Mountain Drive

You look back through your words and find memories untold. You can’t recall why you did not write them down, but they still warm you deep down. 

In Chang Mai with your roommate you two rented two mopeds, once again, and instead of dodging cows you dogged bikes and cars as you two made your way to a park at the base of the mountain. Driving up it felt like a never ending climb. Stopping for a scenic view you two made your way down a trail to a small river with a natural pool where locals were sliding off and splashing with childlike sensation. Following their role you two join, only hitting one knee on a rock on the way down. You meet an American, but that’s all you remember. Photos are exchanged amongst broken english. Luckily Smiles are universal. 

At the top of a mountain you relive the never ending staircase of Mario as you make your way to a temple. Foreigners are the only ones who have to pay. The tile is warm yet cool. Russians posing for photographs. The Paya making you squint from it’s brightness. 

You two race down the mountain, butts frankly clenched. The sight of a man over turned, blood running down his face as others help him slows you two down.

In the city you take a wrong turn and wait for your roommate, leaving seconds before she passed, you find out later. 

Dinner is pleasant but you can’t remember much more. Maybe you drank some beers alone at a bar, wouldn’t be surprising.

You wonder if sometimes memories are best kept to yourself, but what is it if it is not shared, a passing thought? Are you created in words and language as much as your memories? 



You get to Chiang Mai and feel too tired of traveling to care about it. The second day you go to an elephant camp and awe at the cute baby elephant and have your theighs go sore trying to ride the biggest one. While bathing them in a river you simaltaniously almost get stuck between two elephants and almost stepped on all while trying not to be swept away by the current.

chang mai

A few days later of nothing-much-else-happening you go to a Thai boxing match. You are two rows from the front with cigarette smoke flowing as easily as the booze. Sweat and water spray off the men and women as they fight, glistening in the Florissant light of the giant star above them.


Back in Bangkok you are even more disenfranchised with traveling. You need a break. The taxi drivers charging you double doesn’t help. You two go to the gay section of Bangkok. It is like the Rue de la Soif in Rennes, a street of just bars. You and your friend have nothing to talk about because you’ve been together everyday for the past month. You take a sperm shot.

Walking through a metal detecter you go to the biggest gay discotech in the city. DJ station. It’s more packed than a Japanese subway at rush hour in Tokyo. There are three floors and it takes you a hour to realize they gave you drink tokens when coming in. You meet pilots, NGO workers and men from Norway to Bangladesh.

The next day you go to a giant mall for your friend to get a book. It’s eight stories. You walk by an anime convention. When lost you end up at a board game convention and stare at the skyline.

That night your friend leaves for home and you go to the gay red-light district because you have to know what the sex show is like. Cigarette smoke gives weight to the neon lights rolling across the bodies of boys you can pay to sit with you, or do more. Two men start fucking on stage in a looney tune manner, spinning and twisting in comical ways. They make their way, never pulling out, around the club to fuck next to everyone there, scurrying alone like Charlie Chaplin. You feel anything but turned on.

You wait at your hotel for a taxi to the airport cause the shuttle lady won’t answer her phone and it’s too hot to find a different booking place.

You are going to France. At least, you say, you can speak the language there.

Kata Beach

The difference between a tourist spot like Kata beach on Phuket island and Myanmar is stark. There are plastic surgery spots, animal clinics and a steak house. Russians are everywhere. Every menu is in English, Russian and Thai. You watch one Russian couple tell off a Thai man at the beach who flicks them off. Although reading in the sun staring out over the ocean should be calming the numerous people crash around you are like the waves in the ocean. Jet-skis go by dodging surfers. You drink a few beers and sleep. Repeat for the next four days.


Vacation from the vacation.

You make friends with an Aussie couple. You get along with both of them, you finally get to talk books. You find it is more relaxing and rewarding making a connection with some strangers than burning your skin while reading on the beach.


The instant you drive into Bangkok you see the overarching freeways that scream global city. The traffic is incomprehensible. One hour to go four miles.
People have braces and wheelchairs. After Cambodia these tidbits of western society are shocking. There are more 711s here than in the United States. There are Westphalias turned into bars. Women in the red-light district grab your thighs. The city is just so goddamn big.
You love it.
You love how a group of Muslim women will walk through the redlight district like it’s nothing. You love how mirroring each other across the street is a Hindu temple and Mosque. You love and are confused by the many Native American symbols to the point of there being the type of wooden statues you see in smoke shops on the side of the road. You love how big it is. How you feel like your pod-racing as the rickshaw goes at speeds that no-one could find comfortable. You love how you had to and got to buy off a Burmese embassy official to get your visa cause you got to the embassy too late. You love the sink or swim feel to it. You keep thinking it’s NYC. You love the ornate Thai buildings side by side skyscrapers with flashing neon lights.