Your Brain On Kimchi

Each day in the United States, families squash in front roadside attractions for a photo op before hearing 'say cheeeeese!' and in knee jerk fashion, repeating the command. I never gave it much thought until I came to Korea and a few Korean friends asked to take a picture. Per usual, I tussled my hair, turned my body to highlight my good side, and put my pants back on for a memorable shot of us in front of the carousel. To my surprise, the photographer said "...1, 2, 3...KIM-CHIIIII!!!" At the time, I was quite surprised but after thinking about it for a few seconds, it makes total sense. If you've heard of more than five things from Korea, I'd be surprised. Before coming here, my short list was...

1. Kimchi

2. Taekwondo

3. Samsung/LG/Kia

4. Soju

5. Free overtime

Kimchi, however, easily takes the top spot as the most important and identifiable staple to Korean tradition. If the government decided to change the country's flag tomorrow, kimchi would be in its center. If Koreans weren't too busy eating it, I'd imagine I'd find it in shampoo, hand moisturizer, or envelope glue. In fact, many foreigners think the natural scent of a South Korean citizen is the tangy aroma of kimchi, when in fact they have probably just come from having a bit to freshen up. South Koreans think all Americans smell like cheese and eggs, when in fact we smell like cheese, eggs, AND blood pressure medication.

The history of kimchi can arguably go back to the first century, the beginning of the Three Kingdoms of Korea. Early varieties were created from fermented napa cabbage and beef stock; the appearance of the vivid red pepper flakes came into the mix after Japanese invasions in the mid-16th century. Bringing it up to modern day, the proud citizens created the Kimchi Field Museum in Seoul to celebrate all 187 varieties of this superfood. A true inspiration to fermented foods everywhere!

Thus far, I have eaten almost a dozen different kinds. I can't say for sure because since it is omnipresent at every dining establishment, I don't really have time to discuss with the waiters the finer points of their offering. Without a doubt, each eatery purchases or makes their favorite kind and will never reveal their preparation techniques. Not to mention, this is one of the most healthy foods in the world. Health magazine (I'm assuming they know a thing or two about...health) named it in the top five for healthiest foods because of nutritional value, natural digestion properties, and potential cancer fighting qualities. And in my own personal research, if you like kimchi, Koreans like you - win, win!

In order to Koreanize myself, I decided to prepare my own. It would be much disgraceful if I had over Korean guests and had no kimchi to throw in their face. After some minor interwebz research, I had a short list of veggies I needed to acquire and like in every Asian country, there is a vegetable lady right around the corner from me who had my merchandise. To make matters even easier, I was browsing the cabbages and mumbled the word 'kimchi' under my breath while she was in earshot. Faster than you can say 'Hyundai', she gathered up everything I needed in order to make my dream a reality. Packaged and ready to chop was the napa cabbage, radish, green onion, carrot, garlic, and ginger. The other ingredients (fish sauce, salt, hot pepper, flake, sugar) could be picked up at the local store with the stuff in it. I'll spare you the process of making the product and skip right to the review of my first batch of 'mak kimchi'.

The Results: Many dishonor points to you and your ancestors. Certainly I wouldn't say the result was terrible, but it didn't have that Korean-ness that I had in restaurants. Where theirs had sauce that was paste-like, mine was a bit watery. Theirs was spicy and crisp, mine was acidy and spongy. Theirs smelled like sour vegetables, mine smelled like sour toe nails. Theirs looked bright and inviting, mine looked like octopus roadkill. NONE THE LESS, this was my child, my creation, and I loved it dearly. And I ate all of my child, usually on rice.

Not a bad first effort, I've already got the next batch in the works. This kind is made from cubed Korean radish called 'kkakdugi' (kak-doo-gee).

Not All Kimchis Are Created Equal

Political discourse is beginning to heat up, new episodes of the Jersey Shore are being broadcasted, and, finally, Andrew has returned to Asia. This year's soup de jour is Seoul, South Korea, and I'm picking up right where I left off: communication breakdowns, questionable parts of animals disguised as food, and a butchering of local customs and traditions.

Since my last post, I returned to the east coast to pursue the job I'm most qualified for - professional temp. Cubicle occupier? You couldn't typecast a better example; I departed early, showed up late, had indiscernible sauce stains on my white oxfords, and a general sense of distrust towards executive management (henceforth, 'the man'). Nevertheless, my effots impressed my handlers. I can only imagine the calibre of interns that came before me and have moved on to greener pastures, these fallen fools are the real heroes.

In typical fashion, I invited dozens of my closest associates to Rhode Island for a quiet, sentimental farewell. This year, the police only came once! Because I'm a little bit behind in my blogging efforts, I anticipate to pull some Quentin Tarantino tricks by skipping to the present and slowly unveiling the missteps made to get here. As before, I'm back to being Teacher Andrew. This time around, however, I wield a red pen like a samurai sword, cutting and slashing inferior homework, dishing out extra work to be completed within an unreasonable amount of time. Vocabulary tests? Quizzes? Essays? These are my torture devices manipulated with excruciating precision. Play time is over...unless we are on break time during which we can play...BUT after that, no more play time. More to come on the seriousness of studying in Korea.

Hat level: Master

For many of you know who know about my affinity for sweet hats, this is easily a top three ballot. Upon a crusty blue, denim hat resides a living, breathing kitty cat who seemed quite comfortable. Kitty's role as forward lookout is important, but her trusting nature causes her to lose focus easily. The locals were blown away by this purring Stetson seen in a local park just outside a popular nightlife area around 3:00AM. The wearer calmly explained that anybody is capable of making an avant garde piece of headwear; the real challenge is keeping a pocket litter box in case of emergencies. I'm sure we'll be seeing this upon Lady Gaga's head at the next major music award show. I wonder if this is what Dr Seuss meant by his most famous work.

My TV Has A Cell Phone: You can tell a lot about a Korean by the kind of cell phone they have. A user of an iPhone 5 is trendy, fashionable, and takes considerable effort curating their style. A user of a Galaxy S III is hip, energetic, and embraces complete integration of technology in day to day activities. And if a person in Korea doesn't own a cell phone, they're probably from North Korea. On a daily basis, I see couples texting each other back and forth, giggling at the smiley emoticons that light up their LED screens. Normally this would be criminally cute, the effect is lost when the lovers are sitting next to each other on the subway. Most phones, including my own, has an expandable antenna which enables live TV watching around the clock at no additional charge. I didn't even have a TV in my last apartment! Even while jogging along the Han river at any point in the day, other 'walkers' pretending to exercise have a iPad-sized cellular device at arms length to be able to watch...something. My phone has apps out the wazoo, I have apps for my apps, and their apps have back-up apps in case of an app-related crisis. If tomorrow all of the cell phones in Korea disappeared, everybody would spontaneously combust into a cloud of ionizing radiation.

Some Like It Hot: At first glance, I thought to myself, 'red is an odd color for a toothpaste. But, remember Andrew, this is a different culture, things are and will get weird.' Embrace change, they said. This'll be a learning experience, they said. This deceiving tube of fiery Crest is actually gochujang, the national sauce of Korea, if there was such a thing. Thankfully I didn't confuse it with facial moisturizer or hemorrhoid cream. During my average inflight meal of bibimbap, the lovely attendant handed over this unassuming tube to add 'flavor of spice' so I can 'burn off foreign ass'. And I didn't even pay extra, must have been my charm.

Most of Korea is blanketed in a Siberian winter, spicy food is a taste preference as much as a necessity to keep warm during the unforgiving winters. In the local big box supermarket, they sell gochujang in twelve liter buckets. As a spice aficionado, I've come to embrace the Korean palate and can't wait to smear this goo on a roasted cow ankle or pig throat.

There is already an endless supply of shocking, surprising, confusing, and heart-warming (maybe not) collection of observations and tales. Being a collector of strangeness, I'm very excited to relay my experiences, and I hope you are looking forward to reading them. From K-pop to kimchi, this should be a great year and you should come along on my journey. You didn't think I was going to come halfway around the world and not do a bunch of embarrassing stunts along the way, did you?

xoxo

The Mekong's Floating Market

The sun rises in a cloud haze over the wide Mekong. Its brown water moves swiftly sending branches and clusters of white water lilies with it. Not a minute of this early morning is spent ‘waking up’ – the river calls and locals always answer without a moment’s hesitation. Boats filling up on fuel, repairmen without shirts restoring the open vessels, merchants loading up on cargo, stubby boats filled to the brim with pineapples – one of 365 mornings in Cai Be. The boat full of tourists I’m on quietly takes in this humbling scenery, all of them lifting their cameras in unison to take a picture of a floating refueling station. Another boat we pass is filled with orange brick, half-covered with a turquoise tarp. A middle-aged couple is navigating, the missus squatting on the edge brushing her teeth in a small red dish. The smaller, row boat sized craft bob through the turbulent water, most have what can only be described as a weed whacker for an engine; the body of the motor, throttle, steering is mounted waist high for a skipper standing at the aft, the long aluminum neck positioned on a swivel and a tiny prop at the end dipping into the water.

I am alarmed and amazed how close homes and buildings are to the water; they are the actual shoreline, nothing to buffer the relentless tides and currents. Any influx of water from rain or tributary flooding could easily rise above the few centimeters spared. Some homes are so low, it seems like the river is part of the house, spilling through the doorway and into the living room. As our boat gets closer to the center of the floating market, we are swarmed by smaller row boats that latch on the sides of us shouting ‘hot coffee’ or ‘water’ or ‘fruit.’ As quickly as they came, they detach, zip away to find another boat full of groggy, tourist faces. The floating market is clusters of anchored barges. They are packed with bundles and bags of multi-colored produce of every shape and size imagineable. Some easy to recognize: carrots, green onions, sweet potatoes, small watermelons, pineapples. Others are tough to identify on first glance: green oranges, bumpy melons, oblong root vegetables.



The larger boats have motors the size of a house generator, no covers to protect their tiny innards. One noisy motor revs up next to me, spewing black diesel smoke on my arm, the same volume as an aircraft engine. A Mekong woman sits in the aft of her 40 foot boat loaded with wicker baskets overflowing with green and yellow durian. One of the few passengers on my boat who is Vietnamese is having a fantastic time ordering all the tasty snacks that float by. Long bamboo poles lay down lengthwise along the boat’s gunnel to assist in transactions too far away for a hand exchange. Other poles stick into the air like flagpoles with the flag replaced by whatever produce is their catch of the day.


Ten pound bags of garlic in red onion bags, huge sacks of potatoes, large grocery bags holding bright pink dragon fruit all pass me at arm’s length. The larger boats serve as the hubs, smaller boats coming to buy and sell. Small boats are mostly the farmers, coming to sell their crop then returning to the fields. The sun creeps over the palm hillsides, allowing the untrained observer to take in all the details of one of the world’s most unique marketplaces. Laundry dangles off rusty metal hooks jutting off the back of most boats. Some of them are named, the white paint turning into a dusty etching. Most have paint chipping away, peeling back slowly to reveal knotted teak wood. Something about their weathered appearance makes them appear unsinkable.



Now and again, garbage is tossed around by the currents and wakes. A floating black sandal misses his other half, empty plastic bags unable to escape the water’s suction. Looking towards shore, citizens of the land are starting to get busy; they should know they are a few hours behind already. By the edge, men are unloading cargo, women washing clothes in shallow plastic basins. The only thing not recycled by the Mekong River is time.

Mid-Life School Crisis

Any celebrations that end with 0s or 5s always get noticed, they're plain better for whatever reason. Personally, I think the aesthetic features of the numerals give an appearance of success of achievement. Take Don Gorske of Fond du Lac, Wisconsin. This model American has become oddly famous for eating his 25,000th Big Mac from McDonald's, appearing on late night TV shows and popping into your news aggregator from CNN or the AP - an amazing testament to the power of the human body to withstand such an assault! I'm the press will be uninterested until the 30,000 mark, the power of zeroes. Heading back to Taiwan, it was with great rejoice that the local Tianmu Elementary School in the neighborhood where I work recognized their 30th year of service. Responsible for the educational advancement of thousands of Taiwanese youth, the school is a landmark in this northern community. A tremendous party was in order, full of fun, excitement, reflection, food, merriment, and games for the families to come and enjoy. Since Giraffe is directly across the street, it was absolutely essential to make our presence known, reminding parents that our school is cracker-jack. It was also absolutely essential that I get to the school at 7:30AM on a Saturday. 'Just out of curiosity, what would happen if I showed up at...' Blah, too bad I don't live here, then I could have skipped and promised to make it to the 35th. Or 40th.

Not much can be said about the Soviet-style design, you could easily swap the sign for a textile mill and nobody would think otherwise, besides the clown-colored inflatable gate. The immediate facing facade is dreary; no hanging window flower boxes, no pastel drawings on widows of children holding hands from around the world, not a hint of kids are work or play. Thankfully the administrators decided to spruce up the deco immediately through the gate to remind parents that this building is not a prison, even though it wouldn't be hard to make it one. Under red tents inside the school's drop-off circle, community organizations and businesses tout their messages, hand out literature, and entice groups of children to play their ring toss or darts game for a small fee. Between and past the main structure on the left and on the right (the library) is the school's track and blacktop.

Well would you look at that? A couple hundred mostly cute kids singing and dancing the school's song. The first grade children donned their class shirts and headbands, pink and blue for their designated genders. Scattered around the track, the tinny speakers broadcasted an allegro moderato march highlighted by a motivated brass section. While the parents clapped along and toe-tapped to the continuous bum-bum-bum of the tubas, the kids flailed pompoms and sang along with the lively music. Some of the performers were enjoying it far less than others, the former moving like Japanese robots through the dance steps which had been programmed into their systems. Still early in the morning, a few had the morning daze looking absentmindedly into the camera of an enthusiastic parent. Obviously, the idea of replacing Saturday morning's Sponge Bob viewing with this mandatory jollification did not sit well some. Sacrifices must be made! Fortunately for them, their efforts to glorify Tianmu Elementary school was the first event during a lengthy program and the exhibition lasted a few songs. Relieved, the children marched in straight lines off the track, free to roam the campus without needing to hear that lame song for a very long time.

Excellent candid photo #1! 'This cotton candy makes my throat itch, waaaaaaah!'

In one of the main courtyards, tents were set up to house games, snacks, and sweet treats. To give you an idea of the school's size, this courtyard was one of four with just as much square footage. One of them had not been paved over, wide ferns and small palms remain. Families filtered in and out to take a break from the the ongoing spectacles near the track. Refueling on ice tea and corn dogs, the attendees were also eager to test their skill on a variety of carnival games. Interested in my neighbors offering, it appeared some of them were outrageously rigged. Like two tents down, trying to bounce a ping pong ball into the opening of a glass vase with a $1000 bill inside ($30 USD) or into a hole the size of an M&M. The vendor wisely provided contestants with maybe twenty shots giving a little bit of confidence and probably saying '...no, no, no - you are stealing MY money! Look how many times you can go!' Clever, shrewd but clever.

Against my strong advice, Giraffe's game had to be completely 'legit' and without any trickery, too bad. Our tent had two games; the game on the right side was your classic throw-something-knock-it-down variety. Twenty dollars gets you three tosses and thirty gets you five. With each number knocked down, you get a certain prize and an adrenaline rush similar to rock climbing or para-sailing.

On the left side was our shooting gallery; our AK-47 was a wood pistol with a waistband elastic to create tension. Place the elastic band on the barrel and the hammer, release the tension handle and voila! Thirty dollars gets you ten shots and fifty gets you twenty. Like the toss game, the more Taliban you blast the sweeter the prize. And just so you know, children, shooting Teacher Andrew does not award you a higher score or a better prize. My classes might be Taliban-esque with all the homework I assign but I assure you, it would take a lot of rubber bands to eliminate this dictator.

And so it went - rubber bands whizzing by, clanking of wooden pegs hitting the metal targets, laughter, endless exchanges of paper-scissor-stone, excitement, meats on a stick, and personally a lot of sweatiness. At the end of the day, we had collected thousands of dollars or about...

* 983 pegs thrown at targets

* 2,360 rubber bands shot

Making money wasn't the idea, covering our costs and advertising was our goal and was achieved. During this whole time, Giraffe's owners and one-part timer were out on the street handing out flyers and talking up our fantastic branch. Thousands of promotional flyers were handed out describing our approach and why parents should give us their dollars instead of our rivals. The afternoon culminated in a school-wide relay race, each grade competing against one another. Some of the teams looked like Olympic superstars, timing their start off the blocks to match up with the baton passer and handing it off effortlessly. Other teams, did not. I will say it was quite exciting, a coworker and I began casual bets based on the looks and demeanor of the teams lining up for a race. I could tell when the blue or the teal shirts would absolutely crush the yellow team - 'seriously, one of the kids is wearing loafers, there is no way he is going to keep up.' When it got down to the wire, the parents jumped up screaming 'jiao yio, jiao yio!!' ('Keep going! Keep going! And if you bring disgrace to this family you aren't going to have dinner for the rest of the weekend...'). Trophies awarded to the victors, hugs and encouragement to the runners-up, and a few promises of candy and snacks for me from the spoils of my gambling.

Here are a few more spectacular photos....

'Ughhhhhhhh, why did I eat that?'

Super Taiwanese Mullet, he's got your back.

'I want to play games too. I like corn dogs. Please let me out...

Please.'

'Take that you extremist S.O.B.!'

'She will not talk to you, or any other members of the press until this matter is resolved in a court of law.'

#3 - What The Hell Is This?

If you thought I was moving to Taipei and not going to eat a lot of weird treats for your enjoyment, you are dead wrong my friend. Today's post is brought to you by Rolaids. Easing your discomfort after mowing down a bucket of ox gall bladders with a side of eel farts has never been easier. Just grab a few tablets, chew, and wash it down with a tall glass of fish pee and you should be feeling better right away. Let's check out today's mystery...

The Item: I was casually loitering at my local 7Eleven, browsing as usual, and I found this unusual item. In a resealable, pink plastic bag, there isn't much to explore by simple means of observation. The foreground features a lovely pile of purpley-brown nuggets frosted in a powder, sugar I'm thinking, but possibly anthrax. In the background is a glass of an orange liquid accented by green stems or leaves, like Tang with decorated with grass clippings. The only English is a little bit helpful, on the dark pink banner mentioning 'It tastes sour and sweet.' Helpful, I really like the ambiguous 'It' suggestion.

The other side has a viewing area; you may observe your snacks at rest before their demise. Again, not a whole lot going on. The picture on the front is a little bit off - instead of the smooth, snowy appearance, my goodies are wrinkled tidbits covered in white fungal spores. Has this thing been sealed properly? Where did these come from anyways?

I pay for my merchandise and scurry back to my apartment like a mouse with his cheese. Tearing open the package, the aroma of artificial sweet fruit fills my room. The scent is what I imagine Lady Speed Stick to smell like, perfumey and strong enough for a man but meant for a woman. Before tasting, some guesses I have are figs, cherries, tiny plums, dates, or rabbit droppings. Yes dear friends, I had to go there, and explore the uncomfortable option that maybe, just maybe, this rare Taiwanese delicacy has found its way into the mass markets of the public. As an outsider, I find it absolutely essential to separate myself, abstain from any ethnocentric assumptions, and consider ALL the options. More research is necessary...

It is my mouth, I have the right to know. To the right is a strangely detailed and accurate picture of the droppings from oryctolagus cuniculus, commonly referred to as a European Rabbit. Wikipedia has not installed scratch-and-sniff webpages, I am unable to determine a match in smell. The size, original color, and shape are remarkably similar, my tongue begins to curl in disgust. Using the latest photographic technology used by the CIA to track criminals who change their appearance, here is a computer-generated image with the effect of 'powdered sugar' turned on to match my culprit...

Oh...

my...

God!

These resemblance is dead on! The system tells me it is 90% positive that my picture is a positive match. Knowing this evil, maddening fact, the experiment must continue.

The Guess: The Taiwanese population seem to have their act together, I don't think a whole society walking around popping rabbit nuggets into their mouthes could be so hospitable or friendly. Against the strong, compelling photographic evidence, I'm going to say it is a cherry.

The Result: Ow. These niblets are 75% pit, 25% flesh - in my excitement, I noshed a little bit too hard and maybe loosened a filling. Immediate taste is sweet, followed by a sourness so intense, my tongue twists into a question mark, making it impossible to talk. Tart is an understatement, like lemon concentrate, I can barely open my eyes. A few seconds later, the rush subsides leaving my mouth tired, palette exhausted. The pit is oval, similar to an olive, but the results are still unknown. I visit Google Translate, punch in a few guesses of what I think it is, and the symbols for 'plum' are very similar. But technology fooled me once already today, I can rest easy knowing that no rabbits were harmed in the making and packaging of my experiment.

Conclusion: Inconclusive

The Exploder

If it ain't broke, don't fix it. Allow me to introduce the Exploder, a miracle of Japanese craftsmanship and engineering. During my trip to Spring Scream in Kenting, the Exploder was my ride and this scooter has seen kilometers. The positive, it was loaned to me for zero dollars. The negative, as explained by the lender, "..just don't go too fast or else..." Right. I didn't even hear that part, all I focused on was the zero dollars. Instead of a scooter, I received a bicycle with an engine as strong as a food processor, safety features similar to a see-saw, and a ride as comfortable as a cactus-tobaggon. Perfect! Scooter-jackers would be made fun of by their posse if they stole this. On idle, it sounds like a chainsaw fart combined with a dryer full of quarters running on tumble cycle. Don't care, at all. Take a blender, throw in 100 pennies, a jar of pickles, hit 'liquify' and you've got the noise at what I think to be around 50kph. Am I embarrassed? Please. You wish your ride could last this long. Let's take a look at the features...

The Exploder has supported so many butts, it is actually starting to shed. The foam underneath is cracked, hardened, and worn. Not sure if I'm sitting on a cushion or a bag of crushed asphalt. Rear-ends of all shapes and sizes have smooshed this once luxurious foam support in different areas resulting in a texture of a rubber blanket on a coral reef. The vibrations sure didn't help the ride; if I had any kidney stones tucked away in the deepest regions of my guts, surely they were rattled out. The glossy accent paint on the steel mounts has long since departed, leaving a poo-poo brown rust thick with grit and tetanus. Rear passengers should avoid this support at all cost, instead wrap your soft, smooth and comforting arms around my boyish physique and hold on tight.

You want LCD display? Nice try, this baby was conceived before TVs turned color. How about LED? Maybe once upon a time. But the speedometer doesn't work, neither does the tachometer, or the any-other-kind-ometer. Please also note the lack of side mirrors, they were causing too much drag. Just take your eyes off the road, turn your head around, turn back, hope nothing is about to be under your front tire, and keep cruising. The pewter matte finish of the handlebar casing has a texture similar to sand paper or a goat's horn. Like a roll of pink fiberglass, too much poking, pressing, or prodding could result in microscopic slivers. Then you have an itch in your armpit, which you touch and now you have them there. Then you sneeze, cover your mouth and get them in your gums. Now, you alternate your scratching hand between your mouth and your armpit giving yourself a full-on B.O. mouth rinse.

The lights work, but they are desperately trying to escape from the frame. One cover remains, the left blinker and he's hanging on for dear life. How thoughtful of the Exploder's owner to use clear tape, not duct tape, to remedy this malfunction. As you can see, it is a Yamaha and they make damn fine products. Carbon gray fenders accent the navy blue body punctuated by stripped, rusted nuts and bolts holding it together. Custom stickers adorn the front of my chariot letting other riders know that even though I don't value my life enough to make this vehicle safe, I still want to look good.

Normally the underside of any kind of vehicle is covered to prevent exposure to dirt, water, roadkill, etc. Not the Exploder! What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. The Exploder also disposes of superfluous pieces of undercarriage automatically. While you ride to the local Grease Bucket Fatty Man's Chicken Shack to pack on the calories, the Exploder is dropping pounds like nothing. What you see are the bare essentials it takes to run an internal combustion engine. If it isn't important, get rid of it - like the automatic starter. Typically scooters have a button you push and presto, machine on. That feature has been removed, for your convenience. Today's model features a kick start lever; just stand off to the side, jump off a curb, friend, concrete barrier, or bush with a massive amount of downward force, and bingo! If you hear chainsaw farts, you know you did it right.

Any false move by my right leg could result in a IQ-changing shock from the exposed wires. Is it a bad sign that I can clearly see the other side of the road through most of the parts? If you had a car and could see through it while you standing beside it, you'd be like 'oh @#!$$^#, maybe I should get on that.' And if you were driving a horse, you'd be like 'oh damn, where'd you get that pony at?' The muffler with sharpened edges at the bottom of picture was used to determine the standards of acceptable emissions. Anything worse than the Exploder should be seized, dismantled, and melted down into useful widgets.

Of course, it is easy to take cheap shots at something that looks shoddy, beat up, or worn down. You may think that because it looks like a piece of slow moving rubbish, it is a piece of slow moving rubbish. And that is true, it is exactly that. But, looking past the disfigurement and covering your ears from the deafening noise pollution, the Exploder and many others like that get you to where you want to go. Looks aren't the most important thing, only if you want to pay more. In three days of riding, it started the first time every time, used $2 worth of gasoline for a couple hours of driving, and never crapped out. Suckers were lining up to pay an unreasonably high price for shiny, brand-new wheels for the holiday weekend; the shops there triple the rate during the Spring Spring festivities. I paid nothing and still got to the same places as everybody else. In this battle between the Young Studs and Old Faithful, it was a tie - score one for the good guys. Don't touch the Exploder, it is absolutely perfect the way it is; if it ain't broke, don't fix it.

I'm 100% sure the next person who uses it will die.

Derp.

In Soviet Russia, scooter drives you.

Spring Broke - Part II

The police have closed off the main stairs to the beach. I guess 1,000 people on a beach loaded with fireworks, alcohol, and hormones isn't the best combination. But it is a beach, there has to be another way. A hundred yards away from the main staircase is an opening, a makeshift trail! I channel the spirit of Lewis and Clark, take one big step into the darkness and slap my face into a tree branch. Hm, maybe a little to the left this time. Ouch, a thorny-something. Okaaaaaaay, three steps in and I'm already bleeding, the rest should be a breeze. Enter widow-maker uneven concrete stairs. Crash, bang, boom. My descent is softened sand, I've made it. Hit my face on another branch. Walking towards the surf, I hear a soft thump-thump-thump repeating over and over. Is it natives? Oh please be some kind of cannibalistic ritual. Around the corner of a huge rock pile right beside the water, I see it. It is a gigantic, throbbing, frenzied horde of people moving and shaking to heavy bass coming from the beach bar at the bottom of the stairs I bravely disregarded. It is a massive beach rave. Where have you been all my life?!?!

Working around the edges, I find my way into the crowd. People are having a really, really good time. Every now and then, a professional quality firework bomb explodes directly over the middle of the dancers, energizing the group even more. The golden sparks float gracefully towards the mass before extinguishing or setting any ironic trucker hats on fire. What's a good party if your life isn't in some kind of danger? The music, fireworks, dancing, cheering, and singing never slows down, it only speeds up. Somehow, I find my friends and we literally danced the night away.

The music finally stops, the only sound comes from a sharp ringing in my ear. After taking off my sunglasses, I can clearly see the sorry state of this trashed paradise, which also means that it is morning and I have been dancing all night long to vicious DJs blasting house music to a couple hundred partiers on the smooth sand. The sand this morning is much different from when I visited in December of last year; littered with empty beer cans, bottles, cigarette butts, Americans, an abandoned right sandal, used firework casings, dignities, multicolored plastics, tote bags. People stumbling around, saying things like "Where's Josh?" at 7:00AM on Sunday morning was a great ending to my first night in the once cozy beach town of Kenting. Some survivors gather their belongings, head to the stairs at the bottom of the hill, trudging up to retire to their hotel room, campsite, shanty, or park bench. Others, still confused by the lack of bass coming out of the massive speaker stacks, smoke cigarettes and make idle conversation with their neighbor.

It's a funny feeling after staying up all night and not being tired; your brain is saying "great, daylight at last!" but your body is feeling "oh no, daylight at last!" At last, I convince my entourage of two it is time to call it. I carefully step over the rubbish, brush past a person in a furry costume that is identical to the Cincinnati Bengals football mascot, weave my way around a few zombies moaning for bottled water, and finally lumber up the stairs to the street. Same scenery, different location. The bartender Mark packs up shop quietly, the shop of course being a converted Fuso flatbed truck-bar.

Taxi drivers wait at the top of the beach stairs, waiting quietly with droopy eyes to take back the last of the hedonists. Garbage is plastered to the street, about 10,000 dirty feet have mushed it into the surface. Just past Mark Bar is a young gentleman too weak to go on (bottom left of the picture). Head down, legs crossed, he dreams on a folding-plastic beach chair about not actually sleeping in the chair, or maybe a hot shower to rinse off the shame or disgust of the night's events. Either way, he smells and makes a strange gurgling sound, I leave him in the care of Mark. My scooter-chariot awaits me in the same spot and in the same condition that I left it. Keys in, helmet on, I slap myself in the face a few times for good measure and I whiz back to the apartment where I'm staying. It is above a traditional Chinese medicine shop, which means I need to walk through the storefront to get to the back. When I arrive at the shop, the business is open and a woman of maybe 120 tends to the counter. I try to hide my ugly appearance, but her disgust is palpable, my irresponsibility is obvious. She knows everything.

I wake up hours later, around the time senior citizens are having dinner. My throat is sore, I have sand in my nose (how the hell...?), and I'm pretty sure my vision is worse somehow. A good night, still have both of my eyebrows and nobody is banging on the door looking for 'Josh.' Brendan and I recap: 'Did you see those fire dancers?' 'There were fire dancers? Did you see that guy in the tiger costume?' 'Tiger costume?' This goes on for a few minutes, it did get a little crazy back there.

What is left of the day is spent rehydrating and refueling, who knows what night number two has in store for us. Like yesterday, the crowds hug the main street's shoulders and sidewalks.

Grumpily, I complain, eat meat on a stick, and meander to the other end of the main street to see my favorite Taiwanese Rastafari, and owner of Alex's Reggae Van/Bar, Alex. The Bob Marley coming out of the speakers eases my woes, Alex passes me a Corona and assures me that everything is going to be just fine, as soon as I pay for my drink. And he's right. But what to do tonight...

Brendan: "You want to check out the beach party?"

Me: "Mehhhhhhhhhh, well alright, just for a few minutes. I'm beat."

5:00AM

Overshot my goal of a few minutes by a few thousand. I've always been bad with numbers.