antonio Gaudi whose work is strewn about the city of Barcelona including his world reknowned Cathedral Sagrada de Familia. Many of the other peaks are in close correlation with the arches in southern Utah or the buttes of the western desert states.
I arrived in this visually breathtaking region after a 15 hour overnight train ride from Guangzhou and a two hour train ride from Hong Kong. Once I was safely settled in my guesthouse I walked next door to the cafe to have a cup of coffee. The owner of the shop spoke superb English and he promised to show me the cities authenticities. I told him I would do some wandering of my own but return in the afternoon to join him for a tour. I headed down the main drag and stopped into a barbershop to shave my head and beard, bought a pair of sunglasses, and continued my jaunt down the lane. I came upon the Li River, which snakes through the maze of misty bluffs and is famous for its cruises from Guilin.
In the early afternoon I returned to the cafe and told my new friend “Jacko” that I would be honored to have his guidance. Firstly he took me to a quiet tea shop on the banks of the river where old men slowly sipped tea, smoked tobacco pipes, and played cards. We sat on the floor of a private room and ordered fruit tea, good for the stomach Jacko informed. The waitress brought the tea in a glass container filled with tea bags and fruit slices. For the next hour we sat calmly shelling sunflower seeds, drinking the tea out of ramekin size cups, and listening to the mysteriously mournful Chinese music played from the speaker above our heads.
After teatime Jacko took me to a Chinese massage house for another hour of relaxation. I was curious to compare the Chinese with the Thai massage that I grew so fond of during my stay on the island of Ko Samet. In the end, though the Thai massage is considered to be the finest and most disciplined form, I must admit I found the Chinese version to be more to my liking. The Thai massage is centered moreso on the lower body as well as muscle stretching, which though invigorating, can also be quite painful. The Chinese massage focuses on the head, neck and back, more atune to my taste.
Jacko drove me back to my hotel on his motorbike. I took an evening shower before dinner then settled myself into a couch in the common room of the guesthouse to read a book. A stocky, bespectacled, chubby faced Chinese man sat across from me and from his demeanor it was obvious he itched to say something to me. Finally he said “You like make friend?” Sure, why not. His English was visibly limited but his intentions were noble so I felt almost obligated to invite him out to dinner with me. Down the main boulevard we ventured and sat down at the cleverly named restaurant of “Minnie Maos.” We ordered stuffed hot peppers, beer-battered Li River fish, and two bottles of Chinese beer. It became apparent as our meal wore on that my Chinese friend had either never met a westerner or knew few. He lavishly bestowed gifts upon me; a designer pen, a pack of unopened cigarettes, and a metal plaque the size of a baseball card with Chairman Mao’s mug on it. At this time I could only think of John Lennon’s words “If you go carrying pictures of Chairman Mao, you’re not gonna make it with anyone anyhow” (Revolution).
It was about this time that I noticed the beautiful young waitress who was working the other tables. I asked my friend to call her over and he did so. I wanted him to translate but as it turned out she spoke better English than my new friend. We began talking about miscellaneous subjects and I could feel my friend slowly growing perturbed because he could no longer decifer what we were discussing. Eventually Rong (the waitress) and I agreed to go for a bike ride the following morning out to Moon Hill near her residence.
We set out in the early morning fog, down a rocky dirt path surrounded by the dizzying sight of the dreamlike bluffs. In front of us rice paddies stretched and workers threshed the dry stalks. We passed old hunchbacked men with straw hats leading water buffaloes to graze. We wisped through tiny villages where the men stared at us and old ladies balanced scales of vegetables on shoulders. After about two hours of winding our way through the bizzare and fantastic countryside we made it to a main road and spied a sign that told of the Buddha caves. We stopped to investigate.
The sign, in English, said that these caves had just recently been discovered and subsequently opened to the public for exploration. I had the sneaking suspicion that the sign had been there for about ten years. Nontheless the two of us decided to enter the depths of the cavern and have a look around. The opening was quite large but soon we found ourselves crawling through the muddy passageways down towards the underground river that we could hear softly rambling below us. I must admit that at this point I was clastrophobic and wondered if I was going to make it all the way. My breathing became heavy and sweat dripped from my brow. I took a gulp of my water and shook myself from my slight fear. I also reassured myself by thinking that if for some reason I did get stuck down here at least I was with a beautiful woman. She put me to shame in the hole, quickly rappelling down ropes and monkeying down ladders to the river below. I gingerly scaled the muddy rocks and prayed I wouldn’t slip or spill, which I have been known to do on more than one occassion. Finally we were both down at the base, where we removed our shoes and headed a quarter mile down the underground river. I envisioned myself as the mad professor in Jules Verne’s “A Journey to the Center of the Earth.” Eventually we climbed back out of the cave, my courage of course growing stronger as I reached the end, realizing I never really had anything to fear.
At this point, back in the light of day, we agreed it was time for lunch. Rong and I cycled another ten minutes to her family’s farm where she began to prepare the noontime meal. As I sat in the dirt floored living room sipping tea I watched her meticulously peel the vegetables under the garden spicket. With me in the living room sat her bald-headed uncle who offered me an orange with a grunt. He sat himself in the opposite corner of the room rolling, licking, and smoking a chain of cigarettes. He laughed to himself and smiled at me possibly remembering a time when he didn’t even know white faces existed, or perhaps wondering why his niece would bring me to the farm.
Directly adjacent to the living room was the buffalo pen and I heard it grunt and snort, the smell of its manure pungent in the crisp country air. Rong spent nearly an hour cooking our meal and by the time it arrived I was good and hungry. The lunch consisted of three dishes, green beans, bean sprouts, and a sort of stir fired squash, as well as the obligatory bowl of rice. Her uncle watched us from his corner and eyed our meal with envy. After lunch and a brief rest we were back on our bicycles and headed for Moon Hill. This is perhaps the most popular attraction for tourists in the area and is a striking view from any vantage point. The hill’s name refers to the cresent shaped arch which sits high atop the green mesa. It took nearly 40 minutes to ascend the peak, a relatively short but strenuous hike. From the top, hilly lumps spread toward the horizon and patched quiltlike fields glimmered in the foreground. I took the time to snap some photos and marvel at the unreal scenary.
BY two pm we were back on our bikes and headed for the city of Yangshuo. Villagers waved and shouted at us as we rolled by, geese chuckled on ponds, and men raked dried rice. Mobs of people on bicycles, the favorite mode of transport in China, teemed through the streets. And finally we were back in the city. I thanked Rong for her kind guidance as she ran off to get ready for work and I dragged my mud caked body the the local bar for a pint.

All things considered and accounted for, my week in Malaysia was a worthwhie and successful experience. I was so impressed with the country in general that, if there is a next time, I would skip Thailand and head straight for Malaysia. I arrived from Bangkok on a torential rainy Saturday evening and booked a five star hotel to lick the travel wounds aquired in Thailand. This was a posh spot, in the heart of Kuala Lumpar, with hot water, a television, and room service. I can see a green tint of jealously quickly rise up your collective faces as you read this. “Hot water!” the echo of your dismay rings across the Pacific.
On Sunday I walked to the sights of the city which, in all honesty is only one, the Petronus Twin Towers, the tallest buildings in the world. The observation deck had just recently reopened after having been shut down for obvious reasons. These structures literally make up the skyline of KL. They are visible from all points. The edifice is a mix between western highrise and eastern architecture, with a large ball on top of each building, like the end of a stocking cap. While at the observation deck I used a great line to meet a beautiful German woman. “Do you think it goes any higher?” I asked. She looked at me puzzled, “I dont think so.” We spent the remainder of the day checking out a few other interesting sights of the city, including the tallest flagpole in the world, and the train station which was built during British occupation, but looks like any mosque currently being bombarded in Afghanistan or other central Asian cities.
The next moring I awoke to CNN and the news that Bush had finally given the go ahead for retailitory attacks and got a shiver in my stomach, a mix of pride, sadness, and fear. I was due to leave the city that day for a more remote location, my own Camp David, if you will. I jumped a bus to the Cameron Highlands at 2pm and arrived after a four hour journey, half of which wound upward and deep into the Malaysian rainforest.
The Cameron Highlands are an attraction for several reasons. They are home to the largest tea plantaions in the country, as well as the only strawberry farms, and a backpacker’s haven based on cheap accomodations and jungle trails. Most of the buildings in this region were constructed by the British as retreats for military commanders, thus it is a strange sight to view Tudor style cottages and resorts set against the backdrop of the dense, hanging jungles.
My hostel was one of the better ones I’ve stayed in. It sat flush against the forest and was a beacon for mellow travellers from all points. The first night I met a British chap and we agreed to tackle one of the trails the following day. In many of the guidebooks, the Cameron Highlands are reported to have a vast array of wildlife, from gibbons to tigers, elephants and snakes. The owner of the hostel informed me that there were not many gibbons left however because the locals were eating them.
The next day was perfectly picturesque as we started up the mountain at about 10am. The elevation of the town of Tanah Rata, the central city in the Highlands, is about 4,000 feet, and the peak we set out for loomed at approximately 6,500.
It took most of the morning to complete the ascent through the thick jungle vines, and a bit longer to walk down and out because we took an alternate path that wasn’t on the map. A classic move of “lets see what’s this way” with total disregard for trails or signposts. But we returned unscathed, yet certainly weary, without having seen any wildlife besides one snake that stuck his head out and slithered backwards.
The entire trek was about ten miles, I would guess. But as the two of us sat down for Tiger beers as a reward the story of our adventure quickly became fabricated. Two English girls sat with us and by the end of our afternoon drinking session the story they heard varied greatly from reality. The trek turned into a fifty mile hike, slogging trough deep and muddy undergrowth. We had to fend off a family of tigers and we were only able to do so by appeasing them with the gibbons that we had captured as an offering. That was certainly a precarious moment, but my British friend (Jay) and I “stood shoulder to shoulder” in the face of animal terrorism. The rest of the evening was spent swapping half truths with whoever was considerate enough to listen.
Unfortunately, my Malaysian adventure took a turn for the worse from that point on. The next morning I awoke with an aching body, the chills, and a stomach that became intimately aquainted with bathrooms from one end of Tanah Rata to the opposite. This “flu” continued until my departure from Malaysia yesterday, and I’m still at a loss the explain it. It could have been triggered by the sharp sun on the hike up, the greasy (though tasty) Malay food, or the mass quantity of Tiger beer my buddy and I consumed.
I feel better today though, and currently find myself in Hong Kong after a three and half hour flight from KL. The flight was painless and actually departed five minutes ahead of schedule. Today I ate McDonald’s for the first time on my trip in hopes that it would right my ailing belly. So far, so good. Ill keep you updated. Though I have enjoyed the food at all my stops, Korea, Thailand, Malaysia, and now China, there’s something about a hamburger, french fries, and a Coca-cola that just feels right. Heres to the hope that the McDonald’s in Kabul is still standing.
I leave for mainland china on Tuesday and should be in Beijing by the end of the month.

I’m back in Bangkok after my two weeks in Ko Samet. In a word Bangkok is overwhelming. It’s filthy, it’s crowded, and seeping with sin. I’ll be glad to bid it farewell tomorrow. Ko Samet on the otherhand was all I expected; white sandy beaches, luscious fruit, crystal clear water, and relative silence. But I am back to reality and slowly adjusting, though the beach buzz still lingers. Currently I am staying near Khao San road, the main tourist hub. It teems with foreign faces, but if one cares to walk two blocks in either direction the tourist crowd can be left behind. Thats exactly what I did last night for dinner. For some reason I feel more comfortable wandering down dimly lit back alleys, bronze thai faces sticky and shimmering, and watching the rabble and listening the babble. To me its not much of an experience to stick to the main touirist district. And I dont know why, but I dont feel safe there. Most tourists I believe to be trustworthy and honest but here in Bangkok I get a different vibe all together.
Tomorrow I move onto Malaysia where I was originally to meet my friend Charlie, a fellow English teacher in Korea, but for some reason his plans fell through and I am left riding solo again in a country I know very little about. But I can tell you one thing. When I arrive in Kuala Lumpar Im gonna get a nice hotel room for a couple of nights complete with hot water (a novelty) and a television (also a novelty). I’ll be there for about a week before I move on to Hong Kong on the 12th of October. Im sure Malaysia will be enjoyable but I am certainly looking forward to China, where my trip will culminate in Beijing visting Mark.
Wll, thats the update. Today Im gonna wander around the city a bit and buy some trinkets and knick-knacks.