Somewhere in the distance there was a phone ringing. I rolled around in the luxury of my bed, coaxing myself back towards slumber. I knew if I awoke now, there would be no returning to dreamland, and I was really digging dreamland. Or was the phone in dreamland? Where was I? Was I on a train? I think so, but I couldn’t quite place myself. What city was I in? Too many cities… Then that phone… who’s was that? The conductor must have some system in his little room. So they can communicate with other cars. And of course the higher ups, you know.

Then the door was opened and knocked on at the same time and Yim himself was standing in our hotel room at Yim’s house in Seoul, South Korea. I was suddenly quite awake, sprawled awkwardly in my underpants. Ann had left early to go teach children, or something noble like that. Scott was rolling around searching for up. I sat up and locked eyes with Yim. “The money, oh you want us to pay for the room. I’m sorry we didn’t do that last night…” I began. Yim interrupted: “You have violated the rules of Yim’s house! You have brought a third person into this room! You must leave now; check out by 12pm!” Then he was gone. He did not slam the door. Instead he just left it wide open.

We began to scramble around. it was 11:30 am and we had only retired some 5 hours ago. We scrambled to assemble ourselves. I didn’t know of this rule. Yim’s was so nice too. If only I could just return to the bed. I might be able to get back on that train. “Should we fight this battle?” Scott said from underneath a pillow. “Ah, I don’t have the energy. Lets just get the hell out of here.”

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Korean customs was easy. I was initially frightened by giant lines of people, until I realized that these were only those coming back with goods to declare. In fact, it seemed that we were the only ones on the boat who did not have something to declare, for that counter had no line. As a headed there, I was stopped twice by people in the giant line adjacent to me. A man called out to me over a large box with Giant Bicycle on the side. “Where are you from?” “The United States, I said” “Ah, you are very beautiful.” This was only this first of many such complements that I was to get in Korea. They came just as often from men as from women, and were essentially devoid of sexuality. In Korea, it seems, people just stop you to tell you you’re beautiful. Wow.

Armed with a fresh Korean Visa, elevated self esteem, and plenty of energy from our 27 hours on the boat, we stuck out for the train station. We asked for directions at a tourism counter, and found that they barely spoke English, suggesting few English speakers tour Seoul (at the very least from the Tian Ren ferry). But Scott’s ever developing Chinese was easily understood. We set off to find an ATM. This was no problem. We found, however, that the ATMs in Korea do not, in general, accept foreign cards. So we turned the last of our RMB and the remainder of our American dollars into Wan at a terrible rate, with the help of a tiny currency exchange shop on a side street.

We strolled the outskirts of Seoul. I was struck with how much the place looked like Welseley Massachusetts. The streets were lined with trees. It was mildly hilly and reasonably affluent. The restaurants, however, smelled much more interesting. Most had giant aquariums in front, displaying the many types of mollusk and bivalves to be had, freshly killed for you.

We found our way to the subway, picking up some fresh fruit smoothies from a delightful pair of old Korean women selling them in the station. The subway was clean and fast. The view from the window was great. And Korean women are astoundingly beautiful. We were in a great mood.

We got off at Jongno station and stepped out into a delightful futuristic city. We walked through the streets, enjoying the many new smells, now readily accessible in the clean air. The city seemed freshly scrubbed and affluent. Without too much difficulty we were able to find Yim’s guesthouse. The place was very nice and quite affordable. Our room had two beds, a private bath, and a hot water bubbler with tea and coffee, all bundled economically and minimalistically into a small building in a back alley. The alley was something like a Korean version of the hutongs we had experienced in Beijing but very clean, and much quieter.

We dropped our stuff down on the beds. We did not have enough cash to pay Yim, but he graciously gave us the room on credit, pending our discovery of an ATM which would cater to our foreign cards. Yim even had some (admittedly tiny) bicycles. We felt great about the place. We took off on a stroll. The sun was beginning to set and Scott was struggling to get in touch with a Mrs. Ann Kidder, fellow Brown alum living in Seoul. With this finally achieved, we set out to find sustenance before meeting up with Ann and some friends she had just met that night. It is a testament to how cool Seoul is that one can just meet people and spend the rest of the night with them, without that seeming sketchy, uncomfortable or dangerous. Good one Seoul.

We stumbled upon a fine looking very small and local restaurant where a group of men were eating a giant plate of raw red meat and garlic in the window. Great. We walked in. One of the men at the table came up to us and began to yell. “This Poke!” he said. Poke? We looked at each other. He began to gesticulate incoherently. “Poke! Poke!”

“So you’re closed? I’m so sorry to dest…” We were walking away when he turned us around with one giant arm. “Ah, pork!” This is a pork restaurant. Great. So we sat down. There was no menu to speak of. But each small round table held a charcoal grill in the center. And soon the same fellow who had gotten up from the table poured some red hot coals into ours. He then pulled this great steel elephant trunk device from the ceiling, which hung down and began to inhale the smoke from the coals.

We then proceeded to have a great meal. He brought out pork, all kinds of little side dishes, and bug chunks of lettuce. We used the lettuce to make little pork and side dish roll-ups. We ordered a bottle of Soju, the local booze, made from rice. It is about as alcoholic as schnapps, and is imbibed from little shot glasses. The table of men next to us were well into their 4th or 5th bottle of the stuff and they were quick to strike up a conversation. They quite forcefully began to engage us in broken bits of conversation in English Chinese and Japanese, and the volume level continued to rise. We drank some toasts with them. They let us try the plate of raw meat (it was amazing). And we yelled a lot. At one point, Scott and I were hunkered down, close to the table, with a Korean fellow opposite us. We glared at each other through the half full plate of raw meat. The Korean gentleman would grunt percussive bits of Korean at us, and we would grunt them back as loudly as we could. This call and response continued for some time. I was reminded, oddly enough, of our time in Varanasi, in which the Hindi holy-people had helped us to pray in call and response.

Then we looked at Scott’s watch. Mine, I am sorry to report, was stolen from me on the Tian Ren ferry. So let’s pause the story here to mourn the loss. Ah! I can barely contain myself… Ok. Pause now.

Back in Korea, we had to go meet Ann. So off we went, bidding our new friends farewell, and chalking that up as one of the greatest meals of our lives.

Ann took us across the city to the night club district. There we paid our 20 dollars and went down into a raging hip hop club, by the name of “Noise Basement.” It was indeed noisy and a basement. It was also raging. Hard. It was packed and people were freaking out on the dance-floor. Perhaps the freakiest of which, was our dear Mr. Norton. He transformed from a mild mannered adventure capitalist, into a savage beast, with a heart that pumps a digitally enhanced bass to every extremity, and which glands all over his body which emit an intoxicating vapor, spreading the transformation among those nearby. The switch had been switched. It could not be unswitched. The hip-hop had taken hold. We could only wait it out now.

So at 2:30 am we exited the club. Our ears rang, and we were famished. We took turns burning our mouths on spicy rice gluten balls soaked in boiling sauce. We were collecting ourselves in a 24 hour restaurant, when we began to realize a dilemma. With the subways and buses long stopped, and a group of some 8 or 10 people, we needed to get home. It was decided that those who lived very far away would be given some place to sleep at those who were closer. Ann lived very far away, and we offered one of the beds at Yim’s guesthouse. A rather expensive taxi ride later, we were fast asleep.

Leaving Tianjin, city of rust, was like a long goodbye kiss with China. And china had  abstaining from brushing and been smoking packs of cigarettes in preparation.

We had no “clean break” as one might in a plane launching from an airstrip, rather two hours stalled ferry, as our ship was continually delayed due to smog cover. We passed the time gawking at the Port of Tianjin. The acrid fog refused to thin, and when we finally departed, it was half an hour of snaking through the smokey labyrinth of docking canals, as our pilot ship escorted our own “Tian Ren” to the mouth of the Yellow Sea.

It seemed the port was home to a single ferry, ours, and was a place clearly developed for transporting cargo. This cargo was being loaded onto all manner of ships, painted in primary colors that oxidized through the fog into twisted pastels. Cranes poised idle, weather on the dock or mounted to the boats themselves. Names of ports beckoned from the ships’ helm, and mounds of red dust awaited loading adjacent to nondescript corrugated metal containers.

These are the kind of sights that really get me going. Countless blogs cater those hounding over the latest consumer electronics. Most tech guys like watches, mobile phones, mp3 players, and little gadgets. I like the gigantic steel things that enable global trade.

These gigantic unglamorous vessels oddly poetic names like “CNA CCM AFRICA” “Overseas Soverign,” and “Shining star” are owned by greek tycoons vacationing thousands of miles away in St. Moritz, shouting orders at teams of bankers who scramble in New York to value these rusting money machines.You see, the cargo ships are not trivial.Non-trivial to finance. New builds are expensive. The bigger the boat, the bigger the earning potential, the bigger the bet. You must spend a staggering amount of money and engineer a stream of payoffs from operating profits during the lifetime of the ship. If everyone wants ships, everyone will be building them and materials, labor, and dock space will be costly. By the time you’ve finished your ship, Hanjin, Samsung Heavy, Hyundai Heavy have just rolled out new builds too. Atop that, the (roughly) six year American economic cycle has hit an inflection point and supply outpaces demand for your services, dropping the price. Oops. At least now you have a gigantic boat with a nice shiny paint job.

Non-trivial to build. These gigantic things take time, space, a surprising degree of engineering expertise. Korea has a lockdown on this market, producing many ships in Incheon and Busan. Tianjin, too is trying to match the quality and undercut the price, but the Korean Chaebols have experience where the Chinese have a lot of mistakes yet to make. Additionally, these Chaebols are locked into stayed relationships with banks, governments, and may be cushioned by the other constituent firms that make up their holding conglomerate.

Non-trivial to own or operate. How long will the given economic boom last and will it overlap with the life cycle of your ship? Ever dealt with Philippine pirates armed with Russian made machine guns in the Sulu seas? They’re a real pain for your insurance premium (sea piracy and shipping accidents were the reasons Lloyds of London came about). It’s also a pain when Chinese people smugglers, known as “snakeheads,” were paid $60,000 per head to transport illegal immigrants in a shipping container, and you’ve been summoned to court to explain why they were discovered getting off your boat in Oakland, CA, rather than while getting on in Xiamen, Fujian. If the stress is too much for you, you can sell the freighter on the secondary market, like the Hua Run below: Manufactured in Vladivostok by the Russians then purchased and painted over by the Cambodians, ushered to a new home in Phnom Penh for a new life of dry goods transport.

Non-trivial to liquidate. What if the supertanker is leaking crude across the Arctic ? When repair costs exceed the expected future profitability of a vessel, its time for the graveyard. These graveyards are located in Gujarat, India, and Chittagong, Bangladesh. Why? Miles of shallow water near the mainland of these South Asian countries provide a place for the ships to sit lopsided in the sand while skinny, muscular, men are paid USD $1 per day to extract all the valuable scrap metal and disassemble the rusting beast. In industry jargon, this is referred to as “Shipbreaking.”

Assuming you’re not one of these misfortunate shipbreakers, and rather you’re a more fortunate shipbuilder its possible to get the timing right. You can borrow when money’s cheap, build where labor’s both cheap and skilled, and by the time you smash a bottle of champagne on the helm, the ever cycling economy is banging on your door to shuttle iron ore from Perth to Shanghai. That’s at least what Baosteel or Rio Tinto wants. Or it could be GE sending washing machines from Shenzhen, China to the Bahamas, where products sit in untaxed warehousing zones before going to market. A Nigerian oil magnate may send thousands of barrels of black gold from Lagos to Hong Kong. Or it could be shoes, motorcycles, steel pipe fittings, soccer jerseys, and diesel generators from Hong Kong to Lagos by Guinean traders in Guangzhou. There are ships for dry goods, ships to hold containers, and tankers to hold oil. There are even ships specially fitted to accommodate gigantic chemical tanks. Where do you think American food processing facilities off the New Jersey turnpike get their raw materials?

Shipping connects some of the worlds poorest with the worlds mass market middle class, and is overseen and orchestrated by some of the world’s richest. Catching a glimpse behind the scenes of the international logistics market on the Tianjin to Incheon ferry was stimulating and eye opening, driving my curiosity to new levels. As AsiaWheeling’s resident adventure capitalist, I will research further and determine what kind of inefficiencies or injustices exist in this market. Ones that we may address and continue to investigate on AsiaWheeling 2.0.

Back to our storyAs the Tian Ren neared the sunny Korean peninsula, shore birds began to ride the airstream created by the ferry. schoolchildren and ship engineers alike held out snacks which the birds snatched mid-flight with their beaks.

As the birds circled, darted, and arced, an engineering feat riving the natural one of the birds progressed around us.

A bridge connecting the island two bodies of land across many miles of water seemed to erect itself, as large machines filled pylons with cement mix and crane barges lifted road crew trucks up onto the causeway.

Korea was flexing its muscles. Samsung had branded this bridge, and the work itself has changed the way I consider civil engineering and its disciples.

The people on the boat began to buzz with the energy that accompanies a return trip home, and the clean sea breeze of Incheon welcomed us in a way that no burgeoning city in China could. Seoul lay before us, and with it, wheeling, drinkable tap water, post-modern metropolitan nightlife, and a new level of gonzo attitude.

Armed with a makeshift Korean phrase sheet, we dismounted the ship onto a packed bus which spilled into the customs hall.

We awoke as the sun was just beginning to spread grey light over Kashgar. We quickly showered and hopped on the bikes. Our first way point was the Kashgar Animal Market. It was located on the outskirts of town, so we wheeled hard through the golden sunrise and spiraling dust, stopping occasionally to scrutinize our already sweaty and melting map. We knew we were getting close when the traffic around us changed from bikes and taxis to three wheeled carts, piled high with cows, goats, and chickens, carts full of rope bridles drawn by donkeys, men on bicycle rickshaws transporting lengths of fencing and saddles, and the rich stench of a fearful beast.

We rounded a corner to find the market sprawling before us. We first turned off into the used motors and animal fencing section of the market for a bite to eat. We struggled to communicate with our waiter, a 14 year old boy, covered head to tow in blood spatters, who seemed completely baffled by our attempts to communicate. All but defeated we began to discuss leaving. Just then, he arrived back with a couple of steamed buns, covered in a sauce of vinegar and stewed vegetables. We stabbed our chopsticks in and ate hungrily. All around us, men covered in all manner of bloody filth ate similar dishes. Many of them seemed to have their steamed buns accompanied by a plat of oily lamb mush. And some gesticulation later, we too enjoyed this local combo. We payed our bill (80 cents) and climbed back on the bikes.

We rode past fellows welding and pressing metal into fencing, and children playing with the severed testicles of some beast. Soon we found ourselves in a giant open yard, which was quickly filling with persons in all manner of dress selling used vehicles. The space was sectioned off into trucks, cars, three-wheeled auto-rickshaw type things, and motorbikes. We found bicycles oddly abscent. And, disinterested with these motored wheels, we rode across the highway (now jammed with animals, trucks, oxcarts, people, and bicycles, and into the animal market.

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I awoke still somewhat under the influence of the anti-anxiety medication I had taken to help me sleep on the bus. It was 5am in Dali and we were being told to vacate. Feeling goofy and unfazed, I donned my pack hopped in a cab. I woke up 6 hours later in a very nice hotel that Jie had gotten for us at the tremendously low rate of 50RMB ($7) per night. We locked our luggage in the room, and took to the streets, a savage Chinese meal for breakfast and a can of Nescafe later, we were on a bus to the old city of Dali.

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“Resistance is ornamental” – Rem Koolhaas, on China

China has become a bit of a dirty word in the American lexicon. While I’m detached from what any given American may think about this country, attention to media headlines would suggest the following: Killer toys and deadly toothpaste. Dictatorship by committee that displaces families in the name of power generation projects. Censorship of Wikipedia, our latest oracle of knowledge. Unbridled economic growth threatening our own sovereignty, underpinned by a currency lauded by our own economists as an unfair weapon in the war of international trade. And with equity markets unilaterally considered less governed than casinos, China tempts money managers and financial alchemists the world round.

Of course, as AsiaWheeling’s resident adventure capitalist and resident ???????, this leads me to look deeper and asses the foundation of these claims. Do these above assumptions still leave China undervalued? Or are the implied future growth rates driving overvaluation? I hope to provide data that I have collected to you, our dear reader, so that you may be better informed to approach these questions.

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Suddenly we were in Hong Kong. The airport and the emigration process were easy, efficient, and metallic. All around us, money flowed with a furious intensity. In no time we had turned our Baht into HK$

and were purchasing Octopus cards. Octopus cards are a kind of universal proximity card. Our primary use for them was to ride the MTR, the spotlessly clean, efficient, and devastatingly metallic subway/light rail system of this fine city.

Using the Octopus card, one can not only ride all over Hong Kong on trains, but they are also able to buy snacks from vending machine, pay for your purchases at the pharmacy or 7-11 (Hong Kong is full of 7-11s), take a boat ride across the Harbor, and all simply by smacking your wallet down on a yellow landing pad. One can even visit any of the strategically located octopus inquiry pedestals, and slap down your wallet to see you transaction history and current balance. The most unbelievable thing about the octopus card is that when you are done with it, you get not only your 50 HK$ deposit back, but also the money you had placed on the card! Unbelievable.

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I was frantically feeding the last of my Baht into the international phone-call machine in the luxurious and futuristic Bangkok airport. My mother was on the other end. It must have been two or three in the morning there, but  we struggled against the Bhat clock to relay vital information:  from my mother to me: that I had most likely contracted and E-Coli infestation, and that the discoloration of my hands (now almost completely gone) was due to blood vessels inside me breaking apart and bleeding into the interior of my body cavity. Furthermore, it was the right move to be on the, Cipro, despite the disappearance of my symptoms. I was trying to communicate to my dear mother a sense of confidence and that she should not worry. Some 30 seconds into this reasonably complicated exchange, the Baht ran dry and the connection was cut.

At least some information had been transmitted, and it looked like, as I had been hoping, I was not going to die. After a nip of Thai tea (not to be confused with bubble tea, as it so often is in America). The creamy beverage was more like a mildly sweet melted ice cream than an iced tea, but none the less, blew me away. We sipped and looked out the window at the face of the Thai king. Thailand is a thriving monarchy, and the likeness of the king is to be found everywhere.

We reached the waiting area for our flight and sat down near the first class flight attendants. This day we were flying Emirates, and the first class attendants were dressed in the most lavish uniforms, with tan veils hanging from their bright red caps. On the flight, though, we were not treated by these women. Instead we had an honest to goodness prince working the cabin. He was tall and majestic and very regally told the Indian fellows ahead of us that, no, they could not have another beer before they finished the one they were currently consuming. All in all, the flight on Emirates was splendid. The food was great,

service was impeccable, the airplane was clean and smelled so good, and I was feeling the best I had in days.

Our Airplane landed in Thailand, I looked out the window, and my jaw fell open. The Bangkok airport is amazing, like a giant metal caterpillar sprawled across the tarmac, airplanes suckling at its many teats. We exited the plane to find the interior to be not so different than that of Icheon, that is to say, a giant hyper-sheik shopping center.

Scott explained to me that the place we were going to spend the night was called Khaosan Road. So when I was at the immigration desk, I scribbled “COWSAN” on my card and handed it to the man. He laughed out loud and stamped my passport. That was it. We were into Thailand. As far I was was concerned you could have told me this was Tokyo, and I would have ate it up. I scanned the gleaming hall for Scott’s Panama hat. I quickly located him, but not as quickly as in India. One of the first things I noticed was that there were white people here. Lots of Europeans and Britts. And American music was playing everywhere. We went to an ATM to procure some Baht (see the symbol below) and we hopped a bus to Khoasan Road.

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I awoke on the soft sheets of Mrs. Jalan’s guest room after my 16 hours of rest. The bed still called to me, as did the bathroom, but not with the urgency it had possessed the day before. I felt much better. My plumbing was still reeling from the disease which had racked it, but I was able to put some lentil pancakes into my stomach and eat some mango pieces which were served to my by the most gracious and capable house staff. As I ate, I looked down at my hands. Both of them were covered in purple and green splotches. This, it seemed, was the last straw. I logged onto the internet in the house’s most luxurious technology room, and quickly sent off some pictures of my hands, to be examined by AsiaWheeling’s doctors back in the states. Despite this bizarre symptom, I felt on the whole much better. I had also taken a pill to relieve the dysentery, so, despite the impeding journey to Thailand there was little to fear…

…until the Malarone crazy hour hit. This time it hit hard, my system was empty and the Malarone took rein. It was just after Mrs. Jalan’s most gracious driver dropped us at the Kolkata airport, that I began to be wracked with indecision and anxiety. We walked to the Jet airways check-in and a man next to a large contraption asked if we wanted to have our bags wrapped in cellophane to prevent tamper and damage. We declined. But the sneaking suspicion that we perhaps should have obliged him and protected our luggage crept upon me like a begging leper. We checked in, went through security, had our passports stamped, all the while I was, on a certain level, mortified that we might, just might, have made the worst decision of our lives. And our bags would, without the added protection of cellophane wrap, be spit from the universe like a watermelon seed.

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