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One Year PT I: Reflections and Revelations

2007-03-17T12:43:00.001+07:00

When I say that we've been home for about a year, I always feel shocked. It's so strange that the passage of a year can go so fast. Traveling, time went slower – but it didn't feel slow, it felt right. It felt like a lifetime, but in a good way. And now that I'm home, and I'm back to the "real world' of my life, things are fast... and consequently short. One year here is the equivalent to a few months on the road. It's still hard to get used to.

Since coming home, Benjamin and I have looked upon the calendar in a whole new light. Instead of seeing 'June', we saw 'our second month in China', and instead of seeing 'March', we see 'the last month of our trip'. And in this way, the trip has lived on and on, long after the official end, when we boarded a plane on April 5 (2006) from Bangkok to LA. I like this, the unexpected continuation of the grand adventure – the fact that we can place ourselves somewhere else 'a year ago' means that we can live vicariously through those experiences in some remote way... a bit like living in the past I suppose, but sometimes that's not a bad thing.

So here we are, on the brink of the year anniversary of our return home. From this point on, we can't say refer to an amazing foreign experience of the year before, but one from home... and unfortunately, those experiences seem so mundane in comparison. I feel like this is REALLY the end of our trip. It's not actually the date that we returned home, but instead, it's the date that we can no longer look back on the previous year with the eyes of a traveler. It means that our year abroad ended longer ago than it feels, because as I stated before, time here is lightening speed. And it also means that I am farther and farther away from the thing that makes me feel truly alive.

Back on the Road

2006-10-03T23:40:00.000+07:00

Yay, we're traveling again! We're off to China tonight to promote the book we just published: www.menospeak.com

It's funny how during our 13 months on the road, the act of traveling became so much a part of daily life... so normal... that it felt like second nature.

Now that we've been home for some months, the excitement and anxieties of travel have surfaced – these feelings so long forgotten – and it reminds me that one of the best things about travel is the period of time before you actually leave. From the moment the idea pops into your head, there is research and planning and dreaming about the places you'll go... It's a trip in and of itself. And I'm happy to be enjoying the romance of it all again.

Packing my bag, though, brought the daily ins-and-outs of travel back to mind quickly. It's like riding a bike: everything has a place and I automatically put things in the places they belong. Although I must say, my bag has much more exra space than the last time we left for Asia. It brings back memories of the manic packing and repacking of my bag when we first arrived in India. Oh, how I've learned...

We'll be on the road for one month this time, traveling in the Southern half of China, from Hong Kong to Chengdu, up the Yangtse to Wuhan, over to Shanghai, and then back to Hong Kong. Perhaps this trip is more organized in a way, in that we have a rough plan of where we'll go ahead of time. But true to the moniker of DestinationTBD, you never know where we'll end up.

Cultural Jetlag

2006-09-15T22:17:00.000+07:00

I can't belive it's been so long since I've posted here. There's been many times, many days, that I've thought about writing up an insight, a memory, a revelation... but I haven't because I don't have time.

I know it's not 'realistic', the way I was living while traveling. While I don't consider it a vacation, it was a 'vacation' from life. Meaning: no work, no to-dos, no schedules, etc... There was time to do whatever I wished. Sometimes there was too much time – I'm speaking of nights when I was bored but didn't feel like doing anything; an uncomfortable state of mind. But I'm not complaining –

Lately, I've been thinking about the slow pace I got used to in Asia: it's physical, mental, spiritual. And I miss it. I feel rushed to do things, to think of things. I feel like I'm running through the weeks instead of strolling. It's not because I choose to; I'm forced to in the society here, to keep up.

ReIntegration

2006-05-28T00:44:00.000+07:00

Well, we've been back long enough to really 'be' back. You have to be adaptable on the road, waking in one country and going to sleep later that day in another... Likewise, you adjust to home -- I've said it before on this blog: humans are adaptable. It's amazing to discover the small and uncomfortable spaces you can put your body (and deal without too much suffering).

So we've been home over a month, my skin is turning white, and I'm amazed at how quickly the last year has faded to memory -- it almost seems like it never happened or if it was a dream. This is exactly what I was afriad of: the experience becoming memory... still accessible, but blurred. But, life goes on... I know this. You can't live in the past. Well, not if you want to have any friends...

I knew I was 100% back when I paid $5.00 for a salad and thought to myself, "wow, what a good deal!". That's an extravagant price to pay for a meal in Asia and sticker shock was the hardest thing to get over on return. Perhaps I do live more frugally now; we go out to dinner less often (aside from the $$, the portions are too damn huge). We dropped 70 bucks at a sushi place the other day. I nearly fell off my chair when the bill came. That's 3 days (accomodation, food, etc) on the road and I ate it in less than two hours. I've just gotten used to living with a constant eye on my budget so now it's difficult to live without making such comparisons. I'm sure this will disappear in time. It annoys me, so I'm betting it annoys you...

But, whatever. I would still be shocked by the prices if I never even left. San Francisco ain't cheap.

I'm back.

The Return Home: Entry #4

2006-05-09T00:59:00.000+07:00

Random Thoughts:

We have collected a giant ball of plastic shopping bags... if we took them apart at the seams and sewed them together, the resulting mess would rival a circus tent

I'm still shocked by the impatience of people. The pace at which they move... and talk. People seem aggressive. I never noticed it before I left for Asia becuase it was normal to me. Learning about Asian cultures, you hear that Westerners often make the people feel intimidated with their fast-talking, loud, and direct ways. Now I understand that notion.

I still feel foreign, like an outsider looking in... alien. I'm wondering when I'll fit in again, if I'll fit in again. I'm not sure people will understand me anymore... just like in Asia I felt like the locals didn't and couldn't truly understand me b/c of cultural differences, I'm back home and feeling similar disconnects.

I have a hard time constructing full sentences with sales people. I'm used to saying, "I don't pay high price." Now I have to say, "Really? That candle is $20.00 -- way too expensive for me. Do you have anything cheaper?"

And the bargaining... I miss that. It's fun and you are really shopping when you can haggle the price. I have the urge to say, "How about if I give you $12 for the candle Or give me 2 for $20"

And then if they say, "no," I can walk away knowing they will chase after me yelling, "OK, OK" because they're still making a profit even though I've nearly cut the price in half.

Transactions here take forever. Buying a computer monitor, it took the guy longer to type up the invoice/receipt than it took Benjamin to research the product, find parking downtown, find the product in the store and find a sales person (all lengthy activities in SF and at Comp USA)... the computerized system is a big waste of time. Technology is supposed to make life easier, but even an old-fashioned punch resgister from the early 1900s would be faster. Why are we wasting so much time (hey, you see, now I'm becoming impatient...).

Shopping: we find ourselves walking through stores, looking, almost waiting for STUFF to make itself known to our needs that we didn't know we had. We're trying not to have extra stuff, lots of stuff... we are anti-stuff. So here we find ourselves caught up in the aisle-surfing activity. Ah, the retail store: designed to suck consumers into making unnecessary purchases. Yes, added convenience (maybe), but not needed. Forget the trick of putting last-minute stuff at the register, the entire store is designed that way.

I'm surprised at how lazy I've become. I can spend a day sitting on my butt in front of my computer or the couch whereas in Asia, I was constantly on-the-go. A shitty hotel room is the last place you want to spend your time! On the other hand, the thought of jumping out of bed each morning (and every morning) and striking out into SF to explore all the city has to offer seems really tiring. How did we do it for a whole year? Who knows, but it was easy.

I miss my camera. In fact I almost forgot about it until I dug it out of the cabinet the other day. It's been there since we got home and being that it's only been several weeks, that may not seem like a long time. But to me, it's eternal. I'm used to taking it with me everywhere for 13 months. I'm used to charging batteries and cleaning the lens and downloading, organizing, and editing pictures on a daily basis. Honestly, the camera was an albatross around my neck on the journey. I hated toting it everywhere in the heat (it's very large and heavy). On the other hand, I couldn't step out the door without it in hand just in case I saw something interesting. The lack of its daily presence in my life, somehow, speaks the loudest about how different life is for me now that I'm home...

The Return Home, Entry #3

2006-05-05T07:31:00.000+07:00

It's interesting to watch all the immigration stuff going on in the U.S. at the moment. Having been gone for so long, I can view the goings on with a fresh perspective. Or maybe a fresher perspective. OK, certainly a new perspective -- you're the judge about whether it's fresh or not.

When I arrived to LAX, at the immigration counters, I was intrigued by the array of nationalities and races working there. I smiled inside, thinking 'This is the Unites Sates. This. The variety of people'. This is something I love about the United States. This is something, in my opinion, that really makes us different -- and unique -- as far as the rest of the world goes. This is our appeal. This is our greatest attribute.

We don't have a corner on democracy. There are plenty of democratic countries in the world (and more to come if we have our way). We don't have a corner on the marketplace -- sure we're the biggest consumers of everything in the world (OK, that's unique), but look how we import so many things with stickers that read 'made in China' on the bottom...

What I'm saying is that of all the things America IS or DOES, our population is what makes us stand apart from the crowd. After traveling in countries where there is no such diversity, or if there is diversity it's very minimal, I am asounted to see the mix we have here, especially in SF. I guess I was used to it before leaving home and so it was invisible.

I did miss it while traveling. In restaurants, on the bus, on the street, looking out at a sea of all black hair was a disconcerting experience. Everyone was the same. It's like eating plain oatmeal instead of the kind with brown sugar, raisins, honey, and bananas in it. What they say is true, "Variety is the spice of life." This comes from William Cowper's poem, “The Task” (1785): “Variety is the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavor.”

Obviously, we was onto something. No one's ever heard of William Cowper. He's not exactly a household name, but everyone knows the line from his poem.

So. America: you're beautiful because of the many faces in your crowds. Another perk: the menu. In India, I ate Indian food. I love Indian food, but after a few months, I missed the variety of choices I had back home. I'll eat Italian one night, Indian the next, Mexican after that... maybe a little Spanish or French here and there. Because of our country's diversity, our taste buds get to travel the planet whenever they like.

Variety IS the spice of life.

Now, I write this from San Francisco, a place known for its diversity. I know that in Ohio, where I grew up, things are much different. Or maybe just more subtle. Maybe you don't have the numbers of Asian or Mexican communities we have... But you do have Germans, Irish, Polish people (and lots of jokes to go with them). They look the same, so perhaps are not thought of as 'foreingers' like many other immigrants. In fact, Asian Americans I know get upset when people look at them and say, "Wow, you speak such good English." Their reply, "Well, I was born and raised in Illinois so maybe that has something to do with it, you idiot."

I have to admit, when I was IN Asia, I was always taken aback when I heard an Asian person speak with a perfect American accent. It never surprised me before traveling. I never even thought about it. But on the road, when everyone with a similar appearance is speaking a foreingn language, it started to surprise me. And I was surprised that I was surprised.

In China, I saw a group of Chinese Americans being led on a tour through the streets of Lijiang. Their Chinese guide was speaking to them in English. They are Chinese but don't speak Chinese. This was always surprising to the people of China. They didn't understand why the Chinese Americans didn't understand them.

But back to the subject...

Here we have this immigration thing going on. It's complex because people are marching for immigrant rights and people are also marching for illegal immigrant rights. To me, these are two separate issues... now they are all tangled up in each other and complicating things.

I can't think of any country that welcomes illegal immigrants. From recent experience in Thailand, they are constantly checking ID cards at roadblocks, looking for people (workers) from Myanmar, Laos, and Cambodia. I heard from Dutch, French, English, and Spanish travelers about the problems in their own countries to do with immigrants & integration, legal or not.

If I secretly moved to Thailand and then got into trouble, I would have no rights as a foreign national in Thailand illegally. So, do the illegal immigrants in America have rights? I'll leave that one open.

My opinion on the matter: separate the issues -- keep our many faces -- make my taste buds happy

The Return Home, Entry #2

2006-05-05T07:04:00.000+07:00

I've had more time to settle in and notice a change in my perception of this strange place called 'home'. Different things surprise me, make me uneasy, make it hard to feel reintegrated.

I'm still shocked by the pace and the assertive manner in which things get done. Why can't it be like the post office? I went there today to mail a few souvenirs off to contributors. The employees there don't move quickly; they're not concerned about lines. They do things in their own sweet time. It used to drive me nuts, but I am in league with the postal employees now: slow and leisurly. But one thing is to be said for the fast-moving world in the U.S., shit gets done. The phrase, "Make it happen," seems to be burned into everyone's psyche.

Not that things didn't get done in Asia. Often, I found myself marveling that amidst all the confusion, things did get done... anything. Looking to hire a car & driver? Looking for a beat up motorcycle to rent? Looking for a shoe shine, a single banana to buy, an escort for the night? You didn't have to look far or hard for someone to do something for you, take you someplace, or refer you to at least 50 others who could. All you have to do is stand on the street corner.

Maybe the difference is the way things get done -- here there is more pressure. And perhaps its because at home, I have a different role in society. I am a 'do-er' instead of a 'do-ee'. Meaning, people come to me to get shit done, whereas while traveling, I was always the employer. I had no responsibilities, no job to do. People dindn't want anything from (well, except for my tourist dollar).

---

I ventured out to the financial district at lunch time yesterday. I hadn't really been out a lot since coming back. Yes, I've been to many of our 'super stores', but they are generic experiences and don't count. I've been around my neighborhood (and the Haight is so preposterous, it doesn't count either).

I was surprised by the darkness. Everyone dressed in dull, monochromatic clothing. I, myself, have a wardrobe of mostly black. As I unpacked a few weeks back, I was surprised to pull black shirt after black shirt after black shirt out of the box. Black jeans, black socks, black jackets, black sweaters. It reminded how once a friend told me he thought I was cool, "because your wardrobe is all black." And here I thought it was a witty sense of humor or intelligent advice or something like that. But no, he thought I was cool because I bought black clothes. Lots of them.

I looked into the sidewalk windows of fancy restaurants and saw business people, serious business people, talking over 20 dollar sandwhiches, or silver platters of oysters fanned out on beds of shaved ice, or hunks of rare ahi tuna plated with a fancy side dish with a strange name. Everyone solemn, everyone 'getting shit done'.

This is when I felt my most foreign, being home. I didn't really fit into the business world before my trip. The design agencies where I've worked are one step up from hanging out with friends to work on a hobby. But now I feel even more foreign -- not having spent a lot of time on the road in urban business centers, it's like going to another planet. A boring planet. A black, pin-striped planet full of acronyms and people 'doing lunch'.

I am struggling with the pace, the work world, the things I left that are now re-entering my life. When rocks come flying into our atmosphere from outer space, they fire up. That's how it feels inside my head now. A little fuse has been lit. It's flaring. And using oxygen.

The Return Home, Entry #1

2006-04-25T03:11:00.000+07:00

Now that we've been back for a few weeks, and our apartment is 90% back in place, I have a few minutes to start recording my thoughts on returning home. I better start now before I forget -- for new things enter my head with a frequency that threatens to push other things out before I've written them down...

Flying into LAX, just as the sun was setting, I looked out the window of the plane and perceived a strange landscape of asphalt and giant box-like buildiings with even larger parking lots surrounding them. Bits of green –– a yard here, a tree there -- seemed like afterthoughts to the paved landscape. The ground below looked like a train model, an imitation of reality. Clean, orderly, efficient and methodical.

This sense of un-reality continued as we drove along on the streets. There were no street vendors or open markets and food stalls lining every street. Everyone, single individuals, stuck in their own worlds, their own cars as they pulled up obediantly to stop lights. Houses were spaced widely apart. There was no-one on the sidewalks. I was struck by a feeling of boredom with my surroundings and a sensation of isolation. My very first impression of landing back in the U.S.: people are disconnected from each other, cloistered in their own private spaces, out of contact with the rest of humanity: their neighbors, communities... they live in orderly grids and wide boulevards, and quiet streets. There is no room for the chaos and commotion that define street scenes in Asia. This pained me -- life seemed dull.

But people seem happy in their isolation I've noticed. There are no smiles and 'hello's to strangers on the street (and there are only a few strangers on the street in comparison to foot traffic in Asia). People just don't seem interested in each other. Or maybe they're too busy. The pace of life in the U.S. is frenetic. People seem panicked. Rushing, impatient, frenzied. That's the irony: in Asia, the streets may be crazy and hectic and bustling with life, but the people are relaxed, mellow; they do things in their time. Here the streets are dull and lifeless yet the people are hectic and manic: in their goings and comings, in conversation... they move at the speed of light. And they are impatient, waving their fists in the air if they have to wait too long at a stop sign. I was seriously stressed out placing an order for a sandwich during the lunch rush hour the other day -- the counter clerk was in such a frenzy I felt like I'd been plowed down by a giant speeding truck after placing my order. There is no time to think, to pause, to consider one's options in the sandwich line.

Of course there are the usual things that are 'different' in the U.S.: the cool weather, the high prices, the large people (even cats look like giants compared to their counterparts in Asia), the high-profile signage of chain stores, chain restaurants, and chain superstores from the freeway. I was surprised by the number of SUVs on the streets, especially in light of the gas crisis... in Asia, motorbikes are the standard method of transport. I'd forgotten about the miles and miles of smooth and efficient multiple-lane highways. I'd forgotten about stop lights and stop signs and driving rules (what's a speed limit?).

People look different: their dress, their hair styles... they look foreign to me yet they are "my people". I don't know what it is... it's one of those indescribable yet evident things -- they look different than everyone I've seen in the past 13 months: Asians and European travelers alike. I know, now, how easy it is to spot an American... I just can't tell you how it's done. And walking down the street or browsing in a superstore or standing in line at a sandwich shop, people sound different. I mean no offense, but a lot of them sound dumb -- they remind me of yellow lab puppies: eager and a little dopey, but well meaning.

I'm amazed by the wealth I see. People dropping hundreds of dollars on groceries and housewares. People in Asia think in the U.S., money grows on trees. Perhaps it does. The other day at Costco (one of the very first superstores I visited in the 'big move in' process), the cashier told the woman in front of me that her total was four hundred and some odd dollars. I was shocked but she didn't blink an eye. Entire families live on similar sums for months on end, if not an entire year in Asia. I understand there is context to this money thing. As I traveled, I was constantly reminded by locals how rich and lucky I was (am). To them I'm a millionaire, but at home I get by. Obviously I get by well enough to take off and travel so far away for so long, but in the grand context of things, I am just a regular person in the U.S. Not rich, but not poor either. Our standards of wealth are on a different scale (on many different scales), that's for sure.

In Myanmar, for example, I had a conversation in my hotel room with a woman employed by the hotel as a cleaning lady. She told me I am lucky to be American: it's such a wealthy country. We have it easy. Somehow the conversation turned to food. She thought our food must be very, very cheap. But when I told her 4 chicken breasts cost about nine dollars, she was amazed. This sum was more than half of her monthly income ($16.00). She, on the other hand, probably has chickens in her yard. And fresh produce is a fraction of the cost than in the U.S. My talk with her reminded me that everything is relative. We may make more money in the U.S., but we spend more, too. And we've made our lives complicated with our fast pace and to-do lists and stress (there is no road rage in Myanmar). Perhaps she is the wealthy one -- forgetting about money. She knows her family members well (they all live together, three generations in (possibly) one room). She lives a less complicated life. But one thing is for sure: we all face the same challenges in life, whether we're from the first or third world. We're all just trying to survive.

One of the hardest things for me, reintegrating, is the expense in moving back into our place. We've bought things, we've painted, we're making our space a comfortable place to be. But after months of living on twenty bucks a day, spending hundreds seems insane. I've gotten used to living on a small budget, and thinking about that budget every day: with every meal, every purchase, every rupee or kip or dong or baht spent. When I was traveling, thinking about the budget almost bordered on obsession (but this is not because of frugality or stinginess... this is the traveler's modus operandi). It's been hard to refurbish our apartment or do the grocery shopping with this engrained mindest.

I'm also not used to having a phone. It was nice not having one for so long -- I just got a cell phone and it seems like a strange and alien object. I have a reticense to learn the multitude of features and functions. I find myself lax in memorizing my number.

I can't get used to the concept of weekdays and weekends. I nearly scald myself in the shower with the abundance and intensity of hot water coursing through good plumbing. I feel strange accepting or giving things from/to others with my left hand (a big no no in Asia) and seeing people with shoes on indoors. I'm not used to leaving my passport at home -- after carrying it around with me every day for so long, it's become a part of me in a strange way. I am bowled over by the size of a large coffee (and I used to drink several of them in the morning). I get excited by the convenience of simple machinery: washing machines and dryers, microwaves. And after 8 countries and 8 currencies, I feel no familiarity to U.S. money; I cannot get used to the new design (coins in particular). This was, oddly, a big letdown. Like it or not, people identify with money and my home currency no longer feels like 'home'.

I have indulged myself in all things I missed: red wine, cheese, mexican food, lazy days on the couch (OK, only one). There is much more to do in this arena... though I find the things I missed on the road are not as good in reality as they were in my mind at the time. Perhaps this is the biggest lesson in my return -- maybe this realization will help me "let go" of thoughts about my freedom and the adventure of life on the road. I am here now and I need to be here... I know I won't be happy if my thoughts revolve around 'there' and 'then'. For now, my happiness is found in thinking about 'next time'.

Kanchanaburi

2006-04-03T12:33:00.000+07:00

We've just returned from Kanchanaburi, only 2 hours from Bangkok but worlds apart. Kanchanaburi is slow and scenic: a countryside edged by lumpy mountians with valleys full of sugar cane, rivers full of reeds and flowering lilly pads, caves and waterfalls and jungle. Kanchanaburi is the site of the 'Bridge over the River Kwai', with much history on display at museums throughout town. The place is like a time capsule from 1942/3, when the Japanese forced POWs to build the 'Death Railway' to aid their movement and the passage of supplies through Burma, towards India.

In Kanchanaburi, the river is lazy and the peaceful twitter of birds is only disturbed by the occasional THUMP THUMP THUMP of a bassline in the passing of a floating disco -- the people of Kanchanaburi don't waste real esate -- our bungalow was actually on a floating raft, anchored to the shore, bobbing with the waves on the River Kwai.

Maybe I like Kanchanaburi because it's sort of kitschy: floating discos and bungalows on rafts are just the start. The town is famous for the nearby Tiger Temple, where tourists can get up close and personal with rescued tigers. I heard once a lady's arm was bitten off, but no-one really talks about her or the potential danger. People assume the monks have tamed them, but they're monks, not animal trainers (on second thought...). There are rumors that the tigers are drugged -- sedated -- so when Gustav puts his face next to the tiger's head for his photo, the tiger seems not to care. Personally, I didn't want to be the next tourist-who-gets-bitten-but-nobody-talks-about-it AND the skies were black with rain the day we stopped to visit, so we skipped the tiger temple and road home to safety from teeth and rain.

There's also a monkey training school. We saw pig tailed macaques ride a tricycle, play basketball, swim, count to 10 (pointing at signs), and sell us 'white monkey holding peach balm' (similar to tiger balm -- they probably sell that at the tiger temple). The most alluring attraction and biggest letdown, though, was the floating nun. She was said to do yoga positions while 'hovering' on the surface of the water. It was a miraculous scene, according to some sources. For 100 Baht ($2.50), we got to see an obese woman float in a tub of water. Yes, she did some mudras with her hand... but she floated because she was fat and anyway, floating is not hovering. But what did I expect? No-one can really walk (or do yoga) on water...

There's also a mini lightshow reenactment of the allied troops blowing up the bridge (over the River Kwai) during WWII. We skipped this, having visited numerous 'Death Railway' museums in the previous days and frankly, we didn't need to see a model blown up to get the jist of the story. While I am a fan of this type of entertainement, at 300 Baht ($7.50), I couldn't do it.

While Kanchanaburi is a bit kitsch, and the expats who live there are no different, it is also a sobering place. Especially felt when visiting the war cemetery in town, where the corpses of British and Australian POWs were moved when the war was over (they were moved there from cemeteries in the jungle near their work camps). Rows of small headstones, all alike, are inscribed with messages from loved ones so sad I felt like crying. Most of the men were in their 20s and most of them died in the year 1943. What a bad year for so many -- looking at the graves I was overwhelmed by the number of men who died in that one year and realizing I was only seeing a fraction of the men who died that year, or in the war as a whole, I again felt like crying. Not necesearily for the men who died, but for the people they left behind.

Despite my bad feelings about war, I am fascinated by war stories... and a visit to Kanchanaburi was a great history lesson.

Destination TBD: The Final Count Down

2006-04-02T18:59:00.000+07:00

The count down has begun: as I write this, we have three nights left before we return home. Nerves are frazzled, temperaments are testy, the calendar (all of a sudden) has taken the center stage. The Big Trip, as I liked to call it, is over (this one at least). Those who like to "debate" about such things might say, "Now, don't say that, think of it as a detour on the winding road of life." I'm not one of those people, not unless I've had a little wine and find myself in one of those moods where everyone is your best friend and quoting spiritually inclined bumper stickers passes for wisdom. No,no... this chapter has ended. Hell, the book is nearly finished. But what does the appendix hold?

We will return home like brand new cars: without scratches and dents, rust or dings... we will return home like flowers before they have been cut and picked and shoved into an arrangement pleasing to another's eye. Somehow in the last year, without phones and schedules and appointments and bills and anything -- any word -- that ends with 'ility'... somehow we have become like new again. Babies with attitude, if you will (I say attitude because we can wear funky shoes and hold a conversation with multi-syllable cuss words).

We are like babies: with open minds and open hearts, carefree & unconcerned, curious, and wise. Yes, wise... wise in a way that can only be found when there is nothing to worry about, because gossip and stress and disappointment no longer exist. Perhaps traveling through Buddhist lands has had some effect on our outlook: when you rise above all of that shit, happiness can be found (note: this is not a direct quotation). Perhaps we have been affected by the freedom from all the things that distract us back home. It's a great feeling, I can tell you that: a clean mind.

We have already felt the effects of what life will be like upon our return: little things here and there. We've talked about the lack of closet space in our apartment (and felt annoyed); I've pondered which cell phone company I should sign up with (and felt like cutting out my tongue so I can't use a cell phone); we've discussed the increased price of public transportation in the city (and seethed in anger so long forgotten); we've argued about what color the new bedspread should be (actually I made that one up, but you get the point). It's so stupid and silly to get affected by these things, but it happens. I am remembering it all now as if it was only yesterday... and this is what Benjamin and I fear the most: losing our clean minds.

At least we know what to do, though, when we come home pissed off because someone with road rage called us names. We'll know what to do when the cable goes out for a day and we're still billed for static. We'll know what to do when the neighbors leave banana peels on the sidewalk in front of the house. We'll know what to do when the mail man just can't remember to put our mail in our box. We'll know what to do when the bus driver pulls away from the curb after we've run 4 blocks to catch up. We'll know what to do with all the stuff that's annoying and ultimately distracting: we'll remind ourselves how it feels to have a 'clean mind'. Or maybe we'll just hop on a plane to detox: we're already saving for dTBD II.

The Year in Review

2006-03-07T16:11:00.000+07:00

It's hard to believe one year ago (now a little more) we landed in India with 12 months of unknown adventure ahead of us. India was the perfect place to get started with our trip -- you learn how to spot scams and cons; how to bargain prices (Indians are hard bargainers); and sit in crowded and blazing hot busses for hours on end... These are skills that have come in handy throughout the year, on a regular basis. Same goes for the rationing of precious toilet paper; skill with cleansing one's self with hose sprayers or ladles of water (for the TP-less bathroom visits); the ability to balance on the edge of a bobbing boat as you step into another during off-shore boat transfers (there have been many boats during this trip, they are like busses in many places); the ability to find sound sleep in a bungalow visited by rats, frogs, roaches, gigantic spiders, and mosquitoes.

But most of all, on this trip, we have learned to abandon control: you would have a hard time traveling as a control freak -- you almost never know what's going on or when it's going to happen. Questions are answered, "No problem," or, "Don't worry..." I have learned to put my 'need to know' on the back burner. Somehow, you always end up where you wanted to be -- perhaps a few hours later than planned, but what are plans when you have all the time in the world? And, somehow, there is always someone that points you in the right way, transfers you to a different bus, or at least tells you, "Get off here." It might appear you're in the middle of nowhere, but no time will be wasted -- someone will arrive shortly to get you to the next place (with the exception of India, at times).

The year has flown by and it almost seems surreal, the places we've been and the sights we've seen. We've slept on the crest of a sand dune in India's Thar Desert (with our transport, camels, nearby but not within spitting range); we've hiked the Great Wall and ridden horses in China's version of the wild west (camping under thunderstorms while sleeping on boughs of pine needles and using stinky saddles as pillows); we've traversed Vietnam's Central Highlands by motorcycle on the Ho Chi Minh Highway; explored the glory of Angkor Wat (for the 2nd time) and volunteered with orphans in Cambodia -- in fact, we've become sponsors for one little boy, Sayorn; we've soaked up sun and sea in Bali and Lombok; lived in a 150-meter high treehouse in Laos; explored the temples and hill tribes of the enigmatic Myanmar; learned the ancient art of traditional Thai massage in Chiang Mai and discovered the art of doing nothing (also ancient) on the islands and beaches of Thailand... And this is only the short list... perhaps things that jumped to mind because they are among my favorite experiences, now memories.

In the last year, I have discovered my 1st (OK... 2nd, 3rd, and possibly 4th) gray hairs; celebrated my 34th birthday -- Benjamin his 36th and (soon) 37th; we've missed Easter, July 4, Halloween, Thanksgiving, Xmas, New Years Eve and Day... Friends have gotten married and babies have been born; my little brother graduated university and my retired father has returned there; friends have quit jobs and started businesses. We've missed the changing of the seasons, holidays and birthdays, the Super Bowl, Olympics, and the Oscars...

Along the way we have met people from all over the world: Africa, Australia, Europe, North America (and of course Asia). We've shared many a beer and conversation with -- literally -- hundreds of people. I've met and befriended more 'new' people on the road than during several years combined at home. Some of our friendships are fleeting -- they may last only one evening. But a surprising amount of people are now in my address book, my inbox, and in a filed email folder marked 'travel friends'. We have friends to visit the world wide: England, France, Australia, Singapore...

Along the way we have seen relics from the past -- ancient temples, colonization, war... It's amazing how long the effects of a war linger. The Vietnam War (or American War depending on who you are) is still visible in many SE Asian countries. Laos still struggles with Hmong guerrillas (American trained) and hidden land mines; Cambodia still suffers from KR years (a genocide helped along by its own political instability paired with fighting along/within its border with Vietnam and American bombing campaigns); Thailand's sex tourism industry flourishes -- the seeds of which were planted before the war, but watered and fertilized and cultivated by GIs on R&R (ha ha, what a great metaphor when you think of it).

Yes, wars continue long after they're fought, long after the bomb craters fill in and napalmed forests grow back and people greet the 'enemy' with kindness because they were 'enemies' before their time. Even once all these things happen, the war goes on because people have been affected -- familes have been ruined -- I've met several women from France, for example, for whom the tragedies of war continue and these women are my age. Their families were refugees, their parents are from another place, another culture and don't understand their daughters' Western ideas about life, marriage, independence. Their families are somewhat broken, even now, even in a different country.

Europe's need to colonize Asia, even older than this recent war, is seen everywhere: architecture, food, language. The Brits had India and Myanmar; the French had Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia (formerly known as Indochina); the Dutch had Indonesia... what are the effects? Pilfered resources for one (i.e. Teak forests in Myanmar have been decimated)... Communist politics itself -- in a unified effort to break from foreign rule, political affiliations were born from a need for independence, or at least a change. On the plus side (for me), French bread and imported cheese can occasionally be found... It's ironic that the colonial days, like the war, have impact on society and government today. I've met English, Dutch, and French who complain about the immigrants, or 'asylum seekers' as some call them. These are people from former colonies, hence one-time citizens, who have moved in or are currently on the 'mother' country's doorstep and who are not completely wanted. Seems to me the consumerism of Western societies is not a recent event: there is a long history of using something up, spoiling it, throwing it away and then repulsion that the trash stinks.

I see the beauty of the world -- the coral-fringed coastlines and soaring cliffs, rolling plains and mountain vistas, thick forests and crystal lakes -- and I no longer see boundaries of ownership... we all "own" the earth. But then I catch a glimpse of the news now and then and it's all death and violence over ownership of land, resources, 'correct' morals... it's saddening to live so peacefully and to see the immense beauty of our planet only to be transported back into a world of anger and stress and outrage with the flick 'on' of someone's remote (this, by the way, is one reason I'm dreading our return to the U.S. -- my mental state will surely decline and ignoring the news completely is not the answer). When we were in Bali/Lombok during the second terrorist attack in Kuta, the news was passed by word of mouth on the tiny island 'Gili Air' and I heard about it at night and wrote in my journal: I look up at the vast, starry sky and it seems so innocent, so pure, untouched... while meanwhile there is killing happening beneath its gaze. A small, inconsequential planet is so full of hate and anger and little ants of people are killing other little ants over a crumb or land or a personal belief: no good reasons. There can never be a good reason...

During our travels we have been followed around by Bush. As Americans, we are seen as The Ones Who Elected Him. Everyone wants to know, "Why?" Some are kind in their questioning, open-minded, curious... intelligent enough to know that governments don't always represent the governed. But others are combative and argumentative: sometimes being American is like having a disease no one wants to catch. I've not met one non-American who has a positive word to say about our president... and I've thought about how little I know about their leaders to even remark (we Americans are self-centered and sheltered... take a look at our news -- not many foreign stories unless we're involved in war). "Why?" they ask, "Why did Americans elect Bush?" It's an awesome responsibility we have, as Americans; our president is not only America's leader, but the leader of the world. We ought to be more intelligent about our decisions and that means knowing things about the rest of the world. Those of you who are now angry with me, please vent your feelings in the 'comments' that follow this post -- it will be handy for me to reference when people ask me 'Why?'

There has been much kindness shown to us by total strangers this past year -- simple things -- but a redeeming kindness that proves the world is not as bad as it seems at times: people sharing food on long bus journeys; locals looking after broken motorbikes, pride, and bloody wounds; good samaritans who notice furrowed brows and a lack of direction and guide us the right way -- sometimes leading us for blocks to the right street; wedding invitations, shared meals, roadtrips, and presents -- we've gotten them all from kind souls who don't see us as foreigners but as people.

I will be happy, once home, to abandon the label of 'foreigner' that accompanies us wherever we go. The very word implies a certain sort of alienation, 'you are not one of us'. The Chinese and Thais and others have special words for foreigners that translate, directly (and simply), to 'foreigner' and while it's obvious that we are what we're called, sometimes I don't feel the need to have it pointed out in form of address. However, I will miss the naivete I may claim as being a foreigner, "Oh, sorry, I didn't understand..."

Once home I will indulge in all the comforts missed on the road: a place to kick back on a lazy day (a couch!), Mexican food, friends and family, TV (yes, I'm not ashamed), holiday celebrations, phoning in an order for pizza delivery (extra cheese, please), a language I always understand (although it's easier to drown out 'chatter' in public when you don't understand a word).

I know once I'm home I'll tire of the routine that comes with 'real life' (though is this not 'real life', too?): working, bills, housework (I haven't had to wash a single dish this whole year). I'll look at photos and my journal and think wistfully about this year in Asia: the absolute freedom I've had on a daily basis -- only dictated by the expiration of a visa when you have to make a determined move. I'll pine for the barrage of foreign sites, sounds, smells, tastes, textures... I'll even miss the feelings of utter confusion and unknowing -- you feel the most alive when you're not all that comfortable. I'll miss the lack of rules and regulations, agreements and releases: there is no threat of free-for-all law suits here to curtail your fun. I'll remember the friendly community spirit -- the Asian tendency to hold conversations with strangers, the easy smiles, the informality. I plan to bring it all home with me but I had a dream the other night that after one week there, I'd lost it already.

Before leaving on this trip I went through several stages of fear: supporting myself without working for 1+ year, leaving employment, the safety of the 'known'... that was all dealt with over a period of months while planning the trip and then the fear switched to being a couple of people in a foreign land who have only themselves to rely upon... "What happens if?" became a concern. And then: fear of the unknown... I actually didn't feel nervous until our final layover in Bangkok on the way to Kolkata, India. I had the butterflies -- not the pretty ones, the poisonous kind.

Now that we're coming home, I have a whole new set of fears. Odd. I didn't think I'd feel anything but mild depression that comes when something ends. I fear the feeling of strangeness -- the culture shock of being back home. Although I have contradictory fears: the fear that it soon won't be strange, that I will be back as I was as if nothing ever happened. I fear the day that it's all a distant memory. However, by that time, I hope to be back on the road: not Asia -- I want to see the whole world.

Vacation Land

2006-02-23T17:09:00.000+07:00

Southern Thailand is the vacation spot. It hardly feels Thai at all in comparison to the North. People were worried tourists would stay away because of last year's tsunami but they are here. Oh, are they here - sunbathing and swimming, sucking alcohol through straws stuck in buckets of coke and rum, watching fire dancers on the beach and dancing all night at full moon, half moon, and black moon parties (Any excuse, right? There are even 'no moon' parties). Southern Thailand is nothing if not a hedonist's dream.

We are moving south, to more remote islands and beaches... less tourists, more nature. Traveling the Andaman Coast, we are voyaging on water that a year ago sucked itself up into a giant wave killing thousands... it's hard not to look at the crystalline water and the seafoam stirred up by boats and not think of all the lives lost, the bodies the ocean claimed. In most respects, you can hardly tell such devastation happened here. Things have been cleaned up. If we hadn't been to Koh Phi Phi before, we would not have known that the low-lying palm trees have all been swept clean from the sand and that the stretch of beach between its mountains was once full of bungalows and hotels that now cease to exist. Now there are new trees planted, but not enough to replace the dense coconut grove that's now gone. And there are a few makeshift buildings and huts for villagers, but everything looks temporary and quickly constructed.

We are now on Koh Lanta, an island at the edge of the 'tourist zone'... there are much fewer people here and the vibe is more relaxed. At the southern end of Koh Lanta, there are long stretches of beach nestled in a series of beautiful bays that have, to date, been spared over development. Most of southern Lanta is unspoiled - the paved road becomes dirt here and any place that still has a main road of dirt is a good place in my book. The road is not lined with hotels and shops and restaurants, ugly concrete constructions with corrugated tin roofs and a haphazard placement of signage (Koh Samui)... it's not packed with tourists and touts (Koh Phi Phi).

Sadly, Koh Lanta will probably change to be like the others, it's only a matter of time... For now, there is plenty of woodland and jungle and clear water that's sometimes the color of emeralds, and others the color of sapphires... there are plenty of places where you'll find yourself alone on a beach too beautiful to remain so secluded in developers' eyes.

There's a national marine park at the southern tip of the island, which includes several islands far off from the shore - we traveled to one of them, Koh Rok, and by speedboat, it took one hour. There we found amazing coral reefs with all sorts of colorful fish, giant clams, moray eels... snorkeling here was, aside from Bali and Lombok, the best ever. On shore, huge monitor lizards live in the forest.

Tomorrow we head farther south. We will leave Thailand for several minutes and then re-enter (not for fun, our visas run out). From Satun, we'll head out to the Koh Tarutao National Marine Park... Reality TV buffs might recognize the name; Survivor Thailand was filmed here. In the past, Tarutao was used as a prison island, chosen for an inhospitable environment of malarial mosquitoes, crocodiles, and predatory sharks. As part of the park, Koh Tarutao is totally unspoiled and I hope to see the langurs, sea otters, fishing cats, and tree pythons (OK, maybe not them). Another boat ride will take us to Koh Lipe... perhaps we'll learn to scuba dive...

From Tarutao, we'll head back north to the islands off Trang and then make our way further north towards Bangkok for (drum roll please) our flight home. We have a few ideas in mind... side steps from our beach vacation... we'll see how it goes. I have a feeling you won't hear from me for a while. We are heading to remote places... but you never know where we'll end up! Destinations are all TBD.

Tonsai Dreamin'

2006-02-23T16:34:00.000+07:00

On Tonsai Beach, the locals spend their time following their dreams. One man explores uninhabited islands cataloging rare species of tropical birds and monkeys. Another climbs Krabi's immense and vertical rock walls, without ropes or harness, despite the fact that he's an amputee (right arm). A young boy is constructing a giant butterfly collection to, one day, be entered in the Guiness Book of World Records as the largest of its kind. You may be thinking, 'what an amazing bunch of people', and they are... in their dreams... for the people here spend most of their day sleeping. And since I am here I'm doing as the locals do: sleeping, daydreaming, vegging out.

I watch the passing clouds and see rare and unknown animals: rabbits with elephant trunks and serpents with riders who sit upon their camel-like humps. I see faces of old women and wise men - even monsters - in the shadows on the rock walls surrounding the beach. I see kayakers approaching and imagine them to be pirates so brave and bold they come to plunder in broad daylight. Bikini-clad women are mermaids from the sea, given legs upon land by the grace of the shadow-crones in the limestone cliffs. The enormous spiders in the forest are spirits of shipwrecked sailors. And the sailboats in the bay are all mine, each and every one of them, waiting to sail me around the Indian Ocean in search of a secret island known to the sea creatures as heaven. Ah, if only it were all real. Sometimes a good imagination can be devastating. I'm a daydreamer here and what is the beach if not the perfect place to entertain fantasies?

The "real" Tonsai, in comparison to the surrounding tourist hot spots like Ao Nang and Railay Beach, is a lost tropical paradise. I say 'lost' because it is more like a pirate ship than a luxury liner; it's more backpack than suitcase; it's hand painted signs versus glossy brochures; it's fisherman pants instead of 20-pocket khakis. There are no high rise buildings or asphalt roadways... no souvenir shops strung together like the shell necklaces they sell... no tourists promenading in newly acquired vacation attire. It is only accessible by boat. The beach is not superb - in fact at low tide the water retreats so far from the shore there is nothing left in the bay but mucky rocks. At high tide it's much more scenic, but still too shallow and rocky for swimming. And here in lies Tonsai's greatest asset: a shitty beach (when compared to others). I don't think it's shitty myself, it's just not 'ideal' and most tourists head for the ideal and consequently spoil it. Not on Tonsai.

It's a favorite of rock climbers, but you don't have to be Spiderman to enjoy this place. Scuba and kayaking and snorkeling trips can fill days. A quick trip by longtail boat takes you to unpopulated islands - limestone outcroppings that jut out of the sea and appear to 'drip' rock... stalagtites cling to vertical walls and resemble a dripping candle that has hardened into something bizarre and beautiful.

At night, bonfires light the beach, fire dancers spin flaming batons and people lounge on bamboo mats laid out on the sand, a reggae beat here... dance music there... It's surprising, really, to see a crowded restaurant at night. In the daylight hours it's as if hardly anyone is there at all... perhaps they're all too high up to notice, scaling the rock walls. Or perhaps they are all below the sea. Or perhaps they are like me, off daydreaming somewhere no-one but them may go.

Tonsai Arrival

2006-02-23T14:58:00.000+07:00

I was feeling blase when we arrived –– the changes we saw in Ao Nang: more tourists, more buildings, higher prices got me down, and the chore of looking for yet another 'home' in the baking heat, hauling 15 kilos of weight on my back (that's over 30 pounds) is not the picture culled in fantasies about arriving somewhere tropical and beautiful...

My mood was lifted when, as we waited for a longtail boat to ferry us over to Tonsai beach, we saw friends from Samui and Chiang Mai on Ao Nang's beach. John and Nyla were returning from Tonsai -- we were just going there. How serendipitous to run into them, how unfortunate to have missed them. It's a small world, where 2 Americans can accidentally meet 2 Brits on a beach in Thailand after having parted ways over 1 month prior without contact since.

Another chance encounter once we reached Tonsai: we came upon a small coffee shack on the lonely end of the beach. It was run by a man named Dam (pronounced Dom), whom we'd befriended 4 years earlier when we stayed in Ao Nang. Benjamin and he'd kept in touch through email over the years but had fallen out of contact in the last several. After the tsunami last year, Benjamin was dead set to find him when we returned to Southern Thailand. We didn't know where he was, or if he had survived, and voila! There he is. Even if you don't believe in 'signs', you must be thinking that all of this has to mean something. I did, and as we relaxed on the beach at Dam's coffee shop (drinking beer), a feeling of contentment washed over me as I took in the surroundings: monkeys taunting boatmen on the beach; a little boy pulling a brick tied to a string across the sand; rock climbers looking like ants on the enormous walls of limestone rock surrounding the beach; turquoise water sparkling in the sun...

I realized that on arrival, it was just one more arrival in many over the last year: they have become inconsequential. Such a shame! Having seen so many beautiful places and fascinating things packed so tightly together in such a short span of time, you become immune to the wonderment of the places you go. They lose their 'spark in the gut'... But I could see, once I settled in, how amazing it was, the place I'd just arrived. It's odd, that when you travel for a long period of time, the 'oohs and aaahs' that are normal upon arrival during shorter trips become reversed. On shorter trips, you stand agog in the place you have just arrived and then, after some time, it becomes 'ordinary'. You take the scenery for granted. But with long term travel, you take the scenery for granted at first and then, after time to settle in to the place, the 'oohs and aaaahs' come.

I watched the sun sink behind the last ocean wave visible and in a state of total happiness, I felt like time didn't exist. Damn the sun and the moon for reminding me that it does.

Beach Bums

2006-02-09T14:40:00.000+07:00

We've finally left the North and are sweating and sunning in Southern Thailand -- for the new few months... SO, don't get concerned with infrequent postings... think of it as our last hurrah before heading home: our last vacation for a long, long while... the beach and the internet don't go well together anyway.

We're currently in Krabi, on Tonsai beach and plan to go South, island hopping the more remote of Thailand's beaches (well, less touristed anyway). While I may not be writing with any frequency, you never know... so don't forget to check our site now and again!

The Gibbon Experience

2006-01-27T12:22:00.000+07:00

I am hundreds of feet above the ground, looking out from a perch on the branches of a massive tree, and the forest takes on a new perspective: the ragged lines of tree-lined mountains march into the horizon -- green fades to white in tinted bands, from dark to light -- I am so high up, only the distant atmosphere obstructs a view to infinity. Here and there the sun creates shadows and illuminates patches of leaves, creating, on my forest canvas, a palette of a million shades of green and even more textures. Only the symphony of a thousand birds competes with the woodland medley before me. I'd be happy enough to see this view of the rainforest for only several minutes, but lucky for me, this will be my home (and my view) for a few days. I am living in the forest canopy -- in a treehouse cradled in the protective embrace of a towering Strangler Fig -- in the Bokeo Forest in Laos. Welcome to the Gibbon Experience.

It's not an easy journey to the top of a tree. We left the border town of Huay Xai early in the morning and traveled along a rough dirt road in the back of a pickup for three hours. Everything on the sides of the road was painted brown from dust kicked up by passing vehicles. I licked my lips and tasted soil; grains of dirt crunched between my teeth; my skin turned the color of dark rouge worn by old women with poor eyesight. Our truck crossed a river and eventually dropped us in a clearing surrounded by the thatch huts of a village. From there, we walked through corn fields, waded through streams, and entered the shadowy darkness of the forest: huge palm leaves, dense bamboo groves, hanging vines. One hour later, at the summit of a steep climb, we came upon a small wooden structure and were handed harnesses for the final leg of our journey into the forest canopy... We made our grand entrance -- sailing in the air, suspended over the forest floor on a cable -- to our home, our treehouse. For the next 2-1/2 days, we will spend more time in the air than on the ground, cable gliding through the Bokeo Forest, sleeping in the boughs of its trees, watching and hearing the jungle below.

Despite how it sounds, the Gibbon Experience is not an adventure travel destination; it's not a tour or trek; it's not your typical ecotourism destination. It's a means to an end: a fresh approach to forest conservation dreamed up by local villagers with the help of a French man known, simply, as Jeff. Together, they created the Gibbon Experience as a way to combat poaching and illegal logging; the forest, their environment, was changing. Village life faces increased difficulty -- with lower rice revenue and higher living costs, people have turned to the forest and her inhabitants for profit. A diminishing population of wildlife alerted the locals that something must be done. While the Laos government protects the forest from the outside, it has no funds for protection from within and thus, the Gibbon Experience was born as a way to earn money to protect the forest where the government cannot. Funds from the project pay the salaries of forest guards who track and arrest poachers and loggers. More than that, the project provides locals with a self-reliant, sustainable way to earn a living while preserving their natural resources.

The Gibbon Experience is named for the Black-cheeked Crested Gibbons that live in the forest; they were once thought to be extinct and are considered the 4th most endangered gibbon species in the world. In fact, they are only found in northern Laos, southern China and northern Vietnam. They live in family groups and are famous for their singing, which can last up to 30 minutes; partners sing duets as carefully orchestrated as an operatic ballad. Within the first 1/2 hour of our arrival to the treehouse, Benjamin spotted several Gibbons playing in the distant trees. We were told it was a special moment; visitors to the Gibbon Experience don't often see the apes and are lucky just to hear them sing. Perhaps the name of the project is a misnomer in this regard, but nonetheless, the money earned by the project serves to protect them as well as the multitude of animals that live in the forest: tigers, hornbills, barking deer, wild boar, and hundreds of others. During a quiet day in the treehouse, Benjamin and I observed a Blue Throated Barbet -- a beauty of a bird unlike any I've ever seen -- with a red, purple, blue, and black pattern on its head and two-tone green body. We also saw a pair of giant squirrel-like animals with black fur on their backs and white underneath (they must have been 6 feet in length and sadly, their Western name is not known and I forget the Laos name for the creature).

Currently the Gibbon Experience sleeps 12 in three treehouses that were built by three villages, but plans are in the works to expand to 10 treehouses, involving 10 villages and encompassing the entirety of the forest. "Zip lines are the most environmentally friendly way of getting around," we were told. In the mountainous forest, it's also the quickest and least tiring way of getting from one place to another. There are 12 cables up to 150 meters above the ground (that's almost 500 feet) that serve as the primary means of transport for people, supplies, and food. Cable gliding at these heights is a thrill hard to match as you propel yourself from a wooden platform and sail through the forest; the views are stupendous -- you can see for miles; the wind rushes against your cheek; the tallest treetops brush against your feet; the winding noise of the cable goes Zzwimmm....

Tree life was nothing but comfortable. We were provided with a cozy place to sleep, an endless supply of tea and coffee, and were encouraged to snack at will on nuts, sweets, and fruits stored in the treehouse. There was clean running water, supplied by an underground spring and a bathroom complete with a shower, albeit cold water only, and squat toilet. Everything about the treehouses was built with the environment in mind -- only biodegradable waste makes its way to the forest floor (read leftover food and human waste, no TP). At the base of 'Treehouse One' lives a pig that consumes anything and everything that makes its way out of the treehouse. We were dismayed to find out he had no name and lacking any sort of creativity, we called him 'pig pen'.

The people who run the project are a passionate bunch, consisting of local villagers and a small group of foreigners from France, Holland, and England. The goal is that in the future, the project will be entirely run by the locals, but for now foreign workers and volunteers are on hand to teach the Laos villagers English and to serve as 'translators' for visitors. Liz and Lara, two women who have been working with the project for a period of time, were quick to tell us that they do not run the show; rather, it is the villagers who do everything. They guide glides and hikes and cook the food -- it is their creativity with which the project is sustained.

Perhaps the most unusual aspect of the project is the freedom of purpose laid out to visitors. "This is your experience," Liz told us on arrival, "...use your time as you like." The options are unlimited and flexible and the guides are there to help, but not direct... and certainly not impose. There are no scheduled activities as such, unless we wanted it that way. There are no 'to-dos' or meetings or forced excursions. You can be lazy and quiet in the treehouse or you can cable glide around the forest or you can fetch a guide and take a hike: it's all up to you. Here, your time is truly yours... in any way you want to use it to experience the forest, the choice is completely up to you. It's a refreshing approach, built on respect for the people who visit the forest and on behalf of the forest itself: it has much to offer.

All who visit this place say they have reclaimed their childhood. Zip lines and treehouses and nothing but free time have 'childhood' written all over them. And besides all of that, in the quiet hours that come without electricity and radios and tvs, the joy of insects is rediscovered; we spent hours watching death battles between ants and gasping at the sight of giant spiders feeding on moths at night. "When was the last time you were content -- no, had the time -- to watch insects?" I asked a Swedish couple who were bunking in Treehouse One with us. At dusk, the bird calls increased, a fine musical backdrop for our evening meal by candle light. And in the darkness, when we went to bed, the hooting sounds of owls and the soft chatter of insects lulled us to sleep... Rockabye baby, on the treetop... This lullaby ran through my mind as I drifted into slumber, but I had no fear of wind and breaking boughs: our tree was mammoth.

As a tourist, it is an uncommon experience, a privilege to be part of the project. Witnessing the conservation efforts, creativity, and dedication of the local people is inspiring and I left the Gibbon Experience happy to have been a part of it and to have seen and lived so closely with the animals and the trees. And cable gliding was icing on the cake.

Thai Massage

2006-01-21T11:42:00.000+07:00

Benjamin and I finished our Thai massage course yesterday. The beauty of taking the course is that not only did we learn this ancient tradition, but we were massaged every day. Granted, our massages were given by our fellow students during practice hours, but 2 consecutive weeks of massage does something for the old bod. 60 hours and a lot of sore muscles later, we are now as flexible as pretzels and can give a traditional Thai massage -- in fact, the first 3 people in the Bay Area who write a poem about why they need a Thai massage will get one when we return home (write your poem in the comments section that follows this text). But be warned: Thai massage is not the gentle kneading of muscles we're used to in the West... read on...

"When any person is sick in Siam he begins with causing his whole body to be moulded by one who is skillful herein, who gets upon the body of the sick person and tramples him under his feet." ~Simon de la Loubere, French liaison to the Thai Royal Court, 1690

The roots of Thai massage actually lie in India -- the founder of the art, a doctor known as Jivaka Kumar Bhaccha, was a contemporary of the Buddha and personal physician to the Magadha King Bimbisara over 2,500 years ago. Although he is believed to be the father of Thai massage, the origins of the practice remain obscure: in the old days, knowledge was passed by oral tradition and that which was written down, on palm leaves in the Pali language, was destroyed when the Burmese invaded and plundered Thailand's ancient capital city, Ayutthia. What remained of the medical scriptures was collected and pieced together and carved in stones placed in the walls of Bangkok's famous Wat Pho. These carvings remain the only original depictions of the ancient theories behind Thai massage.

Thai massage is based on the belief that invisible energy lines and acupressure points influence the body and its functioning. There are thousands of 'sen', or energy lines, but Thai massage focuses primarily on 10. The background of this belief is Indian in origin, based on the yoga philosophy that life energy, or prana, is absorbed in the air we breath and food we ingest. The Prana Nadis, or network of energy lines, supplies humans with vital energy. Thai massage removes blockages from these lines and thus improves health. This may all sound like hogwash to the Western mind, but scientists have recognized, although with confusion, that the lines and acupressure points do have some validity. Get a Thai massage and you will feel energized and light... Benjamin always says he 'cannot feel his body'... you feel light and free from stress, heavy limbs, fatigue.

I'm not one who goes in for the heady and mystical rantings of those heavily into 'spirituality', and I'm not referring to religion when I use the term. I'm referring to people who say things like, "Experience and actualize your untapped potential, your horizons of awareness expanded to all levels of consciousness..." or use phrases like, 'harmonize your energy flow', 'find your purity balance', 'discover your True Being that exists beyond 3-dimensional reality'. No, I'm not into that stuff -- even if these things do exist, I'd be much more receptive if people just used common language. The color purple and images of crystals and light beams and women wearing colorful moo moos who dream of communion with dolphins is a big turn-off for me. Men who wear loose tunics and reek of patchouli and smile that too-sweet and silly smile of the 'ultra-blissed-out' and get off on holding hands and just 'relating' to others send me running for the hills. Fortunately, Thai massage is none of these things and while working with energy lines does stand on a narrow fence of the 'grounded' and the 'spiritual hippies', the practice is more about healing the body through stretching muscles and breaking blockades that lead to sickness and pain.

Thai massage is, by nature, hard and 'tough' -- the practitioner uses her feet, hands, elbows, thumbs, and body weight to work the muscles and energy lines of the receiver. Many people call Thai massage 'yoga massage' because of all the stretching involved -- many of the positions and exercises are similar to yoga positions. It's very physical work, takes place on the floor, and as a practitioners, Benjamin and I were constantly on our knees or squatting, flowing from one position to the next while balancing on our toes... Our teacher described the technique as a dance, moving from one position into the next with grace so that the receiver (or patient or victim) is barely aware of your presence. It was a lot of fun, and requires serious concentration (in fact, practitioners are supposed to be in a meditative mood while giving a massage). In total, we learned over 100 techniques to work the entire body... a typical Thai massage takes 2 hours.

In Thailand, you can pay 200 Baht (or around 5 bucks) for a 2-hour massage. In the States, we've looked it up, a similar massage will run $120.00. We can't legally practice Thai massage back home, not without training from Western massage schools and licensing by the city/state. We won't be making the big bucks by practicing massage at home -- but no matter, the two of us will have our own private masseur and anyway, according to the 'rules of a good Thai masseur', we are not to hope for 'any gains... material profit nor glory or fame.'

His Majesty, The King

2006-01-16T17:18:00.000+07:00

The Thai people sure do love their King. Travelers are advised in guidebooks to not say anything negative or in jest about the King (and the royal family for that matter) -- it is deeply insulting. All over Thailand, in small towns and busy cities, there are larger-than-life framed portraits of the King and the Queen erected on the roadside and in the middle of traffic circles (in fact, I think the traffic circles were built specially for this purpose). Sometimes there are huge archways spanning roads and highways with a collage of royal people and royal acts of kindness, the backdrop for an oval-shaped portrait of a smiling (and young) Queen or a pensive (and young) King.

At movie theaters, after the trailers and advertising but before the feature presentation, a similar collage springs to life in motion on the screen. The national anthem plays while still images of the King fade in and out in time. You see him visiting hill tribes and helping the handicapped... breaking ground and cutting ribbons... Most memorable is the scene of a dry, parched earth, the kind of earth that is so arid, there are cracks in the ground that look like a special glaze on a piece of fine china. Upon this thirsty land, a farmer stands in vain with hoe in hand, looking towards the sky in despondent hope. Cut to the King and back to the wilted landscape and you see, miraculously, a fine storm fill the skies... rain pours from the clouds... the land becomes fertile and the farmer raises his fist in the air in victory. The King, apparently, holds court with the gods of the sky. Back to the movie theater: the audience stands for this royal interlude. They put down their popcorn and softdrinks and rise in tribute to the King. Only then can the show go on... (and by the way, falang (foreigners) in Thailand are expected to do the same. Stand up or risk getting boo-d out of the theater).

There's a Sunday market held each week in Chiang Mai. It's ginormous. Imagine the busiest shopping day of the year in the States... at a mall... with thousands of distracted people purveying and purusing goods and edibles for sale. You know the confusion, the noise, the hustle and bustle of the crowd... That's what the Sunday market is like come early evening. And that's when the national anthem is played over loud speakers across the blocks upon blocks of city streets that have been closed to everything but pedestrians, shopping. Suddenly, everyone stops what they're doing and if they're sitting, they stand. No-one moves a muscle or utters a sound. Manic noise and motion dies to silence. The national anthem plays on in complete stillness. And when the last note of the anthem grows faint, there is a split second of absolute quiet before thousands of people -- all at once -- pick up where they left off a minute or so before. Like an orchestra going from a soundless pause to a full crescendo, bustle returns and the air is full of noise as if nothing happened. It's amazing -- a-m-a-z-i-n-g -- to still such a large amount of people, each individual doing his or her own thing... to still them all at the same time. I felt like I was in one of the movies where someone has acquired the ability to stop time and everyone around them freezes in place. It's like that, but it's the national anthem that freezes the people, not a super-hero talent.

Thailand changes when the King or Queen has a birthday, an event. On the King's birthday, everything closes, shuts down. People stay home. Right now, in Chiang Mai, they haved ripped up roads and are installing new ones to honor the King's 60th coronation. Every so often, the King grants amnesty to prisoners in jail, cutting their sentences in half -- maybe it's the Queen's birthday... or maybe he's just feeling generous.

He is King Bhumibol and he rose to the throne in 1946 at the age of 18 with no training for the job. His promise: to "reign with righteousness for the benefit and happiness of the Siamese people." And I'd say he's doing a damn fine job. People don't love their King without reason. And considering most of the countries that border Thailand are 20 -50 years behind in terms of development, the guy is obviously doing something right. According to a source on the internet, "the response he gets from his people in rural Thailand today is almost beyond the understanding of the Western mind: Thai villagers lay down handkerchiefs for him to walk on and then they save the scraps of cloth with his footprint in shrines at their homes."

According to Asiaweek magazine: "It is probably safe to say that no monarch in the world is as popular as King Bhumibol. Or so revered. Or so present. His portrait hangs in virtually every home and office in the land, a kind of benevolent father watching over his children. Every night all TV channels run footage of royal family members attending official functions. Some, such as visits by foreign heads of state, are clearly significant; others would make little television sense anywhere else. But, as former premier Anand Panyarachun says, over the years the King has earned the admiration of his people in a manner that cannot be fully comprehended by foreigners."

TGIF

2006-01-13T16:25:00.000+07:00

For the first time in a long while, I am reminded of the glory, the satisfaction, the relief (O! the relief!), and the feelings of freedom and abandon that come with Fridays, the finest day of the week. Did you know the name 'Friday' comes from the Old English word 'frigedaeg', meaning the day of the 'Frige'... or the Norse god of beauty? And what a beautiful day it is. 'Thank God it's Friday!'

TGIF! -- oh how we love acronyms. We love this one so much, it's also used as shorthand for: 'Teen Girls in Faith', 'Thank God I'm Female', and for the mentally challenged, 'This Goes In Front' and 'Toes Go In First'. Can you imagine a pair of trousers with 'TGIF' printed on the crotch or a pair of socks labeled 'TGIF' as instructional aids? Just like plastic bags that are labeled to denounce their use as toys and proclaim the danger of asphyxiation if, say, someone put the bag on his head and closed off the open end... All of these things, stupid 'TGIF' acronyms included, should be outlawed. Mother nature intended that the 'fittest' should survive and the weak... well, the weak aren't good for the collective gene pool. If a person wants to tie a plastic bag onto his head, I say let him. Especially if it's a Friday; we could make up an acronym for him, 'That Guy Is Finished'.

But seriously...

Today it's Friday and right now that means 2 days of rest are to follow -- we've been taking a Thai massage course all week, 6 hours per day, and we begin another week on Monday. We have 2 days of rest! Thinking -- no, rejoicing -- in this, I was reminded of home. I haven't felt such elation for a Friday since we hit the road. Huh.

Not only that, having a schedule reminds me about how, at home, we chop our time up into bits -- bite sized bits, king sized bits -- morning and afternoon, evening and night; week days and weekends and months... semesters, quarters, years. I've completely forgotten how it is to live by this structure since I've been traveling. There are no bookends to the week, like Mondays and Fridays, and bookends to the weekends, like Friday afternoons and Sunday nights (and aren't Sunday nights depressing?). On the road I have no schedule -- often I don't even know what day of the week it is -- I have no structure. I have ditched the calendar. I have unshackeled myself from its little boxes and grids and numbers. Time does not 'march on'; it flows, it glides, it rolls. I feel free; like a collar has been removed from my neck, like a chain has been unlocked from my leg.

Now that I'm reminded of weeks and weekends, calendars and schedules... It gets me thinking about our return home, wondering how I'll cope with the Monday-through-Friday workaday life... it won't be ideal, but I know it will be OK. Humans can adapt to anything (a big lesson learned through traveling). And at least I'll have Fridays to look forward to. TGIF.

Potty Talk

2006-01-09T20:27:00.000+07:00

Benjamin and I are taking a 2-week massage course here in Chiang Mai. I have plenty of time to tell you more about all of that, but first I must digress on a childish tangent because I have discovered the best, all-time, piece of trivia. In the bathroom. On the back of the stall's door, a sign told me that I was in the wrong bathroom. Yes, I was in the ladies' room, but I was in the stall with the western-style toilet. The sign was there to inform me on the virtues of using a squat toilet: it's better for the digestive organs, it's cleaner (you don't really need toilet paper), blahditty-blah-blah...

The most interesting information on the sign was in regards to the history of the western toilet -- this object of ridicule in the stall, at least according to all that blather about being the 'wrong' toilet. Apparently, a Mr. Thomas Crapper invented the toilet. I was sitting (ok -- hovering) about 3 feet away from the sign at the time and did a double-take to make sure I read correctly. Sometimes, in certain situations, I have a tendency to read a word wrong -- a comical error when, say, you're in Thailand and you see 'whole sale' and read 'whore sale'.

But back to Mr. Crapper: he certainly was a man with 'his work cut out for him' so to speak – with a name like Crapper, your options in life are pretty clear, are they not? You either have to sell diaper products or build toilets or possess an unfortunate problem with continence and henceforth be nicknamed as such. And besides... back in the day, Shoemakers made shoes; Smiths were blacksmiths; a Crapper invented crappers.

However, and sadly so, research on the internet has proven this to be an urban legend -- an unanswered question -- the fact that Thomas Crapper invented the toilet is, well, apparently full of crap. You might find it interesting to know that there are people out there in this big, busy world who have devoted much of their time standing up for the guy and his so-called invention. According to one site, these people have made it their life's work to prove Crapper was the man behind the machine. One of these guys is the historian of the 'International Thomas Crapper Society' (can you believe this?) and the other is writing a book on Crapper's life. Bathroom reading material, for sure.

Crapper was an English plumber born -- hey, guess what? -- the day after me (January 17), although a few years earlier (1836). The interesting thing about his birthday is that it's now known as 'Thomas Crapper Day' according to a book that's deemed, 'the authoritative book for listing special dates and events'. I know what I'll be doing with my hangover the day after my birthday this year: what do they call it? Praying to the porcelain god? How apropos, to honor Thomas Crapper on his birthday, on Thomas Crapper Day, by kneeling before the gleaming white bowl.

Aside from the ultimate question: did TC invent the toilet or not, Crapper's fans argue about things like the date of his death. In one book called, 'Flushed with Pride,' the author writes that he died on January 27, 1910. In fact, the correct date is presumed to be some 10 days off. Hmmm. Perhaps in regards to moving on, the 'ole Crapper was just constipated...

There's really no proof Crapper invented the commode; he held 9 patents for things like drains and manhole covers, but no patents for an actual toilet. Some feel Crapper was riding on the shirt-tail of a Mr. Giblin who did invent some useful toilet technology. They think Crapper got the credit because he bought the patent rights from Giblin and marketed the product. But we're not talking about the 'first toilet ever' in this scenario, we're talking about the "silent valveless water waste preventer" (patent no. 814), which basically just allowed a toilet to flush effectively when the cistern was only half full. Big deal.

The premiere toilet, the first ever, made its debut all the way back in 1596. Sir John Harington, godson to Queen Elizabeth, made what he called a 'necessary' -- one for her and one for him. Apparently he was ridiculed for the invention and never built any more. 200 years later, the idea took off and a series of inventors (who named their calling 'sanitary science') took on the toilet bowl and evolved the idea into what we know today. Along the way, there were some fun names assigned to what we (snore) call the toilet. My favorites: the pneumatic closet, the plunger closet, the three-pipe siphonic closet, and the jet siphon closet. But even more than those, I love the names given to technologies that were meant to improve the toilet -- pardon me, I mean the jet siphon closet -- technologies named: the backflow preventer, a blow-out arrangement, and reverse trap toilets.

Seems to me the 'backflow preventer' and the 'blow-out arrangement' are more suitable as technological improvements for the human body than the toilet, but we can't change the plumbing Mother Nature endowed us with... too bad because I've already got names picked out for my inventions: the 'sphincter-schminkter', the 'alimentary canal cork', the 'comfort station', and the 'waste not, want not' travel accessories.

Well, I guess that's about it for the history of toilets. I'm disappointed that I've been given false information in regards to the origins of said device (I'll make a note on the back of the bathroom door at the massage school)... Mostly, I am disappointed that a man named 'Crapper' did not come up with the invention after all... How beautiful a thing it would have been -- like stars and diseases named for the men who discovered them, why shouldn't the toilet be named after its inventor? Personally, I would be fine calling the toilet the 'Harington', named after the first human to invent such a fine device... And the name would work well at cocktail parties, too. "Excuse me, dahlink, but can you tell me where to find the Harington?" How civilized we would all sound!

2006, Day One: Recovery

2006-01-02T10:59:00.000+07:00

I always loved (still do) the way Star Trek began with Captain Kirk saying, in a dispassionate yet earnest voice, something like, "Captain's log, stardate 6002.0. I have underestimated the power of a stiff Sangsom and Coke: toxic, potent, heavy... duty. We have all succumbed... to the... incredible, ferocious... and... inebriating forces of Thai... whiskey". And in faster, clipped -- more dramatic -- diction, "Today, we shall pay the price."

That's what Captain Kirk would say if he were me and he awoke, as I did, with a dull throbbing in his head, a scratch under his right eye, and exoskeletal matter in between his teeth.

I did eat the cockroach on New Year's Eve and I'm happy that it happened after enough alcohol was consumed to keep the memory of it blurry and fuzzy, like a dream. I have video evidence and as all videos of one's self are, it doesn't seem like it's "real". I mean, I remember doing it, yes I do. I remember sticking the huge, shiny, brown vermin in between my teeth for a photo. I remember tearing the legs and wings off the roach after that -- no need to mess about with the legs and wings -- John and I agreed that we would also tear off the head. Even with the removal of all those bits (should I call them bits? They were huge, afterall...) Even with the removal of all that stuff so necessary in life : legs, head... so necessary in life but no longer so when you've become a midnight snack. The roach was still gigantic, at least 3 inches in length. And when I tore off the head, I was so glad we decided to do so because it would have broken a tooth. The part of the roach where the head connects to the body is as strong as a nail - hard - almost unbreakable. I tossed the head into the gutter, 'toasted' John with my roach/snack, and then... down the hatch. It was chewy. I gagged. It was tough. I gagged again. But I got it down and throughout the night, I found bits of hard stuff, roach pieces, in my mouth -- you know how popcorn kernels get stuck in your teeth? It was like that, but more disturbing.

After that, a Thai woman stuck a grasshopper in my mouth. But that was nothing. That skinny little grasshopper... that vegetarian of an insect. That was nothing compared to eating an arthropod the dictionary describes as a 'scavenger', a 'pest', a 'beetle-like insect with long antennae and legs'.

In 2006, within the first hour, I achieved greatness in this way: the kind of greatness that comes with having done something out of the ordinary, something requiring guts (even if it means the ingestion of guts); the kind of greatness that comes with doing something repulsive and foul -- in short, the kind of greatness that 4th grade boys would honor and respect. I am their queen.

A friend suggested that perhaps the eating of a roach would somehow, in some twisted way of thinking and logic, put an end to the spate of bad luck I have written about in the past month or two. In a primitive and barbaric way, I would gain power from the roach: dominance over the bad things that happen like motorbike crashes and dog bites and visitation by ghosts. Like savages who eat the hearts of their battle victims, I would take on the powers of the roach: tough, formidable, able to survive anything, including nuclear attack. But it's not so. Later that night, I was a victim (as was Benjamin, John, and Nyla) of a bar fight; an unprovoked attack by a gang of English hooligans who complained that we were taking too long to play our game of pool. This is where Captain Kirk, in his opening remarks, would recount the story behind the scratch under his right eye.

We were coaxed into a bar with the promise of '2 for 1' drinks. It was late, 2:00 a.m. -- or should I say it was early? We entered the bar, ordered 4 beers, and debated the price with the bartender. It was not '2 for 1' except for a certain selection of drinks, and I'm pretty sure the list of those is determined after you've placed your order; a changing list, devised at whim, based upon things not ordered and not-to-be ordered. This is how it is, the way it goes -- I've gotten used to it. When you travel, especially in Asia, information does not play by the rules of science: physical properties (such as time, description of services, and -- in this case -- price) constantly change; information is flexible and unstable.

So we have our drinks and we decide to play a game of pool. There's one other pool table in the bar and its occupied by 4 Europeans (note that I do not wish to list the entire EU so will, to the consternation of a certain British girl, use the generalized term for people of that continent). Over in the corner by the door, a table of people... people I hadn't noticed before, seethe and simmer. They claim they'd been waiting for our pool table for an hour and are pissed that now they must sit through what looks-to-be an interminably long pool game played by incompetents.

We relate to them the story of our arrival: the pool table was empty, sitting there all alone under the illumination of billiard lights... no-one playing, no-one waiting to play, no-one even thinking about playing. In the time it took us to sort out the price of our '2 for 1' drinks with the barkeep, they certainly could have claimed the table if, in fact, they'd wanted it. There was no-one else around -- no-one in the bar but the 4 Europeans already playing. How could they have been waiting for the table for an hour, in an empty bar? And supposing the place was packed and had emptied entirely, just before we arrived, how come they didn't take the table in all the time -- 10 minutes -- it took us to even consider getting started? It was bull shit. They were just looking for tension.

It was a Thai girl who started the whole argument, unusual in that Thai people (women especially) aren't generally aggressive -- Thai people, like many Asians, don't express emotion or even argue in public (or private)... Perhaps it's all the 'bottling up' of aggravation and frustration and anger that got this girl going. Once a Thai let's it go, puts the concept of 'face' to the side, they can be violent. They'll kick the shit out of you -- years of pent up emotions do that to people -- it's kind of like 'going postal'. But its unusual. For some reason, this girl was hanging out with a bunch of British fucks, the type who get into fights all the time back home... not just soccer-hooligan-mother-f'ers... but people who fight for fun. One of them was almost 7 feet tall. He took a swing at Benjamin for no reason. They approached us angrily, unprovoked by nothing more than our inept and lengthy pool playing and started throwing punches. The giant guy was so tall that his punches were almost inconsequential, almost completely clearing the top of Benjamin's head...

After the first punch was thrown, everything gets chaotic and nothing makes sense. "What the fuck is happening?" the question streaked through my mind in terror and disbelief. I couldn't believe people could be so stupid as they -- but it doesn't make sense to try understanding low-lifes who get their kicks out of... well, kicking people.

Benjamin is on the ground now and there must be at least 10 of these fuckers. I use my pool cue as a lance: poking, jabbing, daring the fuckers to come closer. They do, so I use it as a shield, a barricade... staving off a group of sneering, raging... someone has climbed onto the table and taken my pool cue away. I turn around. Benjamin is covered with people as if he were a crumb at a picnic laid out on an anthill. I see the Thai bitch going for his eyes. She is trying to claw out his eyes. I cannot even see Benjamin with all the people on top of him. I must be yelling... "What the f--..." I punch the back of her head. Holy shit, I've never hit anyone before in my life... I put my arm around her neck from behind her back... I squeeze at my elbow and lift her up... just like Uma Thurman in 'Kill Bill' (volume 1)... I want to squeeze the evil air out of her throat and leave her gasping in the gutter... like the roach head... I want to snap her head off and toss it into the gutter where it belongs. Someone behind me strikes my spine with the pool cue or was it their fist? It hurts... the wind is knocked out of me... I can't believe someone did that, the mother.... people are piled on top of each other... suddenly we are walking to the door... how did Benjamin get up and away from the mob? Someone must have come to help us... they came to even the numbers out so they're fair... now we are close to the exit and I am really pissed... the giant 7-foot asshole is there, trying to get in more punches as we leave... fucker! I grab his crotch... I will squeeze his testicles until they pop... but wait, there's nothing there... I keep trying... reaching in between people who seem to be blocking them from us... I keep trying -- who cares if I'm jostled and elbowed and hit in the head... I want to make this jerk pay... but... I'm out the door... on the sidewalk... we're all outside now and they're all inside... we're safe but angry... no-one cares.... "Hey you, are you the owner? What the fuck kind of place is this?" we yell... He ignores us. Ignores us! The bastard. He doesn't care. He doesn't care that we are the victims and he's favoring the perpetrators. We look for police. There are no police. We ask other people to call the police. No-one will call the police. They tell us the police will not care. They won't come.

So that was it. We went home shortly thereafter. I promised to smear the name of the bar where the owners don't care about people victimized and attacked on their premises. I know the English thugs who attacked us are the ones who are really to blame, but they are probably on their way back to their blue collar jobs in English slums, dreaming of future fights at pubs in their own neighborhood. Apparently, in Thailand, problems with violence are all due to foreigners, not Thais. A sad state of affairs...

The bar: Sharkey's (or Sharky's or Sharkies)... on Moon Muang Road, Chiang Mai.

It's time to wrap this thing up... there was harsh language used... there was violence... there was scary content for parental eyes. I apologize. We are fine so don't worry mom(s) and dad(s). And though it may sound tactless, at least our new year, 2006, got off with a 'bang' -- and as I said to Benjamin when we got home that night, the worst part about the whole thing is that my moment of greatness, the eating of the roach, was overshadowed by the brawl. This feat, this moment of ultimate distinction, was lost in the shuffle of feet and swinging of fists.

On the Precipice of a New Year

2005-12-31T11:02:00.000+07:00

We've been here in Chiang Mai for Thanksgiving and Christmas, so it makes sense that we'll usher in the new year here as well. It is our home-away-from-home as I've mentioned before... a place where orchids sit upon trees like crazy hairstyles on portly girls; where women running the cash register at 7-11 turn out to be men with 5 o'clock shadows and red bows in long hair (and the kicker is, here it's OK); where a walk through a market attacks the nostrils with the pungent and not altogether pleasing scent of fish: dried fish, fish sauce, fish paste and where the smell of sweet corn reminds me of summers in the midwest; where everyone wears flipflops and women, when not wearing flipflops, operate motorbikes in spiky, strappy sandals; where, with an artistic perspective, temple spires pierce clouds in the sky: be careful if they pop, confetti may spill out...

Tonight, lights from bridges will twinkle on the river; lit lanterns will intermingle with stars in the sky; fireworks will light up the night in colors of the rainbow; the pop and bang of hand-thrown firecrackers will damage ear drums; the smell of gunpowder from battles with wick and flame will fill the air...

We'll be celebrating with our friends John and Nyla -- we met them a few months ago in Koh Samui and we've reunited here in Chiang Mai for the drunk-fest known as New Year's Eve. And what is New Year's Eve, if not a time to get wasted or remain sober and watch Dick Clark's ball drop while eating frozen appetizers heated in an oven? It's not like time knows that it's marching on... the calendar is a human invention. If it wasn't for us and our habit of organizing time into days and weeks, months, years, decades, centuries, millennia (and what comes after millennia?)... if it wasn't for our habit in doing this, New Year's eve and day would be like any other. But we use this event as a reason to change our ways -- shed bad habits -- make a change in our lives... This year, I haven't come up with any resolutions... A few years ago, I wrote a little essay about just this thing. Here it is:

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To bring in the New Year, I did my spring cleaning... last year's. It prompted me to consider my New Years' resolutions more carefully. Obviously I need to add time management to the list. Literally. Since I didn't follow through on 2003's resolutions, all I have to do in 2004 is find last year's list (possible, thanks to the spring cleaning) and pencil in 'improve time management'. The words follow a considerable record of failed or forgotten endeavors that follow me from year to year: lose weight, dress more stylishly, remember to send birthday cards, learn how to break-dance, discover the cure for cellulite, win the lottery. Several years ago I began to add ridiculous resolutions to the roster because in reality, even the every-day items are improbable considering nothing ever comes of them. My listing of resolutions has become more of a wish list than something to take action on.

Almost everyone makes New Year's resolutions, but hardly anyone I know keeps them. Joe, the guy down at the corner store, grimaced when I asked him about his. He already knows he won't keep up his weight loss program, one that simply entails eating dinner before 8 p.m., and it's only January 2. I, myself, have already considered breaking a few of my pledges - after all, bad habits are hard to shed. And anyway, there's always tomorrow... or next year.

In addition to adding 'improve time management' to this year's list, I'm also considering 'cease making new years resolutions'. But how could I stop following a tradition that's been around 4000 years, since the ancient days of the Babylonians? Their lists of resolutions were probably short and sweet, as they'd have to painstakingly chip them out of stone tablets. I've read that their most popular resolution was to return borrowed farm equipment. Now that's a resolution even I could keep (that is, if I lived anywhere near grass).

The Babylonians were onto something. They gave themselves achievable goals. Maybe we should keep our lists simple and clutter-free. Perhaps we'd actually be able to achieve something written on them. If we have only one goal to pursue, how could we go wrong? We can throw our full weight at the problem without distractions from other pesky aspirations and the guilt that comes with ignoring them.

Committing my self-improvement objectives to a list makes them scary. They leave the happy place in the back of my mind and become real. I must feed and nurture them or they will die and mock me in the process. I've made ambitious proclamations about losing weight over the years, only to meekly admit failure when I'm asked how things are going. It's a cycle of embarrassment I can count on from year to year. I don't like to make my life more complicated than needed and would rather not make resolutions in the first place. Still, every New Year's day I bring out my tattered list once again, if for no other reason than habit. I know that ultimately, the list doesn't matter. I am not the only one to quickly stow her list away, back to its home in the subconscious, before week's end.

As for 2004, I've decided to maintain the tradition set forth by the Babylonians. I will continue to make New Year's resolutions, but this year, I won't set myself up for failure. I will add 'improve time management' to the inventory but my resolution is simply to keep my list in mind beyond the month of January - possibly, even, the entire year.

-----

The only thing I've lined up to bring in 2006 is the eating of a cockroach. Yes, you read right. I shall eat a cockroach (maybe... maybe I won't, but I did promise to do so). They sell fried insects as snacks here in Thailand and the other night, while out with John and Nyla, we were all drunk enough to try a cricket and some of us (me and John), a fat, white grub. At the time, I was too sober to eat a cockroach, they're 3-inchers I might add, but I was drunk enough to promise John that along with him, I shall ingest a roach on New Year's Eve. Perhaps, if I'm crafty, I can convince John that I've made a New Year's resolution to not eat insects and I can worm (pun intended) out of my commitment to join him in the midnight feast.

Happy New Year, 2006

Myanmar: Yangon

2005-12-30T11:16:00.000+07:00

December 23rd {notes from journal}

Yangon used to be called Rangoon. Before the ruling military junta took over, Myanmar used to be called Burma. Names change with political will. Perhaps renaming a place is the ultimate symbol of power -- it shows people who's who. In Vietnam, Saigon is now Ho Chi Minh City. In India, Calcutta is Kolkata and Bombay is Mumbai.

Yangon is unlike any other city we visited in Myanmar. It's the capital city and until recently, it was the location for Myanmar's central government (and incidentally, its the home of Aung San Suu Kyi). Just this month, the government started relocating to a remote mountainous 'hideaway', a place called Pyinmana, 320 kilometers north of Yangon. No-one knows why -- including the government employees who have been relocated to what has been called a 'backwater' full of poisonous snakes and malaria -- there is no explanation given. Many are leaving their families behind in Yangon, which means added expense. And it's against the law to 'quit' a government job. Permission must be given. There is speculation that the government is moving farther inland due to fears of a US attack (noting the war with Iraq). The other theory is that the chairman, Than Shwe, is simply heeding the advice of astrologers. When we were waiting for so long to get our visas last month, people mentioned, "there must be something going on there," so apparently this was it -- the relocation was announced in November. People must have been busy.

Yangon is a busy place, especially in the evening, with people and cars and motorbikes and bicycles clogging the streets -- sidewalk cafes with tiny tables and low stools clot the sidewalks. With the black-streak-stained buildings, and colonial architecture from the British days, I was reminded a bit of India, England's neighboring colony of bygone days. Compared with the rest of Myanmar, Yangon felt 10 years ahead in terms of development and consumerism, but still decades behind the rest of the world. There are shops selling appliances, electronics and clothes. There are put-together restaurants and, even, fast food places called (creatively) MacBurger. The main attraction for tourists in Yangon is The Shwedagon Pagoda, a giant golden temple visible from many parts of the city. We could see the spire glowing in the afternoon sun from our hotel room, bigger than any building in our field of vision (there are no skyscrapers in Myanmar but Yangon has plenty of monolithic colonial-era buildings about).

Originally, we hadn't planned to visit Yangon. But to get back to Chaing Mai, we had to fly there from Mandalay. There are no return flights from Mandalay to Chiang Mai. By the time we arrived in Yangon, we were running ragged -- ready to do nothing for a few days after several weeks of jam-packed-sight-seeing. We checked ourselves into a 'mid-range' hotel -- the budget options are all concrete boxes without windows according the guidebook. And, despite my embarrassment to admit this, we spent a lot of time laying in bed with a remote control in hand. The hotel had satellite TV and having been on the road for so long, TV is something of a novelty for us -- even if the satellite only returns two watchable stations, at least one of them was HBO!

After weeks of sunshine, the skies were again the color of lead with thick clouds so low, it felt as if a blanket had been pulled over the city. Just as when we arrived in Mandalay several weeks prior. Although gray skies depress me, at least our arrival and departure had symmetry -- like a pair of bookends protecting and supporting everything that happened in between. And like bookends, in contrast to the books they contain, we felt ambivalent about the cities of Mandalay and Yangon but everything in-between? Fabulous.

Myanmar: Inle

2005-12-29T15:29:00.000+07:00

December 18th {notes from journal}

Fisherman with cone shaped nets and baskets on long handles; a market with a flotilla of boats as parking lot; temples with trained cats and Buddhas so gilded with gold leaf they appear as blobs; floating vegetable gardens; and demonstrations of local handicrafts: silversmiths make earrings and men pound out iron swords, women make paper with designs formed by flowers, cigars are rolled by delicate female hands, silk made from the lotus plant is woven on looms... this is Inle, a lake in the Shan State, 22 km long and 11 wide, with mountains on either side and villages upon its waves.

Along with Bagan, Inle is Myanmar's top tourist destination. A day-long boat trip aboard a vessel with comfortable chairs and cushions is the best way to see the lake and its way of life -- children fly kites from canoes tied up outside homes built over the water on stilts; men row boats with their legs; women do the laundry in the water outside their front door; reflections on the glassy surface of the lake tease the mind and trick the eyes. The reflections are the most beautiful I've ever seen, casting the images of neighborhoods and people and temples and flowering plants and blue skies with billowing clouds into the water.

It's a tiring day, under the sun on a boat... and, at times, a bit frustrating. At the Phaung Daw U Paya, the holiest religious site of the Southern Shan state, the 5 Buddha images (blobs) covered in gold leaf are somewhat off limits to women. "Ladies not permitted," sings state on steps leading to the altar. It's a bit annoying to be deemed less of a person than a man -- there is no other reason to deny us entrance to the altar. In Myanmar, they believe a male birth comes with higher merit; women can never reach nibbana (nirvana). If you ask me, women should be the ones allowed to the altar, to swath the Buddhas in gold... women need the merit having been born with less than men, no?

The other frustrating thing: there were no jumping cats at the 'Jumping Cat Monastery'. We wanted to see felines jump through hoops held in the hands of laughing monks. When we got there, cats and monks... everyone but the souvenir salesmen were sleeping. And finally, it was frustrating to go from one handicraft demonstration to the next, as if we were mindless sightseers on a package tour... It's not our style.

All that said, Inle is an interesting place. It's peaceful. It's beautiful. And at the end of the day, you can feed seagulls that soar above as you skim along reflective water as the sun makes its descent behind the mountains.

Myanmar: Ghosts and Revelations

2005-12-29T12:15:00.000+07:00

Ghost stories are usually told in the dim hours of night, when they have more power, when the darkness and shadows and things-under-the-bed come alive. But alas, my story must be told through words not spoken but typed... in a place not dark, but bright. My story is not meant to chill but to enlighten... because I have, for the first and only time in my life, seen a ghost and in its wake, I dreamt of spirit possession and learned the secrets of the afterlife.

Some of you might think I'm loony, or that I was tricked by an unusual play of shadows and an active imagination. But I am not one who easily falls for tales of magic and superstition. I am more of a skeptic than a believer in faith. And I am not an author of fiction... So with that disclaimer having been said, I shall tell my ghost story.

December 15th ~ a Tuaung-yo village in Myanmar

The space was dimly lit by a low wattage bulb hanging from the family's Buddha altar. It cast a yellow light on the six figures lying below on the floor: a couple from Belgium, a couple from Singapore (Jason and Samantha) and us: Benjamin and myself. We were overnighting in the home of a village family, tucked away behind a smattering of trees upon a hill. We were each bundled up in a heap of blankets -- the night time temperatures dipped when the sun went down and it was promising to be a very cold night. Earlier in the evening, our hosts laid out our beds -- reed mats on the floor -- all in a line against the wall. And now, having stumbled into bed after a long day of walking, our hosts came around with more blankets before retiring to the kitchen to chat with our guides. As the bustle of movement moved into the other room, I closed my eyes and waited for sleep as voices and laughter drifted in from the kitchen, reminding me of light chatter of my parents and their friends at the end of a dinner party as I went to bed in childhood. It was, somehow, a comforting sound... but not conducive to sleep.

Soon the chit-chat died down, a few rustles of blankets as the 'adults' went to bed, and all was quiet... I laid under the weight of my many blankets for what seemed like hours, unable to sleep, but peacefully so. It was not the hard wood floor that kept me awake -- or the snoring coming from the other side of the room -- or the light coming from Buddha's altar. I was simply restless. It happens to me at home -- insomnia -- the brain won't turn off, the sand man forgets my address, dreams play hard to get. To my left, Benjamin had caught his dreams; to my right, Samantha slumbered on.

After a while, I heard a whisper of movement in the room. Had our hosts come back, in the middle of the night, with more blankets? Has one of the other guests decided to take a midnight stroll? Out of insomniac boredom, with nothing better to do, I opened my eyes to find out.

There, behind Samantha -- who was restful and asleep on her side, facing me -- lay a young woman, also on her side, facing me, with head propped up on her hand, elbow propped up on the floor. At first I thought it was one of the family's two daughters. But why would one of the girls leave the warmth of her bed in the middle of a frigid night to lay down between strange foreigners? Why would she come out here and take a place on the floor without blankets, with bare feet? It didn't make sense and besides, the young lady was too womanly to be the either of the two daughters. I lay there for a few minutes (or were they seconds?) in a confused state, trying to work out who this 7th person was, this newcomer, this trespasser of our collective bedroom.

I didn't notice her clothes, aside from the fact that they seemed to have no color but a faint beige, the color of an antique photograph, faded sepia. On her head she wore a turban of the same non-color (most of the hilltribe women do) and on her face, the same color again (but a tinge more yellow): many people in Myanmar wear a yellowish paste on their faces made with the ground bark of the Thanakha tree. It's used as sunblock, to whiten skin, for decoration.

She was rubbing her thumb against her fingertips, her right hand. Other than that, she was completely motionless, probably 12 inches behind Samantha, face visible beyond Samantha's shoulder... and as I ran my eyes again from her toes to her head, trying to make out who she was, my gaze, finally, settled on her face and she was watching me with her black eyes. Yellow paste on her cheeks and forehead and nose... yellow light from the dim lightbulb overhead... she watched me as if she were studying me. It's a creepy feeling, when someone stares at you without expression. Especially creepy in the middle of the night. Even more creepy when the person is a strange and unexplained intruder. And really creepy when the person is a... is a... ghost!

I flipped over to put my back to her fierce gaze. I pretended not to have seen her -- like when you see a person you dislike on the street and look away quickly to avoid conversation, hoping they didn't notice your recognition of them, even if they saw you look. My heart was beating. My brain was whirling. In her eyes, my confusion vanished -- her eyes answered my questions about her odd presence: she was a ghost. Ghosts, I learned, are similar to the kind of things people refer to, obliquely, when they say, "you'll know it when you see it."

I must have lain there for hours like that, with my back to the ghost gazing at me from behind Samantha's shoulder. I wondered if, perhaps, a strange play of shadows from the folds of Jason's blankets (who was on the other side of Samantha) tricked me. I wondered if she was still there. Finally, I worked up the courage to take a glimpse. I sucked in my breath and clenched my fists and tensed by legs and turned my head. She was gone. There was nothing there but empty space between Samantha and Jason... and... and... there were no tricky shadows capable of forming themselves into the image of a woman, a solid woman (apparently not all ghosts are transparent), and there were no patterns or designs on blankets capable of turning themselves into eyes black as coal, recognizable as things that 'you know when you see'.

"Holy shit, I saw a ghost," I thought to myself as I finally answered the Sandman's call to sleep. I drifted off, barely able to contain the news. I wanted to wake Benjamin when I first saw her, but I couldn't: I was pretending she didn't exist and I was frozen in fear. And then I wanted to wake him once she'd gone, but why disrupt his dreams when the news could wait until morning.

{the following is an account of my dreams the rest of the night}

There's a spirit in the room, I know it. I had a Polaroid camera to prove it. Snapping photos in the pitch black room, one resulted in an image. As the image developed in my hand, to my horror, the face of a demon emerged: a skull with burning eyes that must have been only inches from my lens -- meaning, it had been only inches from me. Aaaaaggghh! I screamed and ran from the place.

I ran into the arms of someone there to comfort me. I don't know him. Never seen him before in my life. But he is there, waiting for me, to tell me about the spirits. He tells me not to worry about the demon. While it may be true that the demon wanted into my head, all I have to do is block him with my mind. He tells me that at times -- and there is no rhyme or reason for the coming of these times, when people are more 'open'... more receptive to spirit's calls... He told me that we can let them in if we choose, and we can deny them if we wish. He suggested it's best to deny the ones with scary skull faces. I agreed.

And then this man, who I have come to think of as my dreamscape guardian angel, went on to explain the afterlife. This, in answer to my question, "Who are you, anyway?" He explained that he's a spirit, not unlike the skull faced demon (except he was a good spirit of course), and was sent to explain things to me, to calm me from my fright of possession. He and the other spirits (skull face included) have one main job in the afterlife. They usher the dead to the other side. Each of us living persons, we have a spirit 'assigned' to us for this journey (he, by the way was not mine). The 'guardian angel' told me that the ease with which you transition from life to death is all based on who your guide is. If you have a 'nice' guide, the voyage could be over in a snap. It could be blissful. Perhaps this is heaven. But if you've got a 'nasty' guide (like skull face), your voyage may be tormented and hideous and gruesome and painful. Perhaps this is hell.

It's all up to the guide, you see -- the ease or hardship with which you go to the other side, the time it takes to get there, even, when death happens itself (you know people who have 5 heart attacks and keep on ticking? Their guides are lazy. You know people who die from choking on a teaspoon of water? Their guides are restless). Once we, the living, are on the other side, we become guides. All of us, our destiny... to guide spirits to the afterlife and in the event we have time on our hands? I guess we haunt people and reveal the secrets of the afterlife to others in dreams...

-----

When I told Benjamin about all of this the next day, he asked if I'd read about Nats in the guidbook. I hadn't. I found the perfect opportunity on a bus ride. What I learned, to my astonishment: Nats (or what we call ghosts) 'come home' on nights with a full moon (and the night I saw the ghost, it was a full moon). Almost all traditional Burmese songs are designed to attract Nats (and one of the family's daughters performed a traditional dance for us after dinner that night). Nats are known to take possession of people for periods of time (and I dreamt of spirit possession and learned the secrets thereof).

With my revelation of the afterlife, Benjamin has more advice: it's time I start my own religion, he says.

Myanmar: Trekking in the Shan State

2005-12-28T10:05:00.000+07:00

December 15th - 16th {notes from journal}

On the western edge of the Shan plateau, Kalaw is the base for trekking in Myanmar. In the area surrounding Kalaw: ethnic minority groups such as the Pa-O, Palaung, Danu, and Tuang-yo... mountains, plantations, and villages. Opium flourishes in the Shan State, but we won't see poppy fields -- travel to these areas is restricted by the government because of warlords and rebel armies -- these parts of the Shan State are 'no go' zones, but outside of Kalaw, it's possible to walk into the mountainous region -- all the way to Inle Lake if one chooses to do so, but we've decided on a 2-day trek, overnighting in a village home-stay.

Our guide is a 58-year-old man named Ronald, of Indian descent, and he tells us that we can ask him about anything, "except politics."

We set off early in the morning. As we left Kalaw: a procession of monks collecting alms (food) in black bowls and silver cannisters; children on their way to school; women frying samosas and other Bamar treats along the roadway; men making bricks by hand. Ronald, tells us about the diversity of Kalaw: there are Indians and Nepalis and Chinese and Burmese... people are Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian (Baptist, Protestant, and Catholic). There are dozens of ethnic minorities.

We head into the hills where we'll see mountains, plantations and farms, hilltribes, and village life. Ronald stops to point out the numerous Pine trees as we amble out of town, explaining that there used to be Teak but the British cut a lot of it down and replaced it with Pine -- it's why they were in Burma, he explains, for their natural resources. Teak, being hard and light, was used to build ships. Further on, Ronald stops to point at deforested hills in the distance. "It used to be jungle," he laments, "now there are laws against deforestation." We saw more evidence of deforestation in the hills as we walked for two days -- the farmers use slash-and-burn farming techniques; trees are cut for fire wood; some trees are still standing, but missing large pieces of their trunks, as if a giant took a bite out of their sides -- people burn notches in the trunk and cut out wood chips for cooking fires. These trees will eventually be blown over in a strong wind because of the breach in their structure.

The views were fantastic -- from the ridges of mountains and from the bottoms of valleys, there are rolling hills and mountains visible beyond -- all a patchwork of colors and textures like fuzzy wool and satiny silk -- a labyrinth of farming plots on steep hills. Standing at the top of one mountain, gazing upon a valley below filled with terraced rice fields ready for harvest, it seemed as if I was looking upon a golden river surging through a canyon, twisting and turning at the base of green hills.

In total, we walked 36 km (18 km each day) through fields of sesame, wet and dry rice, castor bean trees, garlic, tea and coffee plants... past gardens with tomatoes, flowers, snow peas, wheat, pumpkin, corn, cabbage, cauliflower, soy beans and more... you name it and they grow it. It seems that in the hills, the villages, life is all about growing food. If not for sale, then for consumption. People grow food first for survival and secondly to sell in order to purchase their 'wants and needs', as Ronald put it. It's hard work -- everything is done by hand, without the aid of animals in many places (the hills are too steep) and machines (Myanmar is underdeveloped -- people farm the same way they did hundreds of years ago).

As we walked, Ronald talked to passing villagers: one woman, out collecting fire wood, was 10 months pregnant! And this man over here, he had a good harvest this year, 52 baskets of rice, enough to feed his family; and the old, toothless woman... she's on her way to buy cotton from the market. The people asked Ronald where we were from. "Singapore and America," he answered first pointing to Jason and Samantha (our travel buddies) and then us. "Oh, Singapore!" the children cried -- they know Singapore better than America because occasionally, they get to watch football (soccer) on TV.

More walking: villagers are out on hills weeding sesame fields; we pass women with bundles of bright flowers on their backs; we have tea in a wooden longhouse where 6 families live, the only one left in the area; we pass through villages with homes on stilts, built with wood and thatch -- we learn from Ronald that more and more homes will be built with brick -- a decade from now, these villages will look quite different and I'm happy to have seen them now (the change in building materials is due to deforestation and economics -- brick houses last longer).

We pass a tree with crutches supporting its branches -- Ronald explains that women go to astrologers and if they are forecast bad luck, they are told to come to this tree and support a branch in order to change their fate; we pass harvested fields of rice with offerings placed in the center to thank the guardian Nat (spirit). In peoples' homes, Ronald points out objects placed over the doorway, there to ward off bad spirits. Myanmar is, like much of Asia, a land of spirits and superstition. The Burmese belief in spirits, called Nats, is left over from days of animistic religious practices... or perhaps it's a belief founded on a sensible respect for the spirit world -- I, myself, saw a ghost in Myanmar as we slept in a villager's home on this trek... more on that in the next post...

Myanmar: Bus to Kalaw

2005-12-28T09:25:00.000+07:00

December 14th {notes from journal}

-----
Another bus story... my writing coach would be horrified...
-----

The bus picked us up outside our hotel at 4:30 a.m. It was shitty, but better than our first bus -- the seats were as wide as my shoulders this time. There was more leg room. The odd feature of the bus included a metal bar that created a barrier between the seats and the aisle, at about knee level. We're not sure if it was part of the support structure holding the seats in place or if it's to keep feat in their 'rightful' place and apart from the low, plastic stools that line the aisle for passengers who get on the bus too late in the game to get a real seat. I would have thought the wooden floor was odd as well, but our first bus had a floor made of wooden planks as well.

We watched the sky go from pitch black to red and orange just above the horizon line. The reflections on low clouds looked like lava; sugar palms were silhouetted against the orange and then yellow backdrop of the sunrise. It was worth getting up at such an early hour to see the day arrive -- we don't have enough conviction to rise so early, for the awakening of the sun on our own...

We had to return 1/2 way to Mandalay before branching off on a new road to get to Kalaw: cactus, sunflower fields, sugar palms, and coconut trees gave way to a different kind of landscape -- low bushes, scrubland, and brown, rippled mountains dotted with dark green trees (reminding me of the dry California and Nevada mountains). We traveled along a one lane road (highway), pulling off to let oncoming traffic go by -- outside of the cities, the roads in Myanmar are only the width of one-laners back home. Drivers on these roads work together cooperatively as no two automobiles can fit on the same patch of highway.

At the border to the Shan State, we were stopped at a checkpoint -- a red and white striped barricade was lowered over the road, guards were at the ready to check our papers. Everyone got off the bus and lined up but the authorities didn't bother looking at the foreigners' passports -- they were only interested in the ID cards of the Burmese. The sign posted on the guardhouse, "All respect. All suspect," set a tone of distrust -- guilty before innocent -- that is sobering.

Up, up, up into the mountains and the scenery changed again -- it became more like the SE Asian landscapes of Laos and Northern Thailand that we're familiar with: lush, tropical, jungle. Still... up we climbed on the twisting mountain road -- still upon a one-lane road with traffic mostly of huge, barreling trucks: their descent and our ascent was like the polite dance between strangers when entering and exiting the same door. This road was not your 'everyday' road, it's the type we at home would label on a map as the sort requiring a 4WD vehicle. Narrow and steep, it makes for a testing ride. I asked Benjamin if he thought it was 'nerve wracking' as I did. He replied, "No, it's scenic," and added a few minutes later, "and distracting..." I'm sure he meant the scenery was distracting him from the fact that, at times, we were required to pull over along the edge of a cliff to let a passing truck go by -- it's why I was feeling anxious at least.

Nearly 10 hours later we arrived in Kalaw, a former hill station of the British. They always built them high in remote mountains for relief of lower elevation temperatures (like Darjeeling in India). But in December, Kalaw is pretty cold and I'm reminded for the first time in so long of chilled fingers and stiff toes. Kalaw is tiny and lucky for us that it is -- we don't have much time to see the town: tomorrow we leave on a 2-day trek through Shan villages, plantations, and mountains. We've been traveling with a couple from Singapore: Jason and Samantha. We met them in Bagan yesterday when we shared a car to visit Mt. Popa -- they are now our travel buddies for the next few days...

Myanmar: Bagan

2005-12-27T12:25:00.000+07:00

Bagan, December 11th - 13th {notes from journal}

They say you can't point your finger in any direction without pointing at a temple. The ride to Bagan was worth the pain -- it's awesome (a word that has lost the 'pow' of its meaning thanks to teenagers, myself included... I was, longer ago than I like to admit, one of them).

We're staying in Nyaung Oo, a nice little town with narrow roads, guesthouses, and restaurants geared to tourists... the clip-clop of horse drawn carriages is the soundtrack, along with the buzz and chitter of nature, amidst neighborhoods where little boys play games in the street using the boughs of trees as royal batons, where grandmothers take toddlers for walks, and -- if you look in the right place at the right time -- pigs the size of European automobiles are fed in someone's front yard.

It's a drastic change from Mandalay, where there is little in the way of 'tourist stuff'. As I've previously written, it's hard to see the presence of tourism in Mandalay. It's nice to get away from that for sure -- and, I've found, despite my usual desire to drop into a place devoid of 'tourist stuff', it's nice to have a little familiar comfort. In Myanmar, tourism isn't the mammoth machine it is in other SE Asian countries. Perhaps Nyaung Oo is an unusual place because it has things foreigners like, such as ambiance, candle-lit tables, establishments that cater to a romantic mood and end-of-the-day-relaxation. There are souvenir shops and guides for hire -- Bagan is the number one tourist attraction in Myanmar with its thousands of pahto (temples/shrines) and zedi (Buddhist stupas).

The pahto and zedis date from the 10th - 14th centuries and dot the landscape in an endless procession of spires and gold to the horizon. A history that reads like a fairy tale, the temples and stupas of Bagan started like this: In 1044, a man named Anawrahta ascended to the throne of Bagan. At this time, Myanmar was in a transition from Hindu to Buddist beliefs. A monk was sent by the Mon king of Thaton (named Manuha) to Bagan to convert King Anawrahta to Buddhism. So successful was the monk that King Anawrahta asked Manuha to give him sacred texts and relics to fill his kingdom. The request was denied but King Anawrahta was determined -- he sent an army to Thaton to take them by force: scriptures, even monks and scholars, were brought back to Bagan. It was then that he began building the monuments to house his newly acquired possessions. Successors continued to build monuments over time but the start of Bagan's decline at the end of the 13th century marked the coming end to what the Burmese had deemed 'the first Burmese empire'. There is dispute over the decline of Bagan: was it due to Kublai Khan's Mongol invasion? Was it internal struggle between the Mon, Shan, and Bamar people of Burma? Some of the temples were destroyed or looted and by 1300, the city's growth halted. From the 14th - 18th centuries, the area was considered 'spooky' with bandits and Nats about. The Burmese only moved back to Bagan after the British established themselves there to protect the area. (I will credit Lonely Planet, here, for the substance of this information).

Finally the oppressive gray cloud cover (which to me, up until this day, has been symbolic of the government's rule of the people) has broken and departed. The sun is out in azure skies and we rode out into the day on bicycles to explore Bagan. The first temple we visited, in Nyaung Oo, is a huge glittering stupa in an enormous temple complex. Perhaps Marco Polo was referring to this place, called The Shwezigon Paya, when he wrote, "... they do form one of the finest sites in the world, so exquisitely finished are they, so splendid and costly. And when they are lighted up by the sun they shine most brilliantly..."

We passed through a gauntlet of souvenir vendors, women who pin handmade butterflies to your shirt, "A present," they tell you, hoping (no, expecting) you will return to their shop when you leave. Others gave us presents as well, more butterflies, asking for a 'present' in return, i.e. 'small money'. Some want shampoo or lip balm. Still others approached us with folded paper containing gem stones -- rubies, sapphires, emeralds. "A good price," they promised -- but we don't know anything about gems and politely declined. The stones come from the North and East and establish a healthy 'underground economy' along with opium, heroin, and methamphetamines (while drug trafficking is punishable by death in Myanmar, there are those who believe the government looks the other way from a healthy and wealthy drug trade).

At one temple, we saw an American man buy gems proffered in a scrap of paper (so casually, are they stored). He told the salesman, "I'll take them all for $100.00." What a sale! What a windfall! What a bargain! That's a huge amount of money for a Burmese (many people working in the tourism industry, good jobs, are paid a mere $8.00 - $10.00 per month). A huge amount of money for the salesman, but probably a fraction of the cost of the actual worth in the Western world assuming their authenticity). The American stooped down and extracted a crisp 100 dollar bill from the money belt wrapped around his ankle in the shade of a quiet temple. We saw this man and his companion several times later throughout the day with a caravan of gem-hawkers on his tail, following him in a trail of dust.

At the temples, adults and children sell laquerware (Bagan is famous for laquerware), bracelets, paintings, puppets, bells, pottery, opium pipes and scales (and opium if you want it), and all sorts of interesting things. They are as zealous as the gem-hawkers following the American and if they make a sale, they are likely to close up shop and take the rest of the day off... We bought several traditional Burmese paintings (hand painted Buddhist motifs on fabric) and with cash in hand, the man we bought them from was 'done' for the day. He probably made enough money to take the rest of the week off, judging by the 'salaries' of $8 and $10.00 a month for hotel staff.

But back to the monuments -- they are everywhere. Looking into the distance from the top of a temple reveals a landscape full of more monuments, impossible to comprehend, their domes and spires rising above the treeline in every direction. Riding a bicycle, you slowly pass them on your left, on your right... they are behind you and in front of you. It's amazing.

Bagan has been compared, by other travelers, to Angkor Wat in Cambodia, in terms of being 'a wonder of the world'. While there are some similarities in some of the architectural styles, they are different places. Bagan is less 'ruined' than Angkor... it's still active, more in tact, although the monuments have been pillaged at times in history: pieces have been absconded by Europeans for sale to museums or for personal collections (this is true of Angkor Wat, too). Inside, some of the temples are plain as opposed to the opulence of their exterior ornament, but some possess enormous golden Buddhas the size of tall buildings... large enough to make men below appear as tiny as figurines in a spirit house. For wannabe archaeologists... people who, like me, fell in love with the romanticized image of the trade from, of all things, 'Raiders of the Lost Ark', both Bagan and Angkor Wat are truly 'wonders of the world'. Each with their own merit, both astounding. There is really no point in comparing the two, I feel, because they are unique cultural relics from differing civilizations. See them both is what I'm saying...

Our second day in Bagan we hired a horse drawn carriage and visited out-of-the-way temples, places with less people and a light sort of whipping wind in a vast landscape with red, rocky dirt and scrubby trees that made me feel as if I'd discovered a previously unknown place. Inside dim interiors, more Buddhas (I think Myanmar must be the home to the largest number of Buddhas in the world), faded painting on crumbling walls, the coolness of concrete upon the feet. Like all Buddhist temples everywhere, these must be tread upon by bare feet only. Shoes are left outside -- in Myanmar, though, shoes must be removed to walk upon the entire grounds of the temple whereas in other places in Asia, it is only at the doorway of the temple itself where shoes must be left behind.

Clip-clopping down the streets of Bagan and Nyaung Oo, we noticed people weeding the grass in the road's median, people painting fences (always seafoam green), people repainting the black and white stripes on street curbs, people trimming bushes and generally 'beautifying' the place. Our horse cart driver told us, upon inquiry, that everyone is getting the city ready because the government visits in 3 days. I'd read about this: forced labor. It's not that the people are so full of pride for their government officials that they want to make it nice for them, it's because they are forced to do it -- free labor, inspections, and what punishment if they chose to disobey? Prison. There are many who believe people should not visit Myanmar because of this practice. Roads and other tourism infrastructure are the result of forced labor (and in bus rides throughout the country, we always saw road work, people hauling stones in baskets on their heads -- many of them children).

I don't mean to sound crass, but the effect of the painting and weeding and collection of litter makes for a clean and well maintained city. But why can't the government employ people to do this work? Especially since so many struggle for jobs, for money. But the government is the military and they rule the country without concept of fairness and dignity, but on principles of discipline and rigid order and martial law. The ruling government was never elected. They took power through a military coup decades ago and in the 90s, in an uncharacteristic allowance of an election, they refused the results and held captive the rightful victor for six years. Some say the election was staged to suss out the opposition -- the generals who run Myanmar don't stand for objection to their rule and imprison their "enemies". Even the telling of joke can get you 7 years in a forced labor camp, such is the story of Par Par Lay, a comedian with a troupe known as The Moustache Brothers (we saw them in Mandalay -- they are constantly watched by the government and are blacklisted from performing anywhere outside of their home).

When we entered Bagan, a giant red sign was posted along the road that read as such:

The People's Desire
- Oppose thse relying on external elements, acting like stooges, holding negative views
- Oppose those trying to jeopardize stability of the state and progress of the nation
- Oppose foreign nations interfering in internal affairs of the state
- Crush all internal and external destructive elements as the common enemy

There are others that state:

- Only when there is discipline will there be progress
- Anyone who is riotous, destructive, and unruly is our enemy
- The Tatmadaw (armed forces) shall never betray the national cause

Before coming to Myanmar, I thought there would be a hugely visible military presence, but I was surprised not to see one. There are, of course, people under cover. There are spies who question locals about their conversations with foreigners. People don't say much against the government because they never know who might turn them in. There are checkpoints along roads where people have their ID cards checked by government officials (they didn't seem to bother with us foreigners). Posted on the shelters at the checkpoints are signs that read, "All respect. All suspect." I saw this sign posted at the airport as well.

It's much different for a foreigner in Myanmar than a Burmese. I never felt threatened or ill-at-ease, but it's there -- the oppression of a bad government... it's there in the paint on fences and curbs, in the signs with draconian messages, the checkpoints and the silence of free speech.

Myanmar: Bus to Bagan

2005-12-27T11:53:00.000+07:00

The Bus to Bagan, December 10th {notes from journal}

------
A few years ago, I consulted with a writing coach and at that point in time, most of my travel writing consisted of horrible tales about bus transport. She told me that people don't like to read about bus travel... it's miserable in and of itself, why should anyone want to read about it? She told me it's also been done a million times before. Finally she said, "Cheryn, get off the bus!" (if only I could afford to do that). So here I am, on the brink of a narration that is all about a horrid bus ride. But it's a large part of travel, bus rides, and so I feel that I must subject you to the tale. That's the beauty of writing (and reading) as opposed to a real conversation, though... it's not impolite to ignore me... to skip over the story if you choose to do so. I'll never know.
------

The bus to Bagan was, hands down, the worst bus ride we've ever taken -- namely -- the seats were as wide as my ears are apart from each other. I have what they call 'child bearing hips'... that is to say, they are much wider than my ears are apart from each other. I think you get the drift... I could barely fit my ass into the seat. They were also hard and erect like a cement church pew (I know what you were thinking... you and your dirty similes... let the church reference be atonement for impure thoughts).

As we bounced along the road -- me squashed in by the window, trying to sit at an angle to give poor Benjamin more seat space -- he 1/2 on and 1/2 off the seat, butt cheeks against an iron bar, knees wedged under the seat in front of us, feet fighting for space with the passenger on the stool in the aisle, I looked at his glowering face and his expression said it all: "I've had about enough of these bus journies." I fear this one will drive him to be a suitcase traveler in the future, the sort who fly everywhere.

From the window (with my cheek smashed against it, I had a good view): ancient looking villages, horse drawn carriages (outside of the cities, this is common form of transport), a flat brown and green landscape dotted with sugar palms that eventually turns scrubby and desert-like with gullies and scruffy grass and cactus (it reminds me of places in the American Southwest). Fields of sunflowers, patches of corn, harvested rice fields... 8 hours later we have arrived in Bagan.

Bus journies are always the most difficult endeavors -- the most painful -- the most rigorous -- the most [fill in the blank with your most stringent idea of misery] -- of all forms of travel. And it won't be our last in Myanmar. We've arrived in Bagan and while here, I am redecorating my 'happy place' for the next bus ride. I am installing plush carpeting and fluffy pillows. There will be men clad in skimpy togas fanning me with swan feathers. There will be a fountain built of and spewing chocolate and sculptures made of ice cream (these foods always make things OK). And finally, there will be a waterproof, velveteen lounge upon which I will float around an indoor pool filled with lavender scented water (lavender is soothing). This is where I will go about 2 hours into the journey -- Benjamin will have a 4-inch gold plated key to my 'happy place' in the event he chooses to join me. I've decided to install a waterslide made of motherboards that ends in a giant bucket of beer to suit his needs.

Myanmar: Arrival

2005-12-27T10:37:00.000+07:00

Mandalay, December 8th - 9th {notes from journal}

We arrive. The airport comes into view as we taxi down the runway... earlier in the plane, through gashes in the blanket of gray clouds, we could see the patchwork of earth, like anywhere when seen from a plane -- browns, greens. The palette reminded me of a Girl Scout cookie box (thin mints)... (I am obsessed by strange food cravings these days, after 9 months on the road). I am struck by the lack of things seen from the air -- no housing developments or networks of pavement -- the orderly shapes of farming plots and purposeful lines of trees fill the view. The airport comes into sight. It's empty -- entirely -- looking deserted. On the tarmac, a few busses await our prop plane to ferry us to the terminal. If it wasn't for these, there would be nothing to signify that the airport is more than a figment of my imagination. There's no other sign of life, so unusual for an airport, what with their flock of giant flying machines and people waving orange sticks and small trucks carting baggage to and fro. There is nothing of this.

We enter the airport and immigration checkpoint -- a dim place with half of the lights turned off -- and aside from the 2 lines of passengers from our plane and a handful of men behind desks, there are no other people here. There is no activity, none of anything associated with the bustle of airports, which are always throbbing, pulsing, chaotic in the middle of the day. A line of baggage carousels beyond remain quiet and still. It is so strange, like a building in a movie about the sudden disappearance of every living soul on Earth or a building in a zombie movie, spooky in its noiseless immensity. It's spooky in the way that empty churches and schools and hospitals are -- it's why they are commonly featured in horror movies -- places this big, this public, and with usually high amounts of activity are eerie when deserted.

It's obvious the airport doesn't see much traffic. This flight from Chiang Mai is made only once per week, on Thursdays. There are internal flights throughout Myanmar, but I'm guessing they are infrequent as well... who can fly in Myanmar? Tourists. And how many of them are here? Few.

The airport is 40 km from Mandalay and a ramshackle taxi costs $5.00 per head. You could put 2 people in the same car as 4, but there's no economy when the price is by person. So, we said farewell to the British couple we met at the baggage carousel and with whom we'd planned to share a taxi into town. We motored our way along quiet roads towards Mandalay -- a light rain threatened to fall from the clouds, fields of sunflowers hung their heads without sunshine to look towards, the occasional backfire from our shoddy transport the only sound the quiet countryside.

It's not going to be cheap in Myanmar -- one would think that travel in such a poor country would be less expensive than in, say, neighboring Thailand. A country that is, indeed, cheap but still modern and developed. Many of the attractions are pricey, with $5-$10.00 entrance fees (and this money unfortunately goes to the government). The guidebook reports that when people complain about the prices, the prices are raised as rebuttal. We are foreigners in Myanmar, therefore we are rich and can afford anything -- prices are 5-10x what locals are charged... a 'tax on the rich' if you like. It's not unique to Myanmar, this notion that foreigners should pay more for things. It happens all over Asia. I wrestle with both sides of the argument: at home I am not rich, but compared to the people in the poor countries I've traveled, I most certainly am. It's no use denying my wealth (and seems absurd to do so) when I can leave my country and visit others and these people can only dream about doing the same. So many times on this trip I have been told I am 'lucky' by people, even those with 'good jobs', because I can travel and they cannot -- they can just barely put food on the table or afford much more than basic necessities.

We are dropped off at the corner of 80th and 26th streets and found our hotel quickly. The rain has finally broken free from clouds now barely visible in the evening sky. Three times I have been greeted with, "Hello!" and I have only taken three steps from the curb. Yes, Myanmar is living up to its reputation already: the people are friendly.

Our hotel room reminds me of one where we stayed in the Nevada desert: like a grandmother's spare room... a grandmother down on her luck (a well meaning lady, though -- the plastic flower in the vase is a thoughtful touch). We found dinner around the corner at a place called 'Devi Restaurant'. The guidebook states that it's a hole in the wall. It was. We asked for a menu and were answered, "No menu. Chicken curry, vegetable curry, fish curry." We take the chicken. The woman is Indian -- black skin, petite figure, curly black hair. The rest of her family are watching TV in the back room, which opens up to the dining area: mother wrapped in shawl, sister, several sons. The seafoam green walls, concrete streaked with stains of time, remind me of sitting in a dank, but inhabitable, basement or garage. A young English man enters, looks around, and asks about the food and upon my recital of the 'menu', he remarked, "So that's what's on offer then?" and took a seat behind us. Soon his table was filled, like ours, with a number of little metal dishes filled with curry, veggies and dahl.

Myanmar is a unique blend of cultures and food, traditions... Indians and Nepali Gurkhas came with the British when Myanmar was colonized. The Brits suffered through three wars to conquer Burma, the first war happened around 1820 and with the last in 1886, Burma was finally and completely controlled by England. In fact, when the British occupied Myanmar, they deemed the nation a province of India, their neighboring colony. Because of this, Bamar cuisine (the Bamar are the largest Burmese ethnic group in Myanmar) is a blend of cultural influences from India and Nepal. You order rice with curry (vegetable, chicken, mutton, and fish -- because of the Hindu belief in the sacred cow there is little beef and because of the Burmese belief in that Nat (spirits), there is little pork eaten -- the Nats are offended by the ingestion of pork and no-one wants an angry Nat on his case). Curries are served with an array of side dishes, sometimes up to 6, that are constantly refilled as you dine. There are plenty of Chinese restaurants, too. The Chinese came to Burma at the same time as the Indians and if you really want some beef or pork, it can be found with the Chinese.

Our first day in Mandalay: we took a walk around town -- the old palace and fort are just around the corner... but the original buildings were destroyed in the war with the British. In fact, many of Mandalays 'attractions' were destroyed in the war. We find the city a tad depressing. Not only is the moody weather dampening, the place lacks atmosphere. It's utilitarian rather than attractive. Walking down a street, its difficult to discern a restaurant from other shops that don't seem to really sell anything. There may rusted springs for sale hanging from the every square inch of the ceiling and walls or boxes of TVs stacked in a gray, concrete cell or a paltry collection of odds'n'ends from another generation inside glass cases coated with dust. There are no shopping centers or retail stores like you see elsewhere: there appears to be no 'retail industry' at all. You don't see money changers (banks must have special permission to change money) -- travelers use their hotel or the black market to exchange dollars for kyat. Buildings have fallen into disrepair, the roads are pot-holed, and there are frequent power outages every day. Entire city blocks fall dark in the night when the power goes out. The notion of a post-communist Eastern European country has entered my mind, but I don't really know what they were (are) like.

In some ways, Mandalay is a lot like other SE Asian cities -- women walk the streets with giant baskets of fruit and vegetables on their heads, blood-red pools of Betle nut spittle linger on sidewalks and roadsides, children in school uniform and backpacks walk hand in hand down the street, bicycle trishaws await passengers, boys play soccer on the sidewalk or a Burmese form of 'hackey sack' with woven bamboo balls, vendors roast corn along curbsides, sidewalk and street-bound restaurants fire up their grills...

Tomorrow we are off to Bagan, by bus...

Merry Christmas

2005-12-25T21:20:00.000+07:00

We've just returned from Myanmar -- we're back in Thailand on Xmas day... and while there is a lot to write about our travels in Myanmar, I must start, at this moment -- backwards -- with our departure from Myanmar, for no other reason than it's Christmas and if I wait too long, this correspondence will no longer be relevant. Like seeing Christmas decorations and ornaments for sale in stores after the fact, it will have lost something through the passing of time -- even if only days. So here it goes, an entry from my journal:

Yangon, December 25

Xmas day -- rain -- flight delays. Last night the rain started (unusual for this time of year, but weather is strange all over the globe this year: killer hurricanes in America and floods in Vietnam and rainstorms in the dry season of Thailand and Myanmar and India). At first there was a chilly wind, then the light fall of tiny raindrops -- the kind that look like the thinnest of needles. Looking down from our room on the 7th floor of the hotel, watching the raindrops from above as they sailed toward the ground past the illumination of a street light, I pretended it was a light snowfall -- perfect for Christmas eve when in the quiet hours of the night, show is magical and serene.

We awoke to heavier rain -- and in my imagination -- the kind of steady snowfall that causes delayed Xmas feasts as families struggle on slippery highways to get to grandma's house, where the heat of a blazing fire and the smell of fresh baked bread and roasted meat dance with evergreen scented air. But when they arrive, O what pleasures await: the wet boots and gloves and coats are put away -- stocking'd feet are warmed by the fire -- and eyes are cast (shyly - greedily) over the tinsels and lights of the tree and down below: the bows and patterns and gleam of hidden treasures wrapped up in mysterious boxes. Add a snifter of something warm and alcoholic -- & treats like nuts and candies -- and you've got a fantasy image of Christmas day.

Sometimes it's like that. Other times it's waiting, waiting, waiting, for the turkey to be done, for the gifts to be opened, for the effects of alcohol to wreak its havoc, for the buttons on straining pants to finally burst. But never mind all of that: my favorite memories of Xmas are from early childhood -- when Santa Claus was real.

"Goddammit, I tell you... he's real, Vince Blakely." This, a conversation I had in the first grade (I should say I'm sure I didn't curse... this is added for dramatic effect -- it's how I felt). Vince's denial of the great Mr. Claus caused him to lose the massive crush I had on him, even though he was in the second grade and therefore, worthy of affection that comes with higher status. The slicked black hair was no longer cool but greasy -- the wry smile no longer enchanting but mocking. Of course, Vince was correct -- it just too me a long time to accept the fact that my parents had lied to me all my life (remember this was first grade). So, I'm sorry Vince, for slapping you across the face: you were right. There is no Santa Claus.

As I was saying... Christmas was the best back when I believed in Santa and back when I was to young to understand words that started with 'dys' -- as in dysfunctional, as in divorce. But I won't go there... Oh no, I've learned in my 33 (soon to be 34) years, that it's best to avoid the "D" topic, especially during the holidays.

At that time in my life, Christmas was so great because it was so damn exciting (now that I'm getting older I can pepper my conversations with the word 'damn' and the compound word 'goddammit' with abandon). New toys, the possibility of sneaking a peak at Mr. S Claus, hearing the hooves of reindeer on the rooftop, time off school... snowmen, sledding, hot cocoa, bells and carrolls and cookies... tinsel and ornaments and angels. Anticipation. Aside from birthdays, Xmas was the ultimate time of year. But now that I'm older, it's not the same and as I gazed at the rain-cum-snow falling outside the hotel room window, I thought about the irony of how, when children, we wish to be grown up and when we are, we wish to be children -- or at least child-like. When I was a kid, I wanted to be grown up so I could, among other things, eat spaghetti sauce from the jar (with a straw if I chose to do so) without getting into trouble. Now, I would gladly give up that priveledge in order to gain the wonderment of a child's Christmas again.

So here I am in the waiting 'lounge' of the Yangon airport, counting the minutes of our second flight delay of the day -- the sound of running water behind me (a drain pipe?) and the dull ting-ting-ting of a leak somewhere ahead of me: a bucket fills with water and I am filled with the romantic, nostalgic images of December 25, circa 1972 -1987 (Xmas magic dies somewhere in adolescence). Just as when we arrived in Myanmar, the skies are a leaden gray... we are anxious to get back to Thailand, which has now become our home away from home, with our frequent 'stop overs' between here and there. Thailand has become more than the 'hub' of our wheel of travel... It's amazing what the lines on maps can do -- the power they possess -- dividing one country, one group of people, from another... dividing poverty from wealth, oppression from freedom, antiquity from modernity. Thailand: so familiar and modern it's almost Western. But I was talking about Christmas and even in Myanmar they play Christmas carrolls... perhaps the familiar tunes and lyrics have put me in my reverie. We will have spent Christmas 2005 in two countries: Myanmar and Thailand. Two countries that are neighbors but are worlds apart.

Our Christmas Eve in Myanmar will be memorable in that we dined at a Chinese restaurant with a menu of dishes prepared with canned vegetables (so strange in a country where cheap produce is so readily available). We are committed to a proper Christmas day feast, now that we're headed back to Thailand -- there's nothing like the right food to bring you closer to home than an airplane can take you. Well, that and correspondence with friends and family (I look forward to your emails).

What's this? Our plane is boarding! I must go, but before I do: Merry Christmas... and to all, a good night...

Myanmar (Burma)

2005-12-07T10:30:00.000+07:00

When we were in Cambodia, we met an American Vet who was interested to hear that we were going to visit Myanmar. He was reading an article in a magazine about the plight of the Burmese people and in light of the Iraq war, they wanted to know, "When is the US going to invade us?" The Burmese people have been fighting for democracy for decades and could use a little help...

Tomorrow we leave for Myanmar (Burma): of all our destinations on this trip, Myanmar has been the most difficult place to get to in terms of waiting for visas (10 days), waiting for confirmation on plane tickets (more than 1 week)... and then all of our plans were readjusted when I was bitten by that dog last week. But, finally. We go!

Don't worry when you don't hear from us for the next 3 weeks: we will be cut off from the outside world once we leave Chiang Mai. Finding internet cafes in Myanmar is about as difficult as finding large underwear in Asia (read impossible). Besides that, the government controls the internet and I've read travelers cannot use their own email accounts but must sign up for an address with a company there. This is probably so the government can keep tabs on what people are saying -- Burmese citizens are not allowed to have hotmail or yahoo accounts (these sites are blocked) and people who own modems must have them registered. We are about to enter a country described by the US State Department as, "an underdeveloped, agrarian country ruled by an authoritarian military junta. The country's military government suppresses all expression of opposition to its rule."

Myanmar has a long history of conflict, but I'll leave it to the historical scholars to tell you about that -- they get paid to write this stuff, and they're probably better with the details (there is tons of info online). But just to give you an idea about the nature of the junta that runs Myanmar, following is an excerpt from the US State Department's web site on more recent events, "Burma previously experienced major political unrest in 1988 when the military regime jailed as well as killed thousands of Burmese democracy activists. In 1990, the military government refused to recognize the results of an election that the opposition won overwhelmingly. Burma experienced major demonstrations in 1996 and 1998. In May 2003, individuals affiliated with the Burmese government attacked a convoy carrying opposition leader Aung San Suu Kyi in Sagaing Division. Dozens were killed or injured."

Aung San Suu Kyi, the leader of the National League for Democracy (NLD) and the 'winner' of the 1990 elections, was put under house arrest for 6 years when the ruling junta refused to recognize the results of the election. But Suu Kyi continued to campaign for democracy and won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1991 for her tenacious belief in a democratic Burma. She believes in this so much, she chose to stay in Burma rather than visit her dying husband in England in 1999 -- she was concerned that if she left Burma, she would never be able to return and the plight of the Burmese citizens would be entirely out of her hands for good.

There is a lot of debate in the travel world: "Should you go to Myanmar?"

Following is Lonely Planet's take on the issue:
Reasons Not to Go: Aung San Suu Kyi has asked tourists not to; the government used forced labour to ready tourist-related sights and services; international tourism can be seen as a stamp of approval to the Myanmar government; the government forbids travel to many areas, particularly in areas inhabited by minority groups; it's impossible to visit without some money going to the military junta (visa, departure fee, tax on purchases); and Activists claim that tourism dollars fuel government repression directly.

Reasons to Go: Tourism remains one of the few industries to which ordinary locals have access - in terms of income and communication; vast majority of locals want you there; human-rights abuses are less likely to occur in areas where the international community is present; the government stopped mandating foreigners change 200.00 into government notes upon arrival; the majority (possibly over 80%) of a careful independent traveller's expenses goes into the private sector; and Keeping the people isolated from international witnesses to internal oppression may only cement the government's ability to rule.

Obviously, Benjamin and I have decided to go. While I deeply respect her mission and the sacrifices she has made, I don't share Aung San Suu Kyi's belief that tourism is a stamp of approval on the repressive government's activities. As one pro-democracy activists put it, further isolation will not help Burma but harm it. Considering that large and powerful governments in the world allow and even aid the government of Myanmar to continue as they are, I feel there are bigger fish to fry than visiting foreigners who would like to see for themselves what's happening in Myanmar. Maybe it's a selfish point of view. Maybe it's naive of me to think that the Burmese people might benefit from contact with the outside world. In any event, the people I've met who have been to Myanmar come back with glowing reports on the warmth and kindness of the people -- they are happy to have us there.

Stranger Than Fiction

2005-12-06T16:48:00.000+07:00

We've met a lot of interesting people on the road -- I have notes about them scribbled on random bits of paper and I've been meaning to tell you about them. Some are short, some are sweet, some are incomplete. Maybe their stories will inspire you, make you laugh, or make you cry:

PIRATE JIM
We met Jim in the jungle at Angkor Wat. He was standing in the sun wearing nothing but his underwear. Before you get the wrong idea, I should add that he was drying off after taking a shower under a waterfall (and his underwear were black). He's tall, fit, and wears his dark hair in a pony tail -- something about him reminded me of Steven Segal. He's easy going and the kind of guy who uses the phrase, "that fucking shit," in every conversation.

Jim met people in the Florida Keys who live on boats and come into town to play music in a bar; they're the house band. He was inspired by their lives of finely tuned autonomy -- they do what the want, when they want, how they want. "Hey, maybe we'll pick up anchor and head to the Bahamas," they might say. Or, "You know what, I don't feel like doing fucking shit today," and they don't have to because they don't really work except when they need to. It's cheap living on a boat. But what makes them really cool is that they call themselves pirates.

Jim returned to LA, sold most of his stuff, and moved into a motor home he keeps parked in the lot of his workplace. He's living in a motor home to save money otherwise paid on rent. He doesn't drive anywhere so he doesn't pay for gas. Since he lives 'on site', he works harder and longer and earns a ton of overtime. I think he even swipes electricity from his workplace and uses their shower, telephone, and no doubt office supplies. His friends all thought he was crazy until he explained he's not doing all of this because he's a freak -- he wants to be one of those guys who lives on boats and sails from city to city... a pirate who works when he needs to in order to get to the next place. He is fulfilling a dream. His only concern is finding the right woman to join him on the voyage.

MICHAEL
We met Michael in India. He was the first of our countrymen we'd met but he hadn't been home in a while. He was living in Japan for several years and earned a living as a 3D automobile modeler. Michael was burnt out from years of hard work and reeling from a recent divorce. He was lost. We would see him at our guesthouse in the morning and ask, "What are you doing today?" And he would always shrug his shoulders and reply that he'd probably just hang around, relaxing in his room. We would ask, "How long are you traveling?" Answer: "I don't know." We would ask, "Where else are you planning to go?" Answer: "No idea." I think, had we asked any questions about the future of his life in general, the answers would have been the same.

He wasn't morose or depressing -- he was quite engaging and friendly. It seemed that he'd somehow ended up in the desert of India with no clue of how he got there or why. He didn't get there by accident, but Benjamin and I often wondered how he'd made it that far considering his lack of any other plans. When we left, we asked Michael if he'd figured anything out yet and he said he hadn't, "but maybe I'll learn yoga," he added.

We've come to learn that Michael has since moved on -- we were afraid he might still be in India, wondering what he's doing and where he's going. He ended up in Siberia, as it turns out, so perhaps he's still wondering... (and now he's in France).

MARIEL
We met Mariel at the same guesthouse where we met Michael. She was thin and ghostly white and looked unwell. She was just recovering from a 15-day illness during which she was bedridden the entire time and lost something like 20 pounds. She'd previously been staying at a guesthouse run by a Jain woman who took care of her, threatening several times to send Mariel home to France if her health didn't improve.

But Mariel didn't want to go home -- she'd just started her journey -- a year-long trip around the world, and like Michael, to destinations unknown. She was on a mission, traveling on funds from her recently departed grandfather's will, looking for a connection to him through her travels. Their relationship was very close and her grandfather's death was devastating. Mariel's trip is her way of sharing one last thing with him -- in a way, she is keeping him alive. Hers is the single most moving reason for traveling that I've encountered.

It sounds crazy, but we ran into Mariel again in Laos, a full 7 months after saying goodbye in India (and hence, got the update on Michael -- they email each other). She was sitting by the bank of the Mekong to watch the sunset. With her bike. She bought it in Vietnam for 30 bucks and rode it across Cambodia to Thailand. This is not the ordinary bike one sees Western cyclists riding in SE Asia -- I'm talking about a run down, simple bike that you might find in the garage, under cobwebs, from the year 1960. It didn't have gears, but it did have a basket. I couldn't believe she rode the thing across Cambodia. With her bike, she's made a lot of friends and has experienced travel in a different way than us, often staying with local families, who don't even share a common language, for upwards of a month. Her bike has been retired and is now the property of her adopted Thai family.

BILL
He looked like a Vietnam vet and, in fact, he was. Outgrown flat top, ruddy face, faded t-shirt, cammo pants. After the war he began to explore SE Asia and never left. He was born in Germany but grew up in Tennessee and we met him in Battambang, Cambodia at a cafe while we were having breakfast. "Do you like gems?" he asked while pulling a small package out of his wallet, "this is the place to buy them." He produced a packet of rubies and regarded them as if they were a long lost love. Gems are mined in the countryside surrounding Battambang, the last outpost for former leaders of the Khmer Rouge. They likely make their living in the gem trade these days and Bill is likely a gem smuggler.

HANS
We met Hans in India: a plump man with round, rosy cheeks and penchant for smoking pipes. He told us a story about how he escaped East Germany back when it was divided and how he ended up in prison for 8 years upon his capture. His trip to India was his first foray into the traveling lifestyle. His dream, though, is to buy a sailboat and travel around the world. After losing years of his life in prison, sailing represents the ultimate form of freedom to Hans.

STEVE
Steve has the pleasant drawl of a South Carolinan, always sported a safari style hat, and was traveling with his daughter through SE Asia before she starts her PhD program at MIT. He's retired, but runs an outreach program for juvenile delinquents: they make hand crafted wood furniture and through the experience, they begin the process of turning the course of their life to a better path.

Steve was staying at our guesthouse in Siem Reap, Cambodia. He was a pleasant man, friendly in his strange way of noticing us when he wanted to and not noticing us when he was thinking about something else. He's a Vietnam vet -- used to fly helicopters in the war. His good friend died while piloting a helicopter. It crashed in Central Vietnam for unknown reasons. Before his friend died, he sent Steve the co-ordinates of his fateful flight. Several years ago Steve went to Vietnam with the co-ordinates in hand, got off the bus at Hue, and to the consternation of others, walked into the jungle looking for the crash site. He walked and walked and finally found a strange building in the middle of nowhere that turned out to be an engineering company of some sort. The people there sympathized with his effort, put him in a car, and took him to the crash site. It goes without saying -- it was a moving experience.

AMANDA
If I had to write Amanda's 'ad' for a dating site, I would say: 22-year-old Canadian thrill seeker, cute, outgoing, and daring. We met her on the rooftop restaurant of our guesthouse in Bikaner, India. After several rounds of beer and a load of cigarettes, she'd finished telling us a story about the birth and death of a relationship on the road. She'd discovered that her road-boyfriend was a huge womanizer and even kept lists of his conquests and his 'charm the pants off of them' techniques. She'd just left him a couple days before we met her; it was a dramatic scene involving her storming to the bus station and him following her, begging like a dog that she stay.

After more conversation, we learned that we'd crossed paths several times in India and what's more, I shared a few joking comments with a lone female traveler whom she had befriended in the south. It might sound unlikely to establish that sort of link, but as we were discussing her own experiences of traveling alone, I mentioned this girl in the internet cafe who'd been staring at the words, "I'm not as strong as I thought I was," on her screen for a long time. The physical description fit and as we were all in the same city at the same time, it was a definite match. Small world.

After Bikaner, Amanda was on her way to Delhi where she planned to petition her embassy for a letter required to obtain a visa for Pakistan. She'd been to Bangladesh and India and was looking to push the boundaries of her strength further (it's a man's world in these countries). Once in Pakistan, Amanda decided to push on into Afghanistan. While there, she was held up by gunpoint in a crowded market and was ushered to a new village in the middle of the night, under the cover of darkness, when the village where she was staying was bombed. The villagers believed the bombs were set off because of her presence there. She was also an unbelievable sight for sore soldiers' eyes. They marveled, "What the hell are you doing here alone?" before getting their photos snapped with her.

I've wondered: when does courage become foolishness? Never mind that, though, I wish I had just an ounce of her intrepid spirit.

CHINESE DUDE (actual name unknown)
I had a short, but interesting, conversation with a man staying at our guesthouse in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. He was Chinese but lives in Australia. He wanted to know how long I'd been in Phnom Penh. "One week," I told him and out of politeness, enquired about his stay. "Seven weeks," he replied. "I came here looking for a wife."

I asked him how things were going. He was more than happy to tell me his story about how he'd made arrangements to marry a Cambodian woman when he was in Australia (I'm assuming mail order). When he arrived in Cambodia, everything was fine -- he stayed at his bride-to-be's family home and, "was treated like a king." But somehow, he'd fallen out of his future bride's grace and was asked to leave. He went from king to outcast in a matter of days and was perplexed by the events. His last words on the subject struck me as a little sad, in more ways than one. He said, in a dispirited voice, "Now I have to find a wife all over again..." I hurled my thoughts at him through psychic transmission, just in case he had any ideas, "Well, don't look at me! I'm taken."

Americans Abroad, PT. VII

2005-12-06T09:14:00.000+07:00

Perhaps some of you have noticed that this blog has turned in a new direction... there is a shortage of descriptive destination entries. There is an onslaught of 'Americans Abroad' posts. Perhaps there is more talk about me than about places... But think of this blog as my diary, as I do -- it's a record of events and personal experiences -- and there is so much more to extended travel than the places we go; that's what 'Americans Abroad' is all about.

I actually stole the idea for the name from Mark Twain. In 1867, he wrote a book called 'Innocents Abroad' about a voyage from the US to Europe and Africa on a sea-going steam ship. Literary scholars like to talk about whether the name for the book referred to the traveling Americans as 'innocents' or whether it refers to the natives of the countries they visited as 'innocents', especially because they were subjected to Twain's cynicism and sarcastic style. The beauty of the title is that it works both ways.

The 'Americans Abroad' posts on this blog are titled as such to convey the duality of travel: it's about being an American abroad and it's about perceptions regarding Americans from those abroad. I read somewhere, I think some of those literary scholars said it about Twain's book, that when one travels, they learn about themselves and in a way, define their role as a citizen of their country and a citizen of the world through encounters with others. When I came on this trip, I knew I would learn a lot about myself -- you are put to the test on a daily basis on the road in foreign places. But what I didn't expect was to discover or define myself -- or America, for that matter, through the eyes of others. For me, this has been the biggest surprise of travel.

As we've traveled, it is the one thing that defines us -- first and foremost -- we are Americans to the people we meet be they locals or other travelers. At home, I am a designer, a daughter, a sister, a friend... there are all kinds of definers for this girl named Cheryn. But here, I am an American. I don't know if I can manage to accurately convey the strangeness of that huge shift from being 'Cheryn' to being 'American'. My new identity has obviously worked its way into my blog.

Maybe it's boring stuff to people who dream of getting away from the workaday world and would rather read about foreign places and dream about exotic discoveries. Maybe it seems self-centered and soap-box-esque. But hey, what else is a diary for? Good stuff and bad, boring or not, it's what's going on...

Lately, I have turned my attention more fully to 'Americans Abroad' because, in part, we have been in Chiang Mai for more than three weeks, primarily killing time until we go to Myanmar. Slow-to-respond plane reservation systems and a dog bite have delayed our trip by more than 2 weeks. I like it here, but It's like being in a giant waiting room, hoping your number gets called soon. Considering that in this waiting room there are no People magazines or other fine literary rags (btw, English language magazines are 10 bucks in Asia), I have spent my time writing up a lot of stuff that I usually don't have the time for... when I am scribbling out notes, hoping to capture the essence of a place.

There is another factor at play, though, and perhaps this is fodder for an entirely different entry. After such a long time on the road, my brain has become overloaded. Benjamin and I had a conversation with a Brit who's traveled about the same amount of time as us and we all agreed: you stop absorbing. Like a sponge that is full of water, it stops taking in any more. That's not to say that we don't enjoy our travels any longer and that we don't appreciate and stand in awe of the things we encounter... but it does become 'commonplace'. It's one of those things you'd like to deny but it would only be a lie to say anything different. In terms of my topics of writing, there are only so many ways to describe a landscape or a temple or a culture that is no longer 'foreign' to me. Perhaps I have been assimilated by Asia and it's so 'normal' to me now, I find it hard to find things to write about other than the 'deeper' experience of being a traveler in the first place.

Americans Abroad, Pt. VI

2005-12-05T11:57:00.000+07:00

...a continuing series on people, perceptions, and stereotypes discovered on the road

When I was in Laos, an English girl asked me why all Americans call Europeans European. Apparently it annoyed her. I told her that when we say 'European', we are referring to Europe in the general sense. For example, we might say, "When it comes to travel, European countries are more expensive than Asian countries." It's much more economical than saying, "When it comes to travel, Austria, Belgium, Cyprus, Czech Republic, Denmark, Estonia, Finland , France , Germany , Greece , Hungary, Ireland, Italy , Latvia, Lithuania, Luxembourg , Malta, Netherlands, Poland, Portugal , Slovak Republic, Slovenia, Spain , Sweden, and the United Kingdom are more expensive than Asian countries." I'm sorry to have put you through that, but I'm making a point. Don't you agree -- it's more just more economical to say European? For the purposes of this blog, I will henceforth type European in italics to point out the economy of not listing out the entire EU.

I went on to tell the English girl that when we are speaking of a specific country, we do not refer to it as 'Europe' or the people as European -- take things like food or drink, for example. Rather than saying European, someone might say, "I like to eat German food for brunch because it's a good excuse to drink beer in the morning," or, "I had English food for dinner last night; boy do they sure know how to work a pot of boiling water." I should have asked her, "Why are a lot of Europeans so nitpicky?"

I don't like to make sweeping generalizations, but I have met a number of nitpicky Europeans. Take, for example, a Dutch guy I met here in Thailand. He's been coming to Thailand for 10 years and speaks the language well. Actually, I don't really know if he speaks Thai well because I don't speak Thai -- let's just say he can hold a lengthy conversation in Thai. I shared with him a few words of my limited vocabulary. He laughed and said (in a snooty tone of voice I might add), "Why do all Americans speak Thai like Americans?"

After a few moments of quiet deliberation, I replied, "Well, for one thing, we are... how shall I say... AMERICANS -- duh! And for another, until we know how something is pronounced correctly, how else would we say it -- we have only the sounds made by combinations of verbs and nouns known to us, in our language. So excuse me if I say something that sounds like 'may' instead of 'my' when it's spelled 'mai'."

He went on to thank the barkeep for the arrival of his drink by saying something that sounded, in English, like "Thank Yo-ow." He bulldozed his way through English like Frankenstein in a field of Daisies: monotone, droning, and coarse. I wanted to be a smartass and ask him why all Dutch people speak English like Dutch people. Actually Dutch people speak English very well, but there's still an accent.

That's the thing about English -- it's a forgiving language. People, Europeans for example, can massacre words when speaking them in their accented way and English speakers still understand what they're trying to say. We accept words pronounced 'the wrong way', like 'dis and dat' instead of 'this and that'... Hell, many native English speakers in America say 'dis and dat' themselves (they mostly live in the south). 'Yo-ow' instead of 'you' is acceptable, too, in the case of this Dutch guy.

Here in Thailand, the language is tonal, so the flexibility for speaking with the wrong inflection on certain syllables or for saying it the wrong way doesn't exist. You could try saying 'banana' and end up saying 'penis' very easily. That's why I never ask for bananas.

Americans, Canadians, English, and Australians are actually pretty lucky when it comes to travel because, at least in Asia, English is the 'bridge' language. If a person speaks a second language, be they Indian, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Thai, and even Chinese (granted, there are fewer of them), it's going to be English in most cases. I've met Europeans (and in this case, I use the word because I don't remember which country they were from) who say they have friends back home who won't travel because they don't speak English well enough to get by. They would be stuck, language-less and unable to communicate.

I've seen Europeans teetering on the fine line of those who travel and those who stay home. They are locked in time consuming conversations -- actually they are not so much conversations as they are a simple string of words -- but getting to the point... they are locked in a stressful linguistic battle with a Vietnamese speaker, for example, trying to find out where the bus station is. When it comes to speaking English, the Vietnamese person does not understand their garbled accent and the European does not understand the Vietnamese accent. Their speech is equivalent to the result of making a xerox copy of a xerox copy of a xerox copy.

A bit of an aside from the topic of language -- or perhaps not, as "money talks" -- traveling Americans are lucky because the dollar is the global standard for currency. In many places in SE Asia, prices are quoted in American dollars and people prefer to receive dollars as opposed to their local currency. In fact, in some places, one might think the US dollar is their primary currency, such as Cambodia. I found this especially ironic in Vietnam.

When I say Americans are 'lucky' for this, it is not because I prefer to use my own currency when traveling -- I would actually prefer not to because using foreign currency is all part of travel's fun. The reason we're lucky is because we don't have to do the tree-part conversion like the Europeans. If we are quoted a price in say, Cambodian riel, we only have to convert it to dollars. Europeans have to convert to dollars and then euros. I hate to do a lot of math in my head, so it's lucky for me I'm not European.

At a market in Laos, I heard one woman say to a merchant who'd quoted her a price in dollars, "I don't know dollars -- I'm not American." For what it's worth, she actually sounded Canadian to me and in light of having forgotten to wear her lapel pin, she was probably making sure everyone around knew she wasn't American. It's not that the merchant assumed she was American, it's just that they like the dollar in Laos.

So, what's the whole point of this entry? Before I got onto the bit about currency, it was supposed to call out the nuances of language and the perception of Europeans that Americans are dumb when they a) use the word European and b) are bad at speaking foreign languages. It is, in a way one of those 'us against them' things. Europeans think Americans are self-centered, judging by the aformentioned conversations with the English girl and Dutch guy. Perhaps we are... but then again, we share the whole continent of North America with only 2 other countries as opposed to the Europeans who share their continent with -- how else can I say it -- a buttload of others. Perhaps because of our sheer size as a country, Americans use 'short cuts' when speaking of Europe at large and in regards to language, we have to go thousands of miles to encounter a foreign tongue. It's not that we are totally lazy, although I will admit we are a little lazy in regards to such things, it's just that we are who we are. Like it or not, we are Americans.

More Bad Luck

2005-12-03T12:10:00.000+07:00

"Do you think you can have good sleeping?" she asked from the walkway outside of our room.

"Yes, it's OK..." I answered, pulling the covers over my head and reddening cheeks. Earlier, I broke several of the glass slats of our window trying to close them when the handle didn't work. It made a horrendous noise. CRASH, you know what the sound of broken glass hitting cement sounds like: awful and incriminating. I came back to the bar, where Benjamin was sitting.

"Was that you? Are you bleeding?" he asked casually. I think he's getting used to my little accidents.

"Yes, no," I answered -- yes it was me and no I wasn't bleeding. But that wasn't entirely true. I didn't know it at the time because my adrenaline was pumping from the embarrassing noise of the breaking glass. I was bleeding -- somehow I cut my toe on a piece of glass and when my flipflops felt as if I'd walked through a puddle, I looked down to discover the gash.

"Clean it up," Benjamin suggested.

"Yes, clean it up, that's what I'll do," I replied with the faintest glimmer of hope that if I cleaned up the mess, the accident would theoretically never have happened. I learned in childhood to clean up the mess and then admit the accident. It seems less of a 'thing' that way. I cleaned up the broken glass before worrying about my toe in case I further lacerated myself in the 'hide the evidence' process. Not that I was hiding the evidence -- it just made me feel better to have less of it. The open, gaping hole in the window was evidence enough, anyway. There's no hiding that.

I was relieved that no-one was angry or upset about the broken window. I was worried they would think it happened because I was drunk, but it was only 8 p.m. and I'd only had water and 1 glass of wine so far in the evening. Anyway, they know better around here: I am currently suffering from a case of bad luck. My recent dog bite was supposed to be the end of it, but I think it's only the start. I plan to be very careful in the coming days.

Am, the woman who runs this guesthouse and who now probably sees me as a liability (I've noticed people are avoiding me today), suggested I should, perhaps, visit the temple. I have decided that while I don't necessarily share the Asian belief in 'luck', I probably should visit the temple to shed my dark cloud. There are, after all, plane rides and hair cuts in my future...

Americans Abroad, Pt. V

2005-12-03T12:00:00.000+07:00

...a continuing series on people, perceptions, and stereotypes discovered on the road

Before coming on this trip, I saw a kit advertised in a popular magazine -- it was designed to transform traveling Americans into Canadian citizens. For something like 25 bucks, you can purchase a Canadian flag t-shirt, lapel pin, luggage patch, key chain, and baseball cap (which is ironically a dead give away for being American, at least in Europe).

While traveling, I have certainly seen a fair share of so-called Canadians decked out in the 'Go Canadian' kit. The predominant color of their wardrobes is red and white, their backpacks are red and white with a Canadian flag patch stitched on (we saw one flag patch that was literally the size of a pillow case). They wear t-shirts emblazoned, simply, with the word 'Canada', and sport the lapel pins and key chains in prominent places. I've seen entire families dressed this way, as if it were a uniform and the family some sort of promotional team required to dress like dorks.

The Canadians I have met wore none of this stuff. The only give-away that they were Canadian was the consistent use of the question, "Eh?" in conversation. I'm not saying the people I've seen who resemble gullible victims of a crafty Canadian souvenir salesman are not, in fact, Canadian. They may very well be people whose idea of a fashion statement revolves around wearing maple leaves and a simple color palette. Or they may just be proud to be Canadian. Or, more likely, they do not want to be confused with Americans -- we're all so similar in terms of appearance and speech in comparison with the rest of the world's countries. In a way, Canada is like pork, 'the other white meat'.

I was thinking about this the other day and have come up with a solution to all of this silliness. We, the U.S., should just invade Canada and put the issue to rest. If we take over their country, we can finally have all of North America to ourselves. Of course to achieve that, we'd also have to capture Mexico, but since we're at it, why the hell not?

Think about it. There are lots of good reasons to take Canada. For one, we could finally unite Alaska with the rest of the States -- why should I have to travel over an entirely different country just to reach one of our own states, anyway? Also, we could have all of Niagara Falls to ourselves -- I always thought the old, 'this is your half and this is ours' business was a bit childish.... treating this great attraction of nature the same way brothers and sisters treat the back seat of a car, with imaginary lines divvying up space into 'yours' and 'mine'. Those of us who took French in high school would finally have a reason to use the language. And, for just a short bit of time while lawyers sorted things out, we would have access to cheap pharmaceuticals.

We would have to make a lot of changes. We would ditch the maple leaf emblem for sure. Nothing says 'wimp' like a leaf, especially one that dries up and lays in heaps on the ground for periods of the year. We would eliminate the use of the question, "Eh?" as it is not a complete sentence. We would abandon the Canadian rule that its flag should not be used as a table or seat cover because once they are part of America, what other good use would there be for the Canadian flag but for collecting stains and dropped food at the dinner table and for keeping the sofa clean? Knowing us, we would probably 'officially' require the French speaking citizens to use English, although that would be too bad for those of us who took French in high school and would like someone to practice with. Of course, we would be flexible on that point -- we would add French to the signage in our hospitals that already includes Spanish and, in some cities, Tagalog. We would require the Canadian Mounties to move along into the 21st century and adopt the use of high speed automobiles instead of old fashioned horsies.

As you can see, there is a lot of work ahead of us, my fellow Americans (and Americans-to-be). Just the thought of it makes me tired, but in order to sort out the identity crises that have come to plague both Americans and Canadians, I am up for the challenge.

Bad Luck

2005-12-01T09:21:00.000+07:00

"It's bad luck to be bitten by a dog." That's what they say in Thailand. But at least once it's over, the bad luck has been cleared. Perhaps I won't have a motorbike accident or I won't lose money in a ruthless game of Connect Four. I have used all my bad luck up, having been bitten by a dog this afternoon.

It's not a terribly bad bite... what I mean to say is that flesh was not torn from my leg or anything like that -- the dog gave me a few puncture wounds and bruising, it did hurt -- enough for sympathy but not enough for flowers. Even so, I had to go to the emergency room for a rabies booster. While I was rather irked to have spent $500.00 on my rabies vaccination before I left on this trip, I forked out the dough 'just in case'. Now I'm glad I did because all that's required are 2 booster shots instead of the entire rabies series which takes more than 4 consecutive weeks. As it is, we've had to postpone our trip to Myanmar one week so I can be here for my second booster in three days. I'm just glad Benjamin wasn't the one bitten or we'd be stuck in Thailand for 1 month.

It's actually kind of funny that Benjamin wasn't bitten because we made plenty of jokes before coming on this trip -- I was to be his 'human shield' in the event of dog or monkey bites because of my vaccination. I was to throw myself in front of fangs and spittle and save him from strange and fearsome animals. But those were just jokes; not real life. Real life has me sitting behind him on the back of a motorbike and my meaty calf just happened to be more convenient. So much for my moment of valor.

We were driving through a strange neighborhood -- one that looked, in places, to be abandoned for years, with overgrown plots of land and neglected homes. The out-of-place Roman aesthetic probably added to the general feeling of age and decline. In reality, the development has only been around for a few years but according to Lucas, who runs our guesthouse, "The Thais let things fall apart and then sell them to foreigners to fix up."

The thing we found compelling was that in between the unkempt areas were huge, fine homes with Mercedes in the driveways. Obviously this was a neighborhood for rich Thais, but it was so... peculiar. We drove down one street with a few homes and having passed one with 2 dogs, we turned around at the dead end. That's where one of the dogs bit me. It came running out into the street barking and then came right up and planted its jaws on my leg. We took off... Benjamin honking the horn to scare the beasts away -- me with my leg high in the air like I was doing a newfangled style of yoga: motoryoga. I was trying to keep my leg away from the dog, which was attempting to take a second go.

We did nothing to provoke the dog... we were simply riding on a motorbike down the street and had the bad fortune of passing by its driveway. Goes to show that any thing can happen at any time -- I rather suspected that if I were bit on this trip, it would be in the wilds of some jungle or in the dark hours of pre-dawn while walking on a lonesome alley in a bad part of town.

I waffled about whether or not I should go to the ER for the rabies booster at first. The bite didn't look serious enough to warrant a visit to the emergency room -- that is it didn't call up memories of horror movies about dogs named Cujo. I always think of the emergency room as a place for victims of heart attack, serious car crashes, and accidents involving lawn mowers or coke bottles. It's not the case, though -- I've seen people in there with black eyes from fights or torn ear lobes from catching impractical earrings on car doors (that was me). Perhaps they should rename the ER -- give it a more catch-all name, like the ' Room for unfortunate incidents, disasters, tragedies, catastrophes, calamities, and goof-ups'.

I was worried about 'overreacting'. Do I really need to get a rabies injection or is it just more Western hype and over caution. What I mean by that is in America, and I'm sure much of the rest of the West, we have become a bit hysterical about things like germs (we have hand lotion and fragrant air sanitizers for that) and the temperature of raw eggs (you will die if they're not refrigerated at 40º F from the moment in comes out of the hen's...what does it come out of, anyway? I don't know the name and am OK with that). We've been on the road for 9 months and no-one refrigerates eggs in Asia and I haven't gotten sick once.

All things considered, though, I decided it was stupid to take a chance with my life (rabies is deadly) rather than make a trip to the hospital and delay our visit to Myanmar. As Benjamin pointed out, Myanmar will always be there. While that's true, what it really came down to is the fact that I don't want to leave this world in that manner: a rather unheroic dog bite. If I was saving someone's life and was bitten in the process, that would be different.

The emergency room took some finding and appeared more like a cafeteria in terms of interior design, if one could be so bold as to assume that someone designed it. There were people on gurneys all about and while there were curtains, none were drawn for privacy. When we entered the room, I kept telling Benjamin, "Don't look, don't look..." I didn't want to see anything yucky. I was given a gurney of my own -- a bit fussy, if you ask me. I only wanted a shot, after all. But people were friendly and competent -- I did have my doubts about their abilities at first when I noticed the doctors looking things up on a computer and in the thick texts of a medical book. I got the feeling not too many people show up for rabies injections. Perhaps that's why so many of them die -- they're not cautious enough.

After about an hour, I left the hospital with a bag of pills (antibiotics and something for pain). I'd been given my shot, a rather painless injection thanks to the careful nurse. Even though I'd gone through three rounds of vaccinations before I left on this trip and became quite familiar with the jab of many needles, I still felt anxious about the shot. Benjamin held my hand just like my mommy used to.

In all, I spent about $30.00 -- my visit to the ER amounted to a mere 75¢... the rest was for the medicine. Can you believe it? 75¢ for a visit to the ER -- that's exactly $45.25 less than what I would pay at home IF I have health insurance. Without insurance, I can only guess at the cost: a shitload. And rabies vaccinations at home cost $165.00 each -- I would have paid $330.00 instead of $29.25 (and this figure includes the antibiotics and pain killers). Unbelievable. While it might be bad luck to be bitten by a dog in Thailand, at least it's affordable.

Everything is fine and in the end, it's not really a big deal. Our plane tickets to Myanmar have been changed, I will not get rabies, and the dog that bit me will continue to live another day. Normally in Thailand, dogs that bite are killed and then tested for rabies, but there's no way we were going to hang around outside the house to notify the dog's owner. We'd have been eaten alive.

Roadtrip: Chiang Mai > Pai > Mae Hong Son

2005-11-29T19:57:00.000+07:00

There's nothing quite like a road trip: the open highway - windows down - music up. It might seem surprising that we wanted to hit the road, having traveled all over Asia by land for the last 9 months... but it's one of the things we miss from home: road trips to Nevada's deserts and California's mountains and forests... So we rented a car and headed north. The only things we were missing on this road trip were beef jerky and speed limits (well, we weren't really 'missing' the speed limits).

The thing about driving in Thailand is that they drive on the opposite side of the road -- some would call this the 'wrong side of the road', but who am I to make judgments? Once I got used to it, it didn't really feel 'wrong' anyway -- disagreeable, awkward, and unsound are better words to describe the feeling. There's a constant nagging in the back of your head telling you that something isn't quite right. It's a bit like showing up to work with your shirt on backwards by accident -- on your way there, something feels odd, but you can't put your finger on it until a kind soul points out that the tag on your shirt makes a nice pendant (and cheap, too, without the chain).

The strangest part is sitting behind a steering wheel in what I've always known to be the passenger seat. Inside the car, everything is reversed -- even the volume knob on the stereo was in a different place. And every time I tried to signal a turn, I did so with the windshield wipers -- none of the other drivers really understood I wanted to go left when they were on 'intermittent' and that I wanted to go right when they were on 'fast'. I haven't even mentioned the fact that we rented a manual transmission. This decision was reached after a few glasses of wine the previous night. It seemed like a good idea at the time, as most ideas after wine do.

The trick is to ignore it and not let your mind dwell on what you're doing. Once you get going for a while, and assuming there are few right hand turns at busy intersections with lots of motorbikes, it becomes almost familiar. Almost. I think it's worse for the passenger who sees everything from a new perspective as well. The trees, for example, appear to be scraping the window because the driver cannot correctly assess her position on the road. A few times Benjamin yelled, "Jesus, woman!" or more to the point, "AAAaaayyyiiiaaa!" followed by "Stay on the road, will you?" and, "You almost took the mirror off on the side of that truck!"

These kinds of outbursts are always unwelcome whilst operating heavy machinery in busy traffic. I had at least one heart attack and several other times I literally jumped out of my skin in fright -- the part of me that jumped was curled up and whimpering in the foot well of the back seat. My only concern was hitting a human being and luckily, that didn't happen. For his part, Benjamin was an excellent driver, both back seat and actual, and I kept my outbursts to a quiet mutter or gasp when he was behind the wheel -- there's only so much room in the back seat where out of body experiences are concerned.

The purpose of our trip was to do 'the loop' -- a drive through forested, mountainous terrain from Chiang Mai to a little town in the northeast called Pai. We stayed there for a few days before continuing east to Mae Hong Son and then back to Chiang Mai. The roads are not for the squeamish -- they rise and dive and twist and turn like a Slinky on a spiral staircase, but with better views. They are outstanding.

At first glance, Pai looked to be one of the last hippy hang-outs on the face of the earth. There appeared to be enough dreadlocks and armpit hair to keep a whole village of plumbers busy unclogging drains. Yoga and reflexology and meditation flyers hang alongside elephant ride and trekking posters. The town is nestled in the rolling hills of a valley, amidst forest, jungle, fields, and paddies. There are waterfalls and hot springs, temples and villages nearby. A ride around town on a motorbike is like driving through a garden -- flowering trees of yellow and hot pink, dusky cattails, and ornamented reeds.

Pai is one of those places that has atmosphere -- in fact, some of the hippies say it's one of those few, special places in the world that vibrates or some such thing. I agree it is has a special vibe; sitting at a cafe one day with a good view of the road, nearly everyone who passed by had a smile on their face. It's mellow, relaxed, and living is simple.

We left Pai hesitantly, but we had to move on. The drive to Mae Hong Son was long and arduous -- the steep mountain road was recently destroyed in heavy rains and resulting mud slides. Deforestation is to blame. The forests around Pai used to be full of Teak but nowadays, there is none left. I don't think we hit one patch of straight asphalt the entire four hours to Mae Hong Son and again, the views were outstanding. With time constraints, we spent only one night in Mae Hong Son and were again back on the road to Chiang Mai and -- you guessed it -- along crazy twisty roads with beautiful scenery.

We are safe and sound back in Chiang Mai and happy to put the car keys away. Our eyes are somewhat crossed from all of the twists and turns -- hopefully they won't 'stick that way' as our mothers warned us when we were tots.

Thanksgiving in Chiang Mai

2005-11-25T12:50:00.000+07:00

The other day I was reminded of a message spray painted on a concrete pillar that used to support an old bridge over the Maumee River in Ohio. It said, "You can take the boy out of the country, but you can't take the country out of the boy." In this case, 'country' referred to sticks-ville rather than a nation (there are lots o hicks in that part of Ohio). Nontheless, it seems an appropriate sentiment in our cases this time of year -- Thanksgiving -- an 'All American' holiday. Perhaps that's why I thought of this old pillar and the spray painted message: it is my duty, as an American, to spend the last Thursday of November eating turkey and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce until the buttons on my pants pop off. That's not to say I have forgotten the provenance of this holiday: it's a day to celebrate and give thanks for a good harvest. That's probably irrelevant to many Americans these days, those not in the business of agriculture at least, but still... it's a day to give thanks. And eat.

Benjamin and I spent the better part of an afternoon seeking out a bountiful Thanksgiving buffet -- we toured the city of Chiang Mai, visiting all the 'fancy' hotels and selected one of them for our Thanksgiving feast, which (incidentally) occured one day ahead of everyone in America -- that was yesterday. Technically speaking, we should -- again -- celebrate today although in order to 'celebrate' along with everyone else back home, we'd have had to dine on turkey for breakfast and I don't think the flavor goes well with morning coffee.

I would like to say our Thanksgiving dinner was out of this world. It was stupendous. It was delicious. But it wasn't -- Americans definitely know what they're doing when it comes to a Thanksgiving dinner and no-one in Asia can compete. Our turkey wasn't dry (the usual problem)... it actually seemed to be slightly raw. The stuffing and mashed potatoes -- they weren't quite right. That's understandable, though... most Western food in non-Western countries is that way: a good effort, but always slightly off. And, the worst part of it all: there was no pumpkin pie.

The staff of the restaurant did make an effort to create an 'American vibe' for the occasion, though. 'American' being cowboy hats and boots, tight jeans, and gingham shirts. Even though they had informational signage about the history of Thanksgiving posted outside the entrance of the restaurant that pictured European pilgrims in funny hats and uncomfortable, puritan clothing, no-one thought to dress that way. No-one chose to dress like an American Indian, either, and they also had pictures of them on the signage. It was the Indians who taught the European immigrants how to plant crops in their new environment and according to lore, Thanksgiving was a banquet to thank the Indians for their part in keeping the pilgrims from starving. Ah, if only they knew their fate... one year it's all, 'come and eat with us,' and the next it's, 'here... snuggle up with this smallpox-infested blanket'.

Benjamin and I traded 'best and worst' Thanksgiving stories over dinner. Benjamin wistfully recounted a beautiful 'Italian' Thanksgiving and upon further thought decided it was not Thanksgiving after all. Just a big dinner party. His worst Thanksgiving was, again, another dinner on an ordinary day -- not Thanksgiving. Finally, he settled on a story that was neither 'best' nor 'worst' but 'funny' instead -- funny for him, but not for the sweet old lady from the old-folks home who pissed her pants at dinner.

I had difficulty thinking of my 'best Thanksgiving' as well and decided that... well, it's because nothing really happens on Thanksgiving -- it's not like Christmas with all its excitement of parties, heavy drinking, and shiny new toys. Thanksgiving is rather dull in comparison... unless you're a Flanagan, that is, and Thanksgiving is an accident-prone time of year with upside down cars in ditches (my brother wrecked the car 1/2 hour before dinner one year) and burnt down houses (a faulty outlet in the basement and poof! almost everything lost).

This year certainly won't constitute anything of significance in our memory either: we both agreed that it didn't feel like a Thanksgiving and decided it was not the Old West costumes, the empty restaurant, or the lackluster fare but the lack of friends and family to celebrate with. That's really what Thanksgiving is about : getting together with your favorite people and making a day of it. The food is really secondary come to think of it... but a pumkin pie is always nice.

A Pointless Story About a Vietnam Vet, Twisted Horse Guts, and Travel

2005-11-23T11:19:00.000+07:00

Scene: A plane
Characters: Me and a chatty neighbor (you know how they are)

He looked like an 'Anchor Out'. They're people who live in battered-looking shacks built on floating rafts and anchored in the waters off the Sausalito shore. The Sausalitans don't like the anchor outs. Sausalitans are an affluent bunch with nice cars, million dollar homes, and housekeepers named Rosalita. 'Anchor Outs' are like the sea itself: salty and crusty and possessing the faint smell of fish. In appearance, 'Anchor Outs' are the human equivalent of wet cigarette butts in an ashtray. When I worked in Sausalito, I'd see the 'Anchor Outs' in town; they would come occasionally to replenish supplies, arriving by small motor or row boat. Seeing them in their long coats and rubber boots, unkempt clothing and unwashed hair always provided me with a pleasant distraction from the everyday Sausalito: tidy, flawless, dear, stale...

So Anyway. This guy was really nervous about flying and before all of the passengers were even on the plane, he'd removed his glasses from his shirt pocket, placed them on his nose, his head, and then back to the pocket a dozen times. He inspected his seat belt and shifted one knee onto the other with every breath. I had my nose buried in a book. I wasn't reading, but I didn't want to nurse him through the take off. He popped about 10 pieces of gum in his mouth and while masticating on a huge gob of Juicy Fruit, he finally leaned over and asked me if I was also afraid of dying this day. When the plane's engines finally whirred to life, I got the feeling he wanted to hold my hand. But he didn't. Probably becuase I'd just picked my nose for the sake of preventing it. Acutally, that's not true -- I'm just joking. I don't pick my nose in public.

Fearful people have a way of running their mouths to take their minds off the thing they're afraid of. This guy was no exception. He talked my ear off most of the flight, stopping only for brief intervals to focus on looking terrified and control his breathing with any hint of turbulence. In this way, I learned all about his prized posession, a horse, and the rigors of dealing with colic. I don't know much in the way of horses; I've only ridden a horse on several occasions in my life, so naturally I had no idea what colic was. I'd only ever heard the term used in regards to human babies. "He's colicky," an apologetic mother might say to anyone nearby who is concerned or irritated by her infant's screams.

My chatty neighbor explained that colic is when a horses's guts get twisted up. It can die if the problem is not remedied and from what I remember, it's a touch and go situation and very stressful. This conversation seemed to take his mind off his fears for a while, but really it only served to shift his fear from one place to another. Apparently, he'd just left his colicky horse in the hands of a veterinarian and was concerned about the health of his animal.

Our conversation drifted to the more immediate. "Where are you going?" he wanted to know. I explained that I was headed to Ohio to visit my parents. He, on the other hand, was headed to Moscow to visit his girlfriend. I consequently learned all about the trials and tribulations of dating and marrying a Russian woman in excrutiating detail... but at least we were no longer talking about equine intestines. Anyhow... after this flight, he had several more long hauls and I was ever so thankful that I was not to be his neighbor on one of those prolonged flights.

He then asked where else I've been, in terms of travel. World travel. What's the longest flight I've ever taken? I talked about my trip to SE Asia several years prior. I noticed he'd stopped fidgeting -- his ongoing fear temporarily abandoned in favor of revulsion. He was a Vietnam vet. Of course, I should have known -- his appearnace was quintessential 'Vietnam Vet' -- all that was missing was a fraying camouflage jacket and the jingle of dog tags.

"Why in hell did you want to go there for?" he asked in his eloquent way. My answer: 'Why do people go anywhere? To see it. To be there. That's all."

He looked at me in silence for a few minutes and then said archly, "Girl, you're about as twisted as my horse's guts."

Americans Abroad, Pt. IV

2005-11-17T11:12:00.000+07:00

...a continuing series on people, perceptions, and stereotypes discovered on the road

Once in a while I'll write something about America or Americans and I'll either get email of support or contention. The supportive emails go something like this, "Yeah... when I was traveling, people said that to me, too." The contentious emails are more along these lines: "Hey... why are you so negative about America, the greatest country in the world?"

Like many people, I too grew up thinking that America's the best country in the world. Our parents and teachers teach us this as children. We are a nationalistic people, Americans. We are proud people, right down to the bumper stickers you see on some cars that proclaim, "My kids are 'straight A' students at Pioneer High School." I've seen others that say (and these give me a chuckle), "My kids at Bully High kick the butts of your geeks at Pioneer High." I'm sure you've seen them -- they may read differently, I'm not quoting... but this is the general gist. My point is that we are a people focused on 'being the best'... maybe we are also just a tad competitive as well, and failing to 'be the best' doesn't have much of a place in society. In fact, competition has defined America in conversations I've had with Europeans. And they site this American trait as a reason for the technological innovations that come from the U.S., the fact that we are a leading economy and power in the world. There you go: something positive...

I have come to realize just how nationalistic we are when I receive the contentious variety of email from people who are a bit annoyed that I have something negative to report on our great country. And that's just it -- for the most part, I am reporting, not editorializing my own opinions (although this is my journal so there is bound to be some opinion). Basically, I write about (and respond to) things people say or historical events that are relevant to my travels. I have not set out, in this blog, to 'diss' the U.S. for the fun of doing so. I have a whole other blog for doing that (just kidding).

Anyways, c'mon folks... nobody's perfect, including the USA. There's always a little room for criticism. Especially in the US; it's one of our inalienable rights. Also, if some of you are wondering why I am focused on America in these posts and not other countries, the answer is because I am American traveling through this world and for that reason, this is where my focus lies. If I were French or English or Dutch, I wouldn't be talking about America but France or England or the Netherlands, and so on. In fact, you be reading something like this, 'Des félicitations sauterelle, vous avez maîtrisé de niveau un. Vous vous êtes avéré être très futé. Très futé en effet. Mais, mon peu le vert un, pouvez-vous également maître niveler deux?" or this, 'De sprinkhaan van gelukwensen, heeft u niveau beheerst. U hebt zich zeer slim om bewezen te zijn. Zeer slim inderdaad. Maar mijn weinig groene, kunt u niveau twee ook beheersen?'

And now, I will move on to the main point of this edition of 'Americans Abroad', and lucky for me and those worried about my loyalty to the U.S., I have positive things to say... There have been many times that I've left a country we visited thinking, "Thank God I come from the States." Much of the time, it's, "Thank God I come from the States, especially being the female that I am."

Women in America enjoy much more freedom and equality than their counterparts in Asia and for this, I would have chosen America as my homeland over any of the countries I've visited all those years ago when I was just an idea in someone's head (actually, my conception was accidental so I never really was an idea in someone's head until after a missed period and a visit to the doctor, but I digress...).

In the male dominated society in India, for example, I moved around the country feeling like an invisible person. I was largely ignored -- all greetings were, "Good morning, Sir," addressed to Benjamin. He was the point of contact in almost all interactions -- I would pay the bill, he would get the change. I would finish my drink, he would be asked if I'd like another. This kind of thing became frustrating and it didn't take long before I felt the toll. It's amazing how in such a short period of time, I came to feel inadequate and unimportant. I can only imagine the mindset of girls and women born in similar places: inferiority is bred and women are defined by their relationships to men. For example, in newspapers the stories about women always started off saying something like, "Aamani Kumar, the wife of Rajish Kumar and the daughter of So-and-So..." before even getting on to the story. That kind of long winded introduction in America is reserved for people who are defined by celebrity parents because otherwise, their story wouldn't interest us. We need to know why this nobody who has wrecked his car is important enough for national news.

Also in the newspaper, there are ads that read, "Save the Girl Child." This is because male children are more desirable. One reason is due to the practice of dowry, which make daughters financial burdens. A family must pay to get its daughter married off and the better the dowry, the better the husband, and a good husband is one from a family with social and economic standing. Arranged marriages, which most are in India, are more like contracts that result in a better social circle, network, and wealth. Selective abortions and cases of female infanticide are not unknown... aparently the lives of enough girls are still at risk to warrant ads in the paper to protect them.

Although I have much more to say about India, this topic is a good bridge to the next country I want to talk about, China. I had a conversation with a pleasant Chinese man about male/female roles in his country, which stemmed from discussion about China's one-child policy and the desire for male children. If people can only have one child, they want a boy. The pleasant Chinese man explained to me that boys are 'better' than girls because they carry on the family line. It's not hard to understand the general principle because in the West, male children carry on a family's name and that is important to many people. They want at least one son... but they are not devastated to have daughters. Daughters are welcomed into families with joy regardless of how many sons have or have not been born.

But as I talked with Mr. Pleasant, I was surprised to hear that it's not only the carrying on of the family name, but it's that male genes are more potent or pure or superior to those of females. This I couldn't understand. "But a girl or a boy coming from the same parents will have the same 'quality' of genes, despite their gender," I argued. But he was having none of it.

In regards to passing on the family name, it is possible for daughters to keep their surname even after marriage and, perhaps, pass it onto her children. The thing is, no-one does that and it would be a horrible fight, even in America, between a wife and her husband to name the children after the woman's lineage instead of the man's. This I could make no argument against because I could understand it, even though I don't necessarily agree with it -- it's a practice based on tradition. There is no biological or other reason children are named for their father's family today, other than that's the way it's always been done. Maybe there was some organization of society back in the old days that started this tradition and it made 'sense', but as I write this, I have to wonder: why are our family names (females) less important?

I spoke to many women in China about marriage and work and equality. Whereas in India, women don't work but remain in the realm of the household, women in China were at work everywhere. This doesn't mean they are 'equal' to men... it just means that in addition to the household chores, they also work. Women are expected to marry young, have children, run a tight household, and make money for the family. If a woman doesn't marry or have children (of if she has a child out of wedlock), she is an embarassment to her family. If she is an 'old' woman, say over 27, and not married, she is the joke and object of ridicule in town: obviously there is something wrong with her. I met young women who want to have a life of their own before the requirements of marriage and children and work take up all the hours of her day. These women described the life I have had... one in which I have the ability to make my own decisions with the support of my family. One in which I have been able to pursue my own interests... all the way to the age of 33... as a single, childless, independent person. The gravity of this was not lost on me and it's because in America, I have the option. Thank God for America.

One last thing to say about China and gender (in)balance -- in the Yunnan Province there are Naxi people, a matrilineral society -- meaning, women occupy traditional roles of men. In other words, they run the show. Even still, the men I talked to about this laughed that while the women work and make decisions, the men have time to play cards, paint, practice music, and just hang around, lazing about. Ultimately, they had a good thing going. It was as if the unusual role reversal of 'power' the women hold is a big inside joke. These men cited an old Chinese saying that explains the bent, humped backs of old ladies, "The cheek is to the ground and the back is to the sun." Look at any of China's countryside and this makes sense: there are lots of women doing the farming. So, even in a community where women are more 'equal', they are not really equal, as long as their male counterparts take advantage of the situation.

I lied... there is actually one more thing I'd like to relay about women in China. Because of the one-child policy, there are more men than women. Not only will this present a problem in China's future populance, but it means that in some places, women are 'sold' by poor families to be wives for men who cannot find one. Sometimes the women are even kidnapped. In Vietnam, we were told by one young man that they ship the ugly Vietnamese girls off to China to be wives. I'm sure someone makes a profit in that, too. Human traffiking of women (and children) in Asia happens with more frequency than I'd like to even imagine, whether it's migrant labor, prostitution, or for marriage. Countries with acute poverty have desperate people and profiting from the sale of a daughter, family friend, or stranger is the way some survive (but don't get me wrong, the traffikers are rich). Lucky me that I never had to worry about this in America. I can't imagine even the poorest of families resorting to this -- but having said that, I shouldn't presume it could not or does not happen.

Cambodia has a saying that goes something like, "men are gold and women are cloth." What this essentially means is that if, say, you dropped a piece of gold in the mud, it can be cleaned. If you dropped a piece of cloth in mud, it would be stained (this must have been written before stain repellents and washing machines). I learned about this saying in the context of the Asian view on sexuality. Men are free to sow their oats and women are not, lest they 'ruin' themselves. This isn't all that surprising -- in America, too, fathers wink at their sons for shagging a hot girl but look upon sexually active daughters with disappointment. That's generalizing, I know, but it is true that men who sleep around are 'studs' and women who do are 'whores'. Of course, there are whores and there are girls you date/shag/marry and in America, you can be the latter and it's OK, unlike many parts of Asia. In Asia, the divide is more extreme -- women who play around before marriage probably won't find a husband who'll want them. American values have changed and it wasn't long ago that only virgins could wear white to their weddings and now, when women do, people secretly smirk amongst themselves because they know she ain't no virgin and that's as far as it goes, it's pretty much acceptable (unless you're a die-hard Christian and will spend eternity in hell for pre-marital sex). In any event, women in America aren't stigmatized the way women in Asia are in regards to sexuality -- and much of this comes from having a society where girls and boys grow up as individuals, worthy of their own merit, with a greater degree of equality.

To take it one step further, women in America are not held accountable for the sexual desires of men, except by the type of simpleminded and cretinous person who places the blame for rape or sexual misconduct on the way a woman dresses: the old "she was asking for it" excuse. In India (and many other countries), the tradition of covering one's self from head to toe in fabric is to help men control their voracious sexual desires -- it, in some strange logic, is the woman's responsibility to hide herself so as not to tempt men because they cannot help themselves. It's a bit pathetic, if you ask me -- that men, the strong and macho and 'we know best' men, cannot control themselves in the presence of beauty. The role of 'temptress' carries with it negative conceptions of a 'bad girl', one with corrupt morals. It immediately places women a few rungs lower on the ladder.

In short, I am happy to be an American woman. I am so happy to be one, I jump up and down and click my heels in my head when I think about all of the things I have experienced and learned about the place of women in other societies. But that's not the only thing I'm happy to be an American for. I am happy for the freedom of speech. In China, information is controlled with a tight fist and access to even blogs on the internet is denied to its people. When we were there, I could access the site where I make entries to this blog, but I could not read the blog itself, like all of you could. It was blocked. In the next year, there will be a law in China requiring all bloggers to register themselves with the government. They want to keep tabs on what people are saying. I'm sure these people won't say what they really want to when they're being watched. In Myanmar, where we'll be traveling in the coming weeks, the oppressive military regime has even blocked hotmail and yahoo so citizens have no access to free email. Freedom of speech is one of the most important of American rights and for this, I love my country (because I am trying to only be positive in this entry, I will refrain from commenting on the erosions of this right under the current right wing Republican administration - hey, I know what you're thinking: there she goes again... but humor me, will ya? this is my blog, afterall...).

One last stroke for the ole' U.S. of A. We are wealthy. Even the poor are wealthy in comparison to the poor in the developing world. It's easy to take for granted because at home, it's normal... and in fact, at home I don't even feel wealthy -- I get by. But because of America's wealth, I have had more opportunity than many people in much of the rest of the world. One example is this trip I'm on -- many people cannot dream of travel and may have never even left their village or city. Of course it's hard to compare a first world nation with third world countries, but the point is that on the whole, life has been easy for me. People see America this way and that's why so many of them wait in long lines for days outside of our embassies in other countries. I've seen it first hand, years ago in Prague and recently in Bangkok. It is rather startling to see a line of people a mile long who all want a chance to come to America. It really makes you think. It really makes you feel lucky to live in the U.S., and to have gotten there so 'hassle-free' (although from what I hear, birth is the most traumatic experiences of a human life. I'm happy I can't remember mine).

As you can see, I have a lot to say -- positive things. I haven't been focusing on the negative about America all this time... I've only been saving all this good stuff up so I could make one huge, monumental blog. Not to take away from all the love, but I feel I should say this: I'm certain had I been from France, England, and the Netherlands (and others), I could say the same things that I have just recounted about America. Perhaps this blog is really about something 'bigger' than America: the West as opposed to the East, first world as opposed to third world... But I started this entry out by stating I am focused on America because that is who I am so I will leave this piece as it stands.

A Plane And A Festival, We Are Back In Thailand

2005-11-15T17:12:00.000+07:00

We left Laos one week early to make it to a festival in Chiang Mai, Thailand. About a month ago, as Benjamin and I lay in the warm ocean waters of Koh Samui under the light of a nearly full moon, we wondered whether or not we could be in Chiang Mai by November 15 for the Loy Krathong festival. It's a celebration that revolves around the full moon and so, as we looked at the waxing moon in the sky, we calculated the festival's date -- November 15 or thereabouts (when you travel, you become an expert of impracticalities back home, like identifying farm crops, understanding modern (and ancient) methods for the rearing of livestock, and the identification of natural occurrences such as rain storms, moon cycles, and locust showers).

In my way, I offered that we probably wouldn't make it unless we rushed through Laos, and I didn't want to rush (neither of us like 'rushing' these days). In his way, Benjamin was certain we could make it without 'rushing'. But on this trip, he is the navigator and I am keeper of the calendar. We have migrated towards our natural abilities in our traveler 'responsibilities'. We make a good pair, he and I, because I get lost easily and his eyes glaze over at a glimpse of the calendar. Anyhow, we did make it here in time -- in time for the first night's celebrations in fact -- and we did not rush through Laos. We simply axed off the last week in Laos from the itinerary. Normally, that would upset us, for we dearly love Laos. But our plans include a second 'go' at the country when we plan to make visa runs in January (we'll be in Thailand for 2 months and visas are only good for 30 days). One of our travel philosophies is to play things by ear, to be free from schedules and deadlines (hence the name destinationTBD). And so, in this way... in this spontaneous change of plan (we only conceived of it a few days ago), we are here in Thailand for the festival.

We left Luang Prabang by plane. Oh, what a joy I have rediscovered in air travel. I felt like a child going on her first plane trip: full of excitement and tingling anticipation. That kind of exhilaration from air travel is long forgotten for me, so 'normal' it had become... In fact, air travel came to mean torturous waits in airports and confining, uncomfortable airplane seats... a huge pain in the ass (no put intended). But after traveling for 8 months by bus, boat, and train, flying became new again. Never mind that it was a small prop plane with an airline who won't publish their safety record. It had seatbelts and barf bags... what more could I want? Benjamin was disappointed that there were no inflight magazines, but I told him the plane had 2 wings so what was he complaining about? We reached Chiang Mai in one glorious hour -- and we were even served a snack. If we'd traveled the way we originally planned, we'd have been on a series of busses and boats anywhere from 3 days to 7, depending on the route we took.

We arrived in Chiang Mai to a festive atmosphere. It's strange, really, how a coming holiday seems to seep into the pores of a city: jubilation, excitement, good spirits. At home, there's that special magic in the air around Halloween, Tanksgiving, Xmas, New Years, the Fourth of July, and Mother's Day. Okay, Okay... I threw that last one in there to gain points with my mom (Christmas is coming you know). I'm not one that goes for the stuff of the 'New Age' set, but really, there does seem to be some phenomenon where the collective energy of people can be felt in the air and impact the environs. Come to think of it, I've experienced this before... but in the negative sense -- you know the way the DMV feels when you walk in there? Well, that's a lot of people who are angry and bored shitless and you can definitley feel that vibe with only a toe in the door. Acutally, you only really need to think 'DMV' to feel it, such is the power of collective anguish.

The festival is called Loy Krathong, or Yee Peng up here in the north. It's roots are in the Hindu religion, but this festival in Thailand is to pay respects to Buddha. Offerings made of palm leaves, flowers, and incense, called Krathong, are floated in the river. Lanterns are sent into the sky and temples are decorated. Chiang Mai will be celebrating Yee Peng for the next 3 days with all kinds of events: parades, beauty contests, firework displays, water sports (including something called 'diving and exotic competition'), light and sound shows, art and culture exhibitions, and more... In fact, since we arrived at our guesthouse today, the women have been decorating the place with marigolds, orchid flowers, and lanterns... there is a party here tonight. We've been promised minimal 'Thai pop music' (maybe 5 minutes if there are lots of Thais at the party). Otherwise, there will be food, 'good' music, and dancing... I suspect some Laos dance moves might be resurrected -- but only if I can find a cactus to revolve around.

The Lovely Luang Prabang

2005-11-15T16:06:00.000+07:00

Luang Prabang is a city you can fall in love with. Like all of the former French Indochina -- Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos -- the city of Luang Prabang is full of colonial romance. Laos became a French colony in 1887 when it accepted protection from the French on the heels of an attack by the Chinese Haw. In 1945 (or 1954 according to French history), Laos was again an independent nation, but not without a rich French heritage intermixed with its own.

In 1995, UNESCO declared the entire city a World Heritage Site, stating that Luang Prabang is, "the best preserved city in SE Asia." And it is. Until recently, the city was isolated due to poor roads. An American ex-pat living there told us that up until 5 years ago or so, the only way in or out was by plane or boat (on the Mekong River -- many tourists arrive in Luang Prabang this way). Unfortunately this isolation made the entire Luang Prabang Province poor for lack of trade, but on the positive side, it left an attractive city full of charm and antiquity and now, with the protection that comes with World Heritage status, Luang Prabang has become one of SE Asia's gems. Prosperity has followed, but a visit to Luang Prabang is still remarkably affordable (in fact, it's cheap, but using the word 'cheap' is sort of insulting for such a handsome place).

A walk through town reveals quiet lanes that lead to chocolate-colored rivers and French provincial architecture: shuddered doors and windows, pitched and tiled roofs, warm pastel colors with the occasional spark of blue and dash of green, balconies and picket fences. Villas and shop houses made of brick and stucco mix well with traditional Laos structures of wood and tin, bamboo lattice and natural mortar. The two styles, French and Laotian, are surprisingly harmonious.

Luang Prabang sits within the embrace of mountains and two rivers: the Mekong and the Nam Khan. There are 66 historic temples, of which there are 32 still operating -- there is always a splash of ochre and rusty red on the streets: there are Buddhist monks everywhere. At night there is a vibrant market full of hand made treasures: woven and embroidered silk scarves, decorative quilts, handbags and clothing, metal jewelry, and antiques. There are cafes and bakeries and spas, shops, river walks, and quiet neighborhoods where children play in the street and people chat with their neighbors. The streets are lined with trees and bouganvalia. There are farms on the banks of the rivers with cultivated plots that cascade down hills like a layered cake. In the center of town is a 100-meter mound of earth called Phousi Hill. On top, a 24-meter tall golden stupa shines like a beacon in the sunlight. There is also a war relic up there on Phousi, which is so common throughout Laos... we saw a number of monasteries using old bomb shells from the war days (1960s, 70s) as flower planters. On Phousi, though, there is an old Russian anti-aircraft cannon. I read that children use it as a makeshift merry-go-round.

We spent our days strolling through town; it's a pleasant place for walking. We visited monasteries and the royal palace, which is now a museum. It's unlike other palaces we've seen on this trip. Other palaces are huge and ornate and absurdly embellished. This palace was rather small and modest... almost simple, but still it was tasteful and regal -- like Luang Prabang itself. The locals believe the palace is haunted by the spirits of the royal family. They were exiled from Luang Prabang when the Pathet Laos took over in 1975. Many believed they were sent to a re-education camp, as happens when communists take over countries. But in truth, they were locked up in a cave in northeastern Laos and died between the years of 1978 and 1981 for lack of food and medical care.

Some days we did nothing at all, even though there are caves to explore and an impressive waterfall a short drive away. But Luang Prabang is the kind of city where one can linger over a lemon shake at an outdoor cafe and watch the world go by. It goes by without hurry, though, and so we found ourselves there for much longer than planned.

Rt. 13 to Luang Prabang

2005-11-13T15:14:00.000+07:00

We left Vang Vieng in a mini van -- we've been traveling long enough to fork out a few extra bucks for comfort. We've had enough 'local bus' experiences to last a lifetime. Normally we like to go for the authentic transportation, the way the locals go... but after our rice sack bus ride to Vientiane, it was time for luxury. Not that the mini van was all that luxurious. There was hardly any leg room and we spent the 6 hours to Luang Prabang with our knees knocking against our ears from the bumpy road.

But the scenery was stunning. Laos is the least populated country in SE Asia and there is a lot of protected land. Our travels through Laos have taken us through amazing amounts of untouched nature and along Rt. 13, up into the mountains, it was no different: Black limestone outcroppings, some streaked with white and the palest shade of pink as if a giant bear clawed the darkness off the mountainside; villages snug against the road's asphalt and perched upon a precipice of rock high above a valley; textures and shades of green too numerous to name; clouds, like mountains in the sky, above us... and, as we climbed, below us like a fluffy rug; farms with fruit trees, vegetables, and scarecrows made of shirts on sticks or plastic bags tied to poles like flags. The views of the mountains - an expansive horizon of rippled rock, carpeted in trees, shrubs, and grass. Along the road, markers sign the kilometers... markers that look like tombstones.

That's one thing about Asian highways that has bothered me during this trip. The road markers look like tombstones -- not a fortuitous shape to adopt as signage on the roadway. They're a constant reminder of the peril in which you have put your life because Asian highways and drivers are not safety conscious. I read somewhere that drivers in Laos figure that whatever happens on the road is just part of life's divine plan. It's some kind of Buddhist driving philosophy. I don't know that this is such a great idea, though, to adapt Buddhist principles to the roadway. I mean, Buddhism teaches that life is all about suffering -- and suffering in a pile of twisted metal is not a necessary part of life if you ask me.

Our guidebook advises that one should look for an aisle seat in the middle of the bus to reduce the amount of damage (or death) incurred in one of these accidents. It also suggests we have the phone number of our embassy and the phone number of a hospital in Thailand should we survive the accident with enough sense and limbs left to make it to a phone. I don't think this advice is very sound, though. It's impossible to choose a seat on a Laos bus (you're lucky if you're not sitting on the floor of the aisle) and it's probably pretty difficult to find a phone in a rustic old village or in the valley of the mountain range the bus has plunged from.

Anyway. Accidents aren't the only danger. There are Hmong rebels in the hills, left over from the war against the Pathet Laos (communists who now run Laos). The war ended in 1975 -- these guys really know how to hold a grudge. Once in a while the Hmong insurgents stop busses speeding along Rt. 13, from Vientiane to Luang Prabang, and kill people. After a period of quiet in the early 2000s, an attack in February of 2003 resulted in 13 dead Laos passengers and 2 Swiss cyclists who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Another attack in April 2004 resulted in 12 dead.

That's the problem with war (are you listening Mr. Bush?)... they don't just end nice and neat like a movie or TV program. They go on and on and on years after the war has 'officially' ended. You know how it is when you're in a fight with your S.O., he (or she) might say he's sorry, but you may not feel like smiling at him again for another few hours, if not the rest of the day... Well, after wars, people don't smile at each other again for decades.

Laos was used as a pawn in the Vietnam war. Both the US and Vietnam operated in opposition of the Geneva Convention, which forbade foreign military presence in Laos -- it was supposed to be neutral. The US got around this by posting CIA agents in foreign aid posts and temporarily turning airforce personnel into civilian pilots. Clever bastards. Dishonest, but clever. In this capacity, the US trained the Royal Laos Army and Hmong tribe guerillas to fight their evil commie enemy, the Pathet Laos. The US were not really interested in helping out the RLA and Hmong hilltribe people -- their aim was to take advantage of the conflict in Laos to establish a military presence so we could kick some major Vietnamese butt. The Ho Chi Minh Trail, on the Eastern border of the country, was really annoying President Johnson.

The sad part about all of this is that as a result, Laos got the shit bombed out of it. At the end of the war (1964 - 73), approximately 1.9 metric tonnes was dropped on Laos. I don't know what a metric tonne is, but it sounds like a lot. There was over 1/2 tonne of ordnance dropped for every man, woman, and child in Laos, making it the most heavily bombed nation per capita in the history of warfare. Today, there's a lot of UXO (unexploded ordnance) in the Eastern countryside. Unexploded munitions, mortar shells, phosphorous canisters, land mines and cluster bombs from France, China, USA, Russia, and Vietnam litter the earth. People are deprived of land that could kill them, and accidental injuries and deaths occur each year -- 40% of the victims are children who find a friendly looking ball in a field that turns out to be live ordnance.

If you're not mad about all of this yet, especially the duplicitous actions of the US, think about this: the American people never even knew about this war. It's called the 'Secret War' (obviously it was secret because we weren't supposed to be there in the first place -- just like Cambodia, but there's another story). I've read that the bombing of Laos cost American taxpayers $2 million per day. $2 million per day! For something they didn't even know was happening.

Not mad yet? The thing that ticks me off the most is that American pilots used to drop bombs on Laos during missions from Thailand to North Vietnam just because they were ordered to return to Thailand without bombs. They used the countryside of Laos as a dumping ground for excess bombs -- killing innocent people, destroying homes and villages, and all because the didn't, for some reason, drop them on the intented target. And then there's the defoliants (agent orange) and herbicides that laid bare vegetation, poisoned civilian crops, and made water systems unusable -- even for irrigation. All this, to people in a 'neutral' country, fighting their own war that was cultivated and fanned by the US.

Sorry -- I got a little off track -- I was talking about the Hmong rebels with chips on their shoulders so heavy, they have turned to bus attacks for relief. It makes no sense to me why they attack busloads of innocent people, their fellow citizens. Perhaps it is just to show the Pathet Laos that they're still there. Rt. 13 is now paved, but it used to be that attacks happened with more frequency because government presence was restricted by mountains and bad roads.

Benjamin and I, of course, saw no action... and I wondered if we did, would the Hmong insurgents take pity on us and spare our lives, being Americans and all... people from the country who put weapons in their hands and trained them how to use them...

If you'd like to read more about 'The Secret War', Roger Warner wrote an excellent book called, "Shooting at the Moon."

Vang Vieng, Then & Now

2005-11-11T17:45:00.000+07:00

Vang Vieng has changed some since we visited nearly four years ago. The open spaces have been filled in. There are more restaurants and taller guesthouses and all have their TVs on constantly so even sound waves have to jockey for space. They play music and movies and back-to-back episodes of 'Friends' -- sitting in a restaurant is a barrage on the ears with soundtracks and bass lines and laugh tracks from five different sources competing in your head. It took me 1/2 hour just to read the first line of the beverage menu one day because I couldn't concentrate. For this, Vang Vieng had gotten a rather boisterous reputation: people either Love it or Loathe it for not being 'very Laos'.

But I like Vang Vieng, even though it does have its drawbacks. I'll start with those.

For a country like Laos, whose charm lies in the rustic, quiet, slow, and even timeless way of life, the endless episodes of 'Friends' that play have the same effect as walking into a Sunday mass when everyone is praying and then, at the top of your lungs, screaming, "I want to rock and roll all night." I shouldn't blame it all on 'Friends', though (isn't it sad how our buddies are always the ones we blame?)...

'Friends' episodes are only part of the noise pollution -- everyone increases their volume to drown the others out and as much of the 'strip' (as it's called) is built with bamboo walls, there is little in the way of sound absorption. You get the noise of boat engines engaged in high speed chases, the sound of gun shots, screams, laugher and applause. The latter is not the sounds of zoned-out travelers responding to video entertainment that has seemed to suck them in and hypnotize them, but from the movie they're watching (the character in the movies, if they're not being shot, seem to be having more fun). And that's all mixed in with Jack Johnson and Bob Marley and house music.

I admit it. I watched a few movies -- there's nothing wrong with that. It's impossible to drink every night and sometimes, on the road, a little space-cadet time is nice. It's just that there's too much noise on the 'strip' to enjoy doing anything there. But, and here's the best part, it's easy to just WALK AWAY from it. Five minutes and the noise is gone... the flashing TV screens are but distant memories... and in five minutes, you are back in 'Laos' instead of 'LaLa land'.

The beauty of Vang Vieng cannot be drown out by the noise anyway. Nature dominates -- from every vantage point, there is a view of the mountains, all differing heights, all with unique silhouettes, all quiet in their majestic height and mass. The karst landscape and the swift moving Nom Song River, the wooden bridges, the clusters of trees on green fields... all of it is the way I remember it. Red dirt roads, banana trees and palms, brown rivers with children spear fishing, sparkling green paddies, bamboo fences that cast long shadows, tractors and pigs and wandering dogs, red and blue dragonflies, clouds of white butterflies, lush jungle forest. How can 'Friends' compete?

The beauty and the mellow vibe of Vang Vieng remain and that's why many people Love it. I almost didn't go because of all the chatter about the 'chatter', but I'm glad I did.

A Perfect Moment in Vang Vieng

2005-11-11T17:15:00.000+07:00

Every now and then you have one of those 'perfect moments' -- it's the kind of moment that summons up a memory, like the smell of autumn when you were 10 years old and lived in that big white house on the tree-lined street. It's also the kind of moment when sights or sounds spark some romantic or idealized notion of the 'good life': a relaxed life, one full of enjoyment and pleasure taken from simple things.

For me, this perfect moment is, oddly enough, based on TV commercials for instant lemonade (it would be more 'perfect' if real lemonade were the product, but no-one advertises 'real stuff' on TV). It's the way they use scenes of childhood summers so cleverly: a tire swing hanging over a shaded, lazy river from the boughs of an ancient tree; a ribbon of gravel road that gently winds along the hips of rolling hills and disappears on the horizon line into fluffy white clouds; bicycles with wicker baskets, grassy meadows with bubbling brooks, dandelion fuzz floating on a breeze... Stuff like that.

It's not like these things remind me my childhood summers. Not really. But that's the beauty of advertising: it's the ideal of a thing... and as far as romanticized images go, lemonade commercials hit the mark. They make me feel something -- not to mention encouraging an out-of-character desire to stop whatever it was I was doing and head into the countryside with a sweating pitcher of instant lemonade. I'm sure once I got there, I'd be let down -- the countryside is boring. And who would want to watch a film of themselves drinking lemonade there? Without a soundtrack and artful editing team, the whole experience would probably be quite boring... and hot... and just between you and me, too much lemonade gives me acid reflux. But the 'perfect moment' is based on sensations, mood, atmosphere... and so, for me, the lemonade commercial conveys an ideal state of being despite the drawbacks of the 'real' experience.

In Vang Vieng, as I rode a bicycle (with a basket!) in the countryside, I was overcome with the feelings beckoned by these adverts. The scenery is not quite the same -- there aren't rolling hills but jagged, lofty limestone mountains. And instead of the odd farmhouse so commonly seen in the background of a lemonade commercial, there are villages of wood and thatch homes with pigs snorting in dirt yards, women bathing at public wells, and naked children chasing chickens. But there are lazy rivers (with swings!), big sunny skies, and the daytime chatter of crickets and cicadas that always comes with lazy, hot weather and will forever remind me of childhood summers... when life is carefree, days are spent in the endless pursuit of nothing, and the simplest things can hold your fascination from dawn until dusk.

A Motorbike Accident & A Laos Wedding Party

2005-11-08T12:32:00.000+07:00

They say everything happens for a reason... and so it was that my motorbike accident the other day held more in store than teaching me one should not, under any circumstances, slam on the front brake of a motorbike whilst riding on a sandy dirt road.

In memory, the accident was quite spectacular. I see bits of plastic flying everywhere -- I leave the seat in the style of Olympian acrobatics, completing a perfect triple somersault before landing back on the seat (and eventually the ground) -- the bike skids along the road... and why not? A trail of sparks and flames erupt from the bike, which finally comes to a stop and emits one last shudder in the comical way a cartoon character dies. Oh yeah, and the 'Rocky' theme song is playing in the background up until the bit about the shudder, at which point the music halts abruptly, making that scratching sound (long forgotten nowadays) of a needle being yanked off a record.

It wasn't quite like that -- my wipe out was far less graceful and dramatic. It was more like: bump.crash.ouch. I hit a bump in the road that dislodged the front fender, sending it flying into the air. I lost my concentration, slammed on the brake (front only) and found myself cheek down in the dirt seconds later. There was no somersault -- in fact, the fall was more in line with a disgruntled baker throwing dough onto a board. There were no sparks and flames, there was not soundtrack except a string of curse words. Well, in addition to the noise the crash must have made, which was loud enough to get the attention of nearby locals who came running to see what happened.

I was surrounded by a family. A man helped me with the bike, although I was up and righting it as if nothing happened before he even arrived (funny how the ego gives one strength in times of embarrassment). His wife patted the dirt out of my clothes as I stood on the side of the road in disbelief that I crashed for no good reason (good reasons include: avoiding a dog, chicken, cow, child, oncoming vehicle, or cash prize from America's Funniest Home Videos). Several passersby stopped to gawk. One of them asked me where I'm from. "United States, USA, America," were all met with a blank stare. Surely he must have heard about one of those, I thought. We did, afterall, bomb the shit out of his country in the '60s.

To make a long story short (and this is only a setup for the real story), this young man understood enough English to go and fetch Benjamin who was farther up the road. Benjamin bent all the pieces back in place that were preventing the bike from running, and we were back on the road to Vientiane. The worst part of all of this is that we didn't make it to our destinations that day -- the Laos Beer factory, for one, where you can drink straight from the tap.

Don't worry about me, friends and family, I came out of the whole thing with few injuries: road rash on my elbow and a slightly bruised ego (and later, a slightly bruised left side).

I started off by saying everything happens for a reason and so... this is where the story really begins. We returned to the bike rental stand (operated through a hotel) and that's where we met Wat. He suggested we get the bike repaired ourselves at a mechanic's shop -- the hotel would probably overcharge us. He and Benjamin went on this errand and an hour + $27.00 later, the bike was fixed, I'd cleaned myself up, and we had an invitation to a wedding party later that night -- we were to meet Wat back at the bike rental stand/hotel at 7 pm. If I hadn't had my little wreck, we probably never would have been invited -- we would have dropped our motorbikes off and without a reason to 'interact' with Wat, that would have been that.

"We're invited to a wedding party tonight," Benjamin told me when he returned from the repair shop.

"A wedding party? What will we wear?" I started to have a fashion crisis.

"We'll wear our best clothes. Don't worry about it."

"What best clothes?" I guffawed. We don't have 'best clothes'. The closest thing to 'best clothes' that I have includes a pair of slightly stained pants with Frankenstein stitching on both legs (I'm not good a mending tears). Women in Laos all wear silk sarongs with intricate designs. I didn't want to show up looking like a slob, but there was no time to buy anything. At least the party will probably be outdoors, I thought... in the dark -- my pants will have to do.

Wat was late, apologizing, "Laos time..." Our group included his wife, her older sister, and several other couples. Wat, Benjamin, and I rode in a tuk tuk. "VIP tuk tuk," the driver joked. Everyone else followed on motorbikes. As we cruised down the dark, bumpy backroads of Vientiane -- with the wind in my hair, the headlights of the following motorbikes bouncing along, and the noise of the combined engines -- I felt like James Dean for the second time during this trip.

We stopped a number of times to ask directions. Benjamin and I felt like we were back in high school, looking for the big party. "I've only been here once before," Wat told us. Eventually we discovered that we were in the North end of the village and we were looking for the South. Soon after, the boom of a party surrounded us. The repetitive bass line and drum beat of Laos music at full blast is the unmistakable sign of a party. That, and the occasional (but lengthy) ramblings and intermittent 'ha, ha, has' of an affable MC.

This was a Friday night and for the groom, whose party we were crashing, it was the beginning of a long and drunk wedding weekend. In Laos, the wedding lasts three days. The first night (this night), the bride and groom have separate parties at their homes -- this gives them time to celebrate with their immediate circle of friends and family. On the second night, there is a party hosted by both the bride and groom and on the third day, they are finally 'officially' a married couple. A hung over couple, I am sure. By the middle of the first night, the groom could hardly stand up. We saw him stumbling and swaying on the dancefloor -- eyes barely open -- brain hardly functioning. He looked like a zombie in 'Night of the Living Dead'. The fact that this was only the beginning of a long 3 days for him assured me that he'll probably never remember his wedding in the first place.

The party itself, for us at least, got off to a slow start. We were seated at a long table (indeed, outdoors... under a canopy, in a dirt yard). Apparently, things don't 'happen' until the groom-to-be has come around and shared a drink with you. After that, food is served. We had Laap (minced beef with mint (and in this case, stomach and guts)), Tom Sam (papaya salad), and a sort of fishy tasting broth served over rice noodles. While there's plenty of alcohol, it's not like what we're used to back home: an open bar, help yourself... Here, people come around with a bottle or a pitcher of beer and pour a glass for each person (one at a time) -- when it's your turn, you must drink the whole thing as fast as possible so the bearer-of-beer may move onto the next person. It's definitely a communal affair, everyone sharing the same glass, and after chugging a few well-filled glasses, I was happy to wait a while for the next one. Getting drunk is a slow, drawn out process (except for the groom of course).

I was encouraged by Wat's sister-in-law, Kongmany, to do the rounds with a bottle. For every beer I poured, I was offered one by the recipient: a very large one... and I had to down it before they would drink theirs. I don't know if this is tradition or if they just wanted to get the falang drunk. They succeeded. By the time I made it around the whole table and back to my seat, I was in that giggly stage of inebriation, lubricated enough to let myself get dragged onto the dancefloor.

The dancefloor was unusual. Normally people clear things out of the way to make a dancefloor, but here, they put things onto it: large plants on plastic chairs in this case. This is to provide an object for people to dance around. Dancing is more like shuffling the feet while moving the hands and its done in a circular fashion: men form an inner circle and face out to an outer circle of women (their dance partners). The whole group move as one, slowly around the object (plants) in a counter clockwise motion.

Being the novelty we were (the only white people at the party), Benjamin and I were constantly revolving around the plants on the dancefloor -- watch out for that cactus. It was not by choice -- we were dragged up there for the fun and amusement of others. I noticed some people copying my dance moves when I broke free from the shuffle-your-feet-move-your-hands Laos style. I was doing some '60s thing with my arms over my head. When I saw this technique take off, I imagined everyone shouting out, "Do the Farang!" Bad dancer that I am, I am damn good in Laos, and some time during the course of the night I became the star of the dancefloor. I was handed off from one person to the next. Hesitant old women were pushed in front of me, and one woman named Thong (Tong) proclaimed that she loved me and danced with me while holding my hands for a few songs too many.

Using English-speaking guests as translators, she told me that she wanted to 'be my friend'. I wasn't exactly sure if this had some secondary meaning. People kept saying, "She wants to be your friend," after I'd nodded my head in agreement. It was the repetition of the statement and their tone of voice that made me wonder if there was something more, like they were saying, "No... she wants to be your FRIEND." Who knows what was going on... she's married, so most likely it was all innocent unless she wanted to be financially reciprocated for being friends. A few people suspected she saw me as a rich foreigner who could help her with money. She dragged me around much of the night as if I was her dolly and asked me to visit her home (she lives near the groom). It was strange, but nice to be idolized for a small bit of time.

Around midnight the party began to fizzle out -- the cops make sure things shut down. The giant 5 foot speakers were packed up and the ear-bleeding volume of the music was thankfully put to a stop. The music was so loud, my brain vibrated -- my eyes crossed -- my mouth watered. It was near impossible to have a conversation with Kongmany, but that didn't stop her from trying. Once, she asked if I wanted to go to Thailand. I told her I would go there in several weeks. It was a few minutes later that I realized she'd asked if I wanted to go to the toilet (she wanted to show me where it was). She must have thought I had amazing bladder control or a strange fear of bathrooms. Benjamin made the same mistake moments after that. He told Kongmany that he loves Thailand (her ears heard 'toilet'). She must have been the most confused by my outright avoidance of the toilet and Benjamin's love of it. Opposites attract, though, right?

The Cargo Hold (aka - a Laos Bus)

2005-11-03T11:43:00.000+07:00

We've already spent many hours traveling in Laos -- I don't know what it is about this country... the slow pace? the relative lack of modernity? I don't know why the clock seems to tick slower...and the tocks seems to take longer. It makes for a long journey, especially on a bus.

Here, the bus is more like a cargo ship, loaded up with all kinds of live animals and boxes and baskets and bags; goods moving from one town to another, one market to the next. A man shows us the contents of a cardboard box. Inside, there is a giant catfish. "Can live for 5 hours," he tells us as he slides the box down the aisle. Seconds later, another man appears to be stuffing a handful of live chickens into the luggage well.

The people on board the bus are more like a footnote to the excursion -- it's a lucky thing the busses are manufactured with seats or people might never actually get into the bus (it would be loaded from floor to ceiling).

On one trip, the entire aisle was filled with large, 50-pound sacks of rice. There must have been 24 of them stacked 3-deep, forcing people to walk the length of the bus in a stoop so as not to hit their head on the ceiling -- their feet were level with my knees and made a squishing sound as they passed by. Some people started to use the rice sack stack as a sort of coffee table, placing their snacks and drinks upon it -- but this ended quickly when the bus seats were full and new passengers were forced to sit upon the uncomfortable rice sack stack. No-one ever complained, though -- human comfort is something people don't seem to pay any attention to. We are just like rice sacks, being transported from one town to the next.

Americans Abroad, Pt. III

2005-11-03T11:08:00.000+07:00

...a continuing series on people, perceptions, and stereotypes discovered on the road

Israelis have a bad reputation -- moreso than Americans -- they are known to be rude, argumentative, cheap, and all around difficult. But difficult is a gentle word.

In Bangkok, in the Khoa San Rd area, a few hotels have signs posted in the reception area that state, "No Israelis Allowed." In Cambodia, we were advised to say we were Israeli to ward off the unwanted advances of touts. It worked, too. The touts would clear away from us as if the ghost of Pol Pot had just appeared by our sides. In India and Vietnam, the locals screwed their faces up into grimaces at the mention of the "I" word. The Chinese might have if they could converse with us. The Indonesians (at least in Bali and Lombok) were too nice to say anything negative about anyone. It remains to be seen how the Laos and Myanmar people feel about them...

It may be a stereotype, but the thing about stereotypes is that they're based on some truth -- some characteristic or trait that is common enough to notice it. We all know that surfers and skateboarders really do say "dude" a lot, for instance.

We've seen plenty of argumentative and difficult Israelis in our travels. Often the scene looks like this: irate customer berating sales clerk -- names like liar or evil man may be thrown around -- voice is raised, fists clenched in determination -- the vision is like a pitbull with a child's arm clenched in its jaw: unrelenting and vicious. And this, all over the price of a cup of coffee.

We've traveled with Israelis -- a couple we met in China -- and so I must say that all Israelis are not alike. It's common sense, really. We (should) all know that we can't classify an entire group of people as being this way or that. It's not fair or accurate. The Israelis we traveled with were fun to be around, had interesting things to say, and were all around good people. They freely admitted to the Israeli tendency to be aggressive and yes, rude. In fact, they pointed out that Americans and English are too polite, we 'play be the rules'. In Israel, it's the way of things to be out for one's self, they told us. "Fuck them before they fuck you," is the attitude, they explained. Incidentally, this attitude must make travel in India a joy for our Israeli friends... next time I go to India, I'm going with Israelis.

So... while Americans may have a bad global image, Israelis have the worst reputation. It's something to take comfort in, in this world of stereotypes -- the same way it's comforting to know you are not the slowest runner in gym class, the least paid employee at your workplace, the ugliest girl or boy in town... or the world for that matter. And for this, I thank the Israelis: thank you for taking the heat off of me.

What's There To Do?

2005-10-31T17:16:00.000+07:00

It's amazing how many hours you can fill with nothing but your own thoughts and imagination. It's amazing how long you can sit, in stillness, and gaze upon the scenery around you noticing minute, ever-changing details like reflections on water, the passage of clouds, the pattern of leaves shifting in a breeze. It's amazing how easy it is to drift off to sleep while swinging in a hammock, only to wake and drift off again.

This is my life on Don Det, one of the islands in Southern Laos in an area called Si Phan Don, or the 4000 Islands. Here, the sunrise and sunset are truly bookends to the day as natural light dictates activity or lack thereof (there is no electricity). The two main streets on Don Det are named for this antiquated lifestyle: Sunrise Blvd is on the East side of the island and Sunset Strip is on the West.

We spent our time watching Laos TV. That is to say we laid on the bed in our bungalow watching the palm trees stir in the breeze and butterflies flutter around the garden of gold and orange flowers outside our window. Beyond the garden was a bamboo fence and through the slats, we could watch ducks bathe in muddy puddles left from the occasional rainshower. Further, tall green grass, a field of blooming pink lotus flowers, bamboo thickets, voluminous green trees.

We rode bikes along a dirt path that hugs the contour of the island and winds along the lazy brown Mekong River, passing through tunnels of arcing bamboo trees, forest, fields, rice paddies and villages. The only traffic we encountered were several gutsy chickens (trying to cross the road of all things), a few fuzzy baby ducks, and an occasional errant water buffalo. There are no cars and few motorbikes, so road hazards are limited to farm animals, children, and rickety wood boards placed over ditches and small ravines.

It's easy to forget there is a bigger world out there: to forget wars and bombings and disease that fill the contents of newspapers and broadcasts. It's easy to forget about getting here and going there... to forget about calendars and schedules and all the things that have to do with 'having to do' something. Don Det is sleepy, slow, lazy. It's an island, a fishing village, a place to disappear.

The 'big event' of the day is watching the sun go down -- a picture-perfect-moment when the periwinkle sky is streaked with hot swirls of red and orange and fringed with the black silhouette of trees... a single fisherman in his boat floats on still, golden water.

When the sun goes down, the generators come on for about 4 hours -- dimly lighting the restaurants where Beer Lao and Lao Lao (local whisky) slosh in clinking glasses. The night descends, sounding like the buzz of 1,000 miniature chainsaws, a million tiny tambourines all jangling in synch, the shrill wail of a referee's whistle.

The bungalows are outfitted with oil lamps (and pleading messages not to burn the bungalows down with them). It's not enough light to read at night, so once the sun has set, there is nothing left to do but find some drinking friends or drift in and out of consciousness with the swing of your hammock while gazing at the stars and planets. The sky is packed with them.

I don't think the islanders know the meaning of the word stress. Life is too slow. There is no reason to be upset. When something 'bad' happens, they laugh instead of curse. I saw one girl slip down a hill and into the river. I might have yelled out, "Shit!" or, "Goddammmit!" but she just laughed. Same thing happened when she over shot the boat dock and when she couldn't catch a monkey that was on the loose. It's easy to find humor in things like that because they are events instead of mishaps. That's why I laughed when Benjamin's hammock broke -- after asking him if he was OK first, that is.

I asked around and discovered the island has 300 inhabitants... or 750. It depends on who you ask. And according to one of these sources, tourists have been visiting Don Det for only the last 4 years. And while I absolutely loved it, I learned it's not a place for everyone. On the bus heading back to Pakse this morning, I overheard one girl whining, "The novelty of having nothing wears off, you know..." and this was after a couple of days. In fact, she said she cried that morning when someone joked that the bus wasn't running and she'd have to spend one more night on Don Det. She was one of those people who like to complain... the kind of people who do it at an intentionally loud volume so as to bring others -- complete strangers -- into their world of suffering. I don't know if people do this for sympathy or what... but she's getting none of mine. From her frequent "poor me" outbursts during the bus ride, I could tell that she has a weak imagination and probably only a handful of thoughts in her head -- no wonder she was bored with Don Det.

Free Stuff

2005-10-23T15:40:00.002+07:00

It was like a fairy sprinkled magic dust on us last night. Everywhere we went, we were met with a free drink and people gave us free food. At 'The No Hassle Bar', we were given a free beer because the woman was drunk and must have thought everyone else should be, too. Another woman there gave us soup from a clay pot her 'boyfriend' ordered. He didn't seem to mind that he was sharing his dinner with us, though. Some British guys offered us some of the chips (french fries) they ordered. And then on our way home, we met a bunch of Africans and they took us out for a beer, "We'll buy you a drink," they said. And they also ordered soup in a clay pot and made us eat some of that, too.

I also got my fortune told for free and my palm read by one of the Africans (South Africa). He had other intentions, though. He just wanted to hold my hand. Several of the Africans stated, at some time in the evening, that I should leave Benjamin and have their babies. Or something like that. The last thing I remember is the guy from Nigeria wooing me with his family's wealth back in Africa. They have a Mercedes and a Hummer and both would be comfortable vehicles for me should I go to Africa with him. He thought we were a match made in heaven because we both happened to be the same age. With that reasoning, suddenly there are so many fish in the sea!!

The South African 'fortune teller' told me that I would be famous, but only if I have the son he prophesized I would have (and by the end of the evening, I was supposed to have this son with him). He also told me that I have a guardian angel who is pissed at me for ignoring him. I am supposed to 'cleanse' myself by praying and then cracking an egg over my head, while naked, and smear the contents all over my body. I was confused about this ritual, though, because at first David (that's the So African's name) told me I was supposed to be alone and then later he told me I would need a guide because strange things can come out of the egg when you crack it open. He volunteered to come by and be my guide. I passed.

Of course, Benjamin had no clue about all of this... don't know how he couldn't have noticed these guys holding my hand and rubbing my leg under the table, especially since I was kicking him with it. Don't know how he couldn't have heard them telling me that I'm beautiful, like Cleopatra (yeah right). Don't know why he didn't wonder why they started to call me 'Queen' -- it had to do with that Cleopatra thing. Don't know how he didn't notice all the talk about me and them and babies... and all the winks and pinches and hair pulling that I employed to get his attention on the issue. When he finally got it, his eyes popped open to the size of dinner plates, "They've been doing this the whole time?"

We finally stumbled home in the wee hours of the morning. I am eagerly awaiting email from my new boyfriends -- I've always wanted to drive a Hummer through Africa.

To Laos We Go

2005-10-22T18:30:00.000+07:00

We are heading to Laos tonight -- tomorrow morning we'll cross the border in the South and pick up on a journey we attempted to make a few months back. The wet season is over, now, and so we have succeeded (for the most part) in following the sun and avoiding the rain. Our journey to Indonesia was a detour in this mission -- originally we would have crossed the border of Laos and Cambodia.

The last few months of our trip seems as if it's all about islands -- first the islands of Indonesia, then Thailand's Koh Samui, and now Laos' 4,000 islands, tiny parcels of land that rise out of the Mekong River as it splits into what seems like a thousand Mekong Rivers. Looking at the area on a map, the path of the river takes on the appearance of marbled fat in meat, the network of veins in the body, the haphazard rivulets of paint in a Jackson Pollock painting...

Like all island life, the 4000 islands promises to be slow and meandering while we're there. There is no electricity and so, according to the guidebook, finding accomodation in the sweltering heat is all about 'air flow'. Looking for a bungalow with more than one window will be our biggest goal. Price won't really matter; most of the accommodation is listed as $1.00.

Laos is going to be like journeying back in time -- it is not a modern place. There are no ATMs, the largest note of currency is equivalent to $2.00, and the middle class in Laos reportedly earns only $100.00 a month. Things are simple there. We've been to Laos before, but the 4 days we spent was hardly enough. This time 'round, we'll be there for one month, moving from South to North...

If blog entries are few and far between, it's only because you cannot find the internet in a time capsule....

Americans (with big butts) Abroad. Pt. II

2005-10-22T17:39:00.000+07:00

In the past couple of months, I've been told on several occasions that I have a big bum -- and this has been uttered from the mouths of petite, svelte women with a tone and wink of approval. It goes to show the grass is greener as they say: people with curly hair desire straight hair (and vice versa), people with brown eyes wish for blue... and, apparently, in some parts of the world, a big butt is something to envy.

Normally, such comments would send me to the bathroom in a fit of tears, but my -- shall we say -- curves are nothing to be ashamed of here. Incidentally, I met a skinny Scottish woman in Cambodia who's been living in Africa for the past few years. The women in Africa would accost her with fattening treats on her way to and from work in order to make her more desirable.

This morning I read in The Nation newspaper that big bums are making an appearance on fashion runways. It's too bad there aren't larger models, though, because designers have had to resort to shoving cushions up the models' skirts to achieve the effect.

But back to Asia. People here just have a different attitude towards 'body image' than I'm used to in the states. In America, you'd never hear someone say, "You're fat," or, "Don't worry about a jacket, your fat will keep you warm." They would go home later that night sporting a lovely, new body cast if not a black eye. But people say those kinds of things -- not to be mean or rude, but because it's OK. It's an observation. At first it's hard to believe your ears and on the receiving end, it's hard to keep your cool... but it's refreshing nonetheless.

There are a lot of subtleties at play here. Sometimes, "You have a big bum," is equivalent to, "I like your hair." Sometimes, "You're fat," means, "You must be rich." Sometimes the latter is the equivalent to telling someone who is 6'5", "You're tall," as if he didn't know it. Since most people in Asia are thin, larger people are something of a novelty. And there is no shame in talking about it, that's for sure.

It's also refreshing to see Europeans strutting their stuff, despite their jiggles and wiggles, their beer bellies and love handles, cellulite, rolls, stretch marks, and flab. They don't hide under their clothes like many overweight people in America; they're comfortable with their bodies.

So I wonder: why are we so different in America?

Flashback to Gili Air

2005-10-19T11:10:00.000+07:00

This morning I awoke on a train bound for Bangkok. But yesterday, I awoke on the island of Koh Samui and, knowing my remaining time there was brief, I went for a quick swim. Floating in the warm, green water -- mesmerized by the luster of satin-looking wavelets -- my thoughts turned back to Indonesia's Gili Air. We'd come from there before voyaging to Koh Samui and being in the water, under the sun, my thoughts drifted...

And so I feel that I should record them properly, here on this blog, before the vivid details fade.

Gili Air

We left for the Gili islands in a small, colorful fishing boat -- crossing the waters of the Java sea, leaving the sweeping cone of Bali's tallest volcano, Mt Agung, behind -- heading towards... towards nothing! There was no land visible on the horizon. I kept looking back at Bali for comfort (I like seeing land on the horizon).

Seems that clouds are attracted to land because above us and the sea, the sky was blue without as much as a tuft of white cumulus in sight. But over Bali, the volcano in particular, fluffy clouds floated above like helium balloons tied down with string. As we tackled the surly waves and moved farther from Bali, ocean mist settled between the lovable land mass and our boat, further diminishing its view. But there was always a trace of the volcano -- an impressive sight, a volcano rising up and out of the sea.

Eventually, there was land in sight ahead of us. Lombok was only hidden by ocean mist and I was thankful to see the smudge of the island appear and grow more solid with each passing minute. And then I saw the Gilis -- three tiny islands (they are islands off the coast of Lombok), flat as pancakes, rimmed with white and trimmed with green -- all floating above waters of deep aquamarine and, closer to shore, turquoise with the clarity of glass.

First we passed Gili Trawagan, "the party island," as it is known. Then we passed Gili Meno, "the honeymooner's island," as it is called. And then we arrived on Gili Air, "the island for everyone else," I've dubbed it.

What a way to arrive -- our 'driver' beached the boat and we hopped out onto the sandy shores as if stepping out of a cab onto a street corner. We were wet from the journey and soon covered in sand -- hair wild from the wind of salty air during the sea voyage -- skin burned to a fine shade of pink. It was perfect.

And it was more perfect because there was no-one there: no vendors, hawkers, touts that are found on arrival anywhere in the world. Luckily, there was one guy there with his pony cart -- we weren't in the mood to walk. And that's all you can do on Gili Air to get around: walk or bicycle or ride in a pony cart. There are no roads, no automobiles, no motorbikes and the accompanying annoyances that go with them: noise, traffic... even purpose, for that matter. Life on the Gilis is slow and mellow. Why, they've only had electricity on the island for 10 years.

Gili Air is the closest island to Lombok and of the three islands, is like the "middle child" -- it is somewhat larger than Meno, but smaller that Trawagan; it has more people than Meno, but less than Trawagan (Air has a population of 300). It is more active than Meno, but less so than Trawagan. It's easy to ferry to all three islands, as they are only several kilometers apart, but we spent most of our time on Air.

The beaches of Gili Air are, mostly, full of white broken coral which made the most delicate, musical sound as the ocean lapped its waves upon the shore -- the sound reminded me of a 'rain stick'. There is sandy beach, too, on the Southern end of the island -- but we stayed North, where the tract of sand used by pony cart ends and traffic is all by foot. We only saw a small number of people pass by our bungalows each day, though. It was easy to feel like we were the only ones on the island at times and when someone did pass by, I couldn't help but wonder where they could possibly be headed.

We spent a lot of time lounging on pillowed burugas on the beach -- traditional wooden platforms with thatched roof -- completely open on all sides, with unobstructed views of the ocean and Lombok (or Gili Meno) beyond. Burugas line the circumference of the island and on a walk around Gili Air, which takes all of 1 hour, we would see people slumbering, reading, eating, chatting in burugas -- all private, all comfortable, all with astounding views.

Our bungalows had burugas instead of tables at their restaurant (like all the restaurants on Air). Every morning we would rise for breakfast, lean against the pillows and eat from the low table, all while gazing at Lombok's volcano, Mt Rinjani... or fisherman collecting their nets... or we'd watch the morning light sparkle on the waves like blinding prisms. In the eve, we would take our dinner there and watch the sky turn pink and darkness settle over Lombok. And later, we would have drinks with friends -- all of us lounging on pillows as if were were gods.

The reefs of the Gilis are impressive -- they looked like strange urban scenes from a sci-fi movie, with huge domes and spires and brainy-looking things. And in this setting, a metropolis under the sea, schools of colorful fish of all shapes and sizes... striped and polka-dotted, round, triangular, tansparent, flashy. I've never seen so many different kinds of fish, so many different patterns and textures and colors. The fish weren't afraid of humans, either. I swam with several schools as if I were just one of gang.

When the tide goes out, it's as if the water is heading to the horizon line: one could walk for what seems like forever before getting into water deeper than the knees. And when the tide goes out, there are tidal pools amidst the exposed reef with creatures like star fish, anenomes, sea stars, hermit crabs, sea slugs, and tiny tranparent fish.

Everywhere on the island, there are fantastical-looking sculptures made with sea trees (black, curly, twiggy branches) and shells. There are windchimes and mobiles made with shells, lampshades made with shells, even "beaded curtains" made with shells. All the furniture is made with bamboo -- I don't recall seeing any plastic -- and all of the structures are made with wood, often carved with intricate designs, and thatched roofs. Like my experiences in Bali, it seemed that the human constructions were an extension of nature instead of an addition to it. Natural materials -- island materials -- like wood and shells and thatch gave Air the feeling of living 'with' the island instead of 'on' it.

Having no roads or pavement helps, too. What there are of roads -- for the pony carts -- are basically tracts in the sand. Narrow footpaths criss-cross the island for pedestrians and bicyclists (althouth the bikes often get stuck in the sand). Footpaths tread past homes, under arcs of bouganvalia, by pastures with cows grazing under coconut trees.

We looked for the market one day and coming upon a tiny stand of vegetables and fruit and other sundry items along a sandy-dirt pathway, we almost missed it. In fact, others we talked to had walked right by it. It looked like what one would see at a market -- one vendor's table maybe -- but this was the entire market. There just aren't many people on the island and the best part is, that the island feels like it is first an island where people live and second an island for vacationers. Usually it is the other way around and this was refreshing.

Being a small island, there are no police or things of that nature. The island is really a village, and so there is a village chief who is the man-in-charge of everything. He has outlawed pool because gambling is a no-no in Muslim culture (and Lombok and the Gilis are mostly Muslim). He is 30 years old, I believe, and is the village chief for all of the Gili Islands, though he lives on Air. I thought a village chief should be an old, wrinkled man -- probably because of such images from National Geographic and the like. But this guy is young and he was elected -- they Gili-islanders elect their village chief every 5 years. Even without police, there is no crime in the Gilis. I think the islands are too small to get away with anything and the people are too mellow to bother with crime in the first place.

I think I could go on and on... about the chorus of roosters in the morning, the azure skies, the coconut palm groves and scrubby trees, the delicious food, the afternoon breeze and hot, still mornings, the quiet and the tranquility... But I won't. I'll end here and leave something for you to discover on your own...

Americans Abroad

2005-10-17T16:44:00.000+07:00

"You're from England? Australia? Canada?"

People often misidentify Benjamin and me as being from one of these countries (and I'm talking about English people, Australian people, and Canadians -- also French, Dutch, and so on...). I have no idea how or why -- sometimes it comes after a simple look at us and other times, it comes after a bit of conversation, which makes the idea of it even more ridiculous -- excluding Canada. We certainly don't sound English and Australian!

Some say our accents are subtle, that we do not sound American. Perhaps it is because we are not loud, obnoxious, brash, and arrogant. Before you've hung me, my fellow Americans, I only say this because this is a common perception of Americans on the part of the rest of the world, whom we have met while traveling from the deserts of India, to the mountaintops of China, to the seas of Vietnam, the temples of Cambodia, and the beaches of Indonesia and Thailand.

It is true. People from around the world have a negative impression of Americans. They are usually shocked that we are from that obnoxious place because we are not obnoxious. I imagine in their travels, these people must have met frat boys on vacation, yelling and commanding and demanding in abusive and drunken slurs, with baseball hats on backwards and an opinion that the rest of the world should be like America. I don't know how it would be possible to meet such people, though, as we have not met any or seen one.

Some of our foreign friends' shock comes from seeing real, live Americans in the first place. We are a rare species amongst travelers. And this is true. As I've said, we have barely met any Americans on the road, save a handful... a most of them were teaching in China... not traveling.

The Americans we have met have been nothing but pleasant and kind and considerate of cultural differences in the lands they travel -- it seems silly to get upset about the latter as that is one of the biggest reasons to travel in the first place: to discover foreign lands and people. The Americans we met have marveled, too, that they have come into contact with their countrymen. It's as if we are twins separated at birth and have met after 45 years in ignorance of each other: it is THAT compelling. Really.

For our Americans-teaching-in-China travel friends, it makes some sense. They'd been in China for upwards of 1 year and admitted to staring at Westerners the same way the Chinese do; we're uncommon to see (regardless of nationality).

So, as I was saying... there is a bad reputation out there for us, my fellow Americans, and we ought to wonder about it, concern ourselves with it, and do what we can do to change it.

This is a good segway to my next bit of news:

The other predominant comment we have encountered on the road is that everyone, the world over, cannot believe Americans put Bush back in office and when they DO happen to meet an American, that American claims to have had nothing to do with it.

Now, I know some of you out there reading this may have voted for the man. Please don't send me angry mail like the last time I ranted on Bush. Don't shoot the messenger. I am merely reporting what has been said to me and what I have experienced first hand.

These people tell me, "Every American I've met says on introduction, 'I'm from the US, but I didn't vote for Bush,' and I'm getting sick of hearing it." These people want us to stop apologizing for it already. They figure Americans they meet on the road are probably not the sort who voted for Bush anyway. They're not talking about holiday-makers and that lot, they're talking about backpackers.

There you have it. The TWO most common perceptions/comments/opinions about the USA and her people. We hear it over and over again.

There are other perceptions on American life that we've heard while traveling, and if I've heard it more than once, I've listed it in the following:

1. American life is like American movies (and tv programs)

This is the most startling thing I've encountered because I thought people were smarter than to think a movie is like real life. Especially with Hollywood in charge. I mean, other countries produce movies and their movies are not all depictions of reality. Who would go see movies if they were? They are an ESCAPE from reality.

Once, while I explaining the time and cost of traveling from NYC to SF by plane, a couple of Germans were astounded. "But in the movies, people fly across the country just to say 'hello'," they said with some duress brought on by confusion. "That's the movies," I told them, "you know... they are not real."

In India, we met a local shark (tuk tuk driver) who claimed that the United States has cheap cars. "You can get a nice (but used) car for $300.00," he stated. "Where? Tell me where!" I exclaimed, "I would like to buy a nice (but used) car for such little money!" He didn't believe me when I told him it was impossible (not surprising because liars are usually skeptical about the truth of things other say). He'd seen this price chalked onto the window of a CADILLAC or some such car in the background of a scene in, of course, a movie.

I was further happy to disappoint more Indian men by breaking the news that the WWF (world wrestling federation) is a sham, a farce, totally and utterly and completely fake. They thought it was real and the immense show of sorrow upon hearing the news was a small victory for me: in some way (perhaps a bit misplaced), it made up for all the trickery and deceit I'd suffered at the hands of their brethren... almost.

2. Americans are all rich and some have money trees growing in their yards

People from the most destitute third world nation to our European peers cannot believe there is poverty in the US. "Oh yes," I tell them, "you should see all the homeless people in San Francisco." And that doesn't even describe the poverty found in ghettos, slums, and entire forgotten industrial towns that stretch across the country.

But being such a rich nation, one that has enough money to go around 'fixing' countries the world over, it is difficult for people to imagine that American citizen want for anything (provisions for health care fall in line with this thinking as well). And I think they have a point. It's a bit like that old saying about the shoe-mender fixing other peoples' shoes while his children are barefoot. It goes something like that...

As for the money tree. Wouldn't it be nice? It is, of course, ridiculous and it has probably only been used in the conceptual way... But it is true that people think we have money to burn. It's why souvenir hawkers will never leave us alone. I think that they think we have so much money, we buy things we don't' even want or already have 10 of. I tell them, "I don't care how cheap it is -- yes, you're right... it's a very good price -- but I don't care how cheap it is. I just don't want it." They think if I can buy it, I will.

I want to return back to the homeless issue I raised a few minutes ago -- there is tons of homeless and begging in San Francisco. And as I've traveled, excluding India, I have not seen a fraction of it in the countries I've visited. Perhaps the communist countries of China and Vietnam are good examples to start with. Being 'red', people are probably expected to pull their weight. And they do -- while the poor may be shining shoes, driving a cyclo, or selling souvenirs, they are working -- not begging. Cambodia is so poor, the people probably don't even think to beg; they've been poor to long. And there, people are working -- picking garbage for pennies if they have to -- but they are working. It's admirable.

3. Americans are gun-toting, bullet-slinging wild men (and women)

I met Australians who think every American owns a gun and walks the streets with it in concealment, ready to shoot and kill. One burly, muscled, plasterer said he was afraid to visit the US and, in fact, would NOT visit the US because he is not ready to die. He's afraid of getting shot dead in the street for looking at someone the wrong way. And this guy is brutish-looking; believe me, no one would mess with him. A fear (and especially the admittance of one) coming from this guy is like hearing a Rotweiler dog with a helium-sounding bark. He gets this impression from all the news reports of murders and school shootings and street gangs and such from over the years...

I assured him not everyone has a gun and if they did, they wouldn't go around firing them off at every little thing. I'm sure he doesn't believe me.

----

So that's it. Draw what conclusions you please... I am amused and also disgusted that we are conceived of and judged by our movies and tv programs -- it's hardly right and fair to think we are like the characters in those awful Hollywood and primetime productions.

Our reputation as arrogant, loud, brash, and obnoxious is there, and was there long before Bush... but everyone has their opinions and stereotypes and every person from every country is judged in some sort of way (unfairly) because of them. I don't like it, but there's not much to do but act like a decent human being when away from home. AND refrain from doing it to others.

As for the money tree, I'm searching for one on eBay. I'm sure they have one. If they've had a grilled cheese sandwich with the face of Mary burned into it, I'm sure they have a money tree. I'll get my $300.00 Cadillac once I have my money tree.

The Bangkok Bar Scene

2005-10-11T15:26:00.000+07:00

Bangkok. An apt name for a city full of go-go bars in a country known for sex tourism. There are plenty of seedy places with girls for rent; plenty of "shows" where women shoot bananas and darts from their privates or, more curiously, smoke cigarettes 'down there'... but there are also a lot of seemingly harmless bars with armies of bar girls on hand (no pun intended) for a little bar stool companionship.

Benjamin and I have found one of such bars on Soi 7-1/2 that advertises cheap beer and 'no hassle'. "Sometimes a guy just wants a drink," the owner says.

On the surface, the vibe at these kind of bars is more like a slumber party than a place of sexual debauchery. The girls all hang out, giggling, doing each others hair like kids giving makeovers at midnight. But when a man intrudes on the party, one or two or three of the girls are sent into flight, smiling and batting their eyelashes while helping him to a seat and a cold drink. They then spend the rest of the night lavishing attention on him as if he was the center of the universe. It's all fake of course, well... at least most of the time. People do have their own personal standards, and it goes against reason that the bar girls actually find any or all of the men they dote their attention on deserving of it. But it's part of the job.

I spent a little time getting to know these women at our bar of choice, the 'No Hassle Bar' I'll call it, and I learned that they are more than just girls-for-sale. They're real people, and many of them mothers. You can see it in the flabby, stretched skin of their bellies, which they exhibit with as much shame as a woman back home would point out a gray hair. They pulled their shirts up and patted their paunches to complain about it. "I'm fat," they joked. I pointed to my butt, which one girl had already pointed out was big, saying, "I like it (bless her heart), mine too small". "I'll share with you," I told her, grabbing imaginary hunks from my hips and handing them over.

Once the jokes were out of the way, the girls told me about their children -- who are usually living elsewhere, in the poor village of Issan where many of the women come from. "Do you miss your daughter?" I asked a woman I'll call Lek. "Yes, but we talk once a week on the phone," she told me. Her daughter is 11 and lives with her ex mother-in-law. I'm not sure what happened with her husband or the husbands of the other bar girls for that matter; questions on that are usually met with a grimace and the words, "bad man".

"No husband, but I have boyfriends from France and Spain," Lek admitted. I never quite understood the concept of bar girls and their boyfriends until talking more with Lek about her 'Boyfriend Number One' (from France) and 'Boyfriend Number Two' (from Spain).

I asked, "Is boyfriend number one your favorite?" To this she answered, "Yes." Boyfriends are ranked on a scale, according to how much she likes them -- which entails a number of things I might not ever comprehend. My first assumption was that there's a direct correlation to how much money he has spent on her, but upon a closer inspection, I have come to understand that it goes deeper than that, despite the profession that should dictate otherwise.

"I thought I was in love with Number One," Lek told me, "but him a butterfly." She said this with a scowl. I didn't know what a 'butterfly' was, so I asked her to explain... "He came to Bangkok for one month and only saw me once. He go here, he go there, he go so many other places, so many other girls."

"Ah," I understood. "You shouldn't call him a butterfly. It's too pretty, too nice. Call him a rat," I told her. She liked this and laughed. We'd bonded. But I don't think she'll take to using this new term. It's not very nice. It's not very flattering. And the bar girls are all about flattering the men who frequent their place of business. And maybe it's also a little more than that.

Perhaps the term is, ironically, too correct and absurd all at once. A man visiting girls at Bangkok bars is not a man you expect a commitment from -- empty promises of a commitment, yes -- but a real commitment, no. And maybe the actuality of this is something the girls would rather not deal with. If they do form emotional attachments to one of their customers, or 'boyfriends', it must be easier to think of his fluttering behavior as a butterfly instead of a cheater, as 'rat' implies. It can't be 'cheating', can it, when companionship is paid for. Most Western women would consider the pay-for-girl activities of these men 'rat-like' in and of itself, but the Thai girls don't see it that way. It's just the way of things. It's "normal". That said, not all Thai society considers this activity 'normal'; there are plenty of girls who won't be seen with a Westerner because she doesn't want to be perceived, wrongly, as a prostitute.

This is where the old adage, "Live and let live," comes to mind. Getting to know the girls, I've come to realize they are just regular people trying to make a living. It may be the only way they know how. And they are adults and can make choices for themselves. Granted, there are some places in Bangkok where the girls may have fallen victim to the sex-slave trade. But I'm talking about the 'No Hassle Bar' and the like. That said, I have seen rather reluctant girls whisked away for the night, for a fee, against their desire. You can see it in their body language. It begs the question, how much free will do they really have?

I watched one girl shake off the advances of a red haired, middle-aged man over the course of several hours. His kisses were forced: he practically had to hold her head in place as he smooched her tentative lips. And often she would slyly twist away from his hand which was moving down her back and under the waistline of her skirt. It was obvious she wanted nothing to do with him, but he was a paying customer and she had no choice. This sort of scene brings things back to perspective. Every woman knows what it's like to ward off unwanted advances and it's not fun. Imagine having to tolerate it to keep your job and worse, having to go off for an overnight tryst. I watched this particular young woman leave with the red haired man after he handed over a wad of cash to the bar's mamasan. She left with a fake smile and a look in her eye directed to her friends, the other bar girls, that looked akin to a shared misery.

There's another problem with the bar girl scene. I was surprised to see the number of children walking the street, in and out of bars, selling flowers, lighters, and gum to drunk men with girls hanging on their arms. They are growing up (and working) in an environment which, to them, is as ordinary as couples strolling in a park. One little girl, who told me she was 10, had picked up a shocking sales pitch to sell her roses, "No money, no honey, no pussy." I asked her if she knew what it meant. "No," she admitted. She'd obviously picked that line up from the 'role models' on the street. Another little boy, who was 7, surprised me by answering a cell phone that was almost too big to fit in his tiny pocket. The call was made by an adult -- his parents, perhaps -- to make sure he was busy working and not fooling around. This was 11:00 p.m. when he should have been at home, in bed, dreaming about flying airplanes.

It's easy to find 'innocent fun' in Bangkok's bars. Especially for me, being a woman. The girls have a tight knit bond and welcomed me right into it. Gossiping, laughing, making jokes, dancing... but I have this internal dilemma about participating in the scene by spending time there, having a few beers. I wonder: does my participation support it and how do I feel about that? I'm not so naive to think that boycotting the bars will make any difference in the grand scheme of things. And I'm not sure I want to. But as a woman, I wonder...

Indonesia: The Highlight Reel

2005-10-06T17:09:00.000+07:00

At long last, the blog is alive again... Some of you have been wondering where I went (thank you, it's nice to know people actually read this) and where I went is ON VACATION. But, I'm back in Bangkok now with a journal full of notes...

Our travels started in Kuta, one of the sites of the unfortunate and recent bombings. For that reason, I'll refrain from more jokes about Aussie beer guts and braided hair. We then went North, through Bedegul and Munduk, and spent several days on the northwestern coast in a town called Pemuteran. Meeting up with some French girls on their way to the eastern coast, we shared a ride to the tiny beachside village of Lipah and traveled from there to Gili Air in Lombok. There, we found paradise... From Gili Air we returned to Bali for our flight back to Bangkok, spending an extra day in Ubud to catch up on last minute shopping and gorging ourselves on imported cheese at a restaurant we have come to revere... Here are the story snippets:

UBUD
Ubud is the cultural and artistic center of Bali, with the constant mellifluous sounds of gamelan music floating in the air, frangipani petals behind everyone's ear and on the breakfast plate, and the delicate craftsmanship of Balinese carving and painting at every turn. A great place to start our vacation...

BIG BUM
In Ubud, I was told I have a big bum. "It's good," was included in the same sentence (thank God). For this reason alone, Bali is my new best friend. It's still not fun to hear that I have a big bum. I know I have one, but it's one thing to know it and another to hear about it. Makes it more real. I'll never again ask Benjamin, "Does this make my butt look big?" Because, now I know that in fact, it does... and everyone knows it. I'm thinking about taking up residence in Bali and feasting on chocolate and french fries to keep up appearances...

BEDUGAL
Unfortunately, we stopped overnight in Bedegul. We went there to see 'the most picturesque and photographed place on Bali'. What we found was a tourist trap. We were the only ones who got off the bus from Ubud to Lovina. "What are those crazy Americans doing?" people wondered. I know this because later in our trip, we met up with a couple of French girls, Marie and Sandine, who told us so. There was not much of a town and the temple, which is supposed to emerge from the water of the lake, was on land and crowded with people getting their photos taken with a boa constrictor.

Our hotel was interesting, though. Having arrived on Saturday, it would have been nice if someone told us that the hotel becomes a church on Sunday. We were awoken early in the morning to the joyous singing of Christians who like to get up at 7 a.m. It made an interesting soundtrack to my dreams, and then waking to find it was real, I felt completely disoriented. The other highlight of our hotel room was a propane tank in the bathroom -- used to heat the hot water. Showering was a brain-cell-killing-affair with propane fumes and Christain tunes to blame...

MUNDUK
We left Bedugal after one night, having found an awesome driver to take us to the more remote Northwest coast and Pemuteran. The drive took us through Munduk, a very scenic place with waterfalls and forests full of cocoa bean trees and coffee trees, along roads that wind through rice terraced hillsides spiced with the aroma of cloves drying in the sun...

On the way, we pulled over for a drink at a friendly cafe and were greeted with a handful of 'Dodol', special North Balinese "cakes" made of black sticky rice and peanuts wrapped in corn husks. They are little tubes of pleasure. I spent a good 1/2 hour learning how to roll the Dodol (it's not very easy) and having mastered that, the woman who owns the cafe asked if I would like to weave the basket they are sold in. "It's time to go," I told Benjamin seeing an immense amount of work in my near future (she's got a good thing going -- getting tourists to do some of her work). Benjamin wanted to leave me there to make some traveling money, but luckily my new "boss" thought better of it. "You will miss her," she told Benjamin... and so, we were off to the hot springs, where our driver saved a drowning child.

PEMUTERAN
Pemuteran is a place devoid of much but resorts that line a black volcanic sand beach... we were lucky to find a cheap one and spent a few days laying by the pool and the sea. The best part of it was that our bungalow had an attached, outdoor bathroom. It is something to sit on the toilet and star gaze all at the same time. Taking a shower in a garden under the blazing rays of sun is nice, too. However, projectile vomiting in an outdoor bathroom is not romanticized, in any way, by the beauty of the environment. One night, I found myself shitting on the toilet while puking in a bucket at the same time: there is no time to star gaze whilst doing this. I believe I got food poisoning from the "resort" where we were staying. Once established, it is impossible to go elsewhere to dine (all restaurants are at the resorts), so I was forced to continue eating potentially poisonous food the rest of our stay. Benjamin, 'The Royal Food Taster', got sick as well. For this, we have deemed the place, "The Barf Bungalows".

Another note on our accommodation: the place had crazy, angry statues all about. Even the dolphin was leering, baring teeth, eager to devour souls. And dolphins, perhaps thanks to the New Age set, are supposed to be our gentle friends from the sea...

Luckily for us, we met our French friends Marie and Sandine here and continued our travels with them for about 4 days to the East Coast and onto the Gili Islands in Lombok... It was lucky because Benjamin and I were in need of 'outside influence'. After months of traveling as a duo, it's important to make friends who can add something more to a conversation when topics run dry...

It was also in Pemuteran that I discovered that my bathing suit has been deteriorating over the last several years while living in the dark corners of my underwear drawer back at home. I washed it in the sink after a swim in the pool and lined the porcelain with a coating of elastic that had fled my suit for more light... Taking my bathing suit out of its hiding place was akin to removing an ancient document from a temperature controlled environment. It seemed to start disintegrating with the light of day...

LIPAH
We joined Marie and Sandine on a journey to the East Coast and landed in a tiny beachside village called Lipah, population 50. From our hotel room, we had an amazing view of the inlet known as Lipah, with ocean waters in front, colorful fishing boats on the beach, and a volcano looming behind. We snorkeled amidst a coral garden and tropical fish at a Japanese fishing boat wreck just off the coast. We also witnessed our special Balinese 'smoked duck' dinner while it was still alive. I don't like seeing my food alive before I eat it, much less the blood pouring from its slit throat. Thank God it was dark at the time...

Lipah is a wonderful little beach town, less frequented than others. It's also a town full of horny men. Benjamin ended up with 'three wives' in Lipah because Marie and Sandine used him as their salvation from come ons by the locals. It's all in good fun, though. All I can say is, any woman looking for a little attention should go to Lipah. There seems to be a shortage of local women in the village and all attention is bestowed upon the foreign women. It was actually a nice change of pace from my previous travels, seeing foreign men with Asian women hanging on their arms from China to Cambodia...

"It's raining men," was the theme of the night they played live music at the bar down the road (the only one in town, I believe). The local guys were out in force, most of them named something like Bob, Marley, and Ziggy.

The four of us chartered small fishing boats to transport us to the Gili Islands from Lipah. A 2.5 hour journey (which actually took 4 b/c of rough seas) was a much better option than the intensive bus/boat/bus/boat 10-hour voyage from Bali's main harbor, Padangbai. You can read more about that adventure on the main site in 'travel essays'. The story is called 'Death Boat'.

GILI AIR
aka: Paradise. Gili Air is a tiny island off the coast of Lombok (Bali's neighboring island). It has a population of around 300 and the scene was mellow, relaxed, the ultimate get away. There aren't even roads... just sandy tracks in the sand that can only be traveled by bicycle, foot, or pony-drawn cart.

We spent a lot of time hanging out on burugas -- thatched wood platforms with pillows on the beach. In the warm, turquoise waters that ring the Gili Islands, we snorkeled amongst coral gardens, colorful fish of all shapes, sizes, and patterns, sea turtles and giant clams. We ate seafood and took walks on the coral-strewn, white beaches of Gili Air -- it only takes one hour to circle the entire island.

In short, we really did nothing and the days seemed to stretch into months -- the perfect respite for weary travelers...

BACK TO BANGKOK
We're back in Bangkok, heading to Southern Thailand shortly to continue our beach bum lifestyle... Not sure that this kind of living makes much to blog about, but keep looking!

Gentle Bali

2005-09-10T15:37:00.000+07:00

We arrived in Bali several days ago -- after a bout of indecision about 'where's next?' back in Bangkok, we decided to head for the sun in Indonesia.

We arrived close to midnight on Thursday (the 8th) and spent Friday having a look around Kuta, the party-beach town everyone told me to avoid. Kuta is what anyone would expect of any party-beach town --> Bob Marley music, drinking, surfing, more drinking, and lots of shirtless beer-gutted men escorting girlfriends with a headful of Bo Derek braids (not a good look) down the street. Benjamin made several astounding observations during our 1-day stay in Kuta: 1) most of the girls with braided hair are fat chicks and 2) Bob Marley should have lived longer so there would be more material to play over and over...

(drums, please: badam bam) But seriously folks...

My first impressions: everything about Bali is gentle and delicate. The people speak softly; the music tinkles like wind chimes; the birds sing as if taking care to not wake you up; the blue skies are pastel; the breeze stirs; the pace is mellow; people are relaxed; smiles flow freely. Everything -- buildings and the environment -- is ornate and decorative: gardens, stone statues, carved wood, flower motifs, and colorful tassled umbrellas. I am surprised to find that the air isn't naturally perfumed or sweet to the taste: it would be fitting if it was.

We are now in Ubud, the artistic center of Bali and have set ourselves up in a bungalow-style room that overlooks a garden. Aaahhh... Peace and tranquility. It's just what the doctor ordered. Benjamin and I decided that we needed a 'vacation from our vacation' the other night as we discussed our floundering spirits.

It is tiring to be on the road for such a long time: always on the move, planning, learning new currencies and languages, taking lengthy and cramped bus or boat trips, and constantly fending off the hawkers and touts (to name a few reasons). I don't want to admit it, but we are burned out.

There's this other thing lurking in the back of our minds, too: have we spent too much time in Asia? Is it possible? There are only so many temples, and Buddhas, and rice paddies, and jungle one can see before the 'wow' factor becomes 'so what?' We came to Indonesia to find the sun, but to also find something different, something new...

So, if the blog entries become scant -- don't worry; we are resting... or climbing volcanos... or lazing about on a beach.

Rain, Rain Go Away...

2005-09-04T14:07:00.000+07:00

It seems like when we entered Thailand, things became blocked. We've lost our forward momentum. The problem is, we're not sure about what's next. Our plans have changed a number times: we would have been in Laos at this moment but for the monsoon season... we thought we'd jaunt down to Indonesia because it's dry there, but we are still talking about other options: Myanmar? No, it's raining there too... Nepal to Tibet? What - are we crazy!?! We were so close to that region at the beginning of the trip. Plus it's raining there, too, I think... Ack! The rain!

The weather and the lack of direction have got us down. Neither Benjamin or I appear to have any energy, zest, zeal... Perhaps it's the '6-month doldrums'. Could it be that (dare I say it) we are a bit road wary? Or maybe it's because we are back in Bangkok (this is the place we always end up when we are in-between places) and there are no new novelties left to excite us.

For the first time since we started our travels, we look to the future and see emptiness. At the moment, there is no schedule to plan, tickets to book, things to do... and the irony of it is that we have all the freedom in the world to do anything we want! And yet, it feels like we're trapped... by the rain, by indecision, by fatigue. Strange.

Perhaps when I'm back at work, when my travels are over, and I'm feeling glum about the day-in-day-out, I'll remember this moment and it will brighten my day just an ounce: knowing that the feeling can happen even when you have all 24 hours of a day at your disposal and the world at your fingertips. Maybe it sounds depressing to realize you can feel dull in such a situation, but I think it's more of a reassurance than anything: that feeling dull is normal and unavoidable and it doesn't mean that life sucks, but just that life sucks for the moment. (Incidentally -- I don't feel like life sucks right now: remember, I'm talking about the day-in-day-out work-a-day world back home...)

I do realize we lucky we are to be where we are, doing what we're doing and I don't want to waste another minute feeling bored or stagnant, the rain be damned!

Six Month Anniversary

2005-09-04T13:13:00.000+07:00

We crossed the Thai border on September 1, our 6 month anniversary on the road. It was like entering a different world, like Dorothy's transportation from her dumpy Kansas home to the palace in Oz. Our yellow brick road, though, was part sea and part road. Smooth as the waters were that day and the road being paved, it was, indeed, a golden passage considering the bumpy, dirt roads we'd been traveling for so long in Cambodia up until this point. It's hard to believe that an invisible line on a map can have so much impact. One side of the border is one way, on the other side: the opposite. It's amazing that such an impoverished country such as Cambodia is next door to a country like Thailand, which is not yet considered a 'first world' country, though it probably should be.

We are now in Bangkok, a city more modern than any at home, and the change of pace is incredible. Gone are the Cambodian villages, where from the road, people can be seen lying about in hammocks whiling away the hours: swinging, snoozing, watching the world go by. The pace of life is slow -- there seems to be no concern for the future, even one day out. In Cambodia, I learned to enjoy the moment and worry about tomorrow when tomorrow came. Take, for instance, the weather. There's no sense in planning events around the forecast: there is no forecast. If you ask someone what the weather will be like in the next few days, your answer will be a shrug of the shoulders and a remark such as, "I don't know. I am not a magician."

Bangkok, with its 7-11s, fast food chains, ATMs, stylish coiffes, fashionable styles, neon, giant shopping malls, skyscrapers, sky rail, electronic toilets, and chilly air-conned interiors is a huge change. The irony is that there's so much traffic that the streets, while busy, move more slowly: ah, the trappings of urban life. Bangkok is, in a way, like being at home -- with all of the modern day conveniences we're used to (or not so used to any more). Except for a hot shower. We could pay for a more expensive room to get hot water in our bathroom, but we're still trying to live cheap. We haven't had a hot water shower in about 1 month, so I'm used to it now anyway.

We celebrated our anniversary by treating ourselves to a steak dinner and a movie. I would like to say that we went to some really cool, really hip restaurant... but we ended up at Outback Steakhouse -- the only way to get a 'real western-style' steak, at least, the only way we know of. We've tried steak, along the way, when it's offered on menus, but it's always something else. Perhaps water buffalo. I don't know.

We went to the theater in Siam Square to see 'Willie Wonka', which would have been a rather disappointing experience if it weren't for the 'Gold Class' seating option that we sprung for. It's a bit like buying first class tickets on an airplane or getting box seats at a stadium. Behind mysterious frosted glass doors, a whole new movie-going experience awaits. We arrived an hour early for the movie, so we sat in the 'Gold Class' lounge, which is carpeted with a navy blue pile with a gold star pattern (of course); the walls are painted a deep purple, the color of royalty; there is plush red furniture with sparkling gold trim and little cocktail tables, a dark wood wet bar, and 4-foot black and white drawings of famous Hollywood movie stars (like Cary Grant). We were served complimentary drinks and cookies while we relaxed with a few magazines from the racks along the wall, waiting for our movie. Life was grand.

We were ushered to our seats just before show time. The seats -- get this -- were giant, comfy, red leather recliners with a hand-held remote for changing positions. I thought they would have built-in massagers, as well, but not in this theater. We were each given a package that included a blanket, pillow, and a pair of white socks. Thank goodness for that, too, because the air con was on full blast. I don't think I've been so comfortable since the time we accidentally ended up in a luxury hotel in India that boasted 'a world of luxury and comfort'. Certainly, the chairs were more comfortable than many of the recent beds we've slept on, which are usually thin foam pads on a wooden frame. And the pillow was a joy: the one I have here in Bangkok is like a 10-inch tall block of clay. I can't remember the last time I wore a pair of socks...

Ending Days: The Southwest Coast

2005-09-03T11:42:00.000+07:00

KAMPOT, KEP, SIHANOUKVILLE

Kampot is not picturesque in the classical sense, but charming in its own way. This old colonial town lingers on the banks of a river that reflects the brooding Bokor Mountain in the day and the most vivid pink sunsets in the eve. Kampot is one of those old 'faded' towns, full of buildings streaked black by moisture, with chipping paint from years of disrepair. It is the worn and weathered buildings that make Kampot beguiling, in addition to the French-styled balconies, shuddered windows, ornate archways, and the lazy, sleepy pace of the place. It's not that Kampot has been deserted. No, Kampot has only been neglected -- but in the most loving way -- since Sihanoukville, the beach resort town several hours away, was built in the late '50s.

Kep, on the other hand, has been mostly deserted -- what remains of the town today largely consists of skeletal structures -- remains of homes and sea side resorts riddled with bullet holes and consumed by jungle vegetation. Some of the ruins are inhabited by squatters, and aside from those people and a few seafood stalls next to the beach, there is nothing left of Kep but bruised and crippled buildings -- it's a great place to explore.

Located about 25 km from Kampot, Kep used to be THE colonial retreat, founded by the French in 1908. Once the French were gone, Kep lived on as a vacation destination for Khmers into the '60s. The town was destroyed during the Khmer Rouge years, when the area was occupied by KR soldiers. What was left was looted by locals to survive the famine of '79/'80 when Cambodia was occupied by the Vietnamese.

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We spent several days in Kampot; the city makes a great base for exploring the ruins of the Bokor Hill Station and Kep. It's also a great place to relax: the quiet, lazy atmosphere is a treat. There is a decent sized ex-pat community in Kampot, made up of English, Australian, American, and Dutch nationals. Therefore, there are good nights of conversation over beer, access to lots of local information, and awesome BBQ ribs (the Rusty Keyhole serves great food).

We took a taxi to Sihanoukville, a two hour drive. There is no other way to get there from Kampot and the price, $18.00, is not cheap. Sihanoukville was a bit of a let down: the beach was dirty (pipes dump liquid from who knows where onto some areas of the beach) and lined with cheap and unattractive restaurants/bars, all with the word 'shack' in the title: The Dolphin Shack, The Beach Shack, The Shack of all Shacks, etc... We found a clean and cozy corner of the beach (known as Serendipity Beach) and stayed in a wooden bungalow for a few days which was even more slow-paced than Kampot.

One interesting thing we learned in Sihanoukville: the Cambodians swim while fully clothed. Theirs is a conservative society and not one soul owns a bathing suit. Most of the time, the women wear long pants or skirt -- shorts are even a bit racy. Earlier in our trip, in Battambang, we met a young man who liked to come to Sihanoukville to see Western women on the beach. "Otherwise," he said, "I'll never get to see anything."

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We left Sihanoukville on a sea-going boat that took us to the town of Koh Kong, where we crossed the border into Thailand and a whole new world...

The Bokor Hill Station

2005-08-30T12:55:00.001+07:00

Our bus bumped down stretches of dirt road and sailed along patches of pavement. From the window: a flat horizon separates the cerulean sky and bright green fields; a gentle breeze ripples through stalks of rice -- the stalks appear to be waving 'hello, goodbye', just like the children who shout this greeting from the roadside; coconut trees and sugar palms fringe the landscape; big, billowy clouds with flat bottoms and rounded tops resemble the intermittent mountain seen in the distance; a cloud of red dust envelopes the bus as the tires spin; clothes hanging on a line to dry outside of a wooden house remind me of prayer flags; a happy pig swishes its tail in the front yard of a tidy home: it does not know that someday soon, it will be dinner; naked children emerge from streams, their brown, wet skin sparkles in the sun.

We were on our way to Kampot, a riverside town in Southwest Cambodia and home to Phnom Bokor, a mountain upon which a French ghost town is perched. Way back when, I learned about the Bokor Hill Station and was immediately enthralled with the place. Abandoned places and things are like caffeine for my imagination. From ghost towns in California and Nevada to athletic shoes strung over city telephone wires, I have always been curious about the stories of the places, the things that people no longer want. Usually, their stories are hard to come by, but the history of the Bokor Hill Station is not unknown, and its story makes the place all the more intriguing.

The Bokor Hill Station was a colonial retreat, built by the French in the early 1920s -- a complement to the neighboring beachside resort city of Kep (which is also abandoned and strewn with ruins). The hill station was an 'elegant getaway for French officials and foreign visitors' seeking temperate climes in the oppressive heat of Cambodia. The French abandoned it in the late 1940s when fighting between the Vietnamese, French, and Khmer Issaraks forced evacuation. Affluent Khmers then used the Hill Station until the early 1970s, when it was again abandoned because the Khmer Rouge took over the area, using the hill station as a base of operations. Eventually, the Vietnamese took Phonm Bokor when they 'liberated' and then occupied Cambodia in the late 70s. In its history, the Hill Station has seen luxury and war; has been a place of sanctuary and battle. Today it stands in ruins, a mere skeleton of its former self, with battle wounds and graffiti on its walls.

The French picked the perfect place to build a mountain retreat. Afterall, King Norodom had his summer palace up there. From the top, there are amazing views of the coastline (when the mountain isn't shrouded in fog), waterfalls, lush jungle, and wet evergreen and deciduous forests. The Hill Station is located on the Southern tip of the Elephant Mountains and in today's time, within the Bokor National Park, which was established in 1995. Within the park, there are elephans, tigers, leopards, bear, primates, peacocks, buzzards, and more. We saw a pig-tailed macaque and pit viper during our foray into the wilds.

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The original plan was to ride a rented motorcycle from Phnom Penh to Kampot (148 km) and up to the top of Phnom Bokor. I'd read that the road to the Bokor hill station was difficult to navigate in a car, but perfect for a dirt bike. In fact, it was in learning about the abandoned hill station three plus years ago that I signed up for a motorcycle riding class back home. Getting to the old hill station was going to be an adventure on two wheels. However, plans changed when we postponed our trip to the Southwest coast until the end of our month in Cambodia -- we were following good weather. With the change in plan, we would no longer be looping back through Phnom Penh and so, we took the bus instead of bikes.

"We can still ride to the top of the mountain," Benjamin mentioned on the evening before we left Phnom Penh.

"I dunno..." was my answer. Suddenly I'd turned into a big coward. Everything I'd read about riding to the top of the mountain was alarming. "I don't have the kind of experience you could set in italics," I told Benjamin.

He laughed. "What?"

"All the guidebooks and pamphlets, they say experienced riders only should make this trip. In italics. I don't even know if you could use a regular-weight font for my level of riding experience."

Benjamin looked amused.

"I don't want to die," I added.

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When we arrived in Kampot, we learned that the dirt bikes for rent were in poor condition. We were advised not to take one to the top of Bokor. This sealed the deal for me, but Benjamin was a little dejected by the thought of taking a car to the top. It was certainly 'less adventurous' and maybe even a little 'nerdy' to scrap the bike ride in favor of a Toyota Carolla that had illustrations of dinosaurs on the doors.

We found this car (and the driver) on the street corner. The beauty of travel in many Asian countries is that if you want or need something, all that is required is your presence on a street corner: everything finds you. We positioned ourselves on opposite corners of a wide boulevard with a traffic circle and within minutes, had several offers. At first, we weren't able to find a driver who would make the trip for less than $25.00. We didn't want to spend more than $20.00. So we walked away, thinking of a 'plan B'. Suddenly, a moto driver appeared next to us, telling us that his uncle would take us for $20.00. He was just a phone call away and appeared several minutes later with a cargo of passengers headed to Sihanoukville, a beach town several hours away. He deposited them with another driver and returned with our chariot, a beat up gray Carolla infused with years of sweat and dino decals on the exterior, which seemed to personify the car itself: it appeared to be ancient.

In the end, we were glad to have taken the car. The 'road' to the Bokor Hill Station is a loose term, a generous term for what looked more like a dry river bed with man-eating pits, giant boulders, and deep ravines. There are segments of asphalt here and there, enough bits to remind you that there once was a proper road, but left to the decay of war and time, it has degenerated to nothing more than a tumultuous path in the jungle.

On the way to the top, we found a helpless German couple who'd decided to take a scooter up the mountain road. They were stranded 15 minutes into the two-hour drive with a flat tire and had no choice but to walk the bike back down. At the top, we found some intrepid riders who made the journey, successfully, on a dirt bike. One of them was pulling a leech off his thigh, which was apparently flung onto his skin while riding through a deep puddle. I was happy for the 'safety' of our sweaty smelling dino-mobile, which was, once at the top, the laughing stock of other drivers who made the trip in SUVs and trucks. The only reason our car made the journey without issue was the prowess of our driver and a lifted suspension.

---

The Bokor Hill Station is an eerie place: a collection of crumbling buildings covered in red lichen and green moss, set upon a plateau on the edge of a cliff, with drifts of fog rolling in and curling around the framework of buildings like ghostly fingers. I felt like I was on the set of a horror movie and half expected to find vampires sleeping in the steeple of the old church. The fog came and went: one minute the entire view was completely obliterated by white mist, the next blue patches of sky and sun illuminated the entire plateau. Peering over the cliff's edge, down into the clouds below, it felt as if we were on the edge of the world and could be gobbled up and trapped in time, like Bokor, by the swirling mist around our feet.

In addition to the church, there are remains of a police station, library, post office, casino, and hotel. The old hotel has been likened to the one in 'The Shining', but to me, it felt more peaceful than horrific; the elegance of the past still permeates the ruined building, found in the patterned tiles on the floor, the curving staircases, the details of the woodwork, and what is left of the decorative windows. With some imagination, it is possible to hear the clink of wine glasses and the crackle of a fire in the massive dining room; to see women sunning themselves out in the garden; to smell trails of perfume lingering in the bed chambers; to feel the revelry of party-goers and happy gamblers having won fortunes in the casino.

We spent several hours exploring the Hill Station, feeling as if we'd somehow found passage to another dimension of time -- with the waves of misty fog, revealing and hiding the stately silhouettes of abandoned buildings... there one minute, gone the next... Perhaps this is how the Bokor Hill Station lives on in the memories of those who spent time there: vacationers are soldiers alike. If the walls could tell stories, I wonder, what stories would they tell?

The Name of the Game

2005-08-22T18:19:00.000+07:00

Much of the time, I feel as if Cambodia is defined by what happened in the 'Pol Pot years'. The take-away from a guidebook is more about what happened than what the country has to offer to tourists. The trials of the KR leaders has still not taken place and an impending date for one is still in the news, after all this time.

Hun Sen, the prime minister (and former KR, but no-one talks about that we are told), was just quoted in the local newspaper. He said the trials won't take place if the foreign 'donors' don't make good on providing money to cover the Cambodian government's expenses. Imagine!

Apparently some deal was made with a number of foreign countries to provide some funds if the Cambodian government kicked in its share, but now the government is claiming that it has no money for the trials. Still, they want foreign countries to pay their promise, PLUS the amount Cambodia is responsible for. No donors, no trial. It's a standstill. Hun Sen accuses the foreigners of broken promises, even though those promises were based on Cambodia's own promise, now broken. More than likely, it is a ruse to keep the trials from happening. A trial would only be good for the people of Cambodia and it seems that the government does nothing for the public's interest.

The KR years are a stain on the earth. A scar. The state of society today is, in some part, a result of the wreckage the KR created of the country. Of course, people have moved on, things have changed, the KR is no longer in rule. But how could those years not affect things in this time? The KR built a society of uneducated peasants and today, many are still poor, still without skills. They built a society who fear each other, fear speaking their minds. They built a society that is, today, living with corruption; they are powerless to do anything about it.

Many Cambodians talk about corruption in their country. The police take bribes -- they get paid a small salary, so they make it up by their own means. Even teachers take bribes! Yes, even teachers. The public school system doesn't pay much, so teachers require students to pay for a lesson, or for the results of a test. Ex-pats have told me that if a person were to be run down in the street, he would not be taken to a hospital without a 'bribe' to pay the ambulance: no money, no go. The same applies to treatment once arriving. A woman, a volunteer English teacher in Phnom Penh, rallied her friends and family at home to donate much needed text books for her students. While shipment was paid for in the States, the postal sevice asked for an additional couple of hundred dollars just to deliver the package to her -- and these books were to help the people of their society.

Even the Angkor temples are mired with corruption. They Angkor complex is 'rented' by a foreigner. All the profit goes into his pocket, not towards the temples and not towards the Khmer society. It's hard to find a comparison, but that would be like 'renting' the Grand Canyon out to a European nation. Maybe Mexico... or why not Canada? It costs a Cambodian with good English skills $1000.00 to purchase a license to be a tour guide at the temples. Consider that the Hotel Sofitel pays tour bus drivers $80.00 per month and imagine how long it might take a person to save 1K while feeding his/her family and paying the rent.

It's not readily apparent to the traveler. I haven't experienced any sort of corruption outright -- perhaps one could consider the purchase of an Angkor ticket as such in a roundabout way. I have not been asked for a bribe. I have experienced nothing insulting or frightening or even mildly threatening. But the corruption is there, just a shallow scratch below the surface. It affects the people. People I have met and gotten to know: people like the orphans who used to pick through garbage at the dump. People who have an education but no opportunities to use their skills. People without the chance to get an education. I heard about several factories in Battambang that have been closed without reason, eliminating jobs. The same products the factories would produce must now come from neighboring countries, costing Khmers both jobs and money on the elevated purchase price. It just doesn't make sense.

Even with all the corruption, I still love Cambodia, but I am just a transient visitor. Would I love it if I lived here? Some ex-pats say the Cambodians are selfish. They've been programmed to be distrustful of their countrymen -- in the KR years, it was tattle or be killed. How can a society endure that and come out unscathed? For this, some ex-pats say the Cambodians are dysfunctional, one generation passing it onto the next. But I have not seen bad behavior, malicious intent. In Cambodians, I have seen nothing but a genuine kindness. But I'm am just a transient visitor, just barely scratching the surface...

The Boat, The Bushes, The Bugs, The Bloody Bag

2005-08-22T17:07:00.000+07:00

The boat to Battambang, we heard, is one of the most scenic boat trips in Cambodia. It is also known to break down frequently and even sink on occasion, "but there are have been no fatalities," we were told. We were warned that if we were lucky, it would take 3 hours, but if things ran per the norm, it could take up to 12. Oh yes, and we might be required to jump into the river and push the boat if it got stuck in the mud.

We woke at the crack of dawn to catch the boat. A bus was to pick us up from our guesthouse at 5:30 a.m. and take us to the launching point, some 15 km from Siem Reap. Our bus turned out to be a pickup truck and after 16 travelers and their backpacks had been stuffed into and onto the vehicle, we set off for the river along bumpy, pitted dirt roads.

Our boat was not the shiny white hydrofoil bobbing on the brown water... that one goes to Phnom Penh. Ours was the beat up jalopy with bench-style seats and tattered lines. But it was floating, not sinking, so we boarded the wooden antique and found covered seats (many people sit on the roof).

Not 5 minutes after departure, the boat broke down. The engine was roaring and shuddering and spitting plumes of black smoke from under its cover. There are 3 men required to operate the boat: the captain plus 2 mechanics. All of them got to work on the engine as our boat drifted in circles on the still waters of the river. Banging, clanking, cursing: the boat was running again, but not for long. It broke down twice more within then next hour and I began to wonder if we might be required to all pitch in and row the boat to Battambang, but I could not locate any oars.

Floating villages, flooded forests, blue-rimmed horizons: it was scenic. The boat was up and running for good, it seemed, and the passengers on board relaxed. Not that people were anxious or upset by the frequency of the breakdowns. Only one Spanish man looked nervous, twitching about the boat, looking to see what was going on, watching the boatmen fix the engine as if he were a foreman overseeing the disposal of nuclear waste. Several times, we pulled right up to a home built on stilts to pick up a passenger or drop one off. It was after our last drop-off that the boat again broke down after a good few hours of smooth sailing, so to speak. This time, it took the better part of an hour to fix the engine as we drifted on the water.

After a brief stop at a river-bound convenience store in one of the floating villages, we set off into what can only be described as a tunnel of bushes. The river branches off into many small channels and as we drove into one of these, one that looked a few feet short of the width of the boat, I felt a nervous vibe rise amongst the relaxed passengers.

Cracking, whipping, snapping: thick and thin branches from trees and bushes on either side of the channel smacked the sides of the boat, invading the safe interior through the open 'windows' -- the covered area of the boat was open, with an occasional vertical support beam which gave the 'feeling' of windows. Thwack, thwack, thwack: a single branch could make a horrible noise as it hit each vertical beam. A delayed duck, and you feel as if you'd been whipped.

As the boat pushed its way through the tunnel of bushes, on what seemed an impossible path, the trees and brush continued to batter the boat, leaving twigs and sticks and leaves behind. It didn't take long for the interior of the boat to resemble the aftermath of a long, hard day with a weed wacker and tree clippers. That's how the boat became invaded with huge, tropical bugs. Collosal red ants, gigantic spiders, hairy caterpillars: all of it crawling on our skin, on our bags, on our seats. It's not only the presence and the size of the displaced bugs that disturbed me. It's that the bugs, themselves, were disturbed... running around frantically in the aftermath of destruction. For the bugs, it must have seemed like the apocalypse. The frenzied spiders, in particular, were the most fearful for me. I saw fangs on some of them and I didn't want any of them running up my pant leg. Moving so fast, they'd be impossible to catch, maim, kill.

It's not only trees and brush that we collided with, though. The channel was too narrow for our boat, let alone another coming the opposite direction. But it didn't stop us from moving forward. We simply slowed down a bit so that the crash was just a bit softer. Most people saw us coming, but when we turned a blind curve at high speeds, and collided with a small fishing boat, the women on board let our boat driver have it. We nearly knocked an entire family of 8 off of that boat.

Somehow, in all the mayhem, a barefoot woman cut her toe. I didn't see it happen. I only saw her sitting on the floor with a plastic bag under her foot to catch the blood, and it bled a LOT. One of the passengers had a first aid kit and bound her toe, and once that was done, one of the boat mechanics flung the bloody bag overboard. Aside from environmental issues, the problem was that we were still ensconced in a wall of brush. The bag had nowhere to go, so it bounced along the bushes for a bit before catching on a plastic line hanging down from the boat's roof. It hung on that line, flapping in the wind and against the brush, threatening to loose hold at any minute and come fluttering back inside the boat. A bloody bag, airborne, into the group of passengers huddled together in the center of the boat... of which, I was one.

"Oh, no! no! no!" I heard myself yelling over the din of the engine and snapping tree branches. I was surprised to hear my voice because I normally don't make verbal outbursts. I could picture that bag full of blood loosing hold and smacking me right in the face, splattering all over the place. Besides the disgust of the whole matter, there are mosquitoes everywhere. There is an AIDs epidemic. I had on a clean shirt! Luckily the bloody bag was retrieved by the boatman in time and discarded safely -- still into the waters of the river, but thankfully, not upon my head.

Things were pretty quiet -- uneventful actually -- after the bloody bag. We soon emerged from the tunnel of bushes, no further injuries were had, and no break downs continued to plague our trip. Even the bugs settled down: they were safely hidden somewhere among the piles of leaves in the boat, probably setting up new homes. We arrived in Battambang in 7 hours, four hours late according to the schedule, but 5 hours earlier than the really unlucky.

Journey to Siem Reap

2005-08-22T16:07:00.000+07:00

There is something about traveling between cities, by bus or train, that puts me in a state of quiet thoughtfulness. It's always tinged with a trace of sadness, but a happy kind of sadness, the tender kind of sadness that comes with memories that play in your mind like a movie reel.

On the bus to Siem Reap, I was struck by this sensation as I gazed out the window, watching the countryside pass by. Off in the distance, things appeared to pass by slowly: the far-off fringe of sugar palm trees, the rounded shape of a hill, the bright green rice paddies. But looking closer to the side of the road, things came into view and vanished much more quickly: grass, gravel, sign posts. It's not unlike the mind, playing through the memory reel. Some things are always there on the periphery and some things come and go before you can even register their existence. Memories, ideas, emotions... they all play together at different speeds, but at the same time. Just like the passing countryside.

So, when we arrived in Siem Reap, I was in a contemplative mood. Having been hypnotized by the blurry scenes from the window of the bus, and lost to the world of my own past, I felt as if I was moving through a dream instead of dusty city streets in a tuk tuk.

I almost couldn't recognize Siem Reap, and I did not recognize the street where the tuk tuk driver dropped us off, even though it's the same street we called 'home' the last time we visited this city, 3-1/2 years ago. Benjamin and I had been looking forward to our return to Siem Reap ever since we left it. We made a few friends among the staff of the places we frequented... we spent many hours hanging out and teaching them English. We sent photos and dictionaries to them from San Francisco. We were eager to find these boys again and to find out what has become of them. And now we were here.

Perhaps this all added to my ruminant mood -- this, and the experience we'd just had in Phnom Penh, teaching computer graphics to the orphans and disadvantaged children at the Center for Children to Happiness. Emotions were running high, and the excitement of returning to Siem Reap mixed in with that was like a sweet and salty candy: one flavor battling the other, both of them working together.

It was strange to find Siem Reap so different, but it was not a surprise. The Angkor temples bring more and more tourists here each year and the town has changed to accommodate the boom. Seeing the changes, though, was still a shock... like visiting my childhood home, which was once bounded by empty fields but is now buried within masses of strip malls. Not only is it hard to recognize the place, but it is hard to come to terms with the fact that the place is no longer the one you remember. This is the domain of that happy kind of sadness. But, things change. It got me to thinking about the changes with my own self, how different a person I am today than I was then. I thought about the silly stories I used to write and the better ones I write today (Siem Reap, in fact, inspired my first foray into the writing world). I thought about the naive traveler I was back then and the more wizened traveler I am today. I thought about how, in the 3+ years that have passed since I'd been to Siem Reap, I have matured, aged, and come to know myself better.

Arriving in Siem Reap was also 'heady', perhaps, because of the journey it took to come back. It was also during our first trip here that Benjamin and I began to dream of the trip we are on now. So in a way, it wasn't merely a bus ride that brought us to Siem Reap, but several years of planning and saving and gathering the courage to leap into the unknown for a year-long journey through Asia.

Benjamin and I toasted each other with a beer and then set off to look for our friends. We found only one of the three we were looking for. In the time since we've been gone, he's gotten married, now has a daughter, and has been promoted to the position of head chef at the restaurant where he works. Sopheak has changed a lot, too. No longer in need of English tutoring, he taught us Khmer words.

Of course, we also returned to the Angkor temples and found more changes: less beggars, less children hawking souvenirs within the temple walls, less hassle. But the temples remain the same, as they have for centuries: everything happening at different speeds, but at the same time.

The Dump Children

2005-08-10T19:42:00.000+07:00

We will stay in Phnom Penh until week's end, which is coming up soon, and I wish I could put time on hold.

We have been volunteering at The Center for Children to Happiness, a home for children who are orphans or from poor families, and have been rescued by the center from a life in the Steung Meanchey garbage dump, picking out plastic and other things they can sell for money. They were known as 'garbage pickers'. Some of their parents have died from AIDS and other illnesses, landmines, and accidents.

We have been teaching computer graphics and web site design of all things. We've been to the center 3 times, 3.5 hours each day, and have 2 more classes before we must leave. The children are a constant source of amazement: they are so loving, and polite, and grateful. When we arrive, all 33 of them come running out to greet us, placing their hands together and bowing their heads in the traditional Khmer way of greeting. They hold our hands and hug us and climb on our backs. They thank us at the end of each day for teaching them and show the most respect I have ever experienced from a child. They are also very smart. At the end of each day, Benjamin and I have a hard time wiping the silly grins from our faces, smiles we have even though our hearts ache for these kids.

Considering where they have come from, and what they have been through, I am all the more amazed by their graciousness and good manners and loving ways. It will be a very sad 'good-bye' at the end of the week.

Find out more about the children and the Center for Children to Happiness:
www.cchcambodia.org

The Kingdom of Cambodia

2005-08-10T18:01:00.000+07:00

We've been in Phnom Penh nearly a week now, arriving by boat on brown Mekong waters and bus on pitted dirt roads. We crossed the border of Cambodia in the heat of the midday sun and immediately felt our spirits lift, our smiles brighten: there is something about Cambodia that resonates with our souls.

We have been to Cambodia before, but only spent 5 days in Siem Reap, to visit Angkor Wat. Now we have come back to spend more time, and to see more of the country. I'm not sure what it is about this place that speaks to me. Perhaps it is the warmth of the people -- they are kind, and mellow, and always welcoming. Perhaps it is the country's volatile history of corruption and genocide and the will of the people to overcome the past. Perhaps it is because Cambodia is not a place for the casual tourist (save Angkor Wat). And perhaps there is something about its darker side, its wild side, that makes the country intriguing.

Cambodia has picked itself up from its terrible fall that happened in the 70's, when the Khmer Rouge ruled the land with terror. But still, there is no escaping the horrors of what happened. We visited the Killing Fields and S-21 (Tuol Sleng, the former KR prison which is now the genocide museum) on our first day here. I've done a lot of reading about this time period in Cambodia, ever since our first visit, and although I knew the story and the politics that led to the atrocity, it was shocking to witness the artifacts.

At the Killing Fields, there is a giant stupa filled with skulls, bones, and remnants of clothing unearthed from surrounding pits that were used as a mass execution and burial site during Pol Pot's KR regime. I was struck by the tranquility of the place today and the horror of what it was some 30 years ago. The most stunning (and I don't use the word 'stunning' in the sense of 'beauty') is that there are many fragments of bone and pieces of clothing still visible in the earth. A piece of frayed, checkered fabric emerges from the dirt below your feet; dry, chipped bones poke out from the grass; teeth lay scattered on the surface of the ground. While many of the burial pits have been exhumed, there are some that have not... and so many people died here, their remains have become components of the soil -- one inextricable from the other.

S-21 was formerly a school and once the KR cleared the entire population of Phnom Penh out into the countryside, to forced labor and re-education camps, it became a place of torture and imprisonment for 'those against the revolution'. Many of the people brought here (and later murdered at the Killing Fields) were innocent of any crimes. But that defines the entire KR 'revolution'... the killing of 2 million Cambodians in the name of 'Angkar' -- a twisted plan with 'socialist ideals' that turned the entire society into a mass of peasants who had to endure forced labor; people who spied or were spied, in constant fear of death; people who were seperated from their families, old and young alike. Pol Pot got his ideas from Mao... even though the Cultural Revolution in China was a complete and utter failure. Pol Pot took Mao's evil ideas to a new level of insanity.

Tuol Sleng, like the Killing Fields, has a strange, eery tranquility about it nowadays, but with all the razor wire and prison cells and photographs of victims -- even photos of their deaths -- bear witness to the madness of the place. The school was transformed into a prison with the construction of tiny cells in former classrooms. Prisoners were chained by their ankles and suffered much torture. There are several instruments of torture displayed at Tuol Sleng -- primitive devices that used water, electricity, pliers to remove fingernails. There are paintings that depict scenes of life and the torture that people endured at the prison -- one of the very few survivors painted them to show the world what happened.

Needless to say, a visit to the Killing Fields and to Tuol Sleng left us feeling sad and heartbroken and quiet. It is impossible for me to look around at the people on the street, the people I encounter each day, and not wonder what their lives were like during this time period. I cannot help but feel admiration for their ability to go on and keep smiling when reminders of what happened are so constant. I hardly ever see anyone of real age... most of the older generation was murdered.

I was surprised by Phnom Penh when we arrived. I wasn't expecting such a quaint, beautiful city. I'd read stories about the 'lawlessness': guns, ganja, girls... One of the darker aspects to life in Cambodia nowadays is child prostitution. There is a warning posted on the wall in our room at the guesthouse to inform grown men that having sex with children is illegal. It sickens me that such a warning must be posted.

And there are guns -- in fact, there is a line item for 'weapons' on some hotel registration forms. "You must have a weapon," the hotel clerk said to me. I'm not sure if he was joking or giving me advice. I wrote 'good looks' on the line -- the clerk thought it was the funniest thing ever (maybe a comment on the quality of my Chinese hair cut or a good sense of humor, I'm not sure which).

Ironically, there is a shooting range out by the Killing Fields, where tourists can shoot AK-47s and M-16s, among other guns. We went there to check it out, not to shoot guns... Outside, there is a menu with a list of guns and the prices (not cheap). Inside one of the 'shooting rooms', we found three guys wearing cammo jackets (provided by the shooting range for a more authentic experience), finishing off a bullet-ridden target with several rounds with an M-16. The power and noise that gun emits made my organs shake and my adrenaline pulse. My mouth went dry... the firing of the weapon unleashes a sort of terror inside the body, even though the place seemed relatively safe -- although there were live rounds just laying about on the floor.

But Phnom Penh, the city, is full of colonial charm, with grand old buildings, an opulent palace, and traffic that shares the road with elephants. There are paved roads that intersect with pot-holed, pitted dirt streets; wealthy neighborhoods built next to shantytowns; vendors carrying baskets of fruit on their heads; shops selling the hottest fashions. Phnom Penh, to me, seems a diamond in the rough -- an 'old town' colliding with a new one. I've read that Phnom Penh is what Bangkok or other similar SE Asian 'big cities' used to be, and that one should get here before it changes. I like being here in the crux of the change, though, an old city becoming new. And I'm sure I will still like it 'after the change', whenever that may be.

A Good Old Fashioned Whoopin'

2005-08-08T12:40:00.000+07:00

She came into the room looking both angry and bored -- two moods that you never want to see your hairstylist or dentist in, and especially not your masseuse.

I didn't know which way she was going to go, with the massage that is. Would she be angry? And would I need to seek medical care afterwards? Or would she be bored? And would I have to rub my back against the wall a few times at the end to feel like I got my money's worth?

Somehow, she managed to be both.

I ended up at the massage parlor in the fancy hotel down the street because the Brit we met there said it was 'proper'. That was all I needed to hear. I'd been avoiding the massage parlors because I was afraid I'd accidentally end up in a brothel and I've made a resolution to stop getting myself into awkward situations where I don't belong.

He also told us that the place had a sauna, jacuzzi, foot bath, the works. "You can spend the whole day there," he said. "And they give you a fluffy white robe to wear," he added.

When I was shown to my room, there was no robe. There was nothing but a small towel. I didn't know what to do: get undressed? stay dressed? It seemed that either of them could be an embarrassing decision if I made the wrong choice -- either I would be sitting there stark naked or it might appear that I wanted a massage while fully clothed. Eventually, someone came by with a giant pair of blue elasticized shorts that I was to put on. But, no robe.

So I sat in the room with the towel wrapped around my chest, wearing the blue shorts, when SHE came in. She, with long black hair and heavy blue eye shadow... She, in her tiny spandex miniskirt and tight white blouse and high heels... SHE was my masseuse? She was nothing like the masseurs I've had in the bay area, the candles n' sandles set -- earth mamas and men with fluffy beards. I began to wonder if the place really was 'proper' afterall.

"Yo," she said, signaling that I should lay down on my stomach with her hands. It was not the kind of 'Yo' someone like, say, Sylvester Stallone would use as a greeting, but more a mispronunciation of the word, 'you'. This was all she said (or grunted) to me during our entire hour together, a few "Yo"s here and there -- she didn't know English and the relevance of this will shortly become clear.

She climbed up right on top of me, yanking the elastic waistband of my enormous shorts down brusquely. And then sat on me, using my bare ass as a seat. I thought about my naked butt and I thought about her mini-skirt, and I tried to envision just what sort of contact was being made. Again I wondered how 'proper' this massage was going to be. Sitting squarely on my tail bone, she began her torture.

She worked her hands up and down my back, determined to crack each vertebrae. Unsatisfied when there was no 'pop', I'd heard her sigh and in that sigh I heard her thoughts: 'I will break you, girl, if it's the last thing I do...'. She jumped on me a few times to no avail, and this was before the brass handlebars mounted to the ceiling came into play. She held onto those and used my back as a treadmill -- feet slipping and sliding from the oil on my back. At one point, she lifted herself up by those handlebars and did a triple somersault, landing a perfect '10' on my spine. But it still wouldn't crack. She finally gave up, but not before leaving my back streaked with bruises -- they showed up within an hour of leaving the place.

Eventually she moved onto my neck and when she was done with one side, she turned my head over by pulling it up with a fistful of hair... Then she kind of tossed my head over to the other side like she was working with bread dough instead of a human appendage (and an important one at that). She nearly pulled me off the table when she worked on my arms and I don't even want to go into the knuckle-cracking -- I swear my toes and fingers are 1/2 inch longer than they used to be.

I began to fear the end of the massage -- every massage ends with a facial rub. If she kept up her vigor, I might leave that place looking like a Picasso painting.

I couldn't tell her to cool it -- she didn't speak English. So I lay there, with her digging hands and sharp fingernails... and her unrelenting beating -- she hit me with open hands and closed fists, knocking the wind out of me each time she made contact with my stinging skin. It was all I could do not to curl up in the fetal position. I have never been so tense in my life. And I began to wonder if that was not working against me... perhaps the more tense I was, the more aggressive she became, trying to work out whatever masses of tightly wound muscle she could find -- which was, in essence, my entire body.

When the massage finally came to an end, she said, "yo," and pointed at my clothes. I was still waiting for a robe, and the sauna, and the jacuzzi. I gave her a confused look and pointed at the door, signaling, 'you want me to take them with me, to the sauna perhaps?' But she pointed at them again and in fact, picked them up and shoved them into my hands. I again gave her a confused look. Was I to carry my clothes to the sauna? Perhaps they ran out of robes... After a few minutes of this, it dawned on me that it was time to get dressed... and I realized that there was nothing more to this 'proper, all day experience': none of the bells and whistles that the Brit boasted about -- no sauna, no jacuzzi, nothing. I waited for her to leave so I could get dressed, but she didn't. She stood there and watched me get dressed with a scowl on her face -- her last way of torturing me: humiliation.

Benjamin came out from his massage looking happy as a clam. He'd just finished with his sauna and a slice of water melon while he relaxed in a reclining chair in front of a large screen TV in a cool, air-conditioned room. "Waiting long?" he asked. In fact, I'd been waiting for 15 minutes.

This, the final torture.

Good-bye Vietnam

2005-08-02T15:03:00.000+07:00

We leave for Cambodia tomorrow -- a 2 day trip through the Mekong Delta and up the Mekong River to Phnom Penh by boat. A bad idea during the rainy season? We'll find out...

Since it's been a while since we posted about our movements throughout Vietnam, here are the details: we left Nha Trang for Mui Ne, in search of a quiet beach without skyscrapers and we found it... Mui Ne was a great place to do nothing, which is exactly what we did for 5 days. The beach at Mui Ne is also an excellent place to collect seashells -- the ocean waves would lob giant conch shells right into our hands.

We are now in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as many still call it, and have not done much aside from our glutton-fest at the Caravelle and completing chores that must be done before arriving to a new country.

So, tomorrow we leave for the Delta and the day after that, we leave the country. We've been talking a lot about Vietnam... before we arrived, we'd heard from a lot of other travelers on the road that they loved it or they hated it. It seemed to be one of those places without an in-between... But that's where we've found ourselves: we neither love it or hate it. Vietnam, for us, has just sort of been "O.K."

We've been trying to figure out why: is it possible to see too much in a short amount of time, so that nothing seems exciting anymore? has the chaos and clamour of India and the beauty of China ruined us? We don't know... but as it usually happens, once we are gone from Vietnam, our perspectives will be more clear.

The Caravelle

2005-08-02T13:26:00.000+07:00

Surprisingly, both Benjamin and I remembered the name 'Caravelle' for an entire month -- a feat considering that often, we can't remember what day of the week it is. We learned about the Caravelle at the beginning of our trip in Vietnam, from a girl in Sapa who told us that once we arrived in Saigon, we should be sure to go there. "All you can eat and drink," she said, "cheese, seafood, steak... wine and champagne." Somehow, she knew what made us tick. "All you can drink wine!" I exclaimed. "Steak!" Benjamin added. So we arrived in Saigon with a singular purpose: to eat and drink ourselves back to the First World.

The Caravelle is a fancy hotel, the kind with doormen and marble floors in the lobby. And they, like many other of the fancy hotels in Saigon, have a twice-daily buffet: all you can eat and drink for 21 bucks. And while 21 bucks might not sound like a lot to people back home, it's my entire daily budget! But I was willing to splurge: the buffet offers all the Western food I'd been missing for so long (and all you can drink wine). Actually... forget about splurging, I was willing to empty my savings account and sleep on the street for the night if that's what it took. But, my parents will be happy to hear, things haven't come to that. Things haven't gotten so tight that I have to choose between gluttony and a roof over my head.

"Don't forget your ostrich feather," Benjamin warned as we left our guesthouse, a place that was a little pricey at $12.00 per night (I only mention the price so you get a true sense for the extravagance we were about to indulge). I wiggled my index finger at him. "If necessary, I have this," I retorted.

We arrived to the Caravelle promptly at 6 p.m. I'd been counting down the hours since breakfast and being that we 'starved' ourselves all day in order to have a good appetite, I was ready to dig into the feast. It's always a little awkward, arriving to a fancy hotel when you are not what anyone would consider 'fancy clientele'. As we approached the grand, glass entryway, Benjamin joked, "Here come the backpackers. Quick! Lock the doors! They will obliterate our buffet." I didn't think we looked so rough, so depraved, to warrant such a reaction, though. Afterall, we were both wearing stain-free shirts with collars and buttons. I only wished, after we'd entered the dining area, that I'd hosed my shoes down, too. They've been covered in the same red dirt and dust since we met our 'food intel angel' in Sapa.

We were seated and handed a wine list. Prices started at $27.00 for a bottle of red. "I thought there was all you can drink wine here," I whispered to Benjamin -- one of those urgent, loud whispers that they use in spy movies. And then the waitress came by. Benjamin handed her the wine list, "I don't think we'll get a bottle. I have a headache, you see." Well, he did have a headache... but partly, we didn't want the waitress to know that we were really too poor to be at this restaurant, paying 21 bucks each for a meal. Our just being there was a pretense, all she had to do was look at my dirt encrusted hiking sandals to know that. But, when you move from one world into another, you like to belong there, at least for the time being. And so, we pretended we didn't want wine instead of admitting that it was too expensive.

Again, I whispered to Benjamin, "...that girl in Sapa, she did say there was all you can drink wine, didn't she?" "Yes, she did," he replied, "Perhaps you should ask the waitress about it."

But I didn't want to ask the waitress about it. It's one of those things that, on the surface, seem like a perfectly normal thing to ask -- but you know that it will come out sounding desperate and cheap: "Would you like some wine?" the waitress would ask and my reply, "Is it free? And is it endless... I mean, all you can drink?"... tell me that doesn't sound desperate and cheap! So instead, when she returned to the table, I told her that I would like a glass of the 'house red' and when she returned with it, we found out it was, indeed, part of the deal: we pay 21 bucks, and we drink as much as we like... or can (they constantly refill your glass as if it's ice water).

And onto the food... the display brought tears to my eyes; like seeing old friends after a long separation. I walked around the buffet as if in a daze. The tables were crowded with food, like a cornucopia the size of a Macy's Day parade balloon had been backed up to the Caravelle's grand, glass entryway and emptied onto tables with three tiers of serving platters.

There was an entire table devoted to bread, crackers, and dozens of different kinds of cheeses -- whole wedges and wheels -- and preserved meats: salami, prosciutto, ham. There was a salad table, with all kinds of gourmet treats; a desert table with cakes, pies, berries, ice cream, flan; a SUSHI table full of rolls and three kinds of sashimi; and a table full of meat dishes, with hard-to-pronounce, fancy names like beef roumalade, and just plain fancy meats like braised lamb shanks and veal, and basic indulgences like roast beef. I didn't even make it to the seafood table, which was full of oysters, lobster, shrimp, soft shell crab, fish... all cooked to order.

I looked around the place, wondering if it was everyone's intention to come here and absolutely stuff themselves. This, over my second plate of cheese and crackers. Benjamin, on his second plate of sushi, thought that it was, although probably not to the degree of our purpose. "All I know," he said over his 12th piece of sashimi, "is that I haven't had sushi for 5 months and I'm going to make up for it."

So we stuffed ourselves until it hurt, hitting almost of the tables one or more times. During the month we'd waited for the Caravelle, and the all-day countdown leading up to our visit, we had turned the whole dining experience into a sort of eating boot camp, a feeding frenzy... and we ate as if we were not consuming the food, but putting it into long-term storage, somewhere in memory, from where we could retrieve things later, when we missed them again.

When we were done, we looked at the clock and realized we'd been eating for 2 solid hours. And even as the bill came, the waitress asked if I would like some more wine. I was feeling a bit wobbly, though... having had so much to drink. The tolerance I worked so hard on back at home has virtually disappeared: there is no wine on the road less traveled. "Maybe just half of a glass," I told her. That was all the room I had left.

Riding The Ho Chi Minh Trail

2005-07-24T14:06:00.000+07:00

"You see real Vietnam," Dung yelled back to me as we sped around a corner on the Ho Chi Minh Highway, the jungle surrounding us in the valley below and the mountain walls above. The jungle: a million different leaves, grasses, textures, and shades of green, so dense that the jumble of foliage becomes a single wild canvas.

We met Dung (pronounced 'Young') in Hoi An. He'd just arrived there with a couple from England, James and Sanne, who'd ridden from Nha Trang to Hoi An, along the Ho Chi Minh Highway (HCMH) -- a four day trip. The HCMH was completed in 2002, a highway built through Vietnam's more remote area, the Central Highlands... a paved homage to the Ho Chi Minh Trail.

The highway does not actually follow the original trail -- however, it is touted as a passage along the historic, secret military transport route, the famous Ho Chi Minh Trail (HCMT). And while the highway might not follow the original roads and footpaths of the HCMT, there are plenty of reminders of the American War (or Vietnam War in America), and passage through a number of villages, towns, and cities located on various offshoots from the HCMT's main artery, locations that the modern highway passes through.

It was kismet to find Dung. We'd been looking to get off Vietnam's well trodden tourist trail, Highway 1, which transports bus loads of tourists on the 'open tour circuit', which allows passengers to hop on and off the bus in various cities located along the Eastern sea-bound length of Vietnam. A motorcycle ride on the Ho Chi Minh Highway, James told us, is the way to do it.

I rode the first day, 120 km, through the flatlands outside of Hoi An and into the undulating Truong Son mountain range. The road, twisting and turning along gentle curves, was never without spectacular scenery -- views of lush valleys below and hills above, a lazy brown river in constant sight. In the distance, the mountains had a purplish hue, the hills surrounding the highway covered with green foliage, the sky baby blue -- it was not quite the jungle, yet... and for the first several hours, it was not the HCMT. We reached the highway (and the 'trail') in the afternoon.

Benjamin rode the following 3 days: 180 km, 260 km, 240 km. Originally we'd planned to split the trip in half: one of us on Dung's bike, the other on the extra bike. But after Benjamin's 'turn' to ride solo on day 2, and upon seeing and experiencing the hazards of weather, mountain terrain, moving obstacles, and (in places) poor roads, we decided that my riding experience was not up to the test of the highway, so I spent 3 days on the back of Dung's bike, which afforded me the gift of taking in the landscape without worry of the road. Benjamin proved to be an EXCELLENT rider, facing many suicidal dogs running into his path, errant cows and geese, giant trucks that force bikes off the road and into the gravel brim, rickety wood planked bridges, torrential downpours of rain, man-eating potholes, wind, mud, rocks, curvy steep mountain roads.

Riding the HCMH is not all about the riding, though. We made a lot of stops along the way. Many times, we would pull off the side of the highway to visit hill tribe villages. Sometimes our encounters with the Montagnards, as they were named by the French (and still call themselves this today) involved a gathering at the edge of the road and on other occasions we would find ourselves sitting at a table inside their homes. It was a bit awkward, at times, to find ourselves amongst the Montagnards. It felt a bit voyeuristic and invasive, but the people were warm and welcoming, if not a bit shy. They speak their own languages, not all know Vietnamese and virtually none could speak English, so Dung told us about their lives, their traditions, their day to day. Our visits were the most 'authentic' hill tribe visits we've made to date: in Thailand, in Sapa... these were not part of a packaged tourist tour, they were spontaneous and real. We also stopped at war memorial monuments, waterfalls, a museum, a coffee plantation, and several orphanages, plus more.

I was most affected by our visits to the orphanages. The children were a mix of shy, sad, friendly, affectionate, ranging for newborns to 20 years of age. We amused the children with images taken with our digital cameras (always a great ice breaker) and spent some time playing and cuddling them. The orphanages are a mix of 10 ethnic groups found in the Central Highlands, where ethnic minorities make up a large percentage of the population.

In recent years and even now, the minority groups in the Central Highlands face persecution and human rights violations. This has resulted in protests and emigration to Cambodia, with the ultimate goal of finding refuge in the U.S. In fact, these issues have been the cause of a 'lockdown' in the Central Highlands in 2001 and 2004, when foreigners were not allowed to visit the area. In fact, the Central Highlands were closed to foreigners until 1992, for fear that they would discover rumored labor camps hidden in the area. Several times throughout our trip, Dung mentioned that he would not stop in certain places because, "...they do not like tourists. Many people died here." The Central Highlands were a strategic area during for the U.S. during the war, with many bombing raids and a lot of fighting. Many people died, as Dung kept telling us, especially in the cities of Kontum, Pleiku, Buon Me Thuot, and other towns we passed through and stayed the night. For this reason, Dung suggested we tell people we are Canadian. This led me to rip up a few hotel registration forms as having 'Canada' written as our country of origin and handing over U.S. passports would not jibe...

But not everyone was on the Communist side during the war. While at the second orphanage, we met a man named Cham who told us he'd been an Advisor to the Americans during the war. In 1975, he was sent to prison camp for two years for his involvement in the war against the communists. Because he did not meet the U.S. requirement of 3 years in prison, he was not eligible to emigrate to America. He was orphaned himself at the age of 11 when the communists killed his father near Pleiku (one of the cities we passed through). Like many Vietnamese, the good and bad in his life are described as a matter of 'luck'. "I am unlucky," he told us, describing his daughter's recent death which has made his grand children orphans as well. They are 'lucky' to have him as a care taker, as are the orphans he now serves.

The HCMH/Central Highlands trip was full of amazing landscapes and experiences with the people -- so much, I cannot even begin to describe it here. Each day brought us something new: mountains, flat lands, jungle, corn fields, yam farms, rice paddies, coffee plantations, forests, villages, towns, cities, homes, shops, markets, villagers, families, children, people like Cham. We found ourselves always heading into dark clouds the color of lead, chasing blue skies and rainbows (it rained much of days 2 and 3). I cannot ignore the symbolic nature of our constant ride towards the clear skies ahead of us, with dark clouds over and behind us, along our journey of the HCMH.

We arrived in Nha Trang last night, tired from the ride -- happy to be walking instead of riding. Our butts have regained feeling and we are no longer walking like cowboys. We are in need of some peace and quiet, though... and Nha Trang is not the place to find it. It's a busy resort town with high rise buildings, not the small beach town we were hoping to find. Tomorrow we head off to Mui Ne where we'll find a beach bungalow and some R+R.... and I will try to contstrue the zillion sights, sounds, experiences, emotions of this trip into an article worthy of publication.

Easy Riders

2005-07-18T16:51:00.000+07:00

We met the 'Easy Riders' on a busy street corner in Hoi An last night. They're a happy lot, with wind blown hair and a trace of the '50s in the style of their coiff. They have tanned skin, oil stained fingers, and an easy smile, as motorcycle dudes often do.

Benjamin and I were on a mission to find real motorcycles to rent, as opposed to the Honda Wave 110cc scooters found all over Vietnam. We walked the streets asking, "Minsk?" and were successively pointed down the street, then around the corner to the left, then down the street again. Among the tailor's shops and restaurants Hoi An is famous for, we found nothing that looked like a bike rental shop.

We stopped on the corner where the motorbike taxi drivers hang out and in no time flat, one of them came over to us, inquiring if we'd like to hire his services. "Minsk," we said again, "Minsks, we're looking to rent Minsks." The man gave us a nod, a knowing look, and then pulled a cell phone from his pocket. Several minutes later, an 'Easy Rider' wearing flip flops and blue jeans pulled up on a beat up red Minsk.

"You want to rent a bike?"

"Yes! Do you have two? For tomorrow?"

Negotiations ensued, deals were made. In the course of 10 minutes, Benjamin and I had 2 beat up red Minks in our possession for $7.00 a day. Our plan was to ride the bikes to ancient Cham ruins located 50 some kilometers from Hoi An. We were a group of 3: Benjamin, myself, and an Aussie friend named Aaron, who we'd met in China and again here, in Vietnam.

*****

We woke up this morning at 5:00 a.m. We wanted to get to 'My Son', the site of the ruins, by 7:30, before the busloads of tourists showed up. I admit I was a bit nervous: third world country, third world traffic, third world hospitals, beat up red Minsk older than me, etc... But I reminded myself that this is why I learned to ride a motorcycle in the first place: so I could ride while we travel.

We picked Aaron up from her hotel at the scheduled hour, 6:00 a.m., and after a lengthy consultation with the hand drawn, xeroxed map we were given, we set off into the bright heat of the morning.

I chucked everything I learned in my 'motorcycle safety school' out the window, and these thoughts pervaded my mind for much of the ride to My Son.

We'd been taught to carefully examine the bike before riding: make sure the turn signals work, check the brake lights, toot the horn, adjust the mirrors, ensure competent brakes, check fluids, kick the tires... Of course, no-one really does all of this each time they get on their bike at home, myself included. And even if I wanted to, I could not do these things here, with this bike, for my bike had none of these superfluous accoutrements.

The turn signal button was melted to the handle bar, there were no brake lights, the horn was mute, and mirrors? who needs mirrors? I did have tires and well, I guess I did have some braking power -- Benjamin suggested I only use the back brake as the front one seemed to be on holiday. Aside from all of that, I was not dressed 'appropriately' for riding a motorcycle. At home I wear a full face helmet, a padded jacket, kevlar gloves, jeans, hard toed boots. All I had to wear here was a t-shirt, capri pants, and hiking sandals.

As I rode, I considered the story Aaron told me the previous day about a woman riding a bicycle in the crowded streets of Hoi An. "No breaks, no breaks!" she yelled as she zoomed by and zigzagged through the throngs of tourists. I figured I could do the same if my breaks failed, and likewise, I figured that I could yell out, "Beep! Beep!" at the top of my lungs since my horn, the all important driving tool of Asia, did not work. Of course, no-one would be able to hear my cries over the din of the bike: it was a 2-stroke antique and made sounds like metal bits thrown into a blender or nuts and bolts ricocheting around an air-powered popcorn popper.

Driving in Vietnam reminded me of a video game, where things dart on and off the screen with erratic behavior. This is a trick by those sick and twisted video game programmers to get you tensed up only to, eventually, let your guard down to your ultimate demise... many times the potential obstacle is really no obstacle at all. You relax as you become accustomed to them. That's how those programmers get you: just when you least expect it, a potential obstacle becomes a real obstacle -- you just never know when.

The obstacles on Vietnamese roads: children playing in the street, wobbling cargos of produce on bicycles, meandering pedestrians, dense packs of fast moving motorbikes and autos, speeding busses and tank-like trucks, mindless livestock, pecking chickens, vagrant dogs, water slicks, sand piles, gravel spills: all of the things I hoped to never encounter while riding a motorcycle. There are no stop signs or traffic lights or painted lines to keep things in order -- this is where that all important horn comes in. "Beep! Beep!"

Several times I found myself praying. "Hello? God? I know I have denied you in the past, but please keep the dogs from running out in front of me!" I'd heard about those suicidal dogs in my motorcycle safety class. One of the beefy guys in my class, the sort of male who wears thick gold chains around his neck, unbuttons his shirt to his navel, and has a flat-top hair style, recounted a story about how he, once, had to run right over a dog. He talked about the dog as if it were a mere speed bump that had gotten in his way. I thought it was in bad taste, and it was, but our teacher asserted that in some situations, it is better to hit the dog to avoid a worse accident. But I imagine running over a dog might cause an accident anyway, especially if one is blinded by tears and guilt.

Aaron told me I looked so serious while riding my bike, like James Dean in 'Rebel Without a Cause'. I assured here I was having fun, but driving a bike takes concentration, especially in Vietnam. Nonetheless, I'm happy that I can look so dashing in the face of sheer uncertainty.

As we neared My Son, I was faced with another of those 'things I never want to encounter while on a motorcycle'. And that was having a passenger. It was my turn to ride Aaron on the back of my bike. "I've never ridden a passenger before," I told her, "so the choice is up to you." "What does that mean?" She asked. I smiled. "Well, hop on then!"

I knew that riding with a passenger would off-set the balance of the bike. It also means another's life (or unsplintered bones) are in my hands. Aaron, all 6 feet of her, made an excellent passenger, though, and after a wobbly start, it was if there was no-one there at all.

It wasn't until the back tire blew that I became, once again, aware of my charge of another person's safety (incidentally, blowing a tire tops the list of 'things I never want to encounter...'). When the tire blew, I had no idea what happened except that what once was a humming hunk of metal between my legs had become a vibrating, epileptic, convulsive, jack-hammering hunk of metal between my legs. The bike shuddered and skidded and swerved all of the road.

"What happened?" Aaron asked when we'd come to a safe stop -- still upright, I might brag. She told me later she thought I was pulling some fancy riding trick out of my bag to impress her -- it must be my 'James Dean' appeal.

Several locals were on the scene right away, pointing and gasping and laughing that kind of laugh that accompanies wild shit that happens. It was a bad blow, but Aaron and I were safe and I controlled the bike as if I'd had 100 tires blow in my 1.5 years of riding experience. It occurred to me that in the space of one hour, I'd faced -- and conquered -- all of my riding fears.

The tire was fixed while we toured the ruins and when our bus from the entrance of the site to the relics broke down with a frazzled fuse, I began to wonder if transportation issues were to be the bill of the day. Indeed. I returned the bike when the back brake broke -- the spring had sprung and it was rendered useless.

"Beep. Beep."

What's in a Name?

2005-07-18T15:48:00.000+07:00

When I was in the 7th grade, my family moved into a house that my parents bought from a man named Shawokker. It was originally built in the 1800s, a tiny bungalow, and while in Mr. Shawokker's possession, it took on the form of a bowling alley. It was a narrow building and was probably proportioned in its days as a bungalow, but Mr. Shawokker had a big family, being mormon and all, and so he built on to the bungalow, by extending it back... and back... and back.

After moving in, our neighbors (a little late with the forthcoming information) regaled us with tales of Mr. Shawokker's stupidity. You see, he was one of those 'do it yourself' kind of guys, not because he enjoyed it, but because he was a cheapskate and a fool. One of my favorite stories that our neighbors told us involved Mr. Shawokker falling through the living room ceiling. He was working on the second floor of the addition and must have stepped on some unreinforced floor board, which sent him plummeting through the floor of the master bedroom and onto the couch in the living room below. The man may have known how to preserve veggies (we found a ton of mason jars full of the stuff in the basement), but construction was not his forte.

Mr. Shawokker also installed the electrical wiring and plumbing in the house. When we'd flip the closet light on and off, the garage door would go up and down. And the garage door opener flushed the toilet. We were fearful of what might happen if we flushed the toilet the proper way, that is with the handle attached to the toilet, so we continued to use the garage door opener for several months until one day, one of my friends flushed it by accident. We all ducked for cover, but it turned out that it actually worked. That was a relief, because sanitizing the garage door opener was really getting to be a pain.

I nearly froze to death during the first winter in that house. My bedroom was an arctic chamber. As girls of that age do, I put a hand drawn sign on my bedroom door, but instead of saying something along the lines of, "Cheryn's room. Keep Out," my sign read, "This way to the North Pole." At first, my stepfather thought I was just complaining, as girls of that age do... but after a while, Bob decided to cut a hole in the ceiling of my closet so he could examine the heating ducts. "My God," he said, "That man is a monster." While my bedroom had heating vents, the heating ducts had been sealed off, a good 3 feet short of the vents. My bedroom had been Mr. Shawokker's daughter's room before we moved in -- apparently he was so cheap that he chose to freeze his daughter in order to save on heating bills. She probably has an unnatural blue tint to her skin and an large collection of sweaters to this day.

My family began to use the Shawokker name as a verb. We'd say things like, "He's a Shawokker," to describe a person exhibiting moronic behavior... or, "It's a Shawokker," to describe something that was, plainly, fucked up or cheaply done. Sometimes the term was used as an expletive: "Shawokker!" when, for example, stubbing toes on a box or piece of furniture left out of place. Sometimes it was used when a freak accident occured, like when a jar of jam fell out of the pantry, hitting a neighbor on the head, knocking her unconscious.

*****

I have a friend named Sally. She's well traveled and doesn't hesitate to let everyone know about it. At a dinner party, someone might ask Sally to pass the salt and with salt shaker in hand, she'll say, "Did I ever tell you about the time I was sick for three days in a tent full of nomads mining the salt lakes on the Tibetan Plateau?" "Yes, Sally, we all love that one," everyone will reply with the demonic expression that accompanies the eyes rolled back in the head. But there's always some newcomer, some idiot, who will say, "Well, I haven't heard your story, Sally, and it sounds fascinating. Please go on." Several hours later, when desert has been served and there is no longer need for salt, the salt will be passed to the person who originally made the request. In the meanwhile, everyone at the table has spent the time fantasizing about sticking forks in electrical sockets or stuffing mashed potatoes in their ears.

Like Mr. Shawokker, Sally's name has become a verb. "Don't be a Sally," Benjamin and I will remind ourselves when meeting new people on the road (and we promise our friends that we'll stick to this when we return home). It's not easy, though, because Sally is a loudmouth and a braggart and she wants to be heard. Often times, we stop ourselves from saying things like, "Well if you think that's bad, in India (blah blah blah)..." or, "When we were in China (blah blah blah)..."

Sometimes these things fight desperately to creep out of our mouths because they are a kind of 'right of passage' in the traveler's world, but we've gotten over that. And sometimes, these utterances genuinely add to a conversation, which makes them OK. But other times, these things are released onto our audience to get other Sally-Big-Mouths, the ones who tend to complain (Sally is bipolar), to shut up. It's the verbal equivalent of the 'talk to the hand' hand signal. "You've been saying that traffic is so terrible in China for the last hour? Pah! You should ride on an ox cart in India," or, "The natives are getting you down and you'd like them to go away? Phooey! At least they speak English."

Other uses of the term "Sally":

"Pulling a Sally": to engage in Sally-like behavior
"I've been Sallied": a 'Sally' has dominated a conversation, bragging or complaining
"Sally...": a warning equivalent to the orange bar in the terror threat scale
"Sally!": equivalent to any expletive of one's choosing

Another annoying trait of Sally's is her tendency to use the term 'did' when speaking about visiting a country. Sally will say, "Well, first I did Malaysia, and then I did Thailand, and then I did Laos, and next I'll do Cambodia." You'd think Sally was a whore, with all this 'did-ing' and 'do-ing'. A person 'does' a pickup at a bar, or the laundry, or the dishes, but one does not 'do' a country. Please, Sally, mind your manners!