Delightful Asian Infatuation: Travel, and Romance, in Tropical Paradise

By Hans Meier

For decades, Hans Meier has visited Southeast Asia – from Thailand to Vietnam, from Cambodia to Indonesia, from Laos to the Philippines. He travelled independently and with an open mind.

Several times, Hans fell in love with wonderful, respectable ladies of the area. Until he married one of them.

This is Hans Meier’s account of his delightful Asian encounters. Among them are Noi in Thailand, Isah in Indonesia, Cambodian Norah and Vietnamese girl Phuong. As an intrigued westerner, Hans Meier shares their amazing local culture and their special Asian mindsets.

What happens when boy meets girl on the Asian trail? Hans Meier has stories to tell – sometimes heart-warming, touching, often funny. Always insightful, well-natured and non-offensive.

You will travel straight from your armchair with a smile. You will learn a lot, you might even fall in love. Stunning photographs add eye-candy to the experience.

Note: This book is perfectly family friendly. There is no explicit language, no graphic detail and no red-light visit. The author meets respectable people only, on beaches, in parks and restaurants.

Ever dreamt of discovering delightful Southeast Asia? You like the Asian ways, the food, the people? You could see yourself with a special Asian someone? Or you have been there, done that, and want to reminisce? This book tells it all:

20 sparkling stories, written from real life, introduce very special ladies and their charming environment. Experience life styles and thinking in Southeast Asia – in entertaining, fun ways, easy to follow (35.000 words, like a short novel of 110 pages, professionally prepared by an Amazon recommended studio).

Along the read, you’ll visit popular destinations such as Bangkok and Isaan in Thailand; Angkor Wat and Phnom Penh in Cambodia; Solo Surakarta and the temples of Borobodur in Indonesia. Plus all those charming villages and provincial capitals that tourists rarely get to see. And you’ll feel it was you who fell in love on that beach, or in that river side restaurant.

Questions left open? Then check the book’s executive summary, Ten Rules for Delightful, Successful Encounters – and enjoy your next trip to the region even more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hans Meier
• Release date: Nov 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466061354

Book preview

Delightful Asian Infatuation

Travels, and Romance, in Tropical Paradise

by

Hans Meier

Copyright 2011 by Hans Meier

Smashwords Edition

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Delightful Asian Infatuation

Part 1: Infatuation across Southeast Asia

Delightful Local Lover (1) – Isah in Central Java, Indonesia

Delightful Local Lover (2) – Phuong in South Vietnam

South Vietnam – A Day Trip With Phuong

Philippines – Texting Maria

Part 2: Four weeks in Cambodia with Norah, My Khmer Lady

My Arrival in Phnom Penh

Our First Evening

Dahlaeng With Darling

Trips by Car

Sihanoukville by Night

The Apartment

Dr. Norah does it again

Phnom Penh By Night

My Departure From Phnom Penh

Part 3: More Time with Norah in Cambodia

Angkor Wat and Siem Reap with Norah

At the Noodle Restaurant

A Joke About Cambodian Men

Part 4: Shy and Lively in Thailand

Isaan – Shy Khun Noi

Isaan – Lively Mrs Lek

Isaan – My Night out with Miss Pook

Bangkok – By Underground To Miss Puy

Bangkok – The Land of Sober

-- Addendum --

Ten Rules for Delightful, Successful Encounters

More Asian Books by Hans Meier

The Website

The Photographs

Contact

My Favorite Stories

Copyright Page

Part 1: Infatuation across Southeast Asia

Delightful Local Lover (1) – Isah in Central Java, Indonesia

Isah was my first Southeast Asian lover. A Central Java rice farmer’s daughter with a bunch of five or seven brothers and sisters, Isah was the one child chosen to invest in. She was sent to classes for English, computer and tourism. Yet the family money would not make ends meet, so during holidays Isah worked as a waitress.

Java is Indonesia’s main island. I staid on Java’s south coast in Pangandaran, on the Pantai Timur (lit. the eastern beach). A sudden afternoon downpour interrupted my town stroll and drove me into a restaurant that catered to Indonesian tourists. I was not hungry, but I needed a dry space, so I ordered local tea with lemon.

Isah was the waitress. Isah and I were totally alone on the premises.

Too bad, I thought, now I’m easy prey. The Javaneses’ Where-you-come-from-Where-you-go can wreck your nerves, and in this restaurant I sure was exotic.

Isah delivered the tea with a smile and then left me alone with my Jakarta Post for over an hour.

The rain had stopped. Harga berappa, I called for the bill. Isah materialized out of nowhere, brought the bill, then the change.

Where-you-come-from, she finally asked.

***

Isah was proud of her Central Java heritage. She taught me local Java language, as opposed to the official Bahasa Indonesia. She wanted to show me around Solo Surakarta town, and not only the famous Borobodur temples. I took a hotel room for me and another one for her. It staid like this for a while.

One Sunday a yellow pickup bus took us onto the rim of a drive-up volcano, ringed with snackstalls. We bought freshly roasted peanuts and joined the droves of Indonesian strollers.

So funny in the restaurant in Pangandaran, I said to Isah. First you don’t talk to me for one hour, and when I’m about to leave, you start to ask.

Yes, she replied, I guess all this Where-you-come-from-Where-you-go from us Javaneses can wreck your nerves. So I remained silent.

She continued: But you looked lonely, so in the end I wanted to give you some company – after paying, you could easily walk away if you didn’t like talking to me.

I was about the only westerner around the volcano rim, so several Indonesians wanted to pose with me for a picture. Among them many ladies with a tchador, the muslim headscarf that locks tightly around the chin. I asked Isah to take pictures with me and those muslim tchador ladies as well; this was no problem. In all our time, Isah herself never showed a tchador, she usually wore jeans and a long-sleeves shirt. Her skirts always covered her knees.

***

On another day we took a rambling bus with no window glasses out into green hills. At the end of the world, Isah convinced two moustached motorcycle drivers to take us even further. On Enduros, we bounced uphill over dirt roads. Paid a few Rupiahs and still had to walk for a while through mist and huge trees, until we reached a decayed Hindu temple. Quite a special place up in the clouds, and not in the guidebook.

Several stone figures exposed huge lingams (penises) and vaginas. Oh, I smiled to Isah, are all Indonesians like that? She smiled back openly.

It was the rainy season, but not yet raining on that noon: A gray sky, not cold, not warm, about no weather at all. We sat silently on a crumbling wall that must have been hundreds or thousands of years old.

Nice to come here with you, Isah said finally, Indonesian guys would talk stupid things about the stone figures.

***

As we sat on the stone wall in the misty middle of nowhere between phallic Hindu figures, Isah moved a bit closer to me. Our relationship had been strictly platonic until then. After all I knew she wanted to be a good muslim and I had no intention at all to risk our precious friendship. There had been no intimacies and no very personal talks either. But we both obviously had similar likings – quiet, natural, serene places like this one, enjoyed in a quiet mood of togetherness. We both avoided the tourist areas of Solo Surakarta except for (back then) buying pirated cassettes, and we stayed away from the city crowds in an old colonial courthouse outside the center. Our landlord there was a thirtyish bearded Indonesian batik artist in sarong; he smoked strange-smelling stuff and asked no questions.

As we sat on the temple wall, now I could feel Isah’s arm along my arm. And she came even closer. Her leg touched mine. Now – a shy sniff kiss on my cheek.

It was the very first time I came to enjoy an Asian girl’s sensuality. I had her almond eyes up close. I smelt her almond skin. Her jet-jet-jet-black hair in super close-up.

But all this had nothing erotic, nothing calculated, nothing demanding or promising about it. It felt more like brother and sister, or dear friends, enjoying sunset on the beach. Theses touches were so flowing, so natural, as self-evident as the stone wall we were sitting on.

Slowly we walked back down – loosely hand in hand, as long as we were alone.

***

Back on the rambling bus to town the special mood was gone. This was a public situation. We discussed where and what to have for dinner.

Finally back in the hotel, you might wonder what happened after the magic up in the clouds.

Nothing happened. Isah said Good night, Hans and went to her room. This Hans from her mouth was the biggest intimacy I could expect from my muslim lady, a good Central Java rice farmer’s daughter after all. And it was ok.

Each room had a door straight into the garden, with a small veranda out front; more like a row of bungalows actually. I staid a bit on my veranda to read Joseph Conrad’s Almayer’s Folly in the gloomy veranda light. I tried not to listen for sounds from Isah’s room, but then I heard her steps and Isah came out. She was not surprised to see me on my veranda. Maybe she had listened for sounds from me.

Hans, I forgot: Your pictures have been developed and printed, I have them here. She had brought my films to a lab she found more trustworthy than the usual Fuji minilabs on every corner.

We agreed to look at the pictures right then. As the light on the verandas was too dim, we went back to my room. Was there a little tension? It was the first time that we spent more than a few seconds in one enclosed bedroom. I must say that in those weeks I always kept my room especially orderly, and underwear tucked away, just in case Isah might show up.

There was no other seating, so we sat down on the wrought-iron doublebed and leafed through the prints. The prints were well done on Kodak paper and the negatives stored professionally. But I didn’t really care for my pictures, instead I tried to steal more breathtaking close-ups of Isah’s young, infatuating skin, her silky hair and those big, big eyes. I had had my share of delightful western ladies, but this was something else altogether.

As if nothing special, Isah came close again. Our bare arms, our legs (in jeans) would touch casually. Our hands would touch when we exchanged the prints. The contrast of her bronze fingers and my white fingers blew me away, a sight that has thrilled me ever since. Isah... For her it seemed all nothing special.

***

We came to the photographs from that drive-up volcano, me ringed by muslim Indonesian ladies in a tight tchador.

This tchador must be very hot, I said.

No, it’s not, she claimed happily as if a tchador was something desirable.

Some wear it, some not, I went, what’s all about it?

Isah: The tchador is only for ladies who are – and then she used an Indonesian word I have forgotten, but she explained it as clean in a religious sense. As she talked more about the meaning of islam for her, she got a low, trusting voice I hadn’t heard from her before. I felt kind of honoured to hear her speaking straight from her heart. And I was very aware that we were still very close to each other, our arm hair exchanging little electrical strokes now and then.

Or didn’t she feel so?

Would you like to wear a tchador too, I asked?

Oh yes! She beamed.

My Isah in a tchador next to me? What a scene.

So, why don’t you wear a tchador then, I asked?

Now she gave me new looks like – I don’t know – I really don’t know how to describe them, but I felt those were looks of a desire to