To be honest, there’s not too many times I’ve gone off the beaten path as a backpacker. There was almost always a travelers’ hostel, with other Americans or Europeans wandering around. But one of the few times that there wasn’t was at Tai Shan, Mount Tai, in eastern China.
The amazing thing about Mount Tai is that it’s a very popular tourist destination among mainland Chinese. It’s said that every emperor had to climb the mountain to assert his legitimacy; it’s also a UNESCO World Heritage Site. But I spotted only two other people of European descent during my time there.
I was staying in a hotel in town (this being China, the “town” has a population of 5.5 million people) that I had booked through the wonderfully useful English-language site Ctrip. Anywhere I went, I attracted some attention; a few cars honked and waved hello at me; and climbing up the mountain, a few groups of students asked for pictures with me — you can see them in my gallery. For many of them, this was already a special trip: meeting me was part of that.
All of that was a pleasant surprise. But I wasn’t expecting what happened next. Right down the street from my hotel was a night street market, one that sold everything from toilet paper to squid on a stick. I knew, of course, that I had to go there. One of the family-run stands had a younger member who wanted to try out his English, and soon they had called up a few other people who wanted to practice as well. We talked a little bit, but I was surprised to find out what they really wanted: a look at some American money.
I ran back to the hotel and picked up examples of everything I had: $50, $20, $10, $5, and a few $1 bills, then some quarters. Spread them out on a table, where a few folks just seemed really happy to be able to hold and flip through them. I wasn’t afraid, of course, that the few hundred dollars on the table would disappear; China is very safe, and these are ordinary businesspeople. And they were interested in the portraits: Washington and Lincoln, they had heard of; Jackson, not so much.
But then came the most remarkable request: two people wanted to buy dollar bills off of me to keep. And, so, I sold two of my dollar bills to street vendors in a market in a Chinese city: a fine reversal of the usual order.
There’s probably a lesson to be drawn out from this story, something about the importance of perception to the value of money and the dollar’s place as a supposedly stable currency; or perhaps how this shows that fiat currency can have as much value as silver or gold, but I don’t feel like going into it. All I know is that sometimes it’s amazing to see the power of an idea.
It’s an odd feeling, spending July 4th outside the US.
Last year, I was in Bangkok, taking things slowly, quietly recovering from my encounter with dengue fever a month previous, and decided to head out to the big expat celebration that the American Chamber of Commerce sponsors there. Thailand, of course, has a sizable American population, and here I was suddenly at home. I was assured that the hot dogs were authentic mystery meat, the cheeseburgers were on the grill, and the beer was Sam Adams or Budweiser. Some middle-aged guys were playing classic rock covers up on stage, and the VFW was selling apple pie.
Not far from everyones’ minds were the recent redshirt protests. I had visited the protest camp in early May 2010, and found it more like an enormous outdoor music festival than anything else. During the month I was gone from Thailand, things had gotten more violent, and I returned to find the burnt husk of the Central World shopping mall, where I had watched Up in the Air just a few weeks previous. It seemed now as if a limit had been reached, a tacit understanding between the opposing sides made, and future elections certain.
What struck me about the Thai protests was that, unlike some other countries I had visited, there was the sense that this was part of a process, one that culminated this week in elections that were won by the Thai opposition. Yes, the country still has enormous problems — but there’s a sense of ownership. I was reminded of the extremely tight American elections of 2000 or 2004: the system, the society, survives through compromise and acquiescence. The US ambassador to Thailand made a little speech which alluded to “shared democratic values” between Thailand and America, and despite the eighteen military coups in eighty years and the lèse majesté laws, I do think that’s true, because the Thai people expect to be able to protest without fear in their own streets and take a role in their political process. There’s many places where people simply do not expect or demand that of their government and their peers.
This year, I find myself living in the United States again. The American independence day message is perhaps uniquely evangelical and ecumenical: the Declaration of Independence begins with a dissertation on universal principles about the rights of Man, freedom, and so on. These are not uniquely American values, or ones that America does best in every way, but they are at the core of the national narrative.
As I listen to fireworks go off in the distance, I’m reminded that they’re not going off in Tokyo, or Bangkok, or London. I didn’t realize until I celebrated the Fourth outside of America that it’s also a holiday free of idealism, and full of arbitrary national pride in things like hot dogs or classic rock. But I’m proud to live in a country that aspires to those universal ideals, not just for Americans, or for Thais, but for everyone.
Anywhere there’s a lot of foreign tourists and local unemployment, you’ll find them: local people who seem smart and speak English, yet inexplicably have nothing better to do than talk to you.
I hate to paint with a broad brush, because in every country, most of the time, I’ve also had fantastic experiences with locals who legitimately want to talk to you, practice their English, or make some foreign friends. But it’s important to always stay aware of your surroundings, and remember that context is crucial. The stories below — my own and others’ — are illustrative of the precautions you should take, especially in tourist hubs.
Argentina and Italy: Mustard Attack
This blog post is what reminded me to write about common scams. This one is straightforward: in a public area, one person distracts you by spilling some kind of liquid on your clothes; a second confederate pushily offers to help clean it off, while a third takes advantage of the distraction to steal your loose bags. In addition to this report from Rome (incidentally, the only city where a pickpocket tried to steal my wallet, unsurprisingly on bus 64 ), I have also heard of this happening in Buenos Aires. Both cities have a reputation for lax police forces and high unemployment, not to mention hordes of oblivious tourists.
The lessons outlined in that blog post are good: if you’re attacked, get away from the team, stay in a public space, and never let go of your bags. As a rule, when I have my backpack on, I try to keep my back to the wall whenever I’m not moving.
Thailand: A Better Bus
This isn’t a complete scam, more of an annoyance. There’s lots of scams in Thailand, especially around Bangkok. But, in this case, you will get at least some of what you’re promised.
Basically, a lot of local transport in Thailand is accomplished through songthaews, which are somewhere in between a shared taxi and a regular bus route. They’re pretty convenient, if horrifically unsafe (and generally run by local mafias that shut out any improvements in transport infrastructure). There’s often an overabundance of drivers, and they get paid a set rate — often posted on the taxi. This is again, pretty convenient and nice.
The problem comes when the drivers want to make some extra money. For instance, I was riding from the city of Trat to the ferry port on my way to the island of Ko Chang. The official ferry ticket office — with the cheapest ticket prices and no fake tickets — is at the port. However, my songthaew driver felt the need to top twice on the way to tell me and a French expat also riding (who thankfully was a local, and would argue with him) that “you buy your ferry ticket here.” After telling him “no” twice, we finally arrived at the port, where three more ticket agents were waiting to intercept us. The Frenchman practically sprinted to the official ticket office, running a gauntlet of a few more ticket-sellers, and I followed right behind him.
Likewise, coming back from Ko Chang, there’s several different ferries, but only one of them is a safe, new ship. I knew for a fact that my ferry terminal was the last stop on the songthaew route. On the stop before, a woman was allowed to hop on board and try to sell us a package ferry ticket — on the old, dangerous ferry — that would connect to an “air conditioned VIP” bus on the mainland to take us to Bangkok.
Now, I had done my research, and I knew from many warnings in the Lonely Planet that this “VIP” bus was probably a van with no air-conditioning that would leave when it was full, not when the ferry got to the dock. The driver would likely drive extremely dangerously as well. I also knew from the Lonely Planet that there was a Thai government-run coach bus waiting to depart from the good ferry port as soon as I arrived there. The Thai government bus company runs fantastic buses, with ridiculous air conditioning, toilets, and even a “flight attendant,” for basically the same price as these “VIP” buses. So, after telling the woman “no” five times, the songthaew driver gave up and we went onward to the ferry port. The group of backpackers traveling with me in the truck, however, had not done their research and got off with the woman. They probably got back to Bangkok in the end, but they weren’t half as comfortable as I was and ended up spending more money. The moral of the story is to do your research. Most parts of Thailand are extremely well-traveled now, and the Lonely Planet knows what it’s talking about. The Thai government knows that tourism is an important source of revenue, and makes efforts to make tourists’ lives easier: take advantage of them. And remember that the drivers aren’t honest, but they aren’t dishonest either; they operate within a set of rules that isn’t immediately obvious — their prices are fixed, but the bosses turn a blind eye to this kind of revenue-raising.
Beijing’s Art Students
This is another scam that I’ve encountered myself. It’s annoying, to say the least. If you’re visiting a major tourist destination in Beijing, especially the Forbidden City, young Chinese will introduce themselves to you as “art students,” perhaps flashing some sort of ID card that you can’t read in an attempt to gain trust. They will say that there is a “special exhibition” happening today, and they would really like it if some foreign visitors came and viewed their art. Needless to say, if you go with them, you will be pressured into buying overpriced pieces of knockoff art; they will make it uncomfortable for you to leave without buying something.
Because the Forbidden City is quite expensive to enter, I suspect that they have some sort of corrupt bargain to get in — and the fact that they’re inside the walls gives them an air of legitimacy. However, I do not know where the “special” art shows are, only that this scam happens constantly enough to merit mention in the Lonely Planet, along with a related scam where attractive young women convince foreign men to come observe tea ceremonies; after the ceremony is over, bouncers make it clear that the men cannot leave until they pay hundreds of dollars for the ceremony. This, in a country where magnificent banquets can be had for tens of dollars at the most.
I must emphasize, however, that these scams are limited to a few areas with many tourists. Outside of Beijing and Shanghai, I had nothing but good experiences with the many young Chinese people who wanted to say hello or practice their English. Likewise with other countries.
However, the best thing to do is continue moving until you’re fairly certain of someone’s intentions. Once you’ve stopped walking, you have committed to a conversation, and it will be much more difficult to get out. Once you’ve stopped walking, you’re exposing yourself to bag theft as well.
Trapped in Italy
Here’s one scam that hit close to the heart. I was in a train station in northern Italy when a man with a backpack asked, “Excuse me, do you speak English?” He was clearly not a native speaker, but I wasn’t sure where he was from. He flashed a computer printout at me, saying that it was his train ticket and he had missed his train. He had no money (I forget why, perhaps pickpocketed?) and was trying to raise enough money to get to his destination, where his friend was waiting. When I said “no,” he got more angry and abusive, at which point I moved to a different part of the station. Leaving to catch my train some time later, I spotted him making the same pitch to some other travelers.
Under ordinary circumstances, I might have been willing to toss a Euro his way. All travelers survive on the kindness of strangers — and who knows, the story was superficially plausible. But I couldn’t get to my wallet and get out a coin without giving him ample time to grab it all and run. With my heavy backpack, I never would be able to catch him. The experience made me consider keeping a few loose Euro coins in my pocket.
More importantly, though, I had to be cautious that he didn’t have any confederates working with him. During our conversation, I made sure to keep my back (and my backpack zippers) close to the wall, so that no-one could sneak up behind me. As with the mustard bandits above, this is a real concern. I also knew when to walk away.
That Guy from Your Tunisian Hotel
I have to end with a blindingly stupid line that I encountered several times in Tunisia. In a way, it led to the one time I was robbed while traveling — a story for another time.
On this occasion, though, I had just spent a few days living aboard an acquaintance’s sailboat that was docked in Monastir’s harbor. I was walking through the old city center on my way to the train station; the train would take me to Tunis and, shortly, to the UK. A man about my age called out to me in English.
He asked, “do you remember me?”
Well, no, I didn’t.
“I worked at your hotel. Remember, I was one of the waiters?”
“Well,” I said, knowing full well that I hadn’t been in a hotel in four days, “which hotel was this?”
“Which hotel do you stay at?”
“Good-bye.”
Lucky for me, I was in fact going to the train station, and I didn’t have to invent any destination when he asked where I was going, suggesting that we should hang out. And that’s the most transparent con that I’ve come across in all my travels; it’s so transparent that I wonder whether they expect it to work. On the other hand, Monastir was the same city where some bored youths called out to me from the opposite side of the street, “Hey, American! Give me some money!” (Maybe if they spent their time finding or making work… well, with the Tunisian revolution that has since happened, maybe there will be more job opportunities for youth).
In any case, it’s better than being mugged. But it’s still annoying. The root causes that put scammers on the street are many — good education combined with high unemployment, uninterested law enforcement, and the less cohesive communities inherent in large urban areas (as opposed to rural villages and small towns) would seem to make up much of the combination. But the fact is that the scams pay well enough to keep the scammers in business — so stay smart, and don’t give them any business!
Recently, an old university acquaintance of mine posted a set of pictures from his round-the-world trip to Facebook. The very first one caught my eye — it was a thatched-roof hut restaurant like you’d see anywhere in the tropics, but this one looked familiar. Sure enough, it was the Topi Inn, in the small village of Padang Bai, Bali, Indonesia. I got my advanced open water SCUBA certification there last year.
It’s a strange feeling to see someone else you know, so far away from home. It’s a stark reminder that your ideas of place are closely tied to time. In my mind, Padang Bai exists for about a week during early 2010; it’s connected to the chaos of south Bali by a dusty highway half under construction, left in flux by Indonesia’s hopeless corruption: but it will be finished someday. There’s a man there who hangs around the town’s only ATM, which won’t work with international cards, hoping that some tourist will pay him for a motorbike ride to the next town over for cash. Maybe his job has been made obsolete by now. I was renting a room in Kerobokan from an Australian woman, who pointedly warned me not to eat anywhere but the Topi Inn while visiting Padang Bai — she was right.
But, mostly, it makes you remember that you are simply one component in a well-established trail. This isn’t anything new; for upper-class young men of the seventeenth, eighteenth, and nineteenth centuries, making the Grand Tour of Europe was nearly obligatory. Likewise, I’m from a group of people — marketers would say a demographic — young, unsettled, with the means to make a trip like this happen and the desire to do it.
So, why the slight hurt when I see someone else in my thatched hut? Perhaps it’s nostalgia: I wouldn’t mind being back there right now. Maybe it’s that hit to the traveler’s overinflated ego, romantically imagining that they are discovering each new place, when in fact that act of discovery is merely personal. But realizing that, seeing the patterns of the floating society of travelers and your own individual place in it, is one of the gifts of backpacking. That you’re one of many to have that experience should only make it more special. (And, personally, I’m not the sort of person who traveled to get away from the world per se; witness my ability to get on the Internet anywhere).
Although there’s another reason for travel: to get away from the people and life that you know, and the memories bound up in those people. To see those two worlds come together is a jarring experience.
(Above: I found an astonishingly beautiful beach, completely deserted, in New Zealand.)
One of my favorite novels is Cory Doctorow’s Down and Out in the Magic Kingdom (readable for free on his website), which deals with the problem of authenticity in a world of infinite abundance. We don’t have infinite lifespans yet, or infinite resources, money, and time — but it’s an excess of those things that let me travel around the world. In a world where you have an infinite supply of time and resource to pursue your passions, where is something real? His protagonist fights to keep Disney World’s Haunted Mansion from being subsumed within new virtual-reality exhibits, because they can only exist right there, in Orlando, while something virtual is accessible from around the world. Just because it’s old, or well-known, doesn’t take away from it at all. And that’s what traveling is about, ultimately, just as it has been since the days of the Grand Tour: personal discovery of the continuing importance of place.
Admittedly, I’m biased here. I landed in Malaysia pretty early on in my round-the-world trip, coming off a marathon month in which I’d climbed Mt. Fuji, gone by rail from Shanghai to Beijing, and spent most of a week in North Korea. By the time I arrived at Singapore’s wonderful airport, I was ready for a few weeks of vacation time.
And what better place? Singapore, of course, is easy to get around, one of the world’s great food destinations, and is largely English-speaking. Getting into Malaysia, I spent time on the west coast — Melaka and the Cameron Highlands are highly recommended — before finding out about the backpacker paradise of the Perhentian Islands.
Transport is extremely cheap in Malaysia, although bus drivers in particular are known for driving extremely recklessly. Communication is generally not an issue, and Malaysia uses the Roman alphabet to represent Malay. A few vans and a speedboat ride later, I was in the Perhentians.
The islands are extremely small, especially the more backpacker-focused Kecil island. It’s possible to see most of the accommodation within an hour or two. Asking around at the more established dive shops, I found the absolutely fantastic Turtle Bay Divers on Kecil’s Long Beach. They were very concerned with teaching the right way to do things on the way to certification. And my class was only four people. I’ve heard that the popular destinations in Thailand will often have dozens or hundreds of people at the same dive site: there’s not even that many people on the islands here! And the diving is excellent, even when just practicing in the shallows. More importantly, Turtle Bay Divers is the only dive company (as of 2009) that will not charge you a few percent extra for paying with a credit card.
The atmosphere is very relaxed, and prices are excellent, with huts starting for under $5. The conservative local government discourages alcohol (technically, bans it entirely, but it’s generally possible to find a guy on the beach with a cooler full of beer to sell), which means this is not a heavy partying destination. I was exhausted by the very full days Turtle Bay provided for the duration of the PADI course. Much of the accommodation on the island only has electricity from about 7 in the evening to 7 in the morning; really, the only times you need it.
My concern in even mentioning the islands is that they can’t handle much more tourist development than they already have. There’s essentially no infrastructure to deal with human waste, and given the omnipresent fresh seafood, it’s unclear whether Malaysia is enforcing the area’s marine park status stringently. The speedboats that move tourists from beach to beach often speed recklessly into shallow water; it’s a wonder that swimmers seem to have been mostly safe. Not to mention that the islands are a turtle hatching ground: locals and tourists alike realize how important this is. I love the fact that there are places in this world where luxury accommodation hasn’t taken over — this place has all you really need — and I hope that its remoteness helps keep it relatively undeveloped for time yet to come.
