The King Has Left the Building

Remember that time when I was bragging about how awesome we were since we hadn't been completely screwed over here.  Well the time has come for me to admit the errors of my ways.  Florent, the tom turkey of Madagascar guides, is now officially on everyone's who counts (mine and Kelly's) shit list.  Car luck was just never on his side.  The latest saga entailed a smoking engine filling the car with a dense cloud, Florent completely trying play off this as normal all the while sticking his head out the window to see/breathe.  Since Florent was apparently going to ignore this until the car incinerated, Kelly had to be the responsible party and break the ice by asking if there was "something wrong with the engine".  In which his reply was "No, of course not, but if the smoke bothers you, you can roll down your window".  Oh really?  As it turns out, if you keep driving on a smoking engine it doesn't just go away.  Kelly and Krista now stuck on the side of the road for the 52nd time this trip.  We were so fed up that we didn't even attempt to help push the car this time (I did, however, take pictures).  Stranded on the side of a Madagascar highway, Kelly and I entertained ourselves by singing, Indian wrestling and various versions of who-can-do-this-random-activity-the-fastest.  This was all to the immense entertainment of the local Malagasy who just posted up on the side of the road for the afternoon to watch us pasty aliens do stupid human tricks.  If the Malagasy had television, we would have the number one rated reality show.  

Let me put an end to your anticipation; the car was not revived.  So a taxi bus was waved down to whisk Kelly and I off to the next destination where we would meet our mentally challenged guide within the next couple of days.  The taxi busses here are essentially a typical 15 passenger van which they are able to squeeze in 35 passengers, 20 chickens, 2 tons of lumber and a partridge in a pear tree.  I wish this were and exaggeration, but I've seen more than one taxi bus where people are literally sitting with their butts sticking out the windows because there is no other place to fit.  Kelly had a small child sleeping in her lap for the eight hour journey while another boy coughed on her neck for the entire duration.  The ride should usually only take about half the time, but there are an infinite number of road stops marshaled by various agents (police, military and other uniformed officers that may or may not be official).  With out fail, every stop included the driver bribing the various officials by slipping them a few notes.  I don't know what the bribes are for since I doubt there are laws here dictating the legal capacity or chicken limits of a taxi bus, but this has been standard on every taxi bus we've taken since.

We do indeed make it to our destination and even more surprising, fatso Florent meets us there two days later as promised.  Upon meeting him he admits that his car's engine is ruined.  I'm no mechanic, but we told you so.  Florent, being the upstanding guide he is, promises he will have another car and a new english speaking driver for us in a couple days.  We weren't holding our breath, but figured we stick around to see how this one ended.  Low and behold our new driver, Elvis (I doubt this is a traditional Malagasy name, but with the lack of television here it seems even more doubtful that his mother might have been that tuned into pop culture at his birth), shows up a couple days later with a working vehicle.  Soon after hitting the road we learn that what Florent meant by "english speaking driver" was that Elvis spoke even less english than we spoke Malagasy.  No big deal since we've essentially learned how to communicate in this country in fluent charades (side note; Kelly and I are throwing down the charades gauntlet now for our return to the states, we will take on any and all challengers, place your bets now). Shortly into the remainder of our guided tour, Elvis attempts to explain to us that rolly-poley Florent has not given him enough money for gas or the national parks scheduled on the rest of our itinerary.  A quick call to our estranged guide Florent does reveal that he in fact did not give Elvis enough money, but he promises to pay us back before we fly out of the country.  True, I was totally born yesterday. Ok, so we're getting ripped off, but we decide that won't discourage us from seeing everything that we came here to see, at least we have a driver with a working vehicle now who also has connections with park guides.  Dun dun dun.

Elvis introduces us to our would-be park guide that evening who turned out to be so overly priced it makes my wallet hurt to think about it now.  We politely explain to him that we are just two ballers on a budget and thank you, but we'll find a guide at the park in the morning.  Morning rolls around and no Elvis.  Maybe something was lost in translation and he didn't understand we still wanted to go to the park, but when Elvis fails to show up that afternoon or the next day we knew something was amiss.  Another call to Florent (oh yeah, still not done with that douche yet) and he suggests that maybe Elvis is mad at us for not accepting his guide.  Now, now children.  We insist Florent call Elvis to rectify the situation and so we can continue on the rest of our trip.  Whether accurate or not, Florent insists after multiple attempts he simply cannot get ahold of Elvis.  The King has left the building.

So, we got screwed.  At least our aforementioned taxi bus expedition prepared us to travel without the help of a guide.  After a few weeks of being here, things aren't so intimidating and we both at least feel confident enough to take on Madagascar solo.  We scheduled our taxi bus for the next day and a car even came to pick us up from our hotel to take us to the bus, which wasn't explained to us when we bought the ticket but turns out is 25km out of town.  Thank god there was a French couple at our hotel taking the same bus who were able to translate all of this for us.  True to Madagascar form, they squeeze the four of us tourists in the back seat of a minuscule car.  Somehow Kelly has to sit on my lap instead of the French gentleman taking his lady in his lap.  No matter since I was feeling sorry for the two grown Malagasy men who had to share the front passenger seat AND two other grown men that were sharing the DRIVER seat.  Clown car experts learned everything they know from the Malagasy.  This turned out to be nothing compared to our trip a few days later where they somehow Tetris-ed 27 people (we took an official head count), 3 barrels of fish and multiple chickens (we couldn't see them, but we could hear their squawking protests coming from underneath the seats) into the back of a standard-sized pick up truck.  I'm not even nervous anymore, just continually impressed.  

Oh the Things I've Seen

The last couple weeks have been full of the most amazing wildlife adventures.  With 80% of the flora and fauna here only found in Madagascar (80%!), I've seen things I'd only been able to lust over while vegging out to the Discovery Channel (which I do more often than one might like to admit).  We've taken a three day boat trip down the Tsiribihina River, gone hiking in the Ranamofana Rainforest and trekked up and down Isalo National Park.  Every part of the trip has been unmercifully beautiful and incredibly unique.

The river trip was our first chance to use those outdoors skills we acquired way back in New Zealand.  Unfortunately that training did not prepare Kelly for deficating in the woods, but I think she adapted nicely in the end.  The "boat" that was to carry four people, our big back packs, two tents, three days of food (including a live chicken), camping stove and accoutrements was the traditional Malagasy perogue.  A perogue in actuality is nothing more than a hollowed out log.  Hollowed out by hand that is.  I had no idea those were even used outside of the Museum of Natural History.  Nevertheless, the vessel was sea worthy and we were game.  Sort of.  I was more than a little nervous for the three days of paddling that lie ahead, but I figured if I didn't talk about it, it wouldn't be so bad.  Nearing departure, I finally addressed my fears with Kelly and she said, "Oh shit, I didn't think we'd be rowing at all!".  Thank god it was her premonition that turned out to be true.  Instead a lone man named Suja paddled mine, Kelly's and our guide, Jose's, asses around in the blistering heat for three days down that river.  I should also mention that at the end of our journey Suja then had to paddle the boat back up river to get back home.  Which is another SEVEN days of paddling.  Alone.  Immediately after learning this information I stopped respecting Ironman athletes.

We saw birds in every shape, color and size.  The Grey Herring is a monstrocity of the version we have back home and looks exactly like a Teradactyl or at least what I assume a Teradactyl looks like based on the CGI version in Jurrasic Park II.  Other crazy creatures included: lemurs, chameleons, lizards, snakes, crocodiles and big fucking spiders.  I tried my best to not be a total pansy over the child-sized arachnids, but the flash backs of being bitten by a Hobo Spider won over and I usually resorted to squeeling like a little girl.  Our guide was always very assuring when we asked if people were ever hurt by the crocodiles.  Only sometimes.  Whew.

So the funny/not funny part about two white girls being on the water for three days in the African sun is that it takes a lot of effort to prevent serious burning.  It is even harder since you cannot buy sunscreen here.  Anywhere.  We looked.  We asked.  We begged.  And we were laughed at.  Of course they don't use sunscreen here, nobody is light enough to even consider burning.  Luckily we were armed with half a bottle of sunscreen leftover from Thailand.  The majority of protection, however, was achieved by swaddling our bodies head to toe in sarongs and bandanas topped with some ridiculous looking hats.  We were mocked constantly by the children who resided in the villages along the river.  Giggling and yelling "Vuzza!" at us, which literally translates to white foreigner.  Guilty as charged.  Vuzza sounds like it should be a sort dish soap or maybe some new slang you might hear in gangster rap  (we're working on the second verse now).  It also sounds alarming close to "Sluzza", the Kiwi's endearing word meaning slut.  Either way; whitey, dish soap or whore, it makes you feel good inside.

We continued our National Geographic escapade down south, hitting the Ramanofana National Rainforest and Isalo National Park.  Ramanofana is teeming with multiple species of lemurs.  In one morning hike we saw Brown Lemurs, Red Belly Lemurs, Golden Bamboo Lemurs, Greater Bamboo Lemurs and Sifaka Lemurs.  And I mean we SAW them.  Like reach-out-and-touch-somebody saw them.  It was mind boggling to see these creatures so close up without the advantage of being in a zoo or having to falsely lure them with peanuts.  Lemurs are only found in Madagascar and pre-date monkeys, so go wrap your mind around that.  Kelly has been itching to see lemurs since a report she did as a gangly nine year-old in elementary school; 20 years later and we have ourselves a dream achiver ladies and gentleman.

Isalo National Park was no dissapointer either.  Vastly different from the rainforest, Isalo looks more like Colorado when we first arrived.  We had a long day of hiking over sandstone hills and into the canyon.  The dry sandstone hills would randomly give way to palm tree lined sandy river beds or a waterfall or a natural fresh water pool (which we, of course, took advantage of everytime).  We then were lucky enough to finally see the infamous Ring-Tailed Lemur.  They were one of my favorites to watch and again so special to see them up close and personal (nevermind that one came awkwardly close to pooping on me).

While Madagascar has been more difficult that usual to adapt to, the trade off is that I get to live out my fantasy as Jack Hannah; seeing and interacting with the most unique wildlife on the planet (yuck, that's almost sappy enough to put on a magnet).  Off for some more exploring.  Next; the elusive and endangered species of SPF.

Yes, those are totally bathing suits

Wheeling and Dealing

We met our guide- a Butterball shaped man named Laurent, when he approached us at Buffet de Jardin, a restaurant and local prostitute soliciting ground.  Fortunately he approached us as potential tourists, not as potential prostitutes as the Italian men had earlier.  Madagascar has yet to develop anything resembling an organized tourist industry, so arranging a two week wildlife tour outside a tour office (never mind the whore hang out) is more on the up and up than one might imagine.  Don't worry we checked his credentials and that he was properly licensed (being experts in spotting fraudulent Madagascar papers, obviously).  The exchange only started feeling like a Tijuana drug deal when we literally passed him the deposit; a two-inch stack of 1,000,000 in Madagascar currency under the table (that's only after we had to go to the bathroom to count it in a stall together - where's a camera when you need one?).  You never want to openly handle money in shady Antananarivo in the first place, but we especially didn't need the extra attention at our current hooker round up.  Contracts signed, all we could do is cross our fingers in hopes he showed up to pick us up for our wildlife adventure. 

Sketchy deal success!  He actually showed up to pick us up the next day and early!  I guess we do have a sixth sense when it comes to judging character (...maybe).  Later when his river guide asked if we were pretty, his response was that we were "not so bad".  Krista and Kelly coming out on top.  

With the sweet song of success "Chariots of Fire" running through my head, we hit the road blazing.  Half an hour later my victory song screeches to a stop when the car breaks down.  After waiting two hours for the mechanic to show up for roadside assistance, our Oompa Loompa decides that it would be best if his friend took us the rest of the way to Antsiribe where he would rendezvous with us the next day with his repaired vehicle.  It may have crossed our minds that this could be a scam and really even sounds like scams we've been warned against.  I should mention at this point we have given him the second installment of money (aka the second giant wad of cash).  But what the hell, we're already on this adventure, so let's do the damn thing.

We jump into the friend's/stranger's car and take off into the unknown (well not really, it's the only freeway around here).  Unbeknownst to us, his friend was apparently a derby driver in a past life, the G forces of the rallying requiring us to take another dose of Dramamine.  Having little to talk about due to the language barrier (and to avoid spewing on his upholstery) he cranked up the tunes.  Though the language barrier may have been wide, it was soon bridged by a Golden Gate of melodies.  Mariah Carry to the Scorpions back to Brittany Spears and all wrapped up with the ultimate dance party mix.  Forget strangers, we were soulmates.  

And how's this for shockers, not only did we make it safely but, holy shit, our bowling ball of a guide even showed up the next day with his janky, but repaired vehicle in tow.  Our getting-screwed-over instincts prevailing once again.  Only requiring a few minutes of tinkering under the hood this time and we were off to Miandrivazo, the port where we were to embark on our three day river adventure.  Compared to the over-confident and abrasive Florent, our river guide Jose (pronounced Zoo-zay... who knew) was a darling, polite man.  We were glad to ditch Florent for a few days in exchange for an overly polite Jose.  

Preparing for the filthiness only a three day camping trip under the African sun can produce, Kelly was nice enough to french braid my mane to keep it out of my soon-to-be grimy face.  Kelly longingly described how much she would love to have cornrows like most of the locals around here while I in response did not hesitate to let her know how utterly stupid I thought white people look with them.  We've all seen them- the family from Texas on vacation in Hawaii or Jamaica; the daughter, mother, dad and family dog with matching sunburns and cornrows finished with those multicolored beads.  G.R.O.S.S.  Anyway, Kelly began the process of taming my hair for our excursion.  The hotel housekeeper found Kelly and my white girl hair particularly amusing and took a break to watch the show.  Not speaking a lick of English, she eventually sidled up to Kelly and then literally bumped her out of the way to take control of my mane.  We assumed she was going show Kelly a different technique or maybe she was just tired of watching an ameture fumble over a task she'd perfected at the age of five.  After a few moments though, we realized she had an agenda of her own.  40 minutes later I had a head full of braids, which some might call cornrows.  I've never had such a visual representation of me unceremoniously eating my words.  Instant karma- a white girl bearing shame for all to see.  At least it kept my pony mane at bay and out of my face for the next few days (and to be evidenced for the rest of my life in all future river adventure pictures).  

Ok...the evidence

Oh Crap and a Lot of Other Four Letter Words I Don't Know in French

Madagascar.  I guess it's what I expected; the unexpected.  Only hitting the capital of Antananarivo this week, we have yet to embark on our wilderness jungle trek to find lemurs and other strange flora and fauna.  I'm just now getting on board the Antananarivo train.  Initially it was enough to send me into acute travelers' shock (also see; adult temper tantrums).  Even after six months of straight travel, this is so different from anything I've even come close to experiencing.  

I've gotten used to English being the second language of all the countries we've visited.  I've made a sincere attempt to learn at least some of the local language wherever we go, supplementing with sign language and my mother tongue.  Madagascar's second language after Malagasy though is French (How do you say "oh shit" in French).  We bought a phrase book, but the language barrier in addition to this being the weirdest place I've ever been is a hard adjustment.  I'm glad to say that "bon jour" and "merci" said with a shit eating grin have been going a long way though.

Even if I could speak the language there is a popsicle's chance in hell of blending in here.  In SE Asia at least we were part of (which doesn't equal proud of) a common tourist trail, running into other nomads of a similar cloth.  There is no such commonality here.  I can count on one hand the number of white people I've seen so far.  People will blatantly point, gawk and follow you around while laughing at you.  Everywhere I go people are hollering the French word for vanilla at me.  Which was off-putting and, awkwardly, slightly flattering until, after two days here, I realized they were actually trying to sell me vanilla beans.  Who's the stupid tourist?  I mean, I can't blame them, we look weird and sweaty compared to everyone else.  I just don't know how to adjust to the kind of celebrity where people are taking pictures of you buying gum.  

If that wasn't intimidation enough, there is the outstanding crime rate to deal with in the city.  The guide books warned us you could not even go out with a bag as it you are doomed for certain robbery.  Our lovely hotel host even warned us multiple times to never leave with a bag or with anything in your pockets.  Which leaves you with the only option of using one of those stomach pooch enhancing money belts that you wear under your pants.  Besides the dork factor, it's really not that bad except it looks like you are reaching into your underwear every time you have to pay the drink bill.  Other popular seedy activities include the ever present prostitution, another reason to avoid going out at night (some Italian tourists mistook us for hookers already).  Oddly enough though, the local whorehouse is quite a popular and legitimate dining establishment.  Specializing in fancy French delicacies and desserts at a bargain, we visited for some lunch and serious people watching.  My food was quite delicious and the people watching (voyerism may be more appropriate in this case) was fascinating, gross and fun all at the same time.  When the bill came, it made reaching into that money belt all the more fascinating.  Lunch at a whorehouse, now that's another first (that I know of) to put in the travel log.

We're heading out on a two week wildlife trekking adventure tomorrow.  Madagascar is not the most cutting edge when it comes to the technology that is the world wide web and I imagine the rainforest is scant on broadband.  So it is with a heavy hart that I must warn you that you may not hear from me during this stretch.  Save your tears for the whales and Lindsay Lohan, I promise I'll be back soon.  Au revoir! 

Antananarivo

Mt. Kilimanjaro from the plane!

Dear Savings Account; If You Can't Support Me Then Maybe We Shouldn't be Friends

Let me start by saying the most cliche, but accurate, thing I can think of in this situation; how time flys.  We have officially hit the half way point of our travels.  Six solid months on the road.  SE Asia has become a comfort zone; easy enough to get around, the food is familiar/delightful and the sweet coffee cart lady knows my order.  It's hard to remember it wasn't always this breezy and after a half a year of traveling we are finally headed to a place that seems a million times more foreign; Madagascar.  But I'm not scared (just REALLY scared).  In attempts to ease the new anxiety, let's review the things I was most nervous about before heading on this trip six months ago

Budgeting:  Sticking to a budget is about as mythical as a tap-dancing unicorn.  I don't even know the definition of budget anymore unless budget means to spend your money with abandon, ceasing to worry about getting home and getting on a first name basis with MasterCard.  We actually spent a lot of time researching and calculating estimated per diem expenses for every single country we would be visiting.  I even made a spreadsheet.  Typical, overly organized, annal (get your mind out of the gutter),  frugal, pre-departure Krista would have acquired a severe eye twitch if you told me I would have blown through this much money at the half way point.  The new me, however, says "To the hell with it! Who wants some Cristal?".  I don't know the next time I'll have a chance to sky dive over New Zealand, snorkel in Indonesia or commission custom made rompers in Vietnam.  "Necessity" is not the aim here and while some of my monetary decisions may not even be somewhat justifiable, it has definitely been absolutely worth it.  Just as long as someone let's me sleep on their couch when I get back.  

Homesickness:  Almost as mythical as budgeting.  Before any of you go and get your feelings hurt, let me assure you that this is absolutely true.  Sure I get nostalgic and of course I miss the accessibility of my family and friends.  Hopefully this put's this in perspective though; I'm going to Madagascar tomorrow!  I'll have visited as many countries as I am years old by the time I'm back.  I've been assaulted by monkeys, watched the Rugby World Cup live and kissed dismembered goat balls on top of lush New Zealand mountainside. Love you all, but I hardly want to come back anytime soon.  

24 Hour Buddy System:  Mine and Kelly's friendship is still intact even after spending every waking minute together for the last half year.  I sometimes imagine this might be something close to marriage only we don't get a break from each other during work or the sexual benefits.  Frankly I thought this would be a bigger challenge at this point.  Not that I ever imagined Kelly being and abrasive travel buddy, but alone time is at a serious premium.  Don't get me wrong, it's not all hair braiding and umbrella festooned mojitos either.  Just mostly.  Our occasional tiffs usually stem from some extended travel day where we've taken a taxi, to a shuttle, to a boat, to a tuk tuk, to a sleeper bus and 24 hours later we are still not at our destination.  Nobody gets the Miss Manners Award when you've been marinating in your own filth for that long.  And there is always the little problem I like to refer to as the Krista-is-always-right-factor.  This can be an issue when we are heaving overstuffed backpacks around in 100 degree heat trying to find our god damn hostel when Kelly thinks we go left and I vehemently insist (with the deepest respect) that we should go right.  Usually it's nothing a snack can't fix.  Plus, who are we to really complain when our biggest challenges include trying to find our next hammock laden bungalow in paradise.  Remember when we used to have those things called jobs?

My biggest fears being debunked, I should have no hesitations about going to Madagascar.  I'm sure we'll assimilate just as we have in every other initially uncomfortable foreign embarkment.  Yes, we will stick out like a couple porcupines at nudist colony, but we haven't exactly been incognito in our recent Asian adventures either.  I guess the only thing to worry about now is how to avoid contracting Malaria.  I hope the mosquitos have a sense of humor.

Warning: May Cause Drowsiness

It's been getting increasingly harder to write posts with any entertainment value.  My lifestyle as of late has mostly included a lot of lounging: reading, hammocking, floating in the ocean, hammocking, eating and, most importantly, hammocking.  On the eve of a new week, I voiced my concerns to Kelly and Dayna about being able to write anything remotely interesting.  Kelly suggested that I don't necessarily need to be entertaining and that I could merely reflect on my feelings for this installment.  Besides looking alike, you can tell Dayna and I are sisters based on our general state of asshole-ness.  In response to Kelly's suggestion, Dayna verbally expressed what I was struggling to suppress, "That would be BORING".  I'll try to keep my sentiments to a minimum for you.  So in attempts to spice up what the group has predicted to be a dull entry this week, I'm currently writing this naked (alright and the room has no A/C and I'm melting).  Let me know if it works.  

Let me get right to describing a typical day over the past week.  We've taken up residence on the ultra mellow island of Koh Lanta in the Andaman Sea.  After the standard two hour breakfast, leisurely swim, followed by an extended lunch we went to the "sports bar" across the street to watch some Super 15 Rugby.  My favorite.  More accurately described, the bar is simply a minuscule thatch hut equipped with several TVs and a few dusty bottles of liquor.  The place is run by a gay, pot smoking, super generous, French ex-pat.  Admittedly he is not even a huge rugby fan, but enjoys anytime he gets to see Dan Carter on TV.  His complaint during the halftime, when the coverage cuts to the locker room footage of the shirtless athletes, was that the players were not actually fully stripping down to change into new uniforms.  God bless him for paying the exorbitant subscription fees for the sports channel on a secluded island.  Exhausted from the entertainment and indulgence, we managed squeezed in an afternoon swim before dinner.  While all of this adds up to be an amazing day, it's not quite the knee slapper.  Just a day full of happiness (see, I did talk about my feelings!).

This pre-blog discussion was perhaps a slight wake up call.  For the love of blog, have we become so lazy that we are failing to take the bull by the horns?  In attempts to break the cycle of complacency, we did you all a little favor and packed in a few activities in the last 24 hours (you're welcome); Muay Thai Boxing, Kayaking and, the highlight of the day, Kelly getting herself locked in the bathroom.   

Muay Thai Boxing is about what you'd expect; a bunch of dudes beating the shit out of each other.  I find these events to be a most captivating and they frankly inspire me in a way that encourages drunk fighting.  The drunk part inspired by the arena's bucket cocktails.  Why Thailand is opposed to a simple pint glass is mind boggling.  In the end peace was managed by the little voice in the back of my head reminding me that I had to get up and go Kayaking the next day.

Despite the Thai affinity for making drinks in the same vessel you would use to construct sand castles, we made it to our Kayaking adventure.  In the blazing heat, that causes you to sweat out more alcohol than you actual consumed the night before, we hit the water.  Dayna and I smirked as we got our own Kayak and Kelly was forced to pair up with the tour leader.  Looser.  We then quickly realized that paddling is hard.  Forget the heat, forget the lingering booze, our sisterly connection apparently does not extend into the realm of synchronized paddling.  We spent most of our efforts laboriously spinning in circles with occasional breaks to ram ourselves into the shore.  The guide, who doesn't speak a lick of english, makes a point of tapping Kelly on the shoulder every time we get stuck so they can have a hearty laugh together.  By the time we actually reach our destination, I'm so exhausted that I couldn't give a flying fuck about the wild monkeys, various varieties of crabs or the mudskippers, the fish that can walk on land (it's what I imagine evolution looked like all those years ago).  In the end Dayna and I miraculously found our groove and successfully, if not almost athletically, made it back alive.  

Upon our return home for a much needed shower and a drink, Kelly found herself the victim of a Thailand bathroom.  Thus, inherently delaying the critical drink part of the plan.  So selfish.  Forgetting the bathroom doorknob in our bungalow was only half up to code (there was only a knob on one side of the door), Kelly in a crazy notion of privacy firmly shut the door to take her shower.  Freshly showered and fully naked she realized her mistake.  As hard as we pushed, jiggled and manipulated the would be handle, it was no use.  Dayna ran to the front desk to explain the predicament and solicit some help.  A funny thing trying to explain that your naked friend is trapped in the bathroom to someone who doesn't speak english.  That one didn't make it into the Thai phrasebook.  Eventually Dayna's sign language skills paid off and rescue was on the way...only they didn't know how to break her out either.  A lot more jiggling ensued before they brought in a wrench, a razor blade and what can most accurately be described as a pokey object.  After another 30 minutes it was the pokey devise that finally prevailed.  A liberated Kelly later and I finally had something to write about.  

Snakes, Snails and Elephant Tails

I have two words to summarize my life over the last couple of weeks: Island Hopping.  And this lifestyle is living up to it's stereotype; fan-fucking-tastic!  The majority of our days has been spent soaking in the glassy turquoise ocean.  The waters are almost too warm.  I don't have the audacity to suggest that this is a complaint and it is certainly not to rub it in (well, perhaps a little), it's just that the water is so warm that it doesn't quite have that refreshing effect you strive for on a scalding hot afternoon.  Luckily their are other amazing island things to do besides bathing in the ocean such as lounging in the sun or perhaps playing with some baby elephants. 

My hippie sensibilities won't actually allow me to ride the elephants due to their lack of ethical treatment, illegal poaching, forced eating, all of the bullet points on the P.E.T.A. website, the rapid decline of the elephant ratio in animal crackers, etc.  That is a soapbox rant for another time on my less entertaining blog.  This doesn't mean, however, that I won't go and pet their adorable little baby elephant trunks and giggle at their ridiculous pachyderm antics.  For christ's sake, they look like they're wearing permanent feetie pajamas.  You're just a bad person if that doesn't make you slightly giddy inside.  They don't actually even have to do much of anything and I still will coo over them like a pigeon with tourettes.  One of the babies produced a baby elephant sized bowel movement, turned around, smelled it, shook his head with dizzying disgust and I just about teared up over the pure cuteness.  Forget what state I was in when they let the little guys out for their bath and one of them escaped and ran into the nearest restaurant.  A toddler elephant in a restaurant!  Trust me, you can't imagine anything more darling then seeing the caretaker having to lure the little guy out with a bag of crackers (part of a complete herbivore breakfast). 

Speaking of morally questionable activities, we traveled to Koh Phangan this week to throw down at the ridiculous festival that is the Full Moon Party.  Ranked as one of the Top 10 Parties in the World (yes, they officially rank parties in addition to the Top 10 Natural Wonders, Ancient Wonders and Man Made Structures) the Full Moon Party is part of the prestigious list along with Brazil's Carnivale and New Orleans' Mardis Gras.  Haad Rin Beach explodes with tens of thousands of whities sporting more neon than was ever produced in the early 90s.  Some drunken beach activities include fire limbo, fire jump roping and fast paced water slides; each of which at least one of us participated in.  Dressed in our best neon and sparkles we hit the beach armored with tubes of glitter, our objective to leave Koh Phangan just a bit shinier than we found it.  Witness to inevitable drunk fights that evening, I lurked around the perimeters for the right moment to dump a sparkling vile of peace and happiness onto the confrontations .  The water slide, however, proved to be the most effective way to mass sparkle bomb the beach though.  In order to load myself into the slide properly I had to have Kelly fill both my fists full of sparkles before launching myself into the abyss.  As I flew through the air, the surrounding crowd on both sides got a flash flood of twinkle and shine.  My glitter bombing skills are notorious in many countries, but even I must toot my preverbal horn here and say this was some of my best work yet.

As it turns out, Kelly and I have different strengths when it comes to these drunk-tivities.  I may be the glitter queen, but Kelly is the fire goddess, braving the fire limbo AND fire jump rope.  She even made it out relatively unscathed with only a couple minor burns.  Turns out jumping is much harder in the sand when compared to solid ground (and sobriety).  Later that week when we were getting tattoos (is this a passive agressive enough way to tell my mom I got another tattoo?) the tattoo artist told us the locals actually refer to those Full Moon injuries as the real Koh Phangan tattoos.  The day after the party an outstanding number of tourists were liberally bandaged from burns accrued from the previously mentioned activities, cut feet from broken beer bottles and nasty road rashes from motor bike skid outs.  My favorite siting being the guy who's entire left side of his body was heavily wrapped in gauze.  I'm talking his head, arm, chest, legs and even his toes were bandaged from an apparent motor bike incident.  He was spotted astride a motorbike, mummified up to his noggin and yet, he still chose to ride sans helmet.  I wish I knew what kind of grudge he was holding against his brain.  At least I paid a professional for my injuries.