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.

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.

Spring Broke - Part I

The fella in the tank top to my left is sweating like a working farm animal, the smell also similar. Mopping his brow with a red bandanna between forced small talk, I can tell that he isn't 100% at the moment, more like 10%. At 9:00AM on Tuesday morning, our paths crossed on a bus from Kenting back to Taipei, after a long weekend punctuated by excessive indulgences of all kinds. I try to busy myself in a book, quickly glancing out of the corner of my eye for any signs of danger. After what I'd just seen these past three days, anything can happen. Of course, it does. Tank top mumbles something "...feeling a little worse for wear..." and snags the clear plastic travel sickness bags conveniently stowed in the seat pocket below where an airplane's tray table would be. Tank begins to clench, his whole body tensing up against the upcoming onslaught. During the middle of this bout between good and evil, clean and dirty, and what the body wants or doesn't want, Brendan turns around, politely asking "Woah, dude are you ok?" Tank catches a breath, "No man, I'm throwing up into a plastic bag. Maybe I shouldn't have drank all that whiskey for breakfast." Really? You think that was the problem? Maybe it was the coffee, I know when I have too much I get the jitters. Sadly, I realize that I'm not going to get too much reading done, at least until Tank's buckling knees stop rubbing against mine.

This was at 9:08AM, three kilometers out of Kenting and another seven hours in this steel sick wagon filled with sunburned, dehydrated, infected, wheezing, coughing foreigners with sand-filled pockets where Taiwanese dollars used to be. Let's go back...

Once a year, the Spring Scream music festival is held just outside of the small surf town Kenting at the southernmost tip of Taiwan and attracts thousands of people looking to have a good time. The town (read about my first trip here) hosts people from all over the country and bands coming from far and wide to entertain. For the business owners and vendors of Kenting, this is holiday weekend where they can make a killing, people selling food or crafts often working until 4:00AM when the crowds finally begin to subside. Hotels triple their regular nightly rates, renting a scooter costs double, vendors hustle hard and fast to move merchandise. From early in the morning to very early the next morning, people are consuming at breakneck speeds, scantily clad women patrol the main street 'promoting' beers and liquors, fliers are being handed out faster than they can be printed. The town itself has one main drag, about a mile from end to end; in the two lanes, only one is drivable, the sidewalks are crammed with sellers end to end and foot traffic in the shoulders moving at the speed of smell. Even more, behind the vendors are restaurants, bars, carnival games with customers overflowing on every side, occupying every conceivable space in or around an establishment. And it was like this for days.

I like warm weather, traveling, enjoying the company of others, live music, and so does Brendan. Spring Scream was a perfect fit but there were problems early on. This event was so popular that the bullet train that runs from Taipei all the way south was in every way completely sold out. Ugh. We checked the normal slow train, completely sold out. Blah. Using my personal network, a friend of mine had hired a charter bus and there were a few seats left, yahtzee! We got on Saturday morning along with about two dozen other Westerners. Here are the highlights from the trip down: it took over nine hours, I met some cool people, I had to listen to some other not cool people talk loudly and stupidly, Hollywood made 'Transporter 3' (why?), our bus driver's name was Felix who can drive and kiss hot girls out of the side of his mouth (see picture for details), and I watched half a season of Mad Men on my iPod. I don't care how small the screen is, it sure beats overhearing some obnoxious, American jackass talking about French politics to a guy from France who had this look in his eyes that said, "zey are all zeh same, zey 'ave no business 'ere, pig dog!!!" American ambassador of the worst variety, merde.

The hordes of traffic significantly slowed our approach into the town, a quick turn off the main drag and the bus was evacuated in a hurry. Duffel bags in hand, we went to the main drag where a friend was working and who would be letting us crash in her apartment for the next few days. Pushing through, we found here jewelry tables between a 7Eleven and a hotel looking overwhelmed with all the quick hands passing shiny earrings and bracelets back and forth. Not the best time for reunions, a fast hi and bye, drop off the bags and get into the action. I had some meat on a stick to get things warmed up, some spicy Korean rice cakes (not the Quaker kind, they are shaped like chapstick and are like a thick, chewy noodle, amazing!), some more meat on a stick, maybe organs, and a cold beverage to settle everything.

At one end of town, in front of a Starbucks, Taiwan beer put up a huge stage to showcase their average product and Taiwanese bands. We ventured on over and saw some bands, most of them focusing on their appearance rather than their sound. Using fake fog, a lot of free beer being tossed into the crowd like hand grenades, and gogo dancers with temporary Taiwan beer tattoos strategically placed, the young crowd was bopping around and loving every second of it. Of course I couldn't understand the lyrics and the music was decent, but the energy and excitement was enough to get me going.

Around midnight, the town started to get even crazier. Below are some pictures of one of the least safe things I saw; a man lit a large box of multi-fireball exploding fireworks and decided to share it with everybody by walking down the street holding it above is head through the center of town.

Police? They were on traffic detail. Besides, everybody likes a pretty show, except if that pretty show is close enough to your eyes and ears to cause permanent damage.

How did the night end? Not early, a lot more coming, stay tuned.

Giraffe Field Trip - Day 2

Too many sheep in one day can really stress anybody out. Bleats of our bushy friends reverberated through the valley making any possible effort at relaxing difficult. Getting lost in the scenery was quickly diminished after stepping in their leftovers a few times, and I'm not talking about food. But the kids are having a good time, all still alive, and a visit to the hot spring is right around the corner.

Destination #2: Hot Spring Hotel

Nottaclue, Taiwan

This should have gone in the previous post but I was feeling uninspired at the time. After all the sheep had outrun the children, it was time to move on. Back on the tour bus once again, I was informed that our next stop was the hotel for some dinner and R&R. But this wasn't just any hotel; under foundation of this place (and many others in the town) were natural hot springs. Taiwan is located in the collision zone of two tectonic plates. For centuries, indigenous people knew about them but paid no attention, it is after all really hot and sometimes that hurts. But under Japanese control in the late 1800s, their own culture rich with hot soaking, the spas and hotels began to develop. Which brings me to the hotel. While the kids splashed in a pool off to the side, I was being blasted by a stream of hot water powerful enough to strip paint from a wall. While the kids were drying off, I was in a sauna sweating out months of poor behavior. And while the kids were being brought back to the rooms, I was enjoying some hydrotherapy on my back with water so hot it changed the color of my hair. Quick sidenote: when getting into the sauna I missed a small step, slipped a little and fell forwards. Luckily my hand caught my balance on the sweaty inner-thigh of a man in a speedo tipping the scales at 300lbs, also the only person in chamber. International incident avoided, sustained awkwardness achieved.

Destination #3: Formosan Aboriginal Culture Village

Yuchi, Nantou County

Of course the time spent away from my pupils evaporated as quickly as my muscle aches. I'm technically on duty, shortly after the kids are back in the room I return to survey the damage. Like I imagined, my roommates have learned nothing about the how to dry their suits and towels. No Michael, this shirt will not get dry balled up in the sink. Titan, please hang your towel on the shower curtain rod and not the lid of the toilet. After vigorously beating them with pillows, some mindless TV to numb trauma and a little gameboy, lights out. My roommates Michael, Titan and Andrew were as worn out as I was. Worn out enough that a few minutes later, one of my roomies began snoring something awful. It was what I imagine to be the sound from the combination of a blackhole closing up and massive hog that just received some terrible news. Really kid?

Bright and early, time for the morning feed. Here is almost a complete picture of the little monkeys. From left to right is Andrew, Titan, myself and Michael. By far, the funniest breakfast meal I've had, there may have been a stoned chef in the back. Not to be confused with bad taste, it was the offering that made me smile, here is the list: chicken nuggets, scrambled eggs, salad bar, rice, toast, cereal, pork lo mein, hot and sour soup, pizza and a few more things. Don't tell kids in America that over here they eat chicken nuggets for breakfast, one of the only times you'll hear a 10-year old American kid say "I WANT TO GO TO TAAAAAAAAAAIWAAAAAN!!!"

Back on the bus, an hour away to Sun Moon Lake. The lake is super famous in the country; home to the Thao tribe, this spectacular body of water represents holy ground for them and talked about extensively in their folktales. It is also the largest body of water in Taiwan and hosts a 3-km race during the Mid-Autumn festivals.

The culture village was on the other side of a hill as big as a mountain but the crafty Taiwanese had installed a gondola about twenty years earlier, good work! The monkeys and I got into our skyward cube, enjoying the spectacular views. Well, they enjoyed spitting out of it into the forest below but I took a lot of pictures.

Arriving on the other side at 11:00AM, we are handed maps and are taken inside the park. Once there, our guide says meet here at 3:30PM, adios. The park has the largest European garden in the country AND the largest outdoor museum in the country including nine different villages highlighting Taiwan's earliest tribes. Or you could do what I did: eat corndogs, ride a merry-go-round 59 times, eat corndogs, play videogames, ride a tram, get sick from corndogs. There were much bigger rides that peaked my interest but motion sickness really bummed out my partners in crime. And I didn't feel like cleaning up their motion sickness. But we had a great time; I bought them ice cream, we ran around a lot and made it back to the meeting point on time. My bosses were surprised but pleased.

Back on the odorous coach, ready to get back to the city. During the daylight, the views were simply phenomenal; I had no idea the country had this kind of natural splendor. It actually reminded me of New Zealand. Winding roads hugging the mountain on one side and a steep drop on the other, rivers carving through the valleys and eating away the luminescent limestone masses, leafy flora growth stretching endlessly. A great break from the city, a bluer sky and certainly cleaner air. I'm very lucky my bosses took me and luckier that the kids are all well behaved. Without a doubt, I'll certainly be coming baaaaaaaah-ck....

Yikes.

Giraffe Field Trip - Day 1

"Teacher Andrew, do you want to come on the Giraffe overnight field trip with the kids? We have no classes next week."

(Thoughts of kids running around widly in a strange place, smelly bus ride, responsibility of any kind)

"I'm don't know, sounds a little..."

"You don't have to pay for meals and we'll be going to a hot spring."

"Er...what time do we leave?"

I'm a pushover, really. But I'm also really loyal; if my boss asked me to fight a panda with bamboo sticking out of my underwear, I'd do it. Nervously, I accepted the invitation. Besides, what can go wrong from Monday morning until Tuesday night five hours away from Taipei in an unfamiliar place not being able to read or speak the local language with thirty excitable children who have been given freedom on a level never before experienced trying to be corralled by a foreigner who is more like Bobo the circus clown? Don't answer that...

Wake up early, get on a bus, hold on to your butts. Taiwanese love taking tours, a real lot. In fact, all you do is call a tour operator, tell them where you want to go with how many people, and you are finished. Sure I'm a bit tired from last night, but three hours on a coach bus tucked away in the last row should grant me some level of rest. Wrong. The tour operator began the morning announcements in Chinese, a little "welcome, hey, don't touch that" kind of introduction I imagine. And then the plan for the day. And then his life history. And then his stand-up comedy routine. And then a reading from his memoirs. And more stand-up comedy. This went on for 86 minutes, no exaggeration because I timed it.

Destination #1:Cingjing Recreational Farm

Renai Township, Nantou County

The bus lumbers up winding cliff side roads. Passing native forests, through towering gorges, you can immerse yourself in the fresh air and wild scenery. Situated 1,800 meters above sea level (around 5,900 feet), the hillside restored my energy and cleansed my lungs of scooter air I've been huffing in Taipei for months. But if natural beauty isn't what you're looking for, you can always pester the sheep. A herd of about 70 docile sheep roam the hills of the farm, only quickening pace to avoid the over anxious kids who try ride on top of them. True to the name, this place is a farm with a few small groves of fruit trees, shaggy sheep and a small petting zoo filled with nervous rabbits.

But first, a performance! "YIPEEEE KAAY YA!" Enter pumped up white guy on a horse swinging a whip. No not Indiana Jones. And sadly, he spoke only Chinese throughout the show, showoff. Cowboy Wayne (or something) started off the show by wrasslin' up a small herd of the bored sheep, creating a stampede of minor proportions. "Hi ho silver, awayyyy!" Wayne parades them around the audience of the outdoor stage with his wireless mic, eventually leading them into a pen off to the side. A few more whip cracks, a lot more Chinese and one shaved sheep later, I'm quite amused.

After the performance, the group gathers, all sheep remain unharmed. Our tour guide leads us to the other end of the park where there is a small "Swiss" garden. In the flowerbeds were animals, structures, fences, windmills, pinwheels and more made completely out of corrugated paper. I was finally able to ride a sheep, however my White Lightning remained stationary no matter how loud I shouted "GIDDY UP!"

More to come...

This Bar Has Wheels

Late December in New England: frozen sidewalks, windburn, darkness, depression.

Late December in Taiwan: frozen daquiris, sunburn, brightness, depression ("Aw dude, that beer stand is far away, bummer.").

These are the problems that ravage the tropical landscape of Kenting, Taiwan. Truly hard times have befallen Brendan and I; should we go surfing or just lay on this velvety, white sand? Ugh, I hate making difficult decisions. And where the hell is my sunscreen?

About a month ago, I asked my terrific employers how long my Christmas break was? They informed me that Christmas Eve was on a Friday, that leaves Saturday and Sunday, the whole day is all yours kiddo! Vomit. No Christmas break? No time away from my ungrateful, extremely well-behaved and literate students? Does Jesus know about this? I've got news for you Giraffe, if I don't take a few days off, these kids are going to start learning the English language with a Southern accent and vocabulary words that would make a prison guard blush. My bosses don't speak great English, I guess my wild gesturing and barbaric tone scared them into giving me a few days off.

After Giraffe's Christmas Spectacular (will post later in the week), the foreign roommates went out for some Christmas Eve libations, ending very late and discussing the brilliance and fortitude behind the Christmas Yule Log DVD. SPOILER ALERT: It's a video of a log fire set to Christmas tunes, wish I could have been at the production meeting for this blockbuster. After three hours of sleep, or decomposing, Brendan and I made our way to the main station in Taipei to board the high-speed rail (HSR). The train moves at 150 MPH, has cabin attendants, assigned seating and can offer some of the most amazing views of the Taiwanese countryside. I learned all of this from the brochure stuffed into the seat in front of me, I spent the two hours on board drooling into my armpit. From the last stop, the southern city Kaoshiung, and another one hour by bus, we made it to Kenting - a little smelly, confused, sweaty but conscious. Temporarily.

The small town hugs the coast for about a mile, one main road allowing beach-goers access to the rocky shoreline. Kenting consists of the following: a mega-resort filled with people who wear their sandals in a pool, an elementary school, two vans that sell alcohol (or two bars with engines), small restaurants and bars, dozens of surf shops, a impressive population of wild dogs and scooter salesmen up the wazoo. Quiet, unassuming, the area is frequented by foreigners and I think English here was more usable than Taipei. Most of the action is on the main drag, a beach anchoring either end, vendors and food carts straddling the road at night. The specialty? Grilled cuttlefish, think squid's better looking cousin. Since crazy ideas like "refrigeration" and "sanitation" top the vendor list of "Things I Don't Give A Crap About," I skipped these particular purveyors.

There is a pleasant national park to visit with the normal features: visitors center, nature park, hiking, bus-loads of Japanese, conservation center to name a few. We did a short hike, filled with ups and downs, impressive views, rocks, and trees, and shrubs, and plants, and birds, and blah blah blah. Sorry folks, you get the idea, it was really nice and I really enjoyed it but I can only elaborate so much before I start to cut and paste from National Geographic.

They will rent scooters to anybody. Sure you could walk most places, but why not take your life into your own hands for a few days? Could be fun! I rented from a gentleman by the side of the road; eating a sandwich, balancing a cellphone between his shoulder and ear, writing out the lease form. Definitely legit. After I cleaned off the lettuce from my helmet, rock and roll. I'm sure to fit in like a local, no problem just ease the throttle and OH MY GOD A BUS! No problem.

Wherever Brendan and I go, we make friends, we did so at two competing bars. But as I alluded, these are not your typical bars. Sure, we visited a few brick and mortar watering holes but something didn't feel right; I couldn't take the bar with me after I had my fill.

Van bar numero uno is Mark Bar. Nicely stocked, well-known, a locals place. We happened upon this vehicle by accident; the sound of hippy drums drifted down the coast and called us like the Siren's song. And the Siren is Jagermeister. We linked up with many locals, learned about what beaches to visit and why living in a city is so "not righteous, maaaan" and "totally bogus, maaaan." Just kidding, the locals did describe the rhythm of Kenting as more mellow. Mellow as in drink until dawn, go surfing, maybe work a little, and repeat kind of mellow, maaaaaan.

Mark's Bar is situated on the back of an over-sized flatbed , fully stocked with electricity and coolers. Besides wine and finer spirits, it offered everything one could need and even a few challenges. For example if you could ride a bicycle the size of a terrier inside a small hula-hoop three times, you win a free shot of tequila. Or you could fall on your face one time and buy the damn thing.

The rival across the street was Alex's Bar. In his mind, Alex is a black, Jamaican musician, touring the world spreading reggae rhythms, using an incomprehensible accent and feeling 'ire. Instead, he is a Taiwanese bartender, touring the coast spreading hangovers in a van using an incomprehensible accent. Not too far off. But he was a true gentleman and one of the friendliest people we met. The van is all reggae, all the time. His chariot decked out in rastafari colors, furniture made by hand from driftwood, homages to reggae legends, amazing music playing at all times. We were treated with true island hospitality and talked the night away over cold beer and a magic potion. The name wasn't very friendly but it included the word 'bucket' and some a combination of foul words that rhyme. Take a small, plastic beach bucket, a pint of cheap whiskey, a can of soda and an energy drink and all of a sudden this reggae club is hopping. And after another one, you'll think you're at a bar that you can drive! Excellent! But drinking and driving is NOT excellent man, drinking and scootering is way more fun. Jokes...

We sat on a beach, we swam, we ate fresh seafood, we stayed out late. We had lunch at a bistro with a French owner (Chez Papa, amazing brunch!) and the nicest wife who would happily taunt our pathetic appearances after a long night, "Oh, 1:00 lunch, early for you today." I'm going to come back; warm weather, cheap hotels, reggae music, surfers, cute girls and a whole lot of nothing. And when I'm back at Giraffe, getting poked, prodded, smacked and teased, I'll be daydreaming of that day; the feathery sand, warm breezes, refreshing ocean water, briny smells and balmy temperatures. I miss it already, maaaaaaaan.