Scammed in Bangkok

Thailand was a dream destination for me, until I seemingly stepped off the airplane with the wrong foot. For some reason, I was the unluckiest person in my travel group, and I already wanted to get out of there.

It’s our first day. Our tour guide instructs us to leave our belongings at the hotel, and our initial exploration of Bangkok involves a boat tour. The capital boasts a river that cuts through the city from end to end, similar to many cities around the world.

As I step into the boat, I don’t pay much attention to where I sit. All I know is that I don’t want to be near the loud boys in our group, so I choose the very front.

I hadn’t really noticed the river before getting inside the boat, but now I can clearly see how dark the water is. It has a pale brown color, nothing like the clean blue or green rivers I’ve seen elsewhere. I guess I understand, Bangkok is a massive city in Southeast Asia, and like my home country, Brazil, keeping river water clean is not exactly a government priority.

The ride starts, and I quickly realize the water isn’t just brown, it has a very unpleasant taste, similar to the stinky tofu I had in Shanghai a few weeks earlier. The obvious reason: water is splashing all over my face and body. Of course, that’s why no one else is sitting in the front with me.

I look behind me. Every seat is taken. The only other option would be switching sides, which would simply mean choosing whether the nasty water splashes the left or right side of my face.

It becomes evident that the river serves as a sewer for many of the houses along its banks. I’m so checked out from all the filth splashing on me that all I can do is hope nothing else from the river ends up on my body.

This ride is taking forever. The driver keeps stopping next to every six-foot lizard crawling up a wall or into someone’s home, just so the white tourists (us, but not really me) can take pictures. Why was he stopping at every damn lizard? After spotting one monster-sized reptile, I close my eyes, shut my mouth, and hope this ride will end soon.

With my eyes closed, my mind wanders. I think about how, in the United States, lizards are seen as cool animals, kids catch them in lakes and forests and even keep them as pets.

In Brazil, my only interaction with lizards involved brushing them out of the ceiling while my sister screamed at the top of her lungs for me to kill it, being careful not to hit it too hard, or the tail might separate from the body.

According to Brazilian popular belief, once the tail and body split, each part grows back, creating two new lizards.

Not to mention the hundreds of stories about lizards falling from ceilings straight into people’s mouths while they sleep. Mothers would warn their kids to sleep with their mouths shut, or else.

The ride finally ends. Everyone can see how wet and disgusting I look, but no one says anything. I’m sure they feel pity for me, soaked in what was basically shit water. Back at the hotel, I scrub every inch of my body under steaming hot water.

The two-hour shower makes me lose track of time, causing me to miss the fancy dinner the tour guide had scheduled at the restaurant next door. For the next five days, all I heard about is how incredible the sticky mango rice dessert was, and how I didn’t get a single bite.

On our last day in Bangkok, we split up to explore on our own. Phil and I make our way to a tuk-tuk, one of those three-wheeled vehicles that can take two or three people anywhere quickly and cheaply. We were warned that some drivers might hike up prices, so negotiating the fare is always a good idea.

Five dollars almost turns into five thousand when the driver suddenly stops halfway to our destination and asks us to come inside a store with him. We’re confused, but he claims he just needs to do something quickly and that it’s safer if we go in with him.

The moment we enter, he rushes to the back of the shop and disappears. Two men welcome us to their tailored suit store, inviting us to look around and ask questions.

Less than two minutes later, another man approaches us, asking to take our measurements in case we need anything. It’s fine, I guess, I know I’m not buying anything. But I stare at a silky dark purple suit for longer than casual “just looking” time, and they interpret that as interest.

In a strangely charming way, Phil and I are ushered into fitting rooms. Suddenly, there are ten suits laid out, all variations of the ones we glanced at.

We have no idea how to escape. Everyone is extremely polite, but the energy is off. We were put in this situation without consent, and I hate it. Now I’m inside a fitting booth, feeling obligated to try something on, when, holy shit.

I see the prices stitched inside the blazer. The cheapest one is $1,200, and they go all the way up to $2,500.

I am not spending another minute here, let alone a dollar. We’re the only people in the store, and I’m not sure how safe it is to simply say no and walk out.

So I decided that the same way we were dragged into this situation is how I’ll get us out, by fooling everyone.

I grab my phone and say loudly, “WHAT? SHE FELL DOWN THE STAIRS AND SHE’S BLEEDING?”

Phil jumps out of one of the booths wearing only his underwear, asking who fell. I can’t believe how naive he is. I tell him to get dressed, now, and that I’m getting us out without spending a cent.

I storm out of the fitting room, yelling into the phone, “SHE HIT HER HEAD? YOU NEED TO CALL AN AMBULANCE RIGHT NOW! ASK THE HOTEL STAFF FOR HELP! WE’RE ON OUR WAY!”

I rush to the door and tell one of the salesmen to get our driver. We need to go back to the hotel, there’s an emergency. We all run to the tuk-tuk, and the driver asks, “Back to the hotel, sir?”

I’m so annoyed that my face can’t hide it.

“No,” I snapped. “Back to where we wanted to go in the first place.” I threw him a ten-dollar bill, which for him was probably a lot.

He sees how angry I am and drives us to the riverside without saying a word. Before getting out, I ask why he stopped at that shop in the first place. Do we really look like people who need tailored suits?

With a smirk, he replies, “You negotiate price. I need to find extra money somewhere else.”

The next day, we fly to Krabi, a beach town famous for its floating rock formations. Everyone is excited to jump into the water, but the tour guide tells us to rest, tomorrow will be a much better experience.

Another boat ride. At least this time it’s ocean water, and from what I can see, it’s actually blue. We wake up early and begin our adventure. As soon as we reach the middle of the ocean, everyone jumps in without hesitation. The water is warm, and we start splashing each other for fun.

But very quickly, we realize this is not the right place, time, or season to swim. Ingrid resurfaces screaming in pain. We look around, and within seconds everyone scrambles back to the boat, some of us being stung by jellyfish.

I keep flailing my arms toward the boat, but it’s too late. I get stung on my forearm and neck.

“Someone get me out of here!” I scream.

Back on the boat, half of us are in agony. The tour guide apologizes nonstop, claiming he had no idea jellyfish were present, that the season wasn’t supposed to start for another month. It doesn’t matter. All I can focus on is the burning pain spreading across my body.

Then I shout, “Someone pee on me!”

Everyone stares at me like I’m some kind of sex pervert. Why is he saying this now? I can tell they’re thinking it. No one asks, so I explain.

Ammonia neutralizes the pain, and urine is the fastest available source. I know this because when I was twelve, I got stung by a jellyfish in Rio de Janeiro. The nearest pharmacy was fifty minutes away, and I wouldn’t stop screaming. The lifeguard explained the ammonia trick and said, “Pee on it.”

I was too nervous to do it myself. So my father peed on my leg in front of dozens of people, easily one of the most shameful moments of my life. At least my mom tried to hide it by wrapping a beach towel around us.

This time, no one pees on me, for obvious reasons. And unfortunately, I can’t reach my arm or neck with my own urine. I just have to endure the pain.

This final experience adds yet another layer of travel trauma, on top of the shit water river and the tailored suit scam.

I’m sure one day I’ll overcome all of this with another trip to Thailand. But next time, I’ll make sure it’s the right swimming season, I’ll stay far away from boat rides, and I definitely won’t negotiate with tuk-tuk drivers.

Ongoing Tofu flashbacks

Trying new food, for me, is a personal game. I look for places with no tourists, only locals. Sometimes, the dirtier, the better. I used to say I wanted to eat where the “rats eat.” Writing this now, I realize how disgusting that sounds, but I promise it’s funny in Portuguese, especially when I say it to my parents. My mom completely freaks out every time, which honestly just makes it better.

I could try to explain the phrase, but maybe it’s best not to. The point is simple: I want real food. Local food. Cheap food. The kind of place where everyone eats and nothing is adjusted to please a tourist’s palate.

Honestly, Sam was fully like this before July 2023. Before I got really sick in Colombia, lost twelve pounds in five days, and ended up in the emergency room. I learned my lesson… sort of. I didn’t stop playing my food game, I just became a little more selective about where I play it.

Before that experience, I would eat literally anything. Scorpions, chicken hearts, rabbit, crocodile meat, thousand-year-old eggs, grasshoppers, and even Spam. Sadly, I still haven’t tried some of the truly extreme things we see on TV, like eyeballs, kashk, or Icelandic hákarl, but I’m open to it.

China, though, is hands down the best place to claim you’ve eaten unusual food.I still have flashbacks of the moment I tried the infamous Stinky Tofu!

As soon as we arrived, I already had a list of things I wanted to try, duck, insects, whatever I could find. And about insects, let me say this to anyone who’s afraid: if they’re fried, just try them. They don’t taste bad at all. Honestly, they taste like nothing. Just fried dough with salt.

When we got to Shanghai, our tour guide told us we had to visit a flea market for local food. That’s when I got really excited. I knew this was where I’d find the kind of food I’m always searching for. Maybe I’d even see a rat or two running around in the back. (Sorry for that image again, it’s funny at this point.)

The market had everything: frogs on sticks, fish on sticks, fish parts on sticks. But one stall stood out. There was a long line, and everyone waiting looked local. Most of them were young women, dressed impeccably, like those Asian girls you see on TikTok with flawless makeup.

I looked up to see what everyone was lining up for. All I could see was a huge pot and a frying pan. Nothing else. I waited, curious, and finally saw the girl at the front leave with a bowl of black, square-shaped puffs covered in sauce and topped with something green and cute.

I couldn’t read the sign, of course, so I got in line. When it was my turn, I asked what it was.

“Stinky tofu.”

Stinky? Like… smells bad? I understood tofu. That made sense. But how do you make tofu stinky?

I ordered it.

They dropped five big squares of tofu into the fryer until they turned almost completely black. I’d had fried tofu before, dark, crispy, delicious, and it never smelled bad. Then they opened the giant pot, scooped out a thick liquid, and dumped it all over the tofu.

The smell hit me instantly. That’s when I understood the name.

Out of our group of twelve, I was the only one brave, or stupid, enough to order it. I took one bite, and my entire life flashed before my eyes. You know those movie scenes where someone is about to die and

suddenly remembers everything? That’s exactly what it felt like.

Crocodile meat, thousand-year-old eggs, scorpions, nothing came close to this.

It tasted like opening one of those sewer lids in New York City, the ones steaming in the middle of winter, climbing down inside with your mouth open, and swallowing whatever warm, fermented liquid and mystery chunks were sloshing around at the bottom. Not just one gulp, but a mouthful you can’t immediately spit out.

The smell alone was enough to confuse my brain. My tongue registered rot. My nose registered something dead. My stomach immediately sent an emergency alert to the rest of my body. I chewed once, once, and that was already too much. The texture was spongy, slimy, and somehow gritty at the same time, like a soaked kitchen sponge that had been marinating in garbage water for days.

I’m sorry for being this graphic, but just writing this makes my throat tighten and my stomach flip. It was the nastiest thing I have ever put in my mouth. Not the scorpion, not the thousand-year-old egg, not the crocodile meat, nothing even came close. Almost five years later, I can still remember the exact taste, like it permanently branded itself onto my tongue.

And all I could think was: why? Why do beautiful, well-dressed Chinese girls line up for this? What am I missing? Is this an acquired taste, or is this some kind of collective prank I accidentally volunteered for?

Stinky tofu now sits firmly at the top of my list of the weirdest foods I’ve ever tried, and to this day, it’s the only one I couldn’t even swallow.

I guess every adventure traveler has a limit. Turns out, mine is fermented tofu that smells like sewage.

the smile before the disaster

had to get some fruit after to disguise the stinky tofu lingering taste (it didn't work haha)

What Am I doing in London

After my two-year Mormon mission, I return to Brazil, trying to get my life going, but I'm feeling pretty lost about what to do next. When that happens, my first instinct is: I need to travel and find myself.

I save some money, make some phone calls, and get a flight to Lyon, France, a place I had lived before when I was 15 to learn French, and again head back to France to brush up on my language skills.

But this time, I add a twist. I plan to study for a month and then backpack around Europe for another.

When I start classes at this French school, as always, I make friends with the students who kick off at the same time as me.

We're a diverse bunch, all in our early twenties, and some still in their teens. There's an American boy, two Greek girls, my new best friend Francesca from Italy, a dude from Bali, and another two guys from Japan. A gal from England called Lily, two Brazilian dudes (including yours truly), three Colombians, and about eight Koreans.

For some reason, Koreans are all about learning French. They'd pick it over English to learn as a second language, at least back in 2017.

Some of us are very tight, always hanging out after class, hitting up museums and parties on weekends. And with 4 Latinos in the group, there's definitely some serious flirting happening.

Lily, the British girl, and I start getting closer. First, she asks me to help her study French, and then we go out to museums or walk around the city together. We spend a bunch of alone time together, but I'm not planning to do anything. I know I'm about to go on an adventure, and I don't want to get attached.

She does ask me out on a date, so I accept, and let me tell you, this date couldn't have screamed more "French."

The romance is off the charts. We have dinner she made herself at her top-floor apartment overlooking the city. We cruise around town on one bike as the sun sets, with me pedaling and her in the basket, and then we grab gelato by the river. Seriously, it feels like a scene straight out of a movie.

We're sitting there chatting, and she hits me with some pretty odd questions for a first date, like how many girls I'd kissed before. I tell her I've had a pretty standard Brazilian teenage "love" life, kissing quite a large number of girls. I mean, my first kiss was with my neighbor at 12 years old, haha.

So I ask her the same questions, and she quickly responds: "same, same. And me and my ex-boyfriend, wow, we were wild!"

I find that conversation a bit odd. I've never been hit with those questions on a date before. For some reason, I feel like she's trying to impress me. She's 18 though, so I figure it's just insecurity.

So naturally, I lean in for a kiss, and as I'm getting close to her lips, she quickly turns her face away, which catches me off guard.

"Everything okay?"

She says yes and it was just reflex. “Should we go to your house?” I am still very much recent from being a missionary, and going to the house could only mean one thing, and I don't want to do anything. I'm very much thinking "sex only after marriage."

I tell her we could just stay there, but she says she isn't used to kissing in public. I tell her that's France, everyone kisses in public!

I kiss her and something is odd. Her kiss is not flowing naturally; it feels very rigid, a bit too dry, too much teeth, and where is the tongue?

Turns out, it's her first kiss. I can just tell. What was she doing with her "wild boyfriend?"

I just don't say anything; I know I'm gonna take off in about a week, so we keep things cool. But the day before I leave France, she calls me and asks if I want to visit London.

She knows the city isn't in my plans, and she would love to have me over at her place and show me around.

Well, a promise of free accommodation in London. Plus, having a local guide in London? I could manage some dry kisses for a few days.

A week later, I book a bus from Paris to London. And let me tell you, it is quite an experience that I still don't know if everyone should have one day, or it is a totally no.

Imagine this: you get on a bus, and just that by itself is an experience. A bus full of French and British people; the smell fight is insane. There is so much body odor, mixed with cologne that it makes you higher than drugs probably.

And then when you get to the edge of the country, the bus goes inside a cargo train thing that goes inside a tunnel that is inside the earth underwater. You are literally trapped!

When I get to the station, she is there, like a scene out of The Notebook, waiting for her soldier to return home. She hands me an extra Oyster card, so I don't have to pay for transportation.

Thank goodness, 'cause those rides were about $6 each. That for 4 days alone would have blown my budget for the month.

We make it to her place, in one of the posh neighborhoods in South London. The street looks like something straight out of a Mr. Bean episode. Inside, I'm greeted by her parents, who don't really stop doing what they were doing to say hi, let's just say, are a bit cold.

We head straight into the city to tour around. That night, we have dinner with her parents, and let me tell you, it's a bit awkward. They're super formal, asking us about France and how we met.

I finish my shepherd's pie, and they're still only halfway through. I'm itching to wrap up that conversation and just go up to my room; the energy is off.

Later that night, Lily and I are in her room, planning out the next day, when her mother walks in and says, "Hi kids, I just wanted to give you these to make sure you're both safe. We don't want any accidents!" handing us condoms.

Did this British lady just give us condoms and say "no accidents?" Lily quickly says, "Oh mom, it's okay. Sam is Mormon, and we won't be doing anything." The mom stares at me for like 3 seconds, looks me up and down and says "Sure." leaves the condoms, and walks out.

The next day, after touring the city again, I ask her to have dinner in the city. I really want to avoid dinner with her parents again. We come, and her parents are sitting on the couch watching TV. We try to walk straight past them to our rooms, but the mom says:

"Lily come, you both watch TV with us!" The tone of her voice is definitely not asking but demanding.

We sit down and watch some kind of British Jeopardy show. Not even five minutes into the show, they mute the TV, both turn to us, and her dad asks, "So, Sam, what's the plan after this trip?"

I tell him I'm probably going to finish my Europe tour and apply to go to university somewhere. I'm still figuring it out.

Then her mom chimes in, "In your home country?"

I reply, "No, anywhere I get accepted."

She says, "So, mainly in your home country, where you want to live after, right!?"

It's not so much a question as it is a statement. I say, "Sure, but I'm open to going anywhere else too, maybe Europe, the US."

Then her mom kinda twitches her head, looking a little uncomfortable, and insists: "Go anywhere to study? But definitely with the purpose of eventually going back to your country Brazil, right?"

Why did she emphasize the word Brazil? I think. She really hammers the whole "go back to your country" thing. I still don't want to comply with what they're saying and say:

"I don't know. I can see myself living in Europe or the USA."

Lily jumps in and says: "See mom, he wants to live here!" That is not what I said but ok I guess.

Her mother starts to look irritated and replies: "But why would you want to leave your country, where they speak your language, your home, your parents?"

Sam: I don't know, 'cause I enjoy other countries too. Lily's mother: But isn't Brazil so far away, wouldn't you miss your family.

That was it, I had no more energy to be in that endless conversation. I got her point; she wanted me to go back to my country.

Sam: "Sure, yes, I will probably go back to my country."

She quickly turns to Lily and says, "See, Lily, he's going back to Brazil."

Then her dad drops this: "And like he said, he's a church boy and is going back to his country to start a family there and with a girl of the same race as him."

What on earth did I just hear? What was even happening? I make it to my room, and strangely enough, my father calls me that night to catch up. My dad with an outside and I definitely more mature point of view pointed out what the situation was looking like: She is obsessed with you, she probably told her parents she is in love with you and she wants to be with you.

They are very nervous because you are a stranger guy, from a third world country, "dating" their 18-year-old girl. And probably all they have envisioned for her is changing because she wants to be with you.

I had no idea that was what was happening. I thought I was just visiting London with my summer fling.

That same night, she invites me for a walk around the neighborhood. We end up on a trail behind her house. Then she drops a bombshell: she's considering bailing on the fancy British art school university she got into and applying to the same college one I'm looking at, just so we can be together.

Hold on. I didn't even know where I was going to apply to. She said it didn't matter as long as we were together.

Right on that dark forest, behind her house, we both alone, I get the chills. If this girl is so in love with me, her parents are so desperate for that to end, my dramatic brain quickly thought of the movie "Get Out" where the rich white people kill the black boyfriend. Her parents to make her love madness stop, would kill me and hide the body somewhere in the woods, haha So dramatic, but I feel that way.

The next day, bags all set, I let them know I have to hit the road. Her parents practically usher me out the door asking no questions why I was leaving; it was like their plan had worked out.

Lily walks me to the station crying the whole time, wondering why I was leaving so soon, we still had 2 days left. I don't even answer, give her a kiss, the Oyster card, turn around, and get on that first subway, not even knowing what station I was getting out. But I was getting out of that town.

Now 7 years later I look back and think that whole situation was so dramatic and funny. Of course, now it would have been totally different. I would have ended that situationship right after giving her the first kiss and knew she was lying about it. But overall, a funny way to remember London.