Hi! No, it was actually very easy. As American citizens, we were able to get very cheap visas at the Manila airport for 21 days. No interviews, no preparation ahead of time. Good luck! We loved the Philippines!!
MARATHON BUS TRIP — TRAVEL DIARY
Friends, the freedom of an open road and internet fatigue combined to form the proverbial hammer, knocking me on the head. Results included a 6 week long blog vacation and the cessation of email correspondence. But I’m back, like Eminem sans the fanfare and talent. I’m now travelling solo (for the last 6 weeks, actually) and excitedly staring down the last 7 weeks of the Trip. Below is the travel diary for my 32 hour journey from Vang Vien to Phnom Penh.
1:30 p.m. Board bus to Vientiane. Sleep for what seemed like ages, but turns out to be just 27 minutes.
1:57 p.m. Awake…and for the 1,000th time in the last 3 weeks, i desperately miss my ipod (could i sound more posh and spoiled?). I resume reading What It Takes: The Road to the White House just in time for Gary Hart to predict (in 1986) the U.S. would be fighting wars in the Mid East to protect “our” oil if we couldn’t cut our foreign oil dependency.
3:45 p.m. Laos’ roads are horrendous. Driving should be a nice, enjoyable activity, but this is bad, like kissing a girl with a mustache (not that this has happened).
4:00 p.m. Bread! Food! YUM
5:49 p.m. The most palatial, shining “king of the buses” just pulled up. If this is what we take to Paxse, God Bless the King. Like, seriously, Aladdin’s carpet would be envious.
7:15 p.m. But alas, we’re taking the king’s cousin. the cousin still has sweet bunks though, can’t wait to sleep through the night!
7:45 p.m. At the 2nd Vientiane stop dude just got on the bus, looked at my bunk and says “oh, I see we’re sharing.” What a load of lizard poo to the face. I know Andy Oare can commiserate.
7:59 p.m. Needing to pee, I dart off the bus before it can depart. After finding a dark corner in the parking lot, I started the “sidle up to a wall to pee” dance. First you plant the left foot about 12 inches off the wall, then the right. You do a little shuffle to get things situated, and then get to work.
Instead, I became an answer to the timeless question, “whose gonna stumble into the shit canal?”
I started to sidle up to the wall and next thing i know, me left legs in grimy, chunky, black water up to my calf and my flip flop is stuck in the bottom. Turns out the wall had a moat running in front of it…a sewer canal moat.
Oh man, if only the poor dude sharing my bunk could know…but he probably just thinks i smell like apple. which i do, because thats the flavor of womens shampoo i found to clean up with.
1:20 a.m. Guys, this is Ben writing. Scott is asleep, which is pretty amazing because we just ran over and killed two cows. That valium must really be working. Which is annoying, because i also took a valium, plus two painkillers these english guys gave me, and yet I’m the one awake. But anyways, 1 hour delay to clean cow entrails out of the bus grill. Also of interest is that the cow carcasses were both loaded into the buses undercarriage…trying not to think about it.
7:10 a.m. Woke up in Paxse to switch buses. everyones talking about cows. Can’t figure out what the deal is.
1:00 p.m. Crossed the border. Getting into Cambodia was reminiscent of a yuppie stream of whining travelling refugees. Otherwise, no problems. The forest looks a lot like the southern U.S. though, almost feels like north florida.
6:07 p.m. Stopped in Katina to change vans. Talked a tuk tuk driver into letting me take a joy ride. Not all that thrilling, but after riding in these things for months, really loved getting to drive. Also went to an atm, turns out Cambodia uses U.S. dollars for almost everything. Yep, not as ignorant as i used to be.
7:15 p.m. Wow, Mekong sunsets kill. Also, new mini-bus arrived…
A guy walks into a bar and says “I gotta joke. 1 American, 7 Swedes, and 10 Cambodians are in a mini-bus…”
“False,” i stand up and shout from the back table, “thats not a joke, but the answer to life’s other timeless question, ‘why are Scott’s legs numb?’”
7:40 p.m. pulled out to pass a logging truck and almost hit a bus head on. Almost got made into a Swedish meatball!
8:30 p.m. Crested a hill to find smoke covering the roade. Just got out of the ditch and we’re rolling again. No injuries to speak of aside from the drivers pride.
9:19 p.m. Phnom Penh! Tomorrow will be a whirlwind tour through S21 and the Killing Fields. Hard to say, but not sure I’m ready for first hand exposure to one of histories foremost “right bloody bastards,” as an English friend described Pol Pot.
Over the course of this whole thing, I’ve gone through a stack of classic fiction novels. Some of which I owned previously, some I brought from home, and some were given to me along the way. With time the collection grew, and so did their burden. And since I refused to sell out to the Kindle, I needed to look into solutions to solve my growing dilemma.
As my pack got heavier, and as time went on, Scott Mackey and I began to meet people on the road. People from all over the world and from all walks of life. And as we met them, I was repeatedly hit over the head with a confusing mix of emotions. You see… what happens is you meet all these wonderful and interesting people, usually a bunch of them at once, but before you know it they’re gone and effectively out of your life forever. They’re traveling just like you. It’s as if you’re reliving your first week of college, but then after that week, everything was totally over. Do this over and over again, and it becomes dizzying after a while. I actually think it’s a lot like scuba diving. You jump into an environment, totally unlike anything you’ve ever known, and you’re engulfed in a scene of brilliant shapes and colors. Other worldly! And then you might see a fish that catches your interest. A gorgeous fish, like something out of a fairy tale. You look closely, you watch it move, and it’s such a complicated looking little thing that you might think to yourself, “My God, I wonder what your story is.” You move closer and closer, and maybe it moves closer to you, you’re fascinated, and as you’re about to commit to that direction of current with the hope of learning something about your new friend — it’s gone.
In a way, this trip has been one big dive. These people are blips on the radar, fleeting. Filling holes in your life that you never knew you had. You learn from them, you laugh with them, you might even say that you love them. They’re more interesting and more amazing than any town, beach, or tourist attraction you could ever hope to see.
So, back to the books problem. I decided that as we met these dazzling, fleeting fish on the road, I would give the books away as a sort of “Thank you”, or maybe a reminder of the short time we had together. Some of them understood, some of them didn’t, but their respective reactions were so perfectly suited to them that it really didn’t matter.
I’d like to tell you about some of these people and the first is Drew Thompson.
Drew Thompson is from Van, Texas. They say you can take a boy out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the boy. Well, there you have it. He has a sense of adventure that you probably will not find in many of his neighbors. Naturally, he and Scott Mackey have been close friends for years. He put us up in his place for three days in Jeonju, South Korea, and he effectively broke us into the trip. Great food, great partying, and great humor. He’s everything you would expect and more from a country boy who might seem awkwardly out of place until you actually get to know him. I gave him Candide by Voltaire because just like the title character, he’s running all over the world and making the most of everything that comes his way.
I only knew Vas for a few hours in the Philippines but I got the feeling that we probably could have been amazingly close friends. He’s from Leeds, he’s Indian, and he’s about my age. I’m not sure what Vas does for a living, but he seems like he’s just got things under control. And from what I can recall, he had met a girl in Taiwan, fell in love with her, and is now moving there to be with her. Pretty rad. We also own the same obscure tee shirt. I gave him The Great Gatsby and it seemed to fit. I don’t know why, but I really hope I see him again.
Beijing was interesting. With all of its history and wonder, it’s also one of the dirtiest, smelliest, most crowded, and most confusing places on the face of the earth. It became difficult for me since I began to dwell on these negatives. And so when I met Tanja, a young German woman studying to be a teacher who sort of felt the same way, it was cathartic in a way. She and her two friends crashed our table at the bar. None of them were really having a great time in Beijing, but they had each other, and that was enough to let them laugh about it. Proving that sometimes all you really need in life is a friend. Tanja and I talked about Hitler and all that, and I’ve come to the conclusion that I don’t think I’ll ever really get it. Maybe no one does. I would meet Tanja again, this time in her hometown of Ladenburg, Germany as my last stop of the trip. When you’re on the road for as long as I have been, it sure means the world to have a familiar face see you off. That’s something that words don’t really do justice. I gave her Slaughterhouse-Five because it’s sort of about having a laugh about a tragic situation, and it’s about Hitler and all that. I sent it in the mail.
Somehow, this 21-year old Australian psycho managed to not only refer to himself as “Big Dogg” in the third person …not only made it socially acceptable …but also got other people around him to do it. Namely myself, and Jeff Egan (you might remember him from the Great Wall). Of course, “Bigg Dogg” has a real name but that’s not important. Anyway, for as outwardly ridiculous as this guy was, he also turned out to be incredibly clever and thoughtful. He knows his way around the English language as well as any teacher I’ve ever had, and for his age, probably has the most developed sense of humor I’ve ever encountered in my life. All of this amounting to some seriously good banter. You might describe him as “banterous”. I know he would. The three of us took a three-week booze cruise around Thailand together. In the midst of all that partying, I often felt out of place being around all these 20 year old kids, but he was able to help me forget about my age and any inhibitions I had about making the most of every second. I have the feeling someday people are going to know Big Dogg’s real name pretty well. That is, if he ever gets out of Cambodia. I gave him The Catcher in the Rye. Obviously.
Dune. Well, I left it on the park bench in Jeonju, because honestly who the fuck would you give that book to?
Marvin is a Philipino snorkeler and professional socialite who is probably in his mid-30s. He doesn’t speak English very well, but that doesn’t stop him from being friends with everyone or hitting on attractive white girls. He loves the fish, and he thinks of the them as his friends. Warm and gentle, in their little underwater world. We were having dinner on the roof of a hotel with about 20 other people when I gave him my copy ofThe Old Man and the Sea. It took me two or three attempts to get him to understand what was happening. Once he finally got it, his face light up, he stared at me with shock, and he threw his arms around me. He offered me a joint and I gladly took it. We sat for a second and I explained the story to him. He tried to act like he knew what I was talking about. I doubt he’ll read it, but obviously that doesn’t matter. Later that night, he went around to each person at the table and showed off his new gift to everyone there.
It was difficult to give away The Sun Also Rises but I gave it to Keith anyway. Keith is a 70 year-old retired Canadian civil rights lawyer, a conspiracy theorist, and chain smoker. He was staying at our youth hostel in Dumaguete and he’d been there for weeks. His face is old and broken. As a conversationalist, he is completely unbearable. He’d make a fine political blogger. Keith, for me, is the startling realization of my greatest dreams and my worst nightmares. He smiles at the world, travels the tropics at his own pace, and lives like a nomad among enthusiastic young travelers. One night he even went to the club with about six of us and he danced his geriatric ass off. Keith is also utterly alone, and although we never talked about it, something about him tells me that it kills him. I don’t know if anyone will be at his funeral. Seeing a sight like Keith, you realize that life offers you so many treasures, but you cannot have them all. Keith knows this. He understands exactly what he can control, exactly what he cannot, and he lives his life accordingly. I admire the hell Keith, and I regret that I didn’t have the heart to tell him. Poor old Keith. I gave him The Sun Also Rises because it is a story about being young and about struggling for control. My hope is that Keith reads it and remembers those days.
I didn’t give Scott Mackey a book and frankly it never really crossed my mind. Scott, for me, is bigger than a book. We flew on planes, rode on trains, we climbed mountains, we swam in reefs, we rode dirt bikes, we drank like champions, we acted like toddlers, got lost together, got sick together, got yelled at together. We branded two big, loud, scalding marks onto our canvases of our lives (not our asses) together. We traveled the world and we lived like brothers. For this reason it wouldn’t feel right to give Scott a book. It is my sincere hope that I’ve given Scott something much more because I know he has given me the gift of a lifetime. I can’t really put it into words. We met a German named Simon — another one of these dazzling, fleeting little fish — who pulled me aside and told me very deliberately how great of a travel partner Scott was, how lucky I was to have him, and I told Simon that I already knew. I would not have done this without Scott, and for all intents and purposes, it is Scott more than anyone who pulled me from the wreckage of my strain and anxiety back home.
When I got on the plane home last night, I had East of Eden. That book is for me.
AO
Kickin’ it old school. We’ve been sitting on this one for a while. The video is a compilation of clips that was shot during our first week of the trip.
We visited Scott’s friend, Drew, who lives in Jeonju, South Korea. A mid-sized town about two hours south of Seoul, Jeonju offers a better glimpse into true Korean culture while still maintaining an urban feel. Scott, Drew, and I spent a weekend together in Jeonju and we tore it up.
I’ll give a little more context to what’s going on here:
Feels like forever since we shot these…
It’s been a while since we’ve posted anything. Sorry. But it’s also been a while since either of us have had the luxury of high speed internet. Now that I’m in Bangkok for a few days, I’m hoping to dump some of the videos that I’ve been stockpiling over the last …few weeks? …month? …two months? Who knows anymore.
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First, you have to meet Ip, pronounced [EEP]. He’s the little camera hog in the first few seconds of the video. “Ip”, however, is not his real name. It’s a nickname given to him at birth intended as a decoy for his real name which may be susceptible to evil spirits. Freaky shit. All Thai children are born with these nicknames, as well as the apparent inclination to mercilessly flock towards anything that looks remotely like some sort of camera.
Anyway, old Ip here is a gem. Last month, I spent a week volunteering as an English teacher at various schools and orphanages in the city of Khao Lak. Khao Lak, part of the region known as the Andaman Coast in southern Thailand, was hit extremely hard by the 2004 Tsunami.
The kids here are not the poorest of the poor, but many of them belong to families who are still trying to get back on their feet.
For some reason, Ip and I had a connection. He had the personality and humor of an adult trapped in the body of a chubby 10-year old Thai boy. He was diligent about his work, but took any opportunity he could to goof off in front of class. Maybe I related to him because I was like that, too. Minus the whole being diligent about work thing.
Ip, if you ever read this, you’re alright, man. You’re alright. Except it’s not “pRane”, it’s “pLane”. Remember, go “la la la la” …”plane”.
AO
Bangkoks basically turned into a huge dam. the river is generally held back by a 3 foot high wall of sand bags, testing fate, god, and nature. several blocks surrounding the river, plus outlying neighborhoods are flooded, but true disaster is just a small water rise away, and the flooding isn’t expected to ease for over a month.
I’v escaped the city, but the city may not escape catastrophe.
STREET FOOD
Lets deal with hypotheticals for a moment.
So, George Clooney shows up at my front door. “Scott,” says george, “I have a proposition for you. Here is a plane ticket to LA and your room key for the Four Seasons. Every actress is lined up and willing to go on as many or as few dates as you’d like. This includes Natalie Portman pre child and Angelina Jolie pre Brad. Its all your prerogative. 1 date a day, 3 dates a day, whatever you’d like. I’v tentatively scheduled Jessica Alba as the first date, but if you’d prefer Kristen Stewart, I’ll make it happen.” And it was all TRUE.
In this scenario, I’d have more than a little bit of enthusiasm built up before heading to Hollywood. Like, I’d be ecstatic. Its all I’d think about. As jack black was to cocaine in Tropic Thunder, so I’d be to Hollywood actresses before this trip.
Snapping back to reality, this is basically how I felt leading up to Thailand. But instead of the desperate housewives cast, I had Thai FOOD waiting for me. Curries and Pad Thai, stir fried rice and basil, and Garlic. So much Garlic, just sitting there minced and alluring, sizzling in a bit of oil, wafting its wares my direction. Good Lord does it ever make one week in the knees to think about such things. I’ll tell ya, it helps one to empathize just a bit with my good old friend Billy Bob Clinton.
And friends, its been that good. I’v spent much of this tripping thinking about Mexican Taco stands, but after a few days in Thailand, such memories fade as garlic fueled dreams take flight.
I’m not a foody in the typical sense, but I am a street foody, and my little heart is so happy that I’ve taken to writing poetry…or more specifically, a verse. Eat your heart out Gibran.
“As Hummingbirds take to pollen drenched flowers, so is a Scott to a Wok”
THE PHILIPPINES — NOT A DOUCHE IN SIGHT
Awesome is an adjective with about as much objective meaning, but slightly less evocative appeal, as calling someone a “douche bag.” If calling one a douche bag, I’d likely be referring to either a fratty douche, the kind that think “being jacked,” just for the sake of fitting into awkwardly tight polo’s that highlight the bicep when pounding another coors is not only ok, but cool, or a pretentious, ivy league douche, the type that often looks like a lump of buttery limp muscle with pallid facial features, refer to their prep school in casual conversation, and are prone to condescendingly calling more accomplished professionals 10 years their senior, “that nice young man.” I have no doubt both aforementioned groups would label me a douche and would do the same for each other.
The unknown origins of this wet, uncouth phrase’s ubiquity aside, I think one can accurately claim it means nothing except “one who acts different than me…and I don’t like it.” Those who miss the ideal types of any stereotype are less prone to be labeled douches, but undoubtedly use the phrase themselves, employed in the manner described above. Like many words or phrases, its meaning is confused in a jumble of cross wired cultural characteristics, and its original meaning, I’d imagine, is only utilized by those blind to the existence of Pauly D. All this brings me back to sea turtles, parrot fish, typhoons, and “awesome.”
Unlike the pleasure Americans under the age of 34 derive from calling those they don’t understand, dislike, or disagree with a douche, awesome has a much longer history. I can’t prove this, though Michael Lewis likely could, but I imagine awesome may have once had actual meaning, likely referring to an “awesome wave” or the “awesome tan that blonde girl has.” However, such pure linguistic sentiment has been lost with time, and I’m as likely to hear douchy activities such as Train concerts or spray tan application preceded by “awesome” as I am to hear truly “awesome” activities described as awesome, such as cliff jumping, music festivals, and spear fishing.
My extended, drunken professor like contextualization aside, the Philippines have been awesome. Not transcendent, but awesome is good enough for now.
Simple awesomeness can be found just by renting a motorbike. Driving on the coastal or mountain roads, you can hit 120 kph max, generally cruising between 80 and 100 kph. there are 2 lanes in theory, but driving here sticks to the “river theory” as any slower vehicle is an obstacle to rush around. 4 lanes is a more realistic description, though it must be noted lanes often are blocked by cows, goats, children, and the occasional water buffalo. City driving is like playing a video game where one whizzes in, out, and around slower moving tricycle taxi’s at roughly 40-60 kph, often slamming on your barely functioning breaks when a Jeepney or tryke decides to pull over without signaling. So much fun, but we do need to start wearing helmets.
Slow but awesome was 3 days on Apo Island, a mountainous, coral encircled island not much larger than Malcom X park, with 600 or so people living in 2 small villages. Terrible wind and rain was intermingled with snorkel perfecting sun. the downside were roosters more handsome than james dean in his prime, all of whom joined in a sleep shattering game of onesupmanship about the time 4 a.m. rolled around, ensuring the fisherman were up to put out their first lines. The upside was that electricity was out by 9:17 (exactly) p.m. each night, escorting the villagers to dream land and bringing absolute calm to the island, allowing us to drift off to sleep on an incubus like raft constructed of rustling palm branches and lightly crashing waves. The profusion of fish more colorful than a gay pride parade were also helpful.
Exploration awesome, also rears its head on occasion. Discovering volcano fed hot springs when trying to climb a mountain definitely qualified. Also qualifying was the limestone cave swimming tour my new friend Eddy led me on in Anda Beach. Crystal clear water of an unknown depth begs to be backflipped into…and we, of course, complied. Andy accuses me of liking terrible things, but after he enjoyed 4 hours on a packed bus ride, the kind of ride where having a random philipino’s inner thigh wedged against your inner shoulder is the lesser of other evils, I think he’s coming around.
Cultural, uhm, awesomeness, or possibly just awkwardness, is also key. One evening, surrounded by 3 brits, and a token, stereotypically assertive French guy, we happened upon UFC on the restaurant television. With Ella Fitzgerald, John Fogerty, and the Black Eyed Peas covers playing in the background, UFC took on a new meaning. Instead of mano a mano battle, the french among us forced us to view UFC through the most homo-erotic lens possible. From the front, side, and behind; then on top, then bottom, then from numbers adding up to 15, our Karm-all-male-Sutra view of UFC changed everything. Did the guys head really have to turn so red when he was being choked out? Why did the Philippine branding say “balls” in the top right corner and “parental discretion” in the bottom left? Did they know something we didn’t? Or is this just common fare in a country where the armed seperatists work under the acronym MILF (Mindinao Islamic Liberation Front), and lady men who I’m sure are already aware of UFC’s Karm-all-male-Sutra abound.
Now in Thailand. The focus shifts to temples, thai boxing and curry. More soon.
I’m sick of my friends telling me I have no idea what’s going on anymore. “Oh, you’ve missed so much!” … “Oh, so much is happening!” … “Oh, oh, oh, this is happening and it’s really something I’ll tell you what because this time it’s not some flash-in-the-pan beltway insider bullshit being milked mercilessly by cable news for 72 hours MAX!”
Listen, we know. We know what’s going on. We care about stuff. Just because we’re taking a break — we’re not completely out of touch with the world. There’s a huge movement against the “1%” that’s #occupying Wall Street and everywhere else, too. Well, we obviously know about that. We know that the GOP has debates every couple of days, and we know they’re not worth watching because they’re all the same, and we all know what’s going to happen — Mitt Romney is going to beat back fringe candidates and crazies, he will win, and then he will be exposed as crazy himself. There was Newt Gengrich, there was that pitiful middle-aged cross-eyed woman who ain’t talk so good, a dude who loves to kill people and name things after racial epithets, …now it’s like a pizza guy? Whatever! who cares! We know! And we don’t even watch the news!
Not trying to go on a rant here, but my point is, don’t start the revolution without us. We’re holding it down on the Eastern Hemisphere.
AO
THE COW SLAUGHTER — ABORTED
My alarm went off at 2:11, a time that’s obviously perfect to begin the hour long walk into town for Anda’s market day cow slaughter. Its also the time I would have been thinking about my afternoon nap if I was still in the office. Buoyed by this thought, and mourning for my many friends at work, I slipped into my flip flops and hit the road, admiring soaring cloud formations outlined against a barely waning moon.
Andy and I are currently booked into a sweet German resort outside of Anda to do our Padi Open Water certification. Because its low season and the German’s are putting on fat for winter hibernation, Flower Beach Resort is largely empty. Werner, the proprietor, gave us free housing to dive as part of a special package for poor Americans. The upside to Flower Beach is that I’v yet to find a better beach. The downside is that abandoned resorts aren’t as fun as random villages, like Anda.
After diving on Monday evening, Andy I started the long walk into town. We barely made it a couple hundred yards before stumbling on locals playing basketball. Since they were in flip flops, and we were in flip flops, it seemed natural to chanell our inner bobby Hurley and challenge them to a game. Ricardo and Rico vs Andy and Scott – Globetrotters we were not. The court was surrounded by fish drying in the setting sun and before too long, a crowd of 30 or so folks had gathered for the game of the century. The locals sprinted out to a quick lead, mostly by putting balls back without taking them out, but who were we to challenge Anda Beaches rule book. Anyways, they got up early, but we fought back, despite repeated illegal baskets on their part, eventually going up 12-9, almost to the required 15. And then disaster struck.
I’m getting old, and these kids were only 19 and in excellent shape. I’m a victim of $1 a pack cigarettes and too many nights spent with chain smoking travelers, like, well, basically, everyone we’ve met. We were tired. I was sweating like a soccer mom at yoga, and wheezing like a geriatric forced to take a lap around the old folks home. Our 12-9 lead quickly became a 13-12 deficit. National pride was on the line. I could feel Dick Cheney looking over my shoulder, and I was scared. But then, reality. The fact of the matter is that Philipino’s are short, and even in our worn out state of being, height was still our ally. The kids missed a couple shots, we pounded the ball inside Shawn Bradley style, and before too long, VICTORY. 15-13.
I collapsed like a, well, slaughtered cow, and Andy revealed a blister the size of his foot, forcing him home.
Recovery lasted a solid 30 minutes, and I didn’t get back on my feet before learning the names of loads of kids, names I’v since forgotten.
Finally reaching Anda, I met the local divemaster by chance, and over dinner he informed me of the cow slaughter. Or, in the words of the woman whose house/restaurant we sat in, “3 Cows. Big.”
I was sold. Slaughter time was set for 3 a.m. and my alarm was on.
On market day, Anda was a bee hive of activity at 3 a.m. I immediately found the meat/fish section, where hanging strips of steak and pork were ready for sale, fly issues not withstanding. However, no bleating, dying cows were in sight.
So I sat, then sat, then sat some more. Nothing. The cocks started to crow, and people, vegetables, and fish poured into town, but no doomed cows were in sight. I talked to several locals, but few spoke English (which actually IS odd in the Philippines), and none offered good info on when the cows would arrive…“maybe later, maybe not today,” communicated with a shrug, isn’t encouraging. By 4:30, I’d almost bought out the bakery, but had not witnessed a Philipino style cow slaughter. My 8 a.m. dive time was approaching, so I headed home, content with baked goods, and certain I’ll find my cow slaughter, though I may have to wait until Cambodia or Thailand.
Sorry for the false lead, but occasionally, Huffington post style headline inflation is fun (paul selker, this was for you).
Coming soon: pictures, cave exploration, the chocolate hills and Thailand