He was with me omnipresently, during my sojourns in hippie-thronged Mexico and South America. He abandoned me in North America and in Europe, where nobody can fit so much as a pony-tail into their hectic modern lives, let alone a daily dose of stoned inner peace. But now that I'm in Thailand, I can most definitely say that my old friend Bob Marley is back, and that he's bigger than ever. Bob is, of course, the undisputed king of all Reggae, the mascot of all hippies, and the master of all chill-out music. His red-yellow-green, dreadlock-infused banner flies tall and proud, everywhere you may go in Thailand.
Whether you want to get stoned off your face to it, get wasted on Sang Som whisky to it, or simply "feel al-rite" with it, none can deny that Bob is the answer. However, I swear: I've heard so much gawdaym, frikkin' Bob the past year, that if I ever do happen to see a buffalo soldier one day, I'm takin' his motherf$#%in' buffalo a$$ daown. No, I am not feeling the love: I am feeling sick to death of hearing the same 4 or 5 Bob songs non-stop, for an entire year of backpacking! If there's one thing that will be good about getting home, it will be this: No Marley, No Cry.