News From The Front

Convenient, but the data roaming fees are a bitch

Aaaah life on the road! Now partnered up with my good buddy and famous singer songwriter Shwa, I have a renewed sense of travel lust and adventure. Finally around another English speaker with a twisted sense of humor and little to no sense of propriety, the jokes and the Tiger beer have flown freely. Amazingly though, I've had almost no contact with internets capable technology in like a week.  And you know what? I haven't missed it.

Sure, my fantasy football team tanked in the finals, resulting in another year of bragging rights for my d-bag friends who beat me in fake sports. And of course, I've failed miserably to keep in touch with my brother Mike who along with his wifey wife Anna recently gave birth to my newly circumcised nephew Noah. But worst of all I've forsaken you, my darling blog followers.

For this I feel great shame...but to be totally honest I really don't miss feeling constantly connected. I tossed the b-berry when I crapped all over my career and left Big Law, and as a money saving measure I put my iPhone contract on hold whilst in Asia. This leaves me with zero in terms of mobile access points. Since I left the desk a week or so ago, without actively seeking out an internet cafe I'm flying without a net out here. You guys, it's totally awesome. At first I missed being able to check on HuffPo every thirteen minutes to see my favorite pop politics goings-on and I was a bit salty about missing football for the last two weeks, but the country is still in free fall and the Jets still blow even without me keeping my watchful Firefox vigil.

There are some drawbacks though. Productivity is waaaaay down. Like zero. Basically the most constructive thing I've done in the past seven days was flirt awkwardly with four American school teachers working in Korea, and to be entirely fair Shwa actually did most of the heavy lifting to set me up the whole time. Since I really don't know when I'll be forcing myself to set aside the twenty minutes of sobriety and focus to get another post up in the next few days, I'd at least like to wish everyone a slightly belated merry xmas and a slightly premature happy new years! For all of you still tied to a desk or at least somewhat engaged in reality (unlike myself), do yourself a favor and shut off your phones for your annular booze fest. Toss your blackberries onto the yule log and stand the f back, cause those fumes, much like work/life balance, is sure to be toxic. Even if it's only for 12 hours or so, I hope you all get to chill chill like I have been for the past few days.

Season Two!

You guys, for reals, can you believe it? By the time you read this, I will be heading to the airport and jetting out from Sri Lanka. Unbelievably, I've survived the first leg of my journey through the zaniness of South Asia. There have been some highlights - I know I'll never forget the food. Oh my lord do I love the food. There have been some low lights - from rat attacks to crushing loneliness. But I set out to change my life by leaving behind the corporate world and getting some human rights advocacy experience, all while throwing myself into the wild wild East and sobering up if at all possible.

So far, so good.

But fear not, friends and loved ones who I've guilted into reading along! The adventure continues! In fact, if anything, I'll be upping the ante to keep your attentions focused squarely on my ugly mug. This of this like Season Two of Dear Lonely Planet...you get to follow the characters you've come to know and love as they get themselves involved with increasingly less believable scenarios, plot twists and love triangles. The parties will be wilder (by definition, because there were no parties in Sri Lanka)! The awkwardness will be heightened (as I try to order lactose free food in broken French)! And we're even going to have some famous guest appearances!

That's right, my good friend and winner of American University's 24-hour film festival 2003, Joshua "Shwa" Losben has joined me to rock the rest of Asia in style! After eating our way through the serendib isle, Shwa and I will be dropping tires in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia and adventuring for two straight weeks. Look forward to updates from the road as two uppity New York Hebrews spend Christmas in a predominantly Muslim country, trek through the jungle with our Cannon powershots and show off our sweet sweet abdominals on the beaches of Langkawai. There's gonna be laughs, probably some tears and no shortage of cheap arrack.

And if I have any say in the matter, I'll try to make sure there's a rat in my next apartment. Wouldn't want to get too lonely out Europe way.

Beyond Here, There Be Dragons

Whaddya mean there's no wi-fi?

Venturing outside of your comfort zone can be scary. Venturing outside of your comfort zone and into a war zone, however, can be slightly scarier. Even I'm not quite so dedicated to adventuring as to wander into an active military presence, so instead I opted for a passive one during last weekend's trip to Sri Lanka's Northern Province.

After a troublesome six or so attempts to get the necessary travel documents in order, I took a quick hop skip and jump (over land mines and flood areas) to Tamil country to check out what was going on up there. I had been suuuuper excited about this trip for the past few weeks and couldn't wait to get rolling. In my mind, I had painted the area to be a completely distraught bombed out distress zone with an entirely divergent culture and population from the rest of the island.

I was, quite pleasantly, proven to be completely wrong in my assumptions. While its true that the areas up top there are dotted by a relatively constant military presence and some destroyed remnants of buildings and headless statues, stolid reminders of the thirty year civil war that ravaged this rain-soaked region, the people were incredibly friendly and welcoming. What's more, they were incredibly Sri Lankan. My fears of danger were allayed right quick and replaced with the usual travel woes of intermittent internet and insanely slow lunch service. Once it arrived, the food was stellar as always and the service unbelievably congenial. Thanks to its out of the way location, the area was even free of touts and grifters and my movement was entirely unhindered by scams for a change.

The Indian businessman I spoke to briefly while waiting for the return trip to the airport this morning said that in his opinion, two more years of development were needed to turn the area into a viable tourist and business location. In my opinion though there's no reason to wait...yes it's a little unnerving to have 15 machine guns pointed in your general direction at every street corner, but it was incredible to see a town so recently recovered from violence and slowly rebuilding.

And it's not everyday you get to watch a cow wander through a mine field.

There Are No Words...

Jeez Eric, even the caption department thinks this is too esoteric...

Before departing the home front for my new life in Sri Lanka, I spent a bit of time boning up on the local lingo in the hopes of making a smoother transition to life in the Indian Ocean. For a mere $19.99, I was able to purchase a Learn Sinhala! DVD, the only one of its kind on Amazon, and I got down to business. After just a few shorts weeks of rigorous study, I had learned nothing.

Such ignorance continues to this day. I've been here for over two months and I think I can say maybe four words in the native tongue. I of course blame this almost entirely on the unmitigated disaster that was the Learn Sinhala! DVD (you're better off just stringing together random syllables) and to a much smaller degree upon my incredible inability to hear things properly. When I lived in Peru, I had a bear of a time understanding the Spanish despite years of training. Hell I couldn't even understand the English when I lived in London. Add in the fact that the alphabet and grammar here are entirely distinct from my Western sensibilities and you have yourself one lost little human rights attorney.

So it doesn't surprise me when waiters laugh at my feeble attempts at pleases and thank yous. No, what bothers me way more is that they can't even decipher the few English words we speak in common. And I don't mean "specious" or "verisimilitude". I mean "fish" and "hello".

This problem has plagued me since my earliest travels...something about my accent makes it impossible for people to know what the hell I'm talking about. Just the other day, I hopped a tuk tuk to enjoy a nice xmas drink on the Mount Lavinia Hotel veranda in the blustery 80 degree chill and said to the driver, "Mount Lavinia". He stared. Ok, I'll use a little accent. "MohntLaveeneya". The stare continued. This went on through six more iterations of the same interaction until finally he said, "Ooooh, MohntLaveeneya!" Odd...sounded just like what I said. "800 is ok," I inquired, remembering always to negotiate before starting the puttering engine. He looked appalled and glared at me, jaw agape. What anger! It took about four more iterations of exchange to realize he thought I said 300, which of course everyone knows sounds just like 800.

Look, I get it, I sound like an obnoxious New Yorker no matter how hard I try to hide it. My trashy Long Island accent once led an otherwise amicable ex-girlfriend to remark that it made me "sound like a fucking animal." Fair enough, I suppose. But I'm trying here people...and it's just not working.

Can't Fight The Skeeters

"The best blood will at some point get into a fool or a mosquito."

Austin O'Malley

Mosquitoes crave the blood of Hebrews. There's no denying this fact. Something about our delicious Semitic spiciness converts our veins into insect ambrosia. And I, my friends, have become a kosher buffet.

My battle with the winged residents that replicate faster than I can swat them into oblivion has been hard fought, with gains measured in inches, not miles. At first my bedroom was straight up skeeter territory, owing mostly to the proximity of the open well we have in the downstairs office area of my house. This is a standard Sri Lankan design style, reminiscent of a time when water was drawn from your own personal well dug deep into the foundation of your home. Along with the life-providing dihydrogen oxide, however, it also happens to be a well-populated mosquito breeding ground.

I'm running out of places to hide. When I take a shower they're there, having flown in through the window. When I go to the bathroom, I live in constant fear that my precious man parts will be laid to waste by their insatiable blood lust. But worst of all, when I sleep...oh heaven save me when I sleep...with my defenses relaxed, the little buggers go to town. My face is more ripped up than that of a 14-year-old proactiv addict. 

Now I know what you're going to say - get a net, dumbass. And you're probably right, I should've gotten a net, but frankly I finally got the mosquito problem under control until just recently. With a daily regimen of DEET-to-doorway application and hermetically sealing the clean air in my room, I was able to trap the beautiful air conditioned environment as was...with the minimally invasive side effect of two months of man smell being stuck in here too. It's ok though, I don't ever entertain so whatevs.

My first application was treacherous. As I sprayed the bug-b-gone up on the top the door jam, I smiled expectantly, ready to see the fruits of my labors in action. Of course, I forgot that gravity still works in Sri Lanka and I got a face full of 30%-by-volume poison mist in my eyes and mouth. This stung my mucous membranes as much as my pride, but it worked like a charm for a while. Now the mosquitoes are back in force, and I think the dog dragged in some kind of man-eating aphids that have begun swarming my desk area and generally bothering the hell out of me.

The good news is that I'm dealing with the clouds of biting death way better than I usually do. Maybe I can get out of this being a bit more resistant to skeeter attack. And besides, it's not like this is a malaria or a dengue zone or anything.

Wait, it is a dengue zone? Well crap.

Your Money's No Good Here

Easiest way to remember that your pin code is 1 - 1

At one time, ATMs were magical devices that helped rich people stop having to go to the drive-through at their local S&L every time they needed more money for lithium to cope with the markets crashing. They inspired magical commercials of well-dressed white travelers in far away lands without a hope of rescue finding their path home with the help of the local children, dragging the white folk to a machine that they themselves could not access because they had no funds. Access, ability and fortune at your finger tips.  In theory, anyways.

Sri Lankan ATMs apparently don't want me to get any of my filthy Western money into their streams of commerce. When I first got to town, I picked up some cash at the airport by changing over US dollars, so I was able to survive for a few weeks without hitting the cash machine. After blowing most of my stash on roti and Sprite, I finally trekked down the road to the local Nation's Trust Bank outlet to stock up. I was inspired by the Trust in the name and though to myself, "what an easy experience this will be. I am assured to have it all go well and there shall not be bumps in the road."

I responded swiftly when the machine suggested I insert my card into it, and just as swiftly it spat the card back out. "Cannot complete transaction." Being a bit of a dimwit I tried it again, only to receive the same response. Curious.

So down the street I went, trying to find another ATM to get my much-needed roti money. This time the card went into the machine, and I was able to execute all the proper actions to produce cash. I heard the machines shuffling my paper, and then it emitted a beeping noise that aroused in me what I shall describe as "sheer terror." ATMs didn't make noises like this, to my knowledge. Dying water fowl perhaps, but not ATMs. My card was spat back out and the entire screen went dark save a "transaction cannot be completed" message flashing in green on the black canvas.

Curious indeed. Undeterred but confidence shaken I continued down the road yet further and after a panicked 10 minute stroll I encountered another ATM. This time braced for rejection with fingers crossed, I basically closed my eyes and prayed as I asked the bank gods for my own money. Apparently that goat I sacrificed outside the vault reached the heavens and my roti funds were delivered in full. I was still a bit shaken up from the experience, but at least I had the ability to buy a snack. Rupee-rupee bills yaaaall!

This is a pretty common phenomenon around Sri Lanka. Recently on my trip to Kandy, I actually visited 6 banks before finding an ATM that would accept my card, each time concerned that my bank had shut me off like an angry parent taking away my allowance because I forgot to take the trash out. Or didn't want to. Or lit it on fire, whatever, I don't remember why I lost my allowance, ok? The good news is I've steeled myself to the let down now and I don't fear that I'll be stuck here without any means of getting home. I do however fear that in the short term, I won't have roti money. And that my friends would be unacceptable.

These Abs Don't Crunch Themselves, Ya Know

"A bear, however hard he tries, grows tubby without exercise."

~ A.A. Milne ~

When people think about me, two words come to mind: godlike physique. My whole life people have stopped me on the street and said stuff like, "excuse me sir, do you need the name of a good veterinarian? Cause those pythons are sick." I jointly put exercise and clean living atop my to do list and I never miss the opportunity to keep my body at peak operational capacity.

Oh wait a minute, no I don't. My body is less like a temple and more a thatched lean-to, held up by shoelaces, leftover chewing gum and sheer willpower. The fact that I'm still breathing is nothing short of a miracle. So when I left the sinful excesses of Gotham a few months back, I figured it would be a perfect opportunity to reinvent myself with some of that aforementioned exercise and clean living. After all, the nightlife of Sri Lanka hardly rivals that of my East Village haunt.

As it turns out, my friends, you can't simply stop drinking whiskey and pray for the best. Everyone reassured me, "oh sure, it's boring there but you're going to lose so much weight! If you aren't going out and drinking you're going to get so skinny!" I was convinced that by avoiding Makers and rocks I would end up looking like a short, white D'Angelo.

In a way though, my wish came true. After a month of almost no booze and extremely controlled eating, I did indeed look like a short, white D'Angelo - so I figured I should introduce some actual working out into the mix. The roads around here are ridiculously unsafe to jog on, unless you like dodging out-of-control buses and being chased by stray dogs, of course. And much to my chagrin, there isn't a Gold's Gym anywhere nearby, so I turned to yoga. What could be easier? I got a yoga mat and a sweet yoga dvd. I was geared up for fitness.

I popped in the dvd and made it through about two poses, delivered at lightning-fast progression despite me selecting the beginner setting, and then something in my hamstring starting tingling. I leaned down to check on it and bumped into my bed, thus disturbing the delicate "sun salutation" balance I was already struggling to maintain, and I took a swan-position nosedive into my less than cushy yoga mat. I quit yoga that very instant. Quickly remembering my talents as a researcher, I spent the next few exercise-free days on the webosphere looking for good workouts to do in the comfort of my own room. At last, success - a quick 20 minute stretch-and-situps combo that I deigned worthy of my time.

Sure, it's super low impact, but it beats not doing anything. I might've been a little impatient in demanding that seven years of gluttonous over-indulgence be erased by four weeks of sobriety and curry, but after month two here I'm starting to feel a bit better off. Minus the brief freak-out I had when my coworker called me "fat" two days ago, I'm holding up pretty well. Since I've remained in strict compliance with my three-roti-per-day-diet, I am going to go ahead and assume it was just a language barrier issue there.

Hopelessly Devoted

At least I didn't get a wedgie this time

"Table for two, sir?"

I contemplated my answer. Do I give the hostess the satisfaction of knowing I'll be dining alone again this evening? Maybe I can come up with an extremely elaborate lie about a wife or girlfriend that's up in the room of the hotel where I'm dinnering, then she'll leave me alone.

"Actually, my...," but I took pause. Then I'd have to lie about what room I was staying in. This was far too complicated considering I was already about three deep. "Actually, I'll be dining alone tonight."

Before my trip to Sri Lanka, those words scared the living hell out of me. They conjure up memories of not being able to sit at the cool kids table or getting picked last for kickball. Neither of those things happened to me, I swear, I'm just using them as examples. But I've found that traveling alone changed my perspective on little things like talking to myself, sitting without company in a park and yes, even partnerless feasting. Dining alonesies has become old hat for me by now - frankly the only people that seem to be embarrassed by it anymore are the waitstaff who pay waaaay too much attention to me in some kind of weird overcompensation for my perceived awkwardness.

Last week really tested my limits though. I've already had to suffer through countless tuk tuk drivers and UNESCO World Heritage Site guides asking me why I wasn't married. "Where's your girlfriend? You don't have one? Why not? You're here alone? Why are you alone? Do you think it's related to your fear of rejection? I think this might be rooted in something deeper, you should come visit me at Sigirya twice a week until we straighten this out." It was more of the same when I visited the lush greenscape of Nuwara Eliya a few days ago.

Home to Sri Lanka's vast tea fields, the quaint village affectionately nicknamed "Little England" (by the ruthless English colonizers who brutally carved the settlement into an unsuspecting mountainside) provides ample venues for escape from noisy city life. I picked one of the more remote hotels and marched my petooty right outa town to enjoy a drink on the veranda. I watched the sun drop slowly over the mountains while enjoying a second. Knuckle deep into pouring my third, the kindly barkeep suggested I come inside for dinner, lest I scare off the Dutch tourists milling about out front. I prepared for another evening of asking myself how my day was over a hearty repast.

But then we took it to the next level. I wasn't only eating alone at my table, I was alone in the restaurant. There was me, two waiters and the kitchen staff...and since the allure here was the open-air kitchen, even the chefs could stare at me while I supped a solo. No big deal, another Carlsburg should help steel my nerves to the...wait, is that muzak? My waiter, ever the consummate judge of what I would and would not like while eating alone, had started up the romantic keyboard covers to help set the mood. They opened with the Disney classic Beauty and the Beast. It went downhill for me from there. I kept it together for Berlin's Take my Breath Away, and I hung tough during a twinkly version of Hopelessly Devoted off the Grease soundtrack. But damn it all, they bested me when they dropped The Way We Were on me. Damn you, Barbara, damn your talented soul.

There was nothing left for me to do but resign for the night and head on home. Such evenings only prove what I already suspected, which is that I really prefer traveling with a companion. And despite me constantly inviting him along, Jack Daniels doesn't count.

Off the Wagon

The sexiest molecule on the planet

After three-plus years of clean living, I finally caved. I couldn't take it anymore...the peer pressure was too great. Everywhere I go, people are social drinking, and I want to fit in. Especially now that I'm here in Sri Lanka, it seems like there's just this incessant need to tempt me. I'm sorry, I snapped...

I'm back on caffeine.

There's only so many times you can say no to "the best tea in the world." I walk down the street and they're offering it to me in every shop window, on every corner. "Hey man, we got the hook up - you like orange pekoe fannings? Got em bro." During last week's trip to up-country near the famous tea estates around Nuwara Eliya, I took a visit to the Labookellie Tea Factory and figured since I was at the source, I might as well dip a cup into the well.

Holy hell you guys. Have you ever not had caffeine for three years and then had the tea equivalent of crack rock cocaine? I swear to you I was seeing triple. Time slowed down. Things...things made sense.

Those of you who know me might at this point ask, "Hey Eric, why of all the myriad bad habits you kept up with over the years did you ditch entirely the relatively innocuous caffeinated beverage?" First of all, shut up, I don't have that many bad habits. Second of all, it wasn't by choice. Much like my lactose intolerance and my crippling fear of clowns, caffeine found a way to make my stomach do jumping jacks. Somehow, magically though, I appear to be able to drink Ceylon tea without any negative side effects!

Well, aside from the ridiculous caffeine binge I've been on for the last three days. Do you know what my dreams have been like lately? Me neither, cause I haven't closed my eyes in 67 hours. And work productivity has shifted from a standardized clip to a stop-and-go flurry of ONoffONoffONoffONoff. The plan was to reintroduce caffeine slowly back into my life, but since they didn't teach pacing oneself at college I never learned that skill. Oh well, I guess we'll go with immersion therapy until I get the hang of this thing.

One-Man Pub Crawl: Cry For Help or Best Idea Ever?

Like this, but with 85 less people

"The problem with the world is that everyone is a few drinks behind."

Humphrey Bogart

I was about to catch the bus to the beautiful royal gardens of Peradiniya just outside of Kandy.

Then I had a beer at 11:30 am.

To be entirely fair, this whole fiasco was not instigated by me. As I walked into the hustly bustly town of Kandy from my peaceful mountain keep where I slept and stored my backpack, I grew increasingly impatient with the bus horns and the soot and the throngs of weekend shoppers going to market. Every cross walk that refused to let me pass until sixty tuk-tuks blazed through made me furious. Every ratty dog reminded me that the towns in this country tend to be like the proverbial obnoxious frat boy you didn't want at your party - loud, dirty and asking for money. But then fortune struck in the form of a wayward ship captain from Colombo who spoke beautiful English and wanted to chat.

"Would you like to join me for a cup of tea," he inquired. And before I could accept, "or perhaps even a beer?"

"Sounds great - it's five o'clock somewhere!"

His brow tweaked up a notch in a clear failure to understand my delightful Americanism. So off we walked, away from the bus station that was just finally within view and down a side street to a random unmarked bar area on the second floor of a cafe. We chatted, sharing our life stories and making a fast friendship. He showed me pictures of his other correspondence abroad and post cards from around the world. Then he graciously offered to send me some tea in the US because his family owned some land in the tea country and he wanted to share his bounty with me.

At this point, of course, I realized I was being scammed. He unsurprisingly asked me to help pay the postage now and added that in a few short weeks, I could let my darling mother know that pure Ceylon tea would arrive from a gracious benefactor in the Far East. Even knowing full well it was a rip, I gave the guy the 280 rupees he asked for, roughly $3 US, and figured maybe the universe would surprise me. I still have some faith in humanity.  

Had he asked for $5 I would've told him to go screw though - apparently I only have $3 of faith in humanity. We parted ways, him slightly richer and me slightly buzzed from our Lion Lagers. At this point I felt I deserved another drink at the famed Queens Hotel down the road, where I proceeded to accidentally order a quadruple arrack after a bumbled conversation with the bar keep. You'll note however that this roused zero complaint on my part. My fate was sealed. I was gonna bar hop through Kandy.

I produced my Rough Guide "Entertainment" section for the town of Kandy, unceremoniously ripped from the book itself and shoved loose-leaf into my cargo pocket, and contemplated my next steps. Fortune smiled upon me, friends, for there were two bars not half a block from me! I toasted to myself, and filled with good cheer and cheap arrack I stumbled forth to the next pub up the road. A few more arracks and a couple Carlsburgs later, I housed a plate of fries and a club sandwich in order to tamp down the growing buzz I realized had numbed my feet and slowed my speech.

"Chszehck plasle," I shot to the waiter. Boy oh boy, this had sure been a fun day! Bar hopping through downtown Kandy could really pass the time...or so I thought until I checked my phone. 4:30pm. It was only 4:30 pm, and I was fading fast. I raced to the nearest tuk-tuk and demanded he take me the 2 kilometers up into the treacherous mountain roads through which salvation and my hostel bedroom lay. Of course, the driver had no clue where we were going so I had to drunkenly navigate from the back seat, all the while shoving muscat and coconut powder cake into my face to silence the growling of my liquor filled tummy. Somehow my internal radar, unaffected by my liver-wrecking chicanery, brought me safely to my doorstep where I marched immediately upstairs...

And ordered another beer. Hell, it's not a real pub crawl until you make 4 actual stops, and I'm counting the hostel as me hitting par. Sure, I've had more hardcore pub crawls in the past - July 4, 2008 was a doooooozy - but this was the first time I've ever rocked a full bunny hop of drinking all by myself. In a foreign country no less! The pride in this achievement comes in yet another activity undertaken all on my lonesome with relatively acceptable results. Sure, I woke up at 11pm hungover and having missed dinner, but that's what the coconut pastry was for.

I stand by my decision.