Adventures in the South of France

There she sits obediently like a school kid in a primary classroom. Pigasse is her name.  Just like her, about 20 other, pénichettes (long flat-bottomed boats) are moored side by side in rows of four at Port Ariane in Lattes. A brisk wind would make them sway, causing them to gently nudge one another. Lattes is a small town, 3.5 km south west of Montpellier, a prominent city in the south of France. With concrete multi-storied structures built for the sole purpose of housing restaurants, spas and other businesses, Port Ariane looks rather sterile and soulless. By the time summer arrives in two months time, this place will be filled with holiday-makers. 

Piagasse at Gallician Port

Layout of Pigasse

Pigasse is about 14 meters long and 4 meters in width. There are three cabins, all with attached toilets and showers and a central salon comprising a dining area, small kitchen, for five of us to inhabit comfortably for a week. If this passage is considered “camping on water”, Pigasse is definitely more than a tent. In fact, it resembles a miniature apartment, outfitted with all basic amenities but perhaps lacking the ultimate comfort due to limited space. The Flying Bridge, the area on the roof at the stern, is not only equipped with an outside steering but also a picnic table that sits at least five. Although much of the space on the rooftop could be used as sunbathing deck, with the temperature varying from 8 to 10 degrees, I am lucky if and when I manage to get out of my jumper. 

Canal du midi is a work of Pierre Paul Riquet, the 17^th century French engineer and canal builder. A world heritage site by the UNESSCO, the canal is 240-km long and has 91 locks, which serve to raise and lower boats between stretches of water of different levels on the canals. Although some locks have lock-keepers who help with the process, many locks have gone automatic since 2012. These waterways in the south of France are also popular with tourists on self-driving pénichettes discovering historical cities such as Carcassonne, Toulouse, Beziers and Agde. As it is our first journey on a DIY boat, we have chosen an opposite, shorter route to the east, visiting small towns along the Canal du Rhône à Sète, another waterway that connects with the Canal du midi.

   
A scruffy-looking Sebastian comes on board armed with a thick folder, which contains a map book of the canals, an operation manual for the boat, emergency procedures in addition to information sheets and pamphlets of restaurants and services. The orientation begins shortly afterwards and subsequently he takes us out on a test drive around the port. My French, to be honest is not solid enough to understand Sebastian’s how-to lecture. Nor do I ever follow instructions in any language. Therefore I let the piloting business to my four other friends. They can take turns being the pilot while I happily take the task of washing dishes and pouring wine. Well, considering 20 bottles of red and white wine we picked up from the Loire valley last week, to be consumed on board (that is of course not counting the ones we would drink at restaurants) I realize I have a very busy schedule of wine pouring ahead.

   

Port Ariane is soon behind us as we slowly enter into The Canal du Rhône à Sète. Our newly appointed captain J is happily taking the wheel. A typical Mediterranean landscape with pine trees, cypresses, vines and a riot of wild flowers emerges on the left bank. Vacationers and locals alike are taking advantage of the beautiful spring day, walking their dogs, enjoying a bicycle ride or having a jog. The bouncy wind softly brushes my skin as though it has been choreographed to match the lively rhythm of “Perfidia”, the opening track from Bocelli’s new album,“Passione”. We drive at 10km per hour, only to slow down to 4km whenever there’s another boat on the horizon, as the channel is not too wide.

Carnon

After 4km, we reach Carnon, a modern resort town that sits on the Mediterranean coastline. Very much like Lattes, Carnon is defined by the three ‘s’- Sun, Sea & Summer. I could even add one more: ‘Sailing’. When we leave the boat in search of dinner in town, it is almost 7:30 pm. The sun is slowly setting yet it seems rather an unusually long process. In a distance on the beach, a group of men are playing volleyball, some in their speedos, confronting the strong chilly winds directly launching an attack from the sea. Beachfront restaurants appear to be empty from outside. But in reality, diners are inside, ditching the glorious sunset for a warm cozy ambience. Five of us dash into a restaurant without even browsing their menu or checking its name. Soon, a waitress with wholesome, robust personality brings a gigantic tin tray that holds ‘Catch of the day’. Shrimps, fish of many colors, squids, mussels and other sea creatures that I can’t even identify. While my friends choose a local delight, poached white fish with Aioli sauce, I opt for a Mediterranean classic, a large plate of batter-coated deep fried calamari with salt and lemon on the side which, for me, not only compliments the very dry Sauvignon Blanc that we are drinking, also brings back warm Mediterranean memories.
 

A sunny Sunday awaits us the next morning, making our canal boat ride even more pleasant. Wild ducks of many colors swim awkwardly next to our boat. Mallards, with their grey heads, are good swimmers. They would come around the boat in search of food sometimes. Shelducks are larger and more rare. Upset by the sound of boat engine, they would swiftly pop out of bushes and shoot up to the sky. Flamingoes, the icon extraordinaire of Carmague region, known to be the home of 400 bird species, are such a showoff. Flaunting their beautiful white-feathered, pink-leggy selves, a flock of them would fly by way up in the sky, synchronized and suave, as though a set of fighter jets is rehearsing for a national day event. It is true. Dodging the usual congested urban environment and stepping into the nature to coexist with its natural habitats has a profound effect on your soul.

Avez-vous attrapé du poisson? Danielle shouts to a fisherman under the bridge. He answers, with a famous French shrug, that he has not caught any fish yet. I wish him luck, as it’s almost lunchtime. Till this stage, I have not seen anything significant, apart from the idyllic countryside. No castle, cathedral nor chateau yet. But I realize this is about to change as the Tower of Constance emerges when our boat approaches Aigues-Mortes, a medieval city in Carmague region. We tie up our boat at the quay right in front of the tower, which was built to hold prisoners back in the day but now a tourism office. After doing the port rituals such as paying the mooring fees of 20Euros, recharging the boat and filling up the water tank, we quickly put together a lunch menu with what we have in our fridge. Packets of meaty Jabuco ham brought by our Spaniard friend, Jesus, all the way from Madrid, a salad made out of high-quality anchovies with regional scrumptious and scarlet-red tomatoes, plus a long baguette to accompany an assortment of French cheese and a box of rillettes du canard make a simple yet perfect picnic lunch. Needless to say, our spirits are as high as the blue sky above. 

   

  

The fortified town of Aigues-Mortes was founded in the 13^th century by King Louis IX to provide the Kingdom of France with a Mediterranean port. A bronze statue in the main square depicts King Louis IX, who later became Saint Louis, setting out from Aigues-Mortes on the Crusades. An evening wander through cobblestone streets, medieval architectures in a town bounded by well-preserved ramparts offers a glimpse of olden days in the middle Ages. Many tourists have left the place by now. Stores and souvenirs shops that sell anything from postcards to stuffed flamingoes are already closing down with an exception of a few restaurants. People in period costumes, possibly performers from a medieval knight fight show are on their way home. I feel as though I was on the set of a Hollywood-style medieval movie. Certainly, tonight, I am sleeping right next to hundreds of years old history. 

                                  

It’s awfully quiet here considering it is Monday. Apart from the main street, which is occupied with a few shops, cafés and a bank, the rest of Saint Gilles, 25 km north of Aigues-Mortes, is rather drab. A few grand old mansions mirror a distant glorious past. The allure for tourists here is the Benedictine Abbey of Saint-Gilles, founded in the 7^th century by a Christian Hermit Saint from Athens named Saint Giles. Historians and architecture enthusiasts come to see the façade of the abbey, which is considered one of the finest examples of Provençal Romanesque style. As I walk along a narrow street near the abbey, I hear Middle Eastern music faintly playing from a house. A group of men sit and chat in a corner. While I cannot identify the language they use, I am certain it’s not French. Their eyes follow me in curiosity as I walk past. Perhaps tourists from Asia don’t come to Saint-Gilles much.

If one describes Saint-Gilles as sleepy, Bellegarde, our next stop, is snoring with its mouth open. During a wander, it is so quiet that I could hear the sound of someone clipping nails in an apartment upstairs. It is nevertheless a delightful little town we drop in to stock up our fridge and spend the night. What I love about Bellegarde is the fact that all small shops and services are in one place circling the church in Town Square. Charcuterie (butcher) is next to boulangerie (baker). Pattisserie (cakes & pastries) is right between crêperie (crêpes place) and droguerie (hardware store). Oh, what about chocolaterie (chocolate shop) then? It’s on the other side! How charming is that?

A market in Beaucaire

Our most challenging mooring takes place in Beaucaire, an old town overlooking the river Rhône. As we wish to be in the town center, we look for a space where our big mama Pigasse could park. Beacucaire is the most important commercial town in the entire region. Therefore, the port is busy and jam-packed with boats that came before us. All the best spots near restaurants, the market or the bridge have been filled. We have finally found a spot but it’s in between two large pénichettes, which makes it extremely difficult to squeeze in. While going back and forth for a good 35 minutes, we have woken up the entire neighborhood from their afternoon siesta. Two experienced British tourists from nearby boats guide us through this ordeal and eventually, Pigasse is moored. We thank them in our language; ‘wine’, a bottle each. 

Town attractions such as a Medieval Castle and a visit to the cave monastery can keep one occupied in Beaucaire, but many come here to relax or explore other prominent cities in Provence such as Arles, Nîmes and the famed Pont Du Gard. In all the places we have visited so far and also here, I have noticed a Spanish cultural influence, of a controversial yet centuries-old tradition. Not only bulls are annually run through the streets, Iberian-style, bullfights in old Roman amphitheaters are still legal and practiced in the Southern France. Posters of famous corridors visits, warning signs around town about bulls and sport pubs with its patrons watching bullfights on TV are a common sight here.  

We are having English weather on our second day in Beaucaire, gloomy, cold and wet. But that does not stop us from renting a car and driving out 18 km to Arles. The city, even at 8:30 am, is slowly waking up. I yearn for a nice long latte to help me defy the cold but in small town France, no Starbucks is around the corner. In order to grab a café au lait and a croissant, one must wait for the mercy of slow-moving owners in their morning mood to open their cafés. On the brighter side though, we get Arles Amphitheatre all to ourselves. Resembling the Colosseum of Rome, though much smaller (20,000 capacity to Colosseum’s 80,000), this two-tiered Roman structure is still very much intact and open for business with equestrian shows and seasonal bullfights nowadays. I peek inside and imagine the time where chariot races and brutal gladiator fights were a form of entertainment. Not much has changed since though. There are still those who bet on races or enjoy boxing and cage fights even today. 

Arles has always been an important city since Roman times for its strategic geographical location but its fame was furthered elevated in modern era, thanks to the paintings of Vincent Van Gogh (“Starry Night Over the Rhone”, “Café Terrace at Night” and the world-famous, “Bedroom in Arles”) who was inspired by this enchanting city during his residency in the late 19^th century. 

Merely 36km away from Arles is one of the primary tourist draws of France, Pont du Gard, an ancient Roman aqueduct bridge. Built in the 1^st century AD, the bridge is the highest of its kind (48.8m) and still in remarkably good condition, kudos to the extraordinary know-how of Roman engineers. In its heyday, Pont du Gard was used to carry an estimated 44,000,000 imperial gallons of water a day from a spring in Uzès, a nearby commune, to fountains, baths and homes of Nemausus (the present day Nîmes). Admiring this ancient architectural wonder, down from the Gardon riverbank that the bridge spans across, makes me feel insignificant and humble. I am greatly awe-struck and astounded by what our mankind can do, both then and now.

Pont du Gard of Provence 

We head back to Lattes the next day. All day of non-stop driving back to where we came from, with a night-stop at Gallecian, a port between Aigues-Mortes and St-Gilles, seems dreary. But we have no choice as we left our cars in Lattes. Of course, if that was not the case, we could have explored further more and leave the boat at whichever port we end our journey. At least the weather is in top form - plenty of sunshine and cool breezes. I spend the day either reading in my cabin or chasing this very swift exotic bird called Guêpier d'Europe (European bee-eater) through my viewfinder.

Right before Gallecian port, we are met with our second-last lock, an automatic one. As usual, we all help to tie the boat before entering the chamber. Blame it on miscommunication or just plain bad luck, poor Michel, who’s on the canal bank, attempting to tie the rope to a pole, gets abruptly dragged when the boat tilts and ends up in the water. We all get panic. The boat is yet untied and our friend is struggling in the cold water. It is also extremely dangerous as the current could further drag him into the lock. Somehow, he manages to swim back to the bank with the help of a life ring and get out of water but the unfortunate accident has left him terrible back and chest pains.

It won’t be an adventure if there is no injury or a nail biting moment, right? We travelled almost 160 km by boat in a week period. We have gained new experiences. The luxury of not having to rush to visit a castle or queuing to enter a museum is absolutely priceless. We took it slow in order to make room for relaxation. We delved into the peaceful countryside and as our friend, Jesus puts it “We certainly would never been to these places we visited if we had chosen a different mode of travelling”. But most importantly, we took pleasures in company of good friends, fantastic French cuisine and fabulous wine.

There’s one thing I will definitely miss… falling asleep slowly on the boat listening to the soundtrack of nature - a collaboration of moody wind, swish-swashing meadows and chirping crickets.

Bangkok, Songkran G-circuit, Gays & Me

Bangkok & Me.

• One of my favorite Asian destinations. 
• The city I keep coming back to. 
• The first city outside of my country that I visited. Ever.

Bangkok could easily be the New York of Asia because I doubt that this city too ever sleeps. As for me Bangkok holds too many great memories. And a few painful ones...

Stepping out of Don Muang airport, which was once, the main international airport before the birth of her younger, chicer sister Suvarnabhumi, I am greeted by a familiar sight of lanky skyscrapers, soulless office buildings and giant billboards forcefully penetrating the ever-gloomy grey sky. Bangkok does not really have an audio-equalizer-like skyline like Chicago, Shanghai or Auckland for example.

Bangkok Skyline

I remember being here for the first time. My then boyfriend and I were high on the thrill of our sweet-smelling taxi going fast and furious on Bangkok’s signature elevated highways. We couldn’t stop elbowing each other whenever a skyscraper or a fancy shopping mall appears. Though Yangon, my city and Bangkok are only an hour away by flight, we were (and still are) worlds apart in terms of infrastructure, urban development and culture. Bangkok to us was the other side with greener grass. Everything that we were deprived of could be found in Bangkok; freedom, fast-paced lifestyle, first world pleasures and flamboyant gay scene.

Has Bangkok changed at all since my very first visit 9 years ago?

Yes and no. I’d say “Not Much”. But certainly my life has changed dramatically over these years. Back then, I was living in the city and today my home is on an island. Music was once my everything but these days photography is my baby. I knew two languages only. Now I speak four.I could count the times I had been on the plane then but now I’ve lost count of the cities I have been to. 

During our first few times in Bangkok, Kyaw Kyaw, my ex and I, would wait forever to take stinky public buses to save money. Now I find myself not even arguing with the taxi driver over the 200 baht he asks for a 2-km ride. I used to know shopping joints where I could bargain or get wholesale prices. Now I shop exclusively at department stores although red labels and signs that say 50% off still excite me like no other. Back in the day, Kyaw Kyaw and I would eat make-it-yourself hot dogs at 7eleven for both lunch and dinner so that we could spend more on shopping and sightseeing. I think about it now; we were really happy. I am happy now too. Happiness cannot be purchased. But money certainly makes one’s life comfortable. 

G-Circuit Parties, Gays & Me.

11:45pm. DJ Station on Silom Soi 2 is jam-packed as usual. This place gets me nervous. The venue is way too small but it welcomes anyone with a valid ID. If anything like fire breaks out, rest assure, you have no way out. My Thai friend suggests that we go to G.O.D instead. G.O.D is a three-storied dance club hidden in a back lane from the main bustling Silom road. It usually gets busy after DJ Station kicks the gays out at 2pm. Queers in the headlights would then come running to prolong the night. I remember when it was called “Free Men” pub. Their drag show was considered the best in town and their dark room, a small dimly lit maze for cruising, was a source of excitement for us, Burmese men on their hard-earned Bangkok holiday. Of course, it was before Grindr, the gay cultural phenomenon that theatrically changed the way gay men cruise. Nowadays, meeting other gay men for ‘casual fun’ takes place on a smart phone. Quick results plus it’s straightforward, effective and fuss-free. 

The Party Pass for Song Kran G-circuit 6 

The G-circuit opening party, one of three main parties, is held at a large convention hall at The Central World plaza, the following night. Looking at the gays in the queue outside, I wish I had spent more time in gym. Not all but many have beefed up and are ready to flex their muscles (literally!) Inside, needless to say, I come across a sea of gay men. Hundreds and hundreds of them coming from all directions; burly bears, fashionista queens, muscle Marys, skinny twinks, leather daddies, straight-acting machos and even some Clay Aikens (Well, thanks to Glee! We love everybody, right?) 

While pushing ourselves through the massive crowd, I come face-to-face with this Gaysian I’ve been friends with on Facebook, though we haven’t met in person. I, for the record, accepted his friend request and we interact often on Facebook either LIKE-ing or commenting on each other’s posts. Of course he recognizes me but pretends he didn’t see me. Our eyes meet again. This time, I take the high road and shoot him my megawatt smile, hoping to at least break the ice and perhaps say “hi” in person after all. He smiles back half-heartedly and turns away. I would run into him a few more times the next two days. But I don’t bother anymore. Middle school for me, ended a long time ago. This, by the way is very typical. In the gay world, it is all about “winning”. We are afraid of possible rejection especially coming from a fellow queen. We are all queen bees. We act precious. We don’t voluntarily go and say “Hi” to strangers. We instead wait for people to come and talk to us.

My Thai friend and I decide not to join the mad mob on the dance floor. Instead he leads me to the stage at the very end of the hall, darker and less crowded. At least here, we can breathe easy and not get shoved around every other second. I say hi to some folks I know, who are now on a euphoric stage, aided by ecstasy, shirtless, sweating and slurring. I look around. The scene is just as I expected; pretty boys and those who love them. Many are already sans t-shirts, ripped, rugged and ravishing wearing the preferred gay look of all time; goatee, crew cut, tight Diesel jeans bearing torso and mid section that have been painstakingly sculpted months in advance. 

Well, I may not look the standard G-circuit poster boy but I am not an Average Joe either, I believe. Flaunting my best asset, my defined 44-inch chest and my four pack (never six for the reason I don’t even bother anymore), I stand tall in my 6 foot 1 frame, a feat that is not easy to defeat among Gaysians. I start to sway… and sweat. Soon the music becomes louder. My vision clearer. And my mood, lighter. I begin to enjoy this all-men circus. Tony Moran, the Grammy-nominated Dj extraordinaire, is in the house. Almost everyone at this point has gone shirtless. Some fanning themselves to cool off from the heat, while some dancing wildly wearing shades. Yes, sunglasses in the club! I find that quite amusing. 

“It is what it is. I came all the way for this. And here I am.” I tell myself that repeatedly. My sarcasm, though I mercilessly deserted it at the door, keeps showing up, feverishly looking for me in the crowd. No chance! Leave me alone tonight.

“We are beautiful like diamonds in the sky” – sings Rihanna on her recent club anthem, “Diamonds” which, needless to say, resonates well with the crowd. Boys go wild every time the machines pump up smokes and neon green lacer lights fervently flicker as though a space ship from a “Star Wars” movie lands from the ceiling. Off we go moving along to pulsating electro beats churned out by Mr. Moran. I purposely don’t call this dancing as the space we each are entitled to limits any creative movement. Some may throw their hands up in the air or shake up themselves a bit harder as the Dj switches to faster louder rhythms. Many of us stay together in our own little cliques, only to leave every now and then to get drinks or ‘water’, which is the best selling drink of the night. We, among ourselves, would occasionally chitchat about issues and matters lighter than thin air. “What are you doing tomorrow?” “The gym at our hotel is too small” “I think the guy with the cap likes you”, etc.

“Meet my friend, he lives in Bali” – I get introduced to a number of people throughout the night. Some I may have met at least four times at different occasions before but still, they don’t remember me or so they pretend. Gay men do things that can’t be quite explained with any human language. Fathomably in a place like this. Nothing else matters but them.  They are constantly self-conscious, desperately trying to get noticed, fueled by chemicals and extremely tired but still keeping on as though this is nothing but an obligation.

“Wait! Did he just fall down?” Yes, he did. This cute Venezuelian guy I was talking to earlier in my very limited Spanish passes out and hits the ground. “He took G. And he must have mixed it with alcohol” says the tattooed guy I know from Bali. Man down! Trouble in Queer-dise! Honestly, it all looks a bit scary and worrying but he will live, as it seems. It’s almost 5am. My lower back is in agony. I need some shut eyes. I put my t-shirt back on. I flee.

The Morning After & Some Extra-curricular

Waking up the next day isn’t pretty. Most of us missed the morning anyway. By the time I get out to have lunch, it’s almost 3pm. Grumpy gays, suffering from sleep deprivation and fatigue move about like zombies from “The Walking Dead”. They all seem to be heading towards Siam Paragon food court for the combo meal of the day. Soon, they would have to head to gym, pump up muscles with whatever ounce of energy left and grab a bit of disco nap instead of dinner. After that, (You guessed it!), it’s time for party again.

Well, not me! After lunch, I pay homage to my old stomping ground. I have not been here for quite sometime. At least 5 or 6 years. Babylon sauna in Bangkok is a landmark for gay men. Not only is this the biggest gay sauna in Asia, also the most tasteful, well maintained and action-packed…almost always. Babylon hosts its famous foam parties, this time two days in a row to commemorate us gays in Songkran. When I arrive with two friends, it is almost 6pm. We are by now drenched and shivering a bit, as we got wet on Tuk-Tuk on the way. Of course, we expected it. It’s Songkran after all. The annual event when countries like Thailand, Myanmar and Cambodia celebrate their new year by throwing water on each other in order to drive away sins carried out in the previous year. Ironically, we gays are here to engage in more debaucheries. At Babylon, there are way too many men inside the venue that we have to wait 2 hours in line to get in and they only could provide one locker for four men. We change into our swimming gear in the locker room butt-to-butt and then it’s all game. The music at the venue is Top 40, familiar tunes on radio that one could sing along to. The pool is busy. The restaurant is full with towel-clad men dining or having drinks. Some are working out in the gym. There’s even one guy in speedo running barefoot on a treadmill. Next to the bar is the dance area where the foam machine in the middle is constantly filling up the floor with soapy bubbles, sometimes so much that it climbs up to the neck. Everyone is in festive mood; cheeky, open and very accommodating. Though mostly Gaysians, there are many different nationalities and I hear several different languages spoken. “I Love Bangkok”, declares my Chilean friend. “This is crazy. We don’t have this kind of party in Chile”, he enthuses as we dance to Jennifer Lopez’s “On The Floor” in our slippery-selves.

After almost three hours of frolicking in my skimpy Aussiebum, I’m in need of somewhere warm. So I march to the dry sauna. There I sit with two bored Gaysians who have been in there before me. A few minutes pass and the sauna door opens. Enters a tall muscular man in his late 30s. Not traditionally handsome but he has strong manly features; thick lips, wide brown eyes and very square jaw. “He must be a Latino”, I think to myself while glancing at his roughly trimmed hair all over his chiseled torso. He must have come, fresh out of shower. He appears to be soaking wet and his white D&G swimwear does very little to cover his certain (not so little) body part. In fact he is certainly aware and obviously proud of his immense God-given gift. He probably knows where my eyes have just lingered too. Calmly he sits right next to me while I try to gather my now diverted thoughts for the next ten minutes. Two Gaysians have left the cabin one after another by the time I feel a soft kick on my leg. I look up to his direction and our eyes meet for the first time. “You are very tall for an Asian” he murmurs in his Californian accent. He says something else too. And… something else afterwards. I don’t remember. The tiny room suddenly gets warmer.

I adore Bangkok and I need it every now and then. From fantastic shopping, divine Thai food to incredible nightlife and exciting gay scene, the city offers what other Asian cities can only dream of. Likewise, I don’t mind being around gays and doing round-the-clock gay activities once in a while. Nothing wrong with a celebration of somewhat hedonistic culture that we help popularize. Bangkok is sexy. It’s a happening. In addition to ever-present urban energy of a metropolis, Bangkok pulsates with tangible sexual energy especially during an event like Songkran G-circuit. It is in the air. It’s on BTS, on taxis, in the parks, at 7Elevens and oozing out of people. Songkran G-Circuit experience reminds me of Carnival in Rio de Janeiro.

All you wanna do is…debauch and be naughty. Really, really naughty.