Thailand: You’re Going to Ride an Elephant, Just Accept It.

Like a great many tourists, I sometimes feel at odds with myself when I take the easy path and do the touristy thing in a given situation. I feel like there is some authentic experience I am missing out on - maybe apprenticing under some ancient looking master of glass blowing as the mists roll over the mountains behind us.

I am, however, a tourist. So even if an authentic experience presented itself to me, I would spend most of the time trying to get a picture of it rather than actually engaging. “Look at this picture,” I would tell my friends back home (none of whom really want to see a picture of me, whether it is of me blowing glass or even me on fire), “Isn’t it great?” And they’d be guilted into asking me how it was. To which, of course, my honest response would be “I guess it was ok. It was really hard to get the picture while holding the tube, so I actually just watched this old guy do it most of the time.”

I have come to terms with this essential flaw in my character and I accept that, if I am going to have any real connection with anything, I need time to steep it in. I am a bitter tea type of personality, I guess. This is why it took me over six years to properly wrap my head around one small city in Japan.

So when it came time for my trip to Thailand in 2004, I knew I was going to ride an elephant. It is one of those things tourists do in Thailand. I accepted it. And you should too.

I met my particular elephant on the island of Koh Samui in the south of Thailand. I was staying on Chaweng beach and had planned to make the full moon party (another tourist staple), but I’d failed to account for a Buddhist holiday. Koh Samui itself was beautiful, with jungles, beaches and an above 30 Celsius temperature during my entire stay. Of course, being of Scottish, Irish and German descent, I reacted to the sun like a hermit leaving his cave after 40 years of darkness.

So when it came time to visit the elephant show, I was resplendent in my wide-brim hat and well lubricated with several litres of sunscreen. The elephant show consisted of the mahout (a.k.a. elephant rider) taking the elephant through a workout regime similar to an early afternoon aerobics show on 80s television. The elephant backed up, lifted feet, stood up, shuffled and lifted logs with its trunk.

Elephants have a special way of doing this that conveys that shows they are still confused as to how these hairless primates ended up riding them, but they can’t be bothered enough to give a shit. After watching the elephant show, which bizarrely ends with the opportunity to shake hands with a monkey, we were finally allowed to fulfill our tourist dreams and ride the elephants.

Unlike the mahouts, who rode behind the ears of the big beasts, we got to sit in relatively comfortable seats tied to the elephant’s backs. We also mounted by walking up the steps to the loading platform rather than scrambling up the neck as the elephant kneeled before us. This was probably for the best, as many of us in the group were far beyond the age or body type needed to scramble up anything steeper than an ottoman.

I was travelling solo at this point, so I got the single seater elephant (better mileage, but more road noise). The first thing that hit me is that riding an elephant was actually kind of fun. The roll of the motion and the sense of the size of the animal carrying you is unique in my experience. The second thing that hit me was that elephants smell pretty much what you’d expect a very large animal to smell like. And they do everything large. One elephant in front of us in the tourist train stopped to piss and, by a modest estimate, released an entire lake’s worth of fluid.

So go ahead and ride that elephant when you have a chance. It isn’t going to change your life like learning to blow glass from a 100 year old monk on a mountain peak, but it is a genuinely satisfying experience that will make for a picture that no one but you actually wants to see. And, after all, isn’t that what travelling is all about?

Thailand: A Reason to Buy Speedos

During my years in Japan, I've made surprisingly few trips to the rest of Asia. It turns out that, although I love being somewhere else, I like being in the same place almost as much. That said, I am glad I did make the time for a trip to Thailand. It started out looking to be one of the worst vacations, but slowly, by dint of days and sun, became one of the best.

It is my own fault, not Thailand’s, that the trip started out badly. I went the cheap route, with an Air Egypt flight that didn’t have enough blankets for the passengers and sported the only working TV on the other side of the plane.

After landing, I headed straight for my only planned destination, one of the largest markets in Bangkok where a giant conglomeration of tented stalls contains almost every product under the sun for next to nothing. You can buy art, clothes, fighting roosters, marble carvings, any imaginable food, counterfeit Nikes that look like the real thing, real Nikes that look counterfeit, guns, knives, brass knuckles, pornographic ashtrays, DVDs of movies that haven’t hit theaters yet, and, likely hidden somewhere in the back, happiness (or at least something to simulate it).

As I wandered around in the humid Bangkok afternoon, wearing my newly bought sandals and breezy, authentic Thai fisherman pants that I only saw on other tourists, I noticed several things.

1. The populations of people and stray dogs are near equal in some parts of the city. 
2. Children under five may not actually have clothes or just opt out of wearing them. 
3. Sidewalk and road hold little distinction for vehicles or pedestrians. 
4. There are no traffic rules, merely suggestions that carry the same weight as the surgeon general’s warning to chronic smokers. 
5. It smells like flowers, rotten eggs, perfume, sweat, exhaust, mud, and grass all at the same time. 
6. It’s infested with tourists – especially of the 40 year-old man with the (hopefully) 18 year-old Thai girl variety (or boy). 
7. The food is delicious. 

Two “pleasures” I decided to try out in Thailand were traditional Thai massage and a straight blade shave at a barbershop. I started out slow, getting a foot massage at the market first and a haircut (they did shave my ears, which has left me with a complex over whether my ears are hairy or not).

I challenged the real shave first, selecting a shop run by three gorgeous women as I figured, if it had to happen, I’d rather have my jugular severed by a beautiful woman. However, when I sat down in the chair, had my temples massaged, and was lathered up, they brought Shaky out from some backroom he must hide in so that he doesn’t scare customers away.

Shaky was a ancient looking Thai man that was about as steady as a punch-drunk boxer. I pulled a deer in the headlights and went absolutely rigid watching Shaky try to steady his hands enough to wipe the four-inch razor against his apron. I honestly don’t know how I avoided wetting myself in pure terror every time he came near my neck with that blade. To add to the apprehension over what turned out to be a 20 minute shave, Shaky started by shaving my forehead – I don’t know about my ears, but I’m pretty damn certain my forehead didn’t need the shave. I seriously felt like I had survived a near death experience when I walked out with only one nick on my cheek and a profound dislike of razor-wielding old men.

The Thai massage was both better and worse as far as experiences go. I asked the hotel staff if there was a place I could get a massage that was strictly just a massage. They pointed me at a place in the same building (of course). It was very clean and had little Zen fountains and other faux-oriental decor that put me at ease, so I went for it. I had assumed that a massage could be done with a minimal removal of clothing, but I was given a small towel and told to leave everything in the change-room locker. Ah well, I figured, at least I get a towel.

So I was lead to the massage tables where two German men wearing Speedos (as, in my experience, all German men do) were getting massages. For the first time in my life, I wished I owned Speedos. My masseuse was in her fifties and she assured me that this was an above-the-belt operation, after which she whipped off my little towel to replace it with an even smaller towel – which wasn’t reassuring at all. So the two Speedo-clad Germans and I tried to relax as the Thai women set about ripping the tendons from our bodies. After the first excruciatingly painful half hour it began to feel fantastic.

After all was said and done, I actually felt really good. I went back to my hotel and had one of the most satisfying sleeps in my life. So my advice, if you find yourself in Thailand and wanting a massage, is to invest in Speedos. Oh yeah, and stay away from shaky old men with razors.