Wednesday, March 13, 2013
An Idiots Guide to Borrowing a Towel from a Random Backpacker
Two sweaty white guys limp back to their hostel after a solid session working out. It seemed like running around in 35 degree heat was a good idea at the time, but now, the pungent smell of man sweat mixed with the dirt and grime of an Asian city is all too much. Even the five dogs sleeping across the road (which smell dead at the best of time) scurry away at the stench of us two human garbage bags. It's a sight to be smelt.
We arrive back at the hostel and instantly feel like Moses parting the sea. People step aside as we walk past, turning their heads away, creating a clear and uninterrupted passage through to the dorm room. I give Dylan a smile, "Wow we should smell like shit more often".
Straight away I head to my bag looking for the sacred towel that lies deep within the perilous depths of my 40L bag. Discharging items across the room like a 4 year old throwing a tantrum, I search frantically for the towel that I'm certain must be somewhere between my 4 day old jocks and week old socks. Jocks are launched 5m across the room, t-shirts flung onto bedposts and bottles of toiletries thrown onto neighboring beds. The lid of a moisturiser bottle flies off and goes spraying over the pillow in the bunk next to me. That'll be an interesting one to explain.
For an unaware backpacker entering the room it would appear as if a bear had gone through my bag looking for food. A key difference being however, that a bear would probably smell better than me.
As the bottom of the bag reveals itself, except a few grains of sand, we realize we're towelless. Bummer. In our time of greatest need our towels have deserted us; soldiers fleeing the battlefield.
Contingency planning commences. "We could use a shirt to dry off", "don't worry about it towels are for girls" (not really sure what statistical data Dylan was referring to here), are all possible plans. Out of the corner of our eyes we see our answer. A slightly damp ‘quick dry’ towel hanging over the rails of another backpacker’s bunk bed. We see it as a white flag of sorts, surrendering itself to our needs to be dry in a few minutes, even though it's green.
I begin picturing how were going to explain to the owner of the towel why we have their towel wrapped around us and why there are newly appeared brown smudges. Dylan suggests "just tell them somebody else said we could use it". Unfortunately I don't think that excuse would hold up in the backpackers’ court.
Dylan: we were both exhausted; I remember asking Josh if it was morally acceptable to steal someone else's towel. Immediately in my head I reinforced the fact that we wouldn't even be stealers we would be borrowers. After a brief hesitation, Josh murmured, “Nah I guess we shouldn't”, followed by another even briefer pause, “You know what, who cares we need it.” Operation capture the towel was about to commence but let's rewind 15 minutes prior.
Josh was unhappy with his centimeter thin flimsy mattress. He looked across at the Holy Grail, a perfect mattress in the hostel bed across from his. I didn't even need to ask him when I saw him glance at his mattress and the other one. “Are you really planning on swapping Mattress with someone who has already had that bed?” The answer I knew was yes. Only the strong survive in the backpacker world, well at least in our opinion. 15 seconds later we are tearing off this mattress as quick as we can and swapping it before a bewildered roommate sees the scandal. Josh's crap mattress was on the floor and we have the Holy Grail mattress on his bed, the problem is it’s a foot too big. "Josh the mattress is too big.”
Josh put a hand on his chin looked at it harder. “No it's not”, he argued back. As I agreed we forcefully started trying to squeeze the mattress into a way smaller frame. The final product was like a hammock, with the mattress bursting above the frame on both sides. Josh laid on the contorted on the bed with a confused look on his face as if to say "I wonder if this looks inconspicuous”. It couldn't have been more obvious. Like the pit team of a formula 1 car, we scurried back to re-arrange the mattresses in lightning speed.
Josh: 15 minutes later Dylan is on the lookout in the corridor, letting me know if the coast is clear. I whip the towel off the bunk rail and sprint to the shower, slamming the shower door closed. Phase 1 completed. Detection avoided.
For the next minute we take the most efficient showers of our lives. Even the Germans outside playing cards would have been envious. Dylan starts doing his daily shower singing, but before he's sang even 5 words to "Genie in a bottle I'm quickly telling him to stop. Rule 1 of borrowing a towel: avoid unwanted attention, in particular high pitch singing to Britney Spears.
Dylan: I finish my shower a minute before Josh. The waters off and I'm shivering from the cold water and ask Josh for the towel. "Yeah just a second", he whispers as he slowly finishes up after drying off first. My strategy had failed. I got the wet towel but who really cares.
I left all my clothes in the bag and made a dash for the room, half naked with just the stolen towel wrapped around me. Josh beckons "the roommates are coming.... quickkkk! I've never thrown on a pair of boxers so fast in a rush of terrifies panic. I look across at Josh and he has a massive grin on his face, “Got ya!” he laughs.
Josh: A month back, we developed a strategy in response to a girl’s shock that we occasionally used the same towel. She was disgusted that one of us or both of us were possibly wiping our faces with the same part of the towel for drying our balls. At that moment I felt a pain deep inside my stomach and began dry retching. Maybe those hairs in my mouth after drying off were not from Dylan's head. "There have been wars started over less then this", I thought. Our solution was to use the tagged end as DPW (Designated Parts Wiper).
Needless to say, I followed this newly implemented policy very loosely. I had to get a bit of payback after all.
A month later I'm confronted with a similar situation. Which end do I use to wipe my face? Drawing on previous experience I opt for the 'no tag end', hoping aimlessly that this stranger subscribes to the same sacred methodology as us. Knowing all too well that Dylan will go for the same end, I commit the cardinal sin and swap the DPW for the tagged end. As Dylan dries himself off I snigger, "you'd hate to dry your face with my balls".
Dylan is not impressed. Dylan does not see the funny side. Dylan will attempt payback.
Sitting on our respective beds, we take a deep breath and rejoice in our 'cool blue rush' (not to be confused with thrush) fragrances. Yes, men can also use the word fragrance ladies.
We feel as if we have accomplished something heroic, going behind enemy lines to secure an item required for the future survival of our species (our species being only Dylan and myself). We have demonstrated man's courageous and ingenious ability to adapt to an ever changing environment under terribly sweaty circumstances, whilst using the few resources available to conjure something up practical and useful.
We have succeeded where many have surely fallen before us. We are an example of what you can achieve if you really set your mind to it, and if you're too much of a cheapscape to buy a $4 towel and have no hygienic objection to using someone else's sanitary device.
For a fleeting moment we feel like we are the lovechild of Bear Grylls and Alexander the Great.
But then we look at each other and laugh. Who are trying to kid? We're just two massive brats!
Friday, March 8, 2013
A Deadly Day in Laos
Yesterday started off like any other day but ended as one of the most eventful of the trip to date due to a mix of stupidity and bad luck.
It all started when we woke up (obviously thats when the day starts derrrr). Rocking some terrible hangovers and bad breath from the previous nights festivities, we crawled out of our beds and threw on a three day unwashed shirt and pair of skid marked stained underwear, reversed of course. We mumbled a few sentences to the other people in our dorm in a language that somewhat resembled English and hobbled out of the hostel into the blaring sun outside. Two bears coming out of hibernation after eating (and drinking) too much during the cold winter. Except here in Laos its 30 degrees and we're not bears. Terrible metaphor. Anyyyyyyyway... we zombied to the nearest convenience store and bought a few bottles of water to get re-hydrated again. "No drinking today", we say to each other. We both know were kidding ourselves though. We're in a country where beers are $1 so we're definitely drinking its just a question of when. It's like a 200kg guy saying he's not going to have deep fried food today when he wakes up, it's going to happen.
So we venture out onto the main road and see a tuk tuk full of young foreigners fly past, people hanging off the back and sitting on the roof. If travel insurance companies knew what 20 something year olds were doing in Laos at the moment they'd be rolling in their graves and upping their premiums. Then again it's no surprise that the infamous tubing in Laos was cancelled with the amount of deaths and injuries that occur to foreigners here. In a country where few regulations exist, Laos is like giving the keys of a pharmacy to a drug addict, shit's gonna get crazy and crazy fast.
We yell out to the intoxicated guy on the roof of the tuk tuk, "Where are you going?". He looks at us as if to say, have you guys been living under a rock for the last few days before, screaming over the loud exhaust, "Is Justin's birthday at the pool party", in a terrible Spanish accent ala Rafael Nadal. As the tuk tuk gains momentum, Dylan and I look at each other through blood shot eyes and sense the beginning of something chaotic. We break into a stride and throw ourselves onto the back railing just as the tuk tuk breaks away.
Outside, the 'pool bar' looks like nothing more than a house in the ghetto. A dusty road reveals a shockingly painted aqua blue house with a sign saying La Pistoche and 'Justin's birthday'. Whoever was the exterior decorator for this place should have been shot after finishing the job. But as we enter through the gate, all memories of the peeling retro paint are forgotten as a crystal turquoise blue pool reveals itself. An oasis in a sweltering desert. The sounds of Jack Johnson meet our ears and the splashing and laughing of a group of soaking wet Danish girls playing pool volleyball instantly causes our hearts to skip a beat. It's like the scene from Top Gun where they're playing volleyball minus the gayness.
It's around 1pm and there are already some 100 people sitting huddled around the small backyard pool, sunglasses on, tops off and colorful cups in hands. With piercing headaches and turbulent stomachs we think best to take it easy and drink water, rehydrate for the long hot day. After a battle of paper, scissors, rock, Dylan as loser goes to get the waters. As if it was a signal, a large Dutch girl resembling a Teletubby comes paddling over to me in a pool tube. I give short one word answers to her questions, a hint to cut off the conversation. She's drunk and she's annoying and she's only making my headache worse. Just when I'm about to tell her I need to go to the toilet (even though I'd just gone 2 minutes ago), Dylan arrives a night in shining coconut oil with a bottle in each hand. I sigh a breath of relief as Dylan pushes through the dense crowd, reaching out to give me the bottle...of beer. "You're kidding!?", I yell at him almost pushing him in the pool and feeling a deep gurgle in my stomach at the view of the foul amber liquid. Dylan stares back at me with a retarded grin, "They're free man, Justin's put $1500 behind the bar, free drinks all day for everyone!". Unlike in Australia and Canada, we realise that amount of money will go along way thanks to $1 beers and $2 cocktails.
Our hangovers from the previous night evaporate instantly, a new found energy aided by the mellow tunes, cooling water and thought of a day's drinking by the pool. I take my golden ticket off Dylan ready to enter Willy Wonka's factory.
3 hours later...
After a day poolside, drinking fruit cocktails and expensive top shelf whiskey our spirits are high, judgment poor and confidence in excess. A small ledge next to the pool catches our eye and we begin discussing the various acrobatic maneuvers we're going to perform. Double back flips, somersaults and perfectly executed dives are the first things that come to mind and flashbacks of Olympic diving off 10 metre high boards fill our heads. However after a few minutes it becomes evident that our expectations and confidence have both exceeded our ability to do any of these things. Even a simple dive suddenly looks like were two mentally disabled people trying to dive for the first time. Back flips become belly whackers, somersaults become somerfaults and dives become face plants. We've quickly became the entertainment everyone's been waiting for.
Seconds later an American guy is humiliating us by doing an impressive array of careless back flips. Time to get back some respect for us.
I take a massive run up off the platform and launch myself into a David Hasselhoff dive. Flying through the air I crash into the water, and quickly penetrate the water, underestimating the depth of the water. I crash into the concrete bottom of the pool with my skull and rebound back up to the surface with a throbbing head. "Ouch" I groan, staring around at the staring faces with stars in my eyes. I spot Dylan next to me and moan, "I think I hit my head", laughing as i hold an already developed bump. I feel liquid drip into my eyes and taste the bitterness of blood and Dylan looks at me mouth wide open before telling me that I've got blood dripping down my face.
Leaving a trail of blood behind me, I exited the pool and was met by an entourage of concerned onlookers, including the Canadian owner of the pool and a nurse willing to offer her services, stopping the flow of blood from a deep gash.
Minutes later, I'm in the back of a tuk tuk flying down the road at breakneck speed on the way to the hospital, blood dripping down my chest onto the road behind. Anyone at the pool wanting to find me would only have to follow the 3km trail of blood on the dusty road leading to the hospital.
As we arrive at the hospital, a group of white lab coated men lead me into a small room where a local anaesthic is injected into my head. "Please be a clean needle", I think. Lying down on a bed I'm explained through a series of hand signs that I'm going to need stitches. Having heard the reputation of Laos hospitals and poor hygeine/quality care, I'm reluctant to continue but don't exactly have any other choice.
I know that Dylan is quite capable sewing buttons onto his pants but for the time being a Laos doctor will suffice. So I'm lying down with a numb head and cloth on my face, awaiting to feel my brain being played with by an ill directed needle. Next thing I hear the sound of scissors and clumps of hair being cut. Im being given an inverted Mohawk. Great. He continues by stitching up my split head, directing each stitch with such precision that I feel each one intensely despite the anaesthetic. I consider asking Dylan to take over with his one pant button of.stitching experience.
Nearing the end of the patch job, and still feeling quite numb I feel liquid running down my leg. "Ey dude I think you just wet yourself", Dylan starts laughing. I feel the embarassment on my face piercing through the cloth on me. I can't believe I just pissed like a 3 year old. Thoughts of me walking back to the hostel smelling like urine send me into a day dream before I'm bought back to reality by a punch in the arm. "I'm joking man I just poured water on your crutch", Dylan cackles, happy that he's just played a practical joke on a guy with a cracked head, who's high on pain killers and with a cloth on his face. Dylan doesn't stop there. Next he's putting sunglasses over the cloth on my face. The doctor doesn't find this amusing.
Having a huge bandage around my head gained me instant celebrity status that night in the small city of Luang Prabang. People came up and expressed their well wishes and admiration of my stupidity, somewhat of a rite of passage for one in Laos. With six stitches in my head, and a cracking headache that matched the one of the hungover earlier that morning, Dylan and myself both agreed that the day had came to an end that was to be the drama for the night, however the night had just began...
As all the bars close at 11:30pm in Luang Prabang, the congregation of youth converge on the only place that can serve liquor after this time, the local bowling alley. What better way to entertain young drunks then to give them 7kg balls to hurl down a slippery wooden alley, whilst selling bottles of $8 whiskey. A recipe for disaster. Things to be expected under such conditions include someone throwing a ball through the roof after getting a finger stuck in the ball and the roof collapsing over the lanes, an English guy bowling with his pants down (to the horror of the conservative Laos locals) and a girl running down the lane sliding on her stomach and crashing through the pins for a painful strike. That was her only strike for the game by the way.
We hopped in a tuk tuk and gunned it out of the bowling alley, with the legal capacity of 6 passengers more than doubled as per usual.
Arriving at our destination we poured out onto the street, all naive enough to believe that someone else had paid. Up the road we heard an echo of drums and tambourines as an early morning parade of Buddhist monks curved around the corner and forced us further up the street ala Running of the Bulls in Spain. Caught up in the crowd we continued dancing with until it had dispersed some 500 meters further down. At this stage we had lost everyone and it was only Dylan and myself who remained standing alone in the middle of the road. From behind us we hear a skidding of brakes and turn around just in time to see an enraged tuk tuk driver shouting at us. "You pay! You pay!", he shouts turning the now quiet street into a thunderous roar. Not knowing what to say, I draw on the famous quote of Entourage's Ari Gold 'deny 'til you die'. "I've already paid you!", I shout back with equaling intimidation, towering over the 5 foot Laos man. The driver runs back to his tuk tuk and returns a few seconds later. "You give me 40,000 kip!", he yells in broken English whilst I stand a metre from him with a smile on my face. "30,000 kip!", I reply with my counteroffer, a normal bargaining practice in South-East Asia. With a dead serious look, Dylan urges me to "just pay him." Sensing something is wrong I concede defeat and give in to the tuk tuk driver's demands.
Dylan's perspective:
I know a crazy look in an eye when I see it and this tuk tuk driver was pissed. I mean who wouldn't be pissed if you catered to a group of loud tourists, agreeing on a set price, before they all scatter away indignantly.
As soon as the driver got out of his tuk tuk, and josh made his first protest, I saw him reach back in and pull out a 6 inch dagger from under his seat and put it behind his back. I still have the image of the blade in my head. It was sharp, curved and looked vicious- almost like a blade he would have sharpened himself. Being on a different angle to Josh, I had a clear view of the rustic weapon. Josh had obvious dulled senses from hitting his head and due to his angle, didn't see the blade. As soon as I saw the knife I slipped off my flip flops, in the event of sudden conflict. I immediately looked at Josh with panic and a dead serious gaze and said calmly but assertively "Josh... Pay him." To my horror Josh made one last protest not knowing a few stitches on his head could be the very least of his worries. As I emptied the money in my pocket, I said "Josh pay him now." Josh made eye contact with me and saw the seriousness in my eyes. Handing what money I had to the tuk tuk driver he rejected it all, except the 20 000 kip we each owed.
I still get flashbacks of the knife, and the fury of the driver. In typical bratpacker fashion, once the driver had left we looked at each other and said "boys will be boys." But for that day, it was fair to say idiots will be idiots.
It all started when we woke up (obviously thats when the day starts derrrr). Rocking some terrible hangovers and bad breath from the previous nights festivities, we crawled out of our beds and threw on a three day unwashed shirt and pair of skid marked stained underwear, reversed of course. We mumbled a few sentences to the other people in our dorm in a language that somewhat resembled English and hobbled out of the hostel into the blaring sun outside. Two bears coming out of hibernation after eating (and drinking) too much during the cold winter. Except here in Laos its 30 degrees and we're not bears. Terrible metaphor. Anyyyyyyyway... we zombied to the nearest convenience store and bought a few bottles of water to get re-hydrated again. "No drinking today", we say to each other. We both know were kidding ourselves though. We're in a country where beers are $1 so we're definitely drinking its just a question of when. It's like a 200kg guy saying he's not going to have deep fried food today when he wakes up, it's going to happen.
So we venture out onto the main road and see a tuk tuk full of young foreigners fly past, people hanging off the back and sitting on the roof. If travel insurance companies knew what 20 something year olds were doing in Laos at the moment they'd be rolling in their graves and upping their premiums. Then again it's no surprise that the infamous tubing in Laos was cancelled with the amount of deaths and injuries that occur to foreigners here. In a country where few regulations exist, Laos is like giving the keys of a pharmacy to a drug addict, shit's gonna get crazy and crazy fast.
We yell out to the intoxicated guy on the roof of the tuk tuk, "Where are you going?". He looks at us as if to say, have you guys been living under a rock for the last few days before, screaming over the loud exhaust, "Is Justin's birthday at the pool party", in a terrible Spanish accent ala Rafael Nadal. As the tuk tuk gains momentum, Dylan and I look at each other through blood shot eyes and sense the beginning of something chaotic. We break into a stride and throw ourselves onto the back railing just as the tuk tuk breaks away.
Outside, the 'pool bar' looks like nothing more than a house in the ghetto. A dusty road reveals a shockingly painted aqua blue house with a sign saying La Pistoche and 'Justin's birthday'. Whoever was the exterior decorator for this place should have been shot after finishing the job. But as we enter through the gate, all memories of the peeling retro paint are forgotten as a crystal turquoise blue pool reveals itself. An oasis in a sweltering desert. The sounds of Jack Johnson meet our ears and the splashing and laughing of a group of soaking wet Danish girls playing pool volleyball instantly causes our hearts to skip a beat. It's like the scene from Top Gun where they're playing volleyball minus the gayness.
It's around 1pm and there are already some 100 people sitting huddled around the small backyard pool, sunglasses on, tops off and colorful cups in hands. With piercing headaches and turbulent stomachs we think best to take it easy and drink water, rehydrate for the long hot day. After a battle of paper, scissors, rock, Dylan as loser goes to get the waters. As if it was a signal, a large Dutch girl resembling a Teletubby comes paddling over to me in a pool tube. I give short one word answers to her questions, a hint to cut off the conversation. She's drunk and she's annoying and she's only making my headache worse. Just when I'm about to tell her I need to go to the toilet (even though I'd just gone 2 minutes ago), Dylan arrives a night in shining coconut oil with a bottle in each hand. I sigh a breath of relief as Dylan pushes through the dense crowd, reaching out to give me the bottle...of beer. "You're kidding!?", I yell at him almost pushing him in the pool and feeling a deep gurgle in my stomach at the view of the foul amber liquid. Dylan stares back at me with a retarded grin, "They're free man, Justin's put $1500 behind the bar, free drinks all day for everyone!". Unlike in Australia and Canada, we realise that amount of money will go along way thanks to $1 beers and $2 cocktails.
The annoying Dutch Teletubby
Our hangovers from the previous night evaporate instantly, a new found energy aided by the mellow tunes, cooling water and thought of a day's drinking by the pool. I take my golden ticket off Dylan ready to enter Willy Wonka's factory.
3 hours later...
After a day poolside, drinking fruit cocktails and expensive top shelf whiskey our spirits are high, judgment poor and confidence in excess. A small ledge next to the pool catches our eye and we begin discussing the various acrobatic maneuvers we're going to perform. Double back flips, somersaults and perfectly executed dives are the first things that come to mind and flashbacks of Olympic diving off 10 metre high boards fill our heads. However after a few minutes it becomes evident that our expectations and confidence have both exceeded our ability to do any of these things. Even a simple dive suddenly looks like were two mentally disabled people trying to dive for the first time. Back flips become belly whackers, somersaults become somerfaults and dives become face plants. We've quickly became the entertainment everyone's been waiting for.
 |
| 10 minutes before 'the incident' |
I take a massive run up off the platform and launch myself into a David Hasselhoff dive. Flying through the air I crash into the water, and quickly penetrate the water, underestimating the depth of the water. I crash into the concrete bottom of the pool with my skull and rebound back up to the surface with a throbbing head. "Ouch" I groan, staring around at the staring faces with stars in my eyes. I spot Dylan next to me and moan, "I think I hit my head", laughing as i hold an already developed bump. I feel liquid drip into my eyes and taste the bitterness of blood and Dylan looks at me mouth wide open before telling me that I've got blood dripping down my face.
Leaving a trail of blood behind me, I exited the pool and was met by an entourage of concerned onlookers, including the Canadian owner of the pool and a nurse willing to offer her services, stopping the flow of blood from a deep gash.
Minutes later, I'm in the back of a tuk tuk flying down the road at breakneck speed on the way to the hospital, blood dripping down my chest onto the road behind. Anyone at the pool wanting to find me would only have to follow the 3km trail of blood on the dusty road leading to the hospital.
As we arrive at the hospital, a group of white lab coated men lead me into a small room where a local anaesthic is injected into my head. "Please be a clean needle", I think. Lying down on a bed I'm explained through a series of hand signs that I'm going to need stitches. Having heard the reputation of Laos hospitals and poor hygeine/quality care, I'm reluctant to continue but don't exactly have any other choice.
I know that Dylan is quite capable sewing buttons onto his pants but for the time being a Laos doctor will suffice. So I'm lying down with a numb head and cloth on my face, awaiting to feel my brain being played with by an ill directed needle. Next thing I hear the sound of scissors and clumps of hair being cut. Im being given an inverted Mohawk. Great. He continues by stitching up my split head, directing each stitch with such precision that I feel each one intensely despite the anaesthetic. I consider asking Dylan to take over with his one pant button of.stitching experience.
Nearing the end of the patch job, and still feeling quite numb I feel liquid running down my leg. "Ey dude I think you just wet yourself", Dylan starts laughing. I feel the embarassment on my face piercing through the cloth on me. I can't believe I just pissed like a 3 year old. Thoughts of me walking back to the hostel smelling like urine send me into a day dream before I'm bought back to reality by a punch in the arm. "I'm joking man I just poured water on your crutch", Dylan cackles, happy that he's just played a practical joke on a guy with a cracked head, who's high on pain killers and with a cloth on his face. Dylan doesn't stop there. Next he's putting sunglasses over the cloth on my face. The doctor doesn't find this amusing.
Having a huge bandage around my head gained me instant celebrity status that night in the small city of Luang Prabang. People came up and expressed their well wishes and admiration of my stupidity, somewhat of a rite of passage for one in Laos. With six stitches in my head, and a cracking headache that matched the one of the hungover earlier that morning, Dylan and myself both agreed that the day had came to an end that was to be the drama for the night, however the night had just began...
As all the bars close at 11:30pm in Luang Prabang, the congregation of youth converge on the only place that can serve liquor after this time, the local bowling alley. What better way to entertain young drunks then to give them 7kg balls to hurl down a slippery wooden alley, whilst selling bottles of $8 whiskey. A recipe for disaster. Things to be expected under such conditions include someone throwing a ball through the roof after getting a finger stuck in the ball and the roof collapsing over the lanes, an English guy bowling with his pants down (to the horror of the conservative Laos locals) and a girl running down the lane sliding on her stomach and crashing through the pins for a painful strike. That was her only strike for the game by the way.
We hopped in a tuk tuk and gunned it out of the bowling alley, with the legal capacity of 6 passengers more than doubled as per usual.
Arriving at our destination we poured out onto the street, all naive enough to believe that someone else had paid. Up the road we heard an echo of drums and tambourines as an early morning parade of Buddhist monks curved around the corner and forced us further up the street ala Running of the Bulls in Spain. Caught up in the crowd we continued dancing with until it had dispersed some 500 meters further down. At this stage we had lost everyone and it was only Dylan and myself who remained standing alone in the middle of the road. From behind us we hear a skidding of brakes and turn around just in time to see an enraged tuk tuk driver shouting at us. "You pay! You pay!", he shouts turning the now quiet street into a thunderous roar. Not knowing what to say, I draw on the famous quote of Entourage's Ari Gold 'deny 'til you die'. "I've already paid you!", I shout back with equaling intimidation, towering over the 5 foot Laos man. The driver runs back to his tuk tuk and returns a few seconds later. "You give me 40,000 kip!", he yells in broken English whilst I stand a metre from him with a smile on my face. "30,000 kip!", I reply with my counteroffer, a normal bargaining practice in South-East Asia. With a dead serious look, Dylan urges me to "just pay him." Sensing something is wrong I concede defeat and give in to the tuk tuk driver's demands.
Dylan's perspective:
I know a crazy look in an eye when I see it and this tuk tuk driver was pissed. I mean who wouldn't be pissed if you catered to a group of loud tourists, agreeing on a set price, before they all scatter away indignantly.
As soon as the driver got out of his tuk tuk, and josh made his first protest, I saw him reach back in and pull out a 6 inch dagger from under his seat and put it behind his back. I still have the image of the blade in my head. It was sharp, curved and looked vicious- almost like a blade he would have sharpened himself. Being on a different angle to Josh, I had a clear view of the rustic weapon. Josh had obvious dulled senses from hitting his head and due to his angle, didn't see the blade. As soon as I saw the knife I slipped off my flip flops, in the event of sudden conflict. I immediately looked at Josh with panic and a dead serious gaze and said calmly but assertively "Josh... Pay him." To my horror Josh made one last protest not knowing a few stitches on his head could be the very least of his worries. As I emptied the money in my pocket, I said "Josh pay him now." Josh made eye contact with me and saw the seriousness in my eyes. Handing what money I had to the tuk tuk driver he rejected it all, except the 20 000 kip we each owed.
I still get flashbacks of the knife, and the fury of the driver. In typical bratpacker fashion, once the driver had left we looked at each other and said "boys will be boys." But for that day, it was fair to say idiots will be idiots.
Saturday, March 2, 2013
Indian Suit Men vs Tuk Tuk Mafia
If you want a suit you go to Bangkok. Actually no that's not it- if you go to Bangkok you will probably get a suit. Not because you wanted one before you left home, but because on every street corner of the tourist streets you will find Indian and Nepalese men shouting, "you want suit, you want suit!". You see it's not even a question asking whether you want one, they're telling you you want one, that you need one and that you need it RIGHT NOW!
Then you have the Tuk Tuk drivers. Like the Indian Suit Men they also want your business and will go head over heels to get it. This includes telling you that your hotel 2 minutes walk away is too far for your young 25 year old legs, saying that they need to feed their families (whilst having a state of the art stereo system in their Tuk Tuk!?). and lastly offering you a 10 cent ride if they can take you to a suit shop (scam much?). Also like the Indian Suit Men they are telling you that you want and need a tuk tuk, it's out of your control.
What's interesting in the case of these two industries is not how each of them works individually but how they work together, or more so how they work to scam each other.
For the average tourist who passes through Bangkok, little thought would be put to the relationship between the Indian Suit Men and the Tuk Tuk Mafia, however Dylan and myself having spent countless hours in both tuk tuks and suit shops think that we've worked it out
So here it goes....
It all starts when the Tuk Tuk Mafia pick up a day dreaming, meandering tourist and offer to take them to a suit shop so they can buy a suit, "for very good price, and good quality sir". Like most people would think, we were under the impression that the Tuk Tuk Mafia would get a commission on suit sales. Meaning the more dumbfounded tourists they can deliver to the Indian Suit Men for a 10 baht (30 cent) fare the more commission they would receive. However, whilst pressing this question to a tuk tuk driver one day, he explained to us that he gets a gas card from the Indian Suit Men for bringing potential customers whether they buy anything or not. What's better or worse, depending on your moral compass, is that the tuk tuk driver tells us you don't even have to want to buy a suit, you can just pretend, walk around in the store for a few minutes (enough time for the driver to get his gas card) and then hop back into the tuk tuk where he'll take you to your intended destination for next to nothing. The Tuk Tuk Mafia win (they've got free gas), you win (you've got a free ride) and the Indian Suit Men lose (wasted time and gas cards).
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 1 point
You- 1 point
In scenario 2, you can't resist the persuasive and forceful sales tactics of the Indian Suit Men and you end up walking out of the musty store with a suit you hadn't budgeted on. You are told the suit will make you 'more sexy', 'the girls will love you' and that it 'fits you perfectly sir'. You think that you are the long lost brother of George Clooney and walk out with a new swagger, until you look down at the suit and realise you already have three similar ones at home. The Indian Suit Men have won and you've lost.
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point
In scenario 3 the Indian Suit Men think they are exploiting the Tuk Tuk Mafia. The tuk tuk drivers are bringing load after load of 'customers' to the suit shops where some will pay $700 for a fitted suit that could be bargained down to $100. The Indian Suit Men are polishing up whilst the Tuk Tuk Mafia are putting away with measly $2 gas cards and waiting for hours for the customers to finish their purchase. We get the impression that the Indian Suit Men look down on the Tuk Tuk Mafia and think they are exploiting them for peanuts and that the drivers are doing the heavy lifting for them. The tuk tuk drivers realise this. Their answer; get as many gas cards as possible by abusing the agreement and bringing uninterested customers by the truck load. This means more work for the Indian Suit Men and less sales. It's a vicious relationship built on mistrust and dishonesty.
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point
Playoffs/Finals Series
After observing this somewhat complicated and bizarre relationship, and the way they undermine each other, the scammed scamming the scammer, we seeked to balance the score and go one step further by exploiting the exploiters. We're not going to be like the typical tourist and accept mediocre deals, we want to win and win convincingly.
We're on Kao Sanh Road , the tourist mecca, and Dylan has to go get his suit re-fitted that he ordered a month earlier. We consider walking there but it's a decent walk, especially in the heat and smog of Bangkok. I suggest a metered taxi, a 60 Baht ($2) fare. Dylan looks at me and shakes his head, "lets get a tuk tuk" he responds with a cheeky grin. After hearing horror stories of $30 tuk tuk rides I'm a bit reluctant to get sucked into this tourist trap. However, before I can put up a fight Dylan shows the business card of the suit shop to the driver. Knowing that a golden egg awaits him at the other end (a gas card), he winks at us and says, "ok ok...5 baht you, 5 baht you (15 cents)," pointing to each of us. He senses that we understand the rules of the game and that we can get a free ride to the suit shop from him.
Entering the shop we're immediately swarmed by a gang of Indians equipped with tape measures, chalk pencils, fake Armani belts and ill fitting shirts. Each one is trying to get our business, offering an array of deals for 'original' Hugo Boss, Armani and Versace suits and '100% Egyptian cotton' shirts. We are assured the materials are sourced fromItaly and Eqypt in bulk "that's why is so cheap!". We later speak to a man at another shop who attempts to convince us that it is the raw materials that are sourced and then produced in Thailand. We believe neither. Do not trust the Indian Suit Men.
Dylan informs the men that he's already paid for a suit and that he's just coming to get it finished. A resounding sigh fills the room. The men have missed the opportunity of getting a healthy new sale. A skinny Indian parts through the dispersing group recognising Dylan from the previous month, instantly recalling his measurements and suit type. He's got a big grin on his face. He'll soon get the remainder of the deposit from Dylan. Money is hapiness in Bangkok. We're offered beers which we readily accept without a moments hesitation.
5 beers each later...
Dylan's finally happy with his adjustments after 2 hours, something that would normally take 10 minutes devoid of beer. Of course he drags it out to get as many free beers as possible. For the next three days we repeat the same process, getting free tuk tuk rides and drinking about 5 beers whilst making small adjustments to Dylan's suit, an excuse to come back the following day. We are scamming the Indian Suit Men like there's no tomorrow and it feels great. After 4 days we've drank over 40 beers. Not bad considering the suit only cost $100.
In a city where the tourist rarely has the chance to balance the odds, we feel like we've went pretty close. It's time to put some points on the tourist scoreboard.
Playoff scores:
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Us- 3 points
VICTORY!!!
Then you have the Tuk Tuk drivers. Like the Indian Suit Men they also want your business and will go head over heels to get it. This includes telling you that your hotel 2 minutes walk away is too far for your young 25 year old legs, saying that they need to feed their families (whilst having a state of the art stereo system in their Tuk Tuk!?). and lastly offering you a 10 cent ride if they can take you to a suit shop (scam much?). Also like the Indian Suit Men they are telling you that you want and need a tuk tuk, it's out of your control.
What's interesting in the case of these two industries is not how each of them works individually but how they work together, or more so how they work to scam each other.
For the average tourist who passes through Bangkok, little thought would be put to the relationship between the Indian Suit Men and the Tuk Tuk Mafia, however Dylan and myself having spent countless hours in both tuk tuks and suit shops think that we've worked it out
So here it goes....
It all starts when the Tuk Tuk Mafia pick up a day dreaming, meandering tourist and offer to take them to a suit shop so they can buy a suit, "for very good price, and good quality sir". Like most people would think, we were under the impression that the Tuk Tuk Mafia would get a commission on suit sales. Meaning the more dumbfounded tourists they can deliver to the Indian Suit Men for a 10 baht (30 cent) fare the more commission they would receive. However, whilst pressing this question to a tuk tuk driver one day, he explained to us that he gets a gas card from the Indian Suit Men for bringing potential customers whether they buy anything or not. What's better or worse, depending on your moral compass, is that the tuk tuk driver tells us you don't even have to want to buy a suit, you can just pretend, walk around in the store for a few minutes (enough time for the driver to get his gas card) and then hop back into the tuk tuk where he'll take you to your intended destination for next to nothing. The Tuk Tuk Mafia win (they've got free gas), you win (you've got a free ride) and the Indian Suit Men lose (wasted time and gas cards).
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 1 point
You- 1 point
In scenario 2, you can't resist the persuasive and forceful sales tactics of the Indian Suit Men and you end up walking out of the musty store with a suit you hadn't budgeted on. You are told the suit will make you 'more sexy', 'the girls will love you' and that it 'fits you perfectly sir'. You think that you are the long lost brother of George Clooney and walk out with a new swagger, until you look down at the suit and realise you already have three similar ones at home. The Indian Suit Men have won and you've lost.
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 1 point
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point
In scenario 3 the Indian Suit Men think they are exploiting the Tuk Tuk Mafia. The tuk tuk drivers are bringing load after load of 'customers' to the suit shops where some will pay $700 for a fitted suit that could be bargained down to $100. The Indian Suit Men are polishing up whilst the Tuk Tuk Mafia are putting away with measly $2 gas cards and waiting for hours for the customers to finish their purchase. We get the impression that the Indian Suit Men look down on the Tuk Tuk Mafia and think they are exploiting them for peanuts and that the drivers are doing the heavy lifting for them. The tuk tuk drivers realise this. Their answer; get as many gas cards as possible by abusing the agreement and bringing uninterested customers by the truck load. This means more work for the Indian Suit Men and less sales. It's a vicious relationship built on mistrust and dishonesty.
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
You- 1 point
Playoffs/Finals Series
After observing this somewhat complicated and bizarre relationship, and the way they undermine each other, the scammed scamming the scammer, we seeked to balance the score and go one step further by exploiting the exploiters. We're not going to be like the typical tourist and accept mediocre deals, we want to win and win convincingly.
We're on Kao Sanh Road , the tourist mecca, and Dylan has to go get his suit re-fitted that he ordered a month earlier. We consider walking there but it's a decent walk, especially in the heat and smog of Bangkok. I suggest a metered taxi, a 60 Baht ($2) fare. Dylan looks at me and shakes his head, "lets get a tuk tuk" he responds with a cheeky grin. After hearing horror stories of $30 tuk tuk rides I'm a bit reluctant to get sucked into this tourist trap. However, before I can put up a fight Dylan shows the business card of the suit shop to the driver. Knowing that a golden egg awaits him at the other end (a gas card), he winks at us and says, "ok ok...5 baht you, 5 baht you (15 cents)," pointing to each of us. He senses that we understand the rules of the game and that we can get a free ride to the suit shop from him.
Entering the shop we're immediately swarmed by a gang of Indians equipped with tape measures, chalk pencils, fake Armani belts and ill fitting shirts. Each one is trying to get our business, offering an array of deals for 'original' Hugo Boss, Armani and Versace suits and '100% Egyptian cotton' shirts. We are assured the materials are sourced fromItaly and Eqypt in bulk "that's why is so cheap!". We later speak to a man at another shop who attempts to convince us that it is the raw materials that are sourced and then produced in Thailand. We believe neither. Do not trust the Indian Suit Men.
Dylan informs the men that he's already paid for a suit and that he's just coming to get it finished. A resounding sigh fills the room. The men have missed the opportunity of getting a healthy new sale. A skinny Indian parts through the dispersing group recognising Dylan from the previous month, instantly recalling his measurements and suit type. He's got a big grin on his face. He'll soon get the remainder of the deposit from Dylan. Money is hapiness in Bangkok. We're offered beers which we readily accept without a moments hesitation.
5 beers each later...
Dylan's finally happy with his adjustments after 2 hours, something that would normally take 10 minutes devoid of beer. Of course he drags it out to get as many free beers as possible. For the next three days we repeat the same process, getting free tuk tuk rides and drinking about 5 beers whilst making small adjustments to Dylan's suit, an excuse to come back the following day. We are scamming the Indian Suit Men like there's no tomorrow and it feels great. After 4 days we've drank over 40 beers. Not bad considering the suit only cost $100.
In a city where the tourist rarely has the chance to balance the odds, we feel like we've went pretty close. It's time to put some points on the tourist scoreboard.
Playoff scores:
Indian Suit Men- 2 points
Tuk Tuk Mafia- 2 points
Us- 3 points
VICTORY!!!
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