Here's a pair of old writings from our first global trip, both about Nepal. They're not really all that edited, put you get the point I'm sure...

What It's Like In Thamel, Kathmandu, Nepal

Amidst the offers of rickshaws and taxis, rafting and trekking expeditions, chess sets and shawls, come charras and smoke. Hashish, ganja, sensimilla, or sometimes just a gesture – Thamel may be a “tourist ghetto” in the Lonely Planet's eyes, but so far from Amsterdam it's hash heaven. “Pollen” is even available, what would be kief if it were slightly better cared for.
In a four-block radius, practically 24/7, it's hard to be walking and white and not have it be assumed that you are in need of charras. They may start as high as 3000NRs per tola (10g), and would love to see you several, but 500NRs is a fair and reasonable price even if you're not stocking up for a trek. What constitutes your tola will certainly vary though it seems older pushers are preferable. If it's their full-time job they won't be selling a product cut with dirt or incense or something – they have some semblance of a reputation to uphold. A lot of younger hustlers carry too-soft brown logs, the smell is fine but the consistency combined with their behavior is suspicious. Go for solid, not hard, versus overly flexible. It should attract flame fast, as well, but then most things do.
Don't be put off if they have to go get it, just set the price first and make sure the product is what you want – you may see this guy the next day, or never again. Based on the sellers' wariness and caution (not carrying much, if anything), risk for a Nepali dealer is a concern, but as a Western tourist end-user discretion is a bit less important.
Since Thamel actually has head shops, one of the best glass selections in the subcontinent is at your disposal. Israeli favorite chillums are of course available, as are generic handpipes, double-bubblers, bongs, and the European choice of papers in abundance. Check a shipping company just north of Thahiti Thole on the right-hand side for starters. Handpipe was 185NRs negotiated down to 150. Bubblers were around 1000NRs.
Now for what to do once you're nice and cheefed? Plenty of culture abounds plus there's the endless challenge of street navigation, or the Snowman's tasty cakes if you're near Freak Street. Just remember to be careful wandering about, and don't be too proud of the fact that you are supporting the local economy...

Ketamine At Midnight?

It was the Kumari's annual big night out – we'd even briefly spotted the King, but thanks to duty-free Chinese brandy the crushing crowds blurred with the dhaba's nan, rajma, and rice, and whether a Snowman cake was indeed eaten that night cannot quite be remembered. “Freak” is now more “Jacchim” than its' former hippie name, but Kathmandu craziness can usually be found on the adjacent Durbar Square. On this revelrous night men pushed to line-up for a girl's blessing – tikka powder on the forehead, while Shaivite children performed a freeze-frame drama on a make-shift stage, and even the police were unconcerned with what the hell was going on. Giant wooden carts were parked mid-square only partially enveloped in sekuwa smoke. They'd previously borne the Kumari – Kathmandu's pre-pubescent Living Goddess – through the streets, but now lay still, presumably to wait patiently for the next festival extravaganza.
The embattled monarch appeared briefly, to a small chorus of Maoist catcalls, but the crowd seemed more concerned with the general air of pageantry than the presence of the man on their money. Typical touristic confusion arose: was there more to gawk at, to catch a glimpse of, or even anything to do? Apparently not, besides waiting in line all night to be personally blessed by a child-goddess, which is rather mundane, really :-) - so we devoured some skewered and scorched water buffalo meat, and ambled off towards our hotel, unwittingly in search of the explanation for this story's title.
The streets have no name, really, it's the squares that count, so from Durbar to Chaatrapati to Thamel we went. Past some boys with drums, piles of garbage, strip clubs under different names, temples, dogs, shrines, and introspective semi-wasted Westerners. It was one of those walks that dissolves in front of you...
Thankfully residual bowls of charras coupled with “Sino-Surprise & Coke” primes one well for our next mission: doing something about the dwindling supply of the former, since any more of the latter leads to a hammer (and sickle) haeadache. At any other time the spoken whispers, well-rehearsed, of “smoke” and such find us with frequency. Apparently drug dealers need blessings just like everyone else, so instead we just found glue-huffing 8-year-olds, a brown bag in hand and twisted smiles on their faces. One's own need for charras is greatly diminished upon seeing dirty, barefoot boys, moving as a pack in the streets, completely whacked out on glue. Small side-note: glue-huffing in no way decreases begging, presumably just the rate of success.
The depressing nature of the modern world was fortunately overcome by our personal exultation of an offer for dope. To an alleyway – looked OK for five minutes before midnight, sketchy quality but an almost generous quantity. The haggling ensues and a deal is reached, one half of the exchange completed. Everything's going smoothly – but the rupees aren't adding up... Only 300 in the wallet – we'd forgotten to refill at our hotel! So the deal's canceled, no alternative apparently possible, leaving both sides annoyed and disappointed.
Which finds us on a corner, with a drunken older American countryman, who is expounding on the virtues of Ketamine Hydrochloride, available at your friendly neighborhood chemist for some minor baksheesh.
“Just cook it in the spoon,” he says, “until there's only powder. Then snort it – it's a trip.”
How informative, Mr. I've-Known-You-For-Five-Minutes-And-Already-Bragged-About-Doing-Acid-Over-300-Times. Who's counting and why's that your social opener? Why is it that instead of expanding conversation (and consciousness), drugs have simplified it? Rather than taking drugs and then doing stuff, just taking the drugs sounds less complicated, apparently. But where's the fun in that?
“Drugs” is a noun, not a verb – reality check.
Now, back to the horse tranquilizers – maybe being absorbed by one's couch is fun at 19, but now it's only natural/safe drugs. You know, what's been established as personally reasonable, reliable, and recreationally enjoyable. And riotous.
But does that mean that if those glue-huffers are just doing their thing, and the tranquil tranq-master is doing his, then who am I to draw lines for them...?
It was past time to escape the philosophy from the street-corner Socrates, a San Miguel in hand and prescription suggestions on his lips. Now we're street-walkers again, still listening just on an unexpectedly low budget. Past rickshaws, fruit sellers, potholes and police. The search now has been appropriately deemed futile, our hotel home beckons. Surreally we cross paths with an out-of-town Nepali friend on the dark streets. His drunken friend falls over mid-conversation, but no else notices. Everyone's evening needed to end evidently, so we pressed onwards, pausing to check out a bar and some hash for sale – finally – but both were un-noteworthy. Anti-climax indeed, but one last bucket remained to smoke, and the streets would hopefully be more merciful in the morning.

Happy Pizza -> Siem Reap, Cambodia

To the uninitiated, the so-called Cambodian “Happy Pizza” is something to be delicately sampled out of cautious amazement. Fear-filled tales of forgotten afternoons, stolen wallets, and daze-induced slumber abound, often presented as menacingly as a mine warning sign. Maybe these stories are validly told to keep straight people straight, or to protect a somewhat dubious Khmer industry, but when you fancy yourself a cannabis connoisseur, the consumption of a ganja-laced pizza isn't merely for sustenance or experimentation, but to get stoned.
That said, it seems that all pizzas don't share the same emotion, as some pretty “sad” ones are masquerading as “happy.” Fortunately, when in Siem Reap – and who isn't at some point while traveling in Cambodia – there's a strong contender for the strongest edible herb food in the land: Happy Special Pizza. In all fairness, only one other competitor was tried, but when a local expat makes a recommendation, and the product exceeds the expectations, trying all of the remaining competition seems a bit unnecessary.
All “Happy Pizza” restaurants, and Siem Reap has at least four, serve plenty of normal Western and Khmer food, often at very competitive prices. Even the herb is free, as pizza prices are set on the menu, so happiness when requested does not impact the bill. The guidebooks may half-jokingly warn about requesting “extra happy,” but if you are a regular smoker and don't have too many pertinent plans for the remainder of the day, you're going to want all the power possible, and even then it may require a smoke-filled activation either before or after consumption.
Happy Special Pizza carries four pages of pizzas, virtually anything you can imagine with the ingredients available, and they'll add enough pulverized happy powder that the topping is undoubtedly taste-able. Not overpowering, but impossible to ignore, such that if you want to eat a pizza for pizza-eating sake alone, you'll need to intake your daily dose of happy in another manner. Fortunately, “happy shakes” are also available, although they do cost an additional dollar ($2 total) versus regular shakes. Pricing-pattern discrepancies aside, the shake packs a lot of power, resulting in a surprisingly quick shake-bake, especially if late-night smoking occurred – the THC and other goodies still floating around get quite effectively reactivated, readying an ardent smoker for (yet) another day of temple exploring. Sunrises aside, from 6am – midnight your ganja food needs can be easily taken care of. On a related note, an egg-oriented breakfast, served whenever you might require it, is delicious, affordable, and massive compared to the most of the other tourist restaurants.
Other perks abound, including free carryout and delivery. But arguably the most risque, or otherwise risky, aspect of Happy Special Pizza is what they sell from behind the counter. Good-sized bags of herb cost only $10, though the quality is prone to fluctuation, maybe due to a lack of concern so long as the product cooks well. Pre-rolled joints can also be purchased for $1, they smoke well but have at least some tobacco mixed in. It takes a bit of courage to go inquire, especially with all the women and children glued to the nearby TV, but it's obviously a standard request here since the ladies don't mind selling you a sack, and the kids think nothing of delivering a tray full of ice-cold “happy shakes.”
Basically there's nothing to lose if you are interested, you've just got to look for the smiling green sun on the white neon sign when you wander north of Pub Street - on the same block as Happy Herb's Pizza - and then you'll have found yourself in a little slice of Amsterdam in Asia.
Overall the experience is quite similar to India's government-authorized bhang shops (perhaps most famously located in Jaisalmer, Rajasthan), but marijuana is still definitely illegal in Cambodia. It's just that no one seems to mind a little herbal cooking, not even the police – who have been presumably well-paid to look the other way – and clearly the under-the-table more illicit activities aren't causing any real problems. From the child prostitution warning signs, to the pile of needles we found in the street, Siem Reap unfortunately has bigger concerns than a bunch of foreign tourists indulging in a little herbal relaxation between temple visits. After all, everyone in town is there for Angkor Wat and its equally impressive companions, but a sober brain grows quickly weary of staring at stone. Stoned stone-staring, meanwhile, is an enjoyable age-old activity, and who knows, maybe the builders of Angkor themselves would munch down on some marijuana pizza, or drink a tasty weed shake, before heading home after a long day of carving in the jungle heat... sounds probable, and therefore indulging in some happiness is merely being culturally sensitive, right?

(if you're looking for the ping-pong show article, and we both know you are, scroll down to the post below this one, although you'll probably enjoy this newer story as well)

An edited version of this article is here: Cycle Asia: Muay Thai Night. This is the original unedited piece, much different from the final copy. Enjoy...

-----------------------------------

Somehow I found myself on a street corner, with a bag of low-grade ganja in my pocket, eating some sort of ground-meat pseudo-sushi on-a-stick. At well past midnight, with the neon glow of 7-11 glaring over me, another glorious Thai day was coming to a close. But before all that can be explained, perhaps the day should be put in proper perspective.
I awoke first, a man on a Muay Thaimission. It was almost time for a Friday night of fights at Kawila Boxing Stadium, and we wanted to get tickets before our motorbikes needed to be returned. I was hoping mine would start, it had absorbed a lot of water the day before cruising through the rainy hills outside Doi Suthep.
A few extra hand cranks and I was on my way, awkwardly cutting through the Chiang Mai streets as only a foreigner can: sluggish yet unrestrained. The frustrating grid of one-way streets, combined with thick traffic, makes any journey longer than intended. Amazingly enough, only one wrong turn and a stop for directions lay between me and my destination.
Ten hours before the fights, the arena was almost empty. Soon enough I'd found the ticket seller, and he'd found the stack of tickets. The price, at 400 Baht each for the cheap seats, hopefully means a decent prize purse for each of tonight's fighters. However, given that the tickets didn't even have the correct stadium name printed on them, my main concern was just not getting ripped off.
I feel I should mention that I'm not really a fight fan, but I do enjoy satisfying my traveler's curiosity. Muay Thai seemed a bit of a tossup – while I enjoy watching live sporting events, I'm generally not so interested in people kicking and hitting each other for fun. But since it is the national past time, and I'm a firm believer of “when in Chiang Mai,” it seemed pretty foolish not to go investigate.
Zipping back to the hotel, sweat starts dripping, something it won't stop doing until I go to bed sometime near dawn. Seems yesterday's humidity never quite left, and a shower's benefits are very short-lived. The next motorbike I rent needs to have an air-conditioner installed on the handlebars.
Due to an epic Thursday, involving us riding down steep hills in torrential rain – and that after temple-ing ourselves right out, the plan was, in Blaise's wise Canadian-ese, to do “fuck all” on Friday besides Muay Thai. That involved time-passing: the usual slothful amble through parts of the tourist ghetto, the devouring of some pad thai and khao soi, and of course a few big bottles of Beer Chang.
So perhaps it was some sort of irony that our songthaew driver had apparently also drank a few; he seemed unable to even focus well enough to count all six of us, but his excitement to drive us to the boxing match was irresistible. Our tip on arrival then, was mostly a thank-you for sparing our lives.
Our transition from sparing to sparring was delayed, the fights being on 8:30 Thai time while clocks were reading 8:30 real time. So we grabbed a copy of the card, and headed to yet another 7-11 for beverages. There's something oddly comforting about the familiar sign, though it's the equally familiar low-prices that are the real draw. Thankfully Thailand embraces Asia's public drinking policy, so we were effectively able to have a Muay Thai tailgating party in the stadium parking lot. Then a most unexpected thing occurred: as music blasted through the antiquated loudspeaker system, everyone froze. Suddenly we were the only people moving, never-mind talking: the Thai national anthem is taken a touch more seriously than my own. Good to know.
As the music stopped the energy instantly returned, and it was clearly time for the festivities to begin. Upon entering, we surveyed the scene before sitting high atop the large wooden bleachers that comprised the cheap seats. The crowd was predominately foreign, roped in like us by the English-language handbills plastered to poles all over town. Thankfully, while lacking in numbers, the Thai fans were certainly enthusiastic: cheering and betting with glee from the first fight on.
Muay Thai seems to be a brutal sport, but other than knockouts (there were none) and bleeding (only twice, and rather minor), it is often just the trading of jabs while the competitors dance about awaiting opportunity. The hypnotic music, performed by drum and oud, helps the combatants hone in on a rhythm, while also drawing the audience into the tempo of the match. Music and men pulsate, feet and fists fly, and in a moment a conqueror can find glory. The sport is one of toughness and preparation; endurance is as important as power; passion and technique are both needed to succeed. Clearly training is the most important factor, a fighter is expected to absorb an immense amount of bodily damage without sacrificing form or tenacity.
Fights last three to five rounds each, depending on weight class. This was certainly not high-level competition: the first match was between boys weighing 30kg. Despite their diminutive size, they pulled no punches (as it were), and their ability to assault each other relentlessly was evidently an advantage of age. The first four matches were billed as 'Red Vs. Blue,' though it might as well have been 'And White' for all the cans of Singha that everyone was drinking, myself included. The colors split, 2-2, making way for the main event, 'Heavyweight Fight II' between two 90kg warriors.
Relocating to ringside gave us a perfect view of the Blue corner, from which Kongthup Por Fah Uthai – or Kongtap, depending on which flier was more reliable – would be fighting from. Earlier we'd received a tip, from the stadium's boxing-shorts salesman, that his Red opponent, Yordkeng Sor Viengjedi – or Yodkang – was the favorite, but something about the gleaming, muscular, tattooed body closer to us won my support. They both came out swinging, though knees from close-range seemed to be the mutual weapon of choice. Blood was eventually drawn, from our chosen warrior's stomach, but it didn't seem to slow him up. A full five rounds ended – Red triumphed over Blue, so apparently the judges viewed the match through more knowledgeable eyes than my own. The fight was good, yet long, and it also marked the pinnacle of the evening as fans started departing almost immediately. Blaise and myself stayed on until the end, which primarily consisted of us downing more Singhas. However, time was made for a little casual gambling.
I was approached, I'm pretty sure, by the ticket seller I'd seen that morning. Either him, or someone looking very similar and wearing the same shirt. Hard to remember, twelve hours is a long time when you're traveling. Regardless, I was solicited for a bet, though the initial offer of 100 Baht was a bit out of my price range – I might be drunk, but I know when I'm being taken for a rube. But, somehow, 50 Baht seemed much more reasonable. Tragically my initial enthusiasm was quickly dampened as “my guy” was literally pounded into the ground over the next few minutes. The money was quickly collected, another foreigner taken advantage of by a savvy local. And just like that the Muay Thai was over, the arena cleared out, and we were on the street, following Tha Phae Road back to our hotel.
As badly as my guy had been pummeled, it was nowhere near as shocking as what we witnessed next. We're walking briskly, traffic's whizzing by, when suddenly a tuk-tuk pulls over just in front of us. Ah, an offer of a ride – tempting, but all my drunken mind can think of is trying to score some weed – tuk-tuk driver's are supposedly an excellent source of such an indulgence.
SMASH!
The noise was loud and sudden, the awful metal-on-metal crunch of automotive carnage filling the street. A woman on a motorbike literally plowed into the tuk-tuk from behind; the devastating direct hit left her and her scooter silent on the road, while the rest of us were momentarily caught off guard. Thankfully instinct took over, the bleeding woman was extracted from beneath her mangled moto, and besides her bleeding leg and glazed-over eyes, she seemed in remarkably good shape. You know, for someone who just drove right into a stationary object at around 40km/hr, with no helmet or braking involved. Knowing our role as outsiders, we quickly cleared out once our assistance was no longer acquired.
Fueled by adrenaline, and after nearly witnessing death, the drunken mission to acquire some smoke took on a life of its own. A long chat with Burma Dan, a corner t-shirt salesman, at least led to a promise of some assistance the next day. Technically he came through late the next night, if a 200 Baht half-gram of mid-grade stuff can be considered 'hooking it up.' But this was a Friday night, and my belly, full of Singha, required a proverbial switching of the gears. For better or worse, the decision was made to continue on the quest and meander the main strip of tourist-fantasy-land; where the prostitutes hang out, surely there must be marijuana, right? Fortunately, we were spared the potentially disastrous end results of that line of thinking, as a friendly (how could he not be, he ripped us off that badly!) tuk-tuk driver named Bao whispered the magic word as we walked by: “ganja.”
My head snapped, feet changed direction, and clarification/verification was sought. With a mutual glance of caution, we hopped into his tuk-tuk, for a rare free ride. The price, 1300 Baht, argued down from 2000, could have bought a frighteningly sleazy whore or two, but instead some equally frightening hay was acquired, with a few dozen seeds thrown in for good measure. For a country with a perfect growing climate for marijuana, Thailand's herb is truly in a sad state. Did no one here get the memo that white people might like to get high during their endless touring of temples? W.T.F. At least 7-11 came through, albeit with some strange fusion food that shouldn't have been allowed to exist...
Bowl after bowl after bowls later, the question of whether or not highness had been attained was still rightfully being debated. But at least I wasn't injured, arrested, or dead, and hopefully the money had enabled Bao to take a few nights off from his stressful line of work. Plus, we'd enjoyed some authentic Thai culture, so what more can a brave adventurer ask for?

After two years of dormancy, Muth Musings is back - the underground stuff too risque for our other blog. So keep this on the down-low, please, but do pass it along to those that are interested.

Ping Pong Show (Bangkok, Thailand)

An endless parade of disinterested performers took their turn pole-side. To turn up the heat, if you will, they awkwardly stepped back-and-forth, in some sort of rhythmic half-dance. Not quite robotic, but far from inspired. Age and attractiveness varied, only in partial relation to the severity of their performance. It seems the ladies performed the same vaginal tricks night in and night out, given their passionate lack-of-focus. If so, then some sort of ranking must be established, because some of the things they pulled out were at least a bit undesirable.
The club half-filled, right on time at 8pm, after 500 Baht each entry, rather pricey even though it did include the worst imaginable mixed drink in the smallest imaginable cup. That made no sense.
Located in a random warehouse district, about a half kilometer from the Sanam Pao SkyTrain stop - if I remember correctly - we discovered on our way back, which wasn't too off the beaten track. But the place was signless, and nameless, and the Buddhist money tree located in the entryway certainly made for a strange contrast with the source of the cash. But then, in some sense this is the middle road, watching sexual perversions rather than enacting them.
The audience was mixed, a Russian tourist couple, some younger Western males who had clearly drank too much elsewhere – knocking over their table was a solid indicator. Plus some enthusiastic east Asian businessmen types, smoking a cigarette that had been well-lipped as a show prop. Later some Indians came in, mustached and entranced in the front row.
The namesake was the first act, involving a somewhat attractive girl bouncing balls, usually in one hop, into a cup on the other side of the stage. One at a time, very systematically, extra fluids constantly being wiped up by a ready towel. Robots can play sports, too, it seems. Others, older and less attractive usually, dazzled the crowd with a string of razor blades, and later string of glow-in-the-dark flowers. The powerful array of black-lights and cheap colored lights, while adding to the atmosphere, made things mentally pop more than was needed, given the nature of the show.
Strings came out slow, were made into shapes, and waved around, while ends still dangled in utero.
Other adventurous activities included opening a beer can (pretty sure she hid an opener up in there somewhere), launching darts at balloons, sending bananas soaring through the air, and even blowing out the candles on a birthday cake with some semblance of a controlled queef. And of course the beloved crotch-smoking, which warranted a hefty tip of a few large notes, and led to the question of whether or not these ladies were available for more after the show. “Welcome to Thailand” was even written by one ambitious lady, and another pulled jangling bells from her nether regions.
Their relative remoteness on stage would make it seem like they are solely performers, by being in a sex show they are somehow making a better choice than outright prostitution, but at the same time Bangkok is a wild place that surely attacks those wealthy and demented enough to desire some alone time with a women who removes objects from her vagina professionally.
By the time two women faked a lesbian experience, the grinding too often without contact to count as any sort of actual intercourse, but at least they coordinated moves were well rehearsed. And like all the acts the highlights were few, beyond the shock value (both at the drink prices – 200 Baht – and the show) and occasional attractive performer. The tobacconist was certainly a standout, both in looks and enthusiasm, but then wouldn't you rather have a smoke than a shave?
The grand finale was as equally practiced as its predecessors, though with two performers literally have sex, protected at least, it was hard not to be a bit more attentive. Not hard though, it should be noted, as from the diverse positions to the thrusting climax, it was certainly a staged shag. At least it was, as a heterosexual male, the most enjoyable part, but then a sex show isn't usually attended for arousal, but rather due an aroused curiosity.
Certainly with all the tuk-tuk drivers eager to advertise, understandable since commissions certainly go their way, plus looking for an alternative to the Big Cock show we'd already seen at a gay go-go bar earlier in the week, meant it was oddly intriguing. Girls with ping-pong balls? A real sex show? For “only” $15 AND you get a free drink?
'When in Bangkok' is usually a good attitude, though sometimes that isn't the best of reasons to explain the strange things that tourists do to themselves. The touristic type seems to have some strange masochistic side, willing to undergo torturous abuse in the name of travel. But eyes can't get STDs, and I'm sure my previously untarnished soul can recover in due time. And I've at least witnessed the legendary glory that is a ping-pong show, arguably as culturally relevant to modern Thailand as a visit to an over-touristed wat.

Read Booklist:

Aztec - Gary Jennings (A & L)
The Fires Of Heaven - Robert Jordan (A)
Pawn Of Prophecy - David Eddings (L)
Degree Of Guilt - Richard Patterson (L)
Lord Of Chaos - Robert Jordan (A)
Belgareth The Sorcerer - David & Leigh Eddings (L)
The Ecstacy Club - Douglas Rushkoff (A & L)
Egypt - Lonely Planet (A & L)
Small Is Beautiful - E.F. Schumacher (A)
The Rupa Book Of Wicked Stories - Ruskin Bond (A & L)
My Name Is Red - Orhan Pamuk (A & L)
The Human Stain - Philip Roth (L & A)
Secrets Of The Code - Dan Burnstein (A)
Tales & Legends From India - Ruskin Bond (A & L)
The Rupa Book Of True Tales Of Mystery & Adventure - Ruskin Bond (A & L)
The Secret Life Of Plants - Peter Tompkins & Christopher Bird (A & L)
We Need To Talk About Kevin - Lionel Shriver (L)
The Rupa Book Of Haunted Houses - Ruskin Bond (L & A)
People Of The Wolf - Michael & Kathleen Gear (L)
Holy Cow - Sarah MacDonald (A & L)
The Glass Bead Game - Hermann Hesse (A)
Papillon - Henry Charriere (A & L)
Aggressor - Andy McNab (L)
Rupa Book of Traveler's Tales - Ruskin Bond (A & L)
Autobiography of a Yogi - Paramhansa Yogananda (A)
Slouching Through Bethlehem - Joan Didion (L)
Belgariad Series 1-5 - David Eddings (A & L)
Wheel of Time Series 7-11 - Robert Jordan (A)
Freedom At Midnight - Dominique LaPierre & Larry Collins (A & L)
Rupa Book of Suspense Stories - Ruskin Bond (A & L)
The Kite Runner - Khala Hosseini (A & L)
The New Spring - Robert Jordan (A & L)
Caesar: Let The Dice Fly - Colleen McCollough (A)
City of Joy - Dominique LaPierre (A & L)
Little Book, Big Secret I & II - Ana Kelly (A & L)
Women Writers of The Raj - edited by Saros Clowasjee (A & L)
Calvin & Hobbes: Scientific Progress Goes "Boink" - Bill Watterson (A)

Our Worldwide Beer List:

These are all the beers that we have had, listed by the location where we drank them. We love our livers a lot! We also had lots of wine, mostly in Spain, but we're not even trying to list any of those, too hard to remember, and most brands are too obscure anyway. A * indicates a beer that we particularly enjoyed, but obviously we drank all of them with zeal!

As of November 14 this list is completely up to date, but who knows how long that will last!

Sweden:

Spendrups (on a Scandinavian Airlines plane)

Germany:

Franzis Kanner Heifeveissen *
Franzis Kanner Heifeveissen Dunchel *
Astra
Beck's
Alstervasser (1/2 beer, 1/2 Sprite)
Edingerveisse
Holsten
Warsteiner
Bitburger *
Heifeveissen @ an Indian restaurant
San Miguel
Guiness
Reh beer (a bar's own draft) *

Holland:

Grolsch
Westermalle Trappist Dubbel *
Heinekin
Kriek
Konnerwolf
"Tap bier" @ Pinnoccio's
Amstel
Strongbow Cider
Murphy's Irish Red
Bavaria Original Brew
Hoegaarden White Beer (on tap) *
Export (?)
Bitburger
Gulpener Oud Bruin
Witte Bier *

Belgium:

Jupiler

Spain:

Mahuo Cana
Mahuo Botellie (not at all spelled correctly)
Warsteiner (on tap)
Blackthorn Cider (on tap)

Greece:

Amstel
Lowenbrau
Kaiser Pilsner
Royal Dutch Post Horn
Breda Royal Lager *
Calenberger Pilsner
Mythos

Egypt:

Stella *
Sakkara
Sakkara King 10%

Qatar:

Heineken (on a Qatar Airways airplane)

India:

Kingfisher *
UB
Royal Challenge

Korea:

Cass
Hite