Free The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) by Erin Reese Page A

Third World bone in Bangkok’s infrastructure.
    I felt my heart break a little, a sense of sadness in saying goodbye to India—a land where the last thing one needs to bother with is “looking good,” or buying this, that, and the other. In India—at least in the circles I moved in—it’s natural to look beautiful by the smile in your heart and the way you move through the world. The lack of a “consumer culture” and less consumption choices leaves more room for honest expression; there’s more room to focus on the person beneath the facade.
    Upon arrival, I was privileged to stay with friends of a friend from France—a married expat couple—in their gorgeous penthouse apartment overlooking the Thai capital city. I sat down carefully on their white upholstered furniture, afraid I might muss something up. I felt absolutely filthy lying on the crisp, clean white sheets. In my first real shower in months, I wondered if my feet would ever get clean. After several scrubbing attempts, I decided to give up and wait until I am back in the States to break out the heavy exfoliation artillery.
    The next morning, I ventured out to a proper department store to buy a new bathing suit for the islands, which threw me headfirst in the deep end of the consumer culture pool of buy, buy, BUY (and shop some more while you’re at it!). I caught myself standing aimlessly between the Estee Lauder and Chanel counters, staring into space like an Indian milking cow, wondering how one could possibly ever shop in such a store with so many choices.
    After spending a full day in Bangkok, it hit me: now I knew how immigrants, refugees, or visitors from undeveloped nations go into absolute shock upon arrival to the U.S. It’s paralyzing. When your whole life is based around a much, much simpler model, your frame of reference is simpler as well. Arriving in the West, it’s got to be a sudden onslaught of overkill: too much to choose from—sensory overload and confusion. It’s got to take a long, long while for eastern foreigners to integrate—if they are ever able to. And now I understand why immigrants from undeveloped nations tend to stick together in little Chinatowns, or other such ethnic communities. There, the world just makes more sense.
    After wandering around the department store and soaking up the air conditioning, I finally found the proper “Ladies Wear” floor and bought my bikini. I told myself I needed to switch gears and stop all this useless pining for chai and chapati; it was time to get to an island and have a holiday. And besides, Bangkok was hotter than hell, and simply unbearable without a surf to jump into.

Island Girl
    16 th of April, Koh Phangan
    Life is good at the moment. I find myself on the island of Koh Phangan in the Gulf of Siam. Turquoise waters, white sandy beaches, palm trees. Daily Thai massages with a lot of muscle that simultaneously provide a chiropractic adjustment. Pineapple-mango-papaya shakes, and padh Thai noodles with lots of peanuts and lime. Oh yeah.
    Most travelers I’d talked to warned me about this island—full of crazies and too much loud dance music (it’s the island most famous for its Full Moon Party extravaganzas)—but I’ve rarely been one to heed the opinions of others. A backpacker island appealed to me, anyway. I needed someplace cheap, with diversity and interesting freaky folks to befriend. And, of course, the option to dance: besides my brief time in Goa, I’ve had a serious deprivation of dancing in conservative India.
    It took me a while to get my sea legs on this island. The average traveler here must be about 22, and it’s a whole different backpacker ballgame in Thailand than in India. I can’t say it entirely suits my fancy, yet I’ve definitely made the most of it, filling my soul with tourist fun and sun. After a couple of false starts, I finally found a bungalow on the quiet, western side of the cape of a beach area called Hat Rin. At my little nest,