Extravagasia

photo album fixed!

2006-08-03T00:30:00.000-06:00

Folks,

I believe the photo album is now all fixed, but please let me know if you can't get to any of the full sized photos in the photo album, or you notice anything else unusual with photos.

Andy

Interview with a Vampire

2006-07-26T00:40:00.000-06:00

We're in transit in Seoul and I feel like a vampire -- up all night with no sleep, cursing the big windows and light, skin and lips in bizarre coloration from duty free make-up sampling and no friggin' idea of what time it is anywhere the world, let alone my body.

Andy and I are trying to get adjusted quickly to Pacific Daylight Time so we can enjoy my parents and Andy's parents who greet us in Portland. We have nine hours to kill here in Seoul before connecting on to America. Eating fun stuff won't fill the hours as the options here involve a lot of Korean barbeque and meat or KFC and Dunkin' Donuts, and the shopping is out of my budget and league with its expensive, fixed pricing after cheap baht-bartering in southeast asia! Luckily, fancy (northeast) Asian airports like Incheon believe in free internet! Alas, in my sleep-deprived-delirium-cum-green-tea-induced-buzz, I conducted an interview with myself as a way to write about some last feelings.

How do I feel about coming home?~> read more

Great. Excited. Ready. Anxious. Slightly sad, but almost in more of an intellectual way -- we know it will be a long, long time before we have a prolonged adventure like this -- rather than an emotional one. Everything worked out so perfectly on the trip and we have no regrets, so it's hard to feel genuinely sad. I feel complete and kind of free. This dream has been fulfilled in living, breathing, spicy, savory color and now it's time to create new dreams. Though the cab ride to Bangkok airport was weird last night. Andy and I were happy and full from an elegant afternoon tea at the Oriental, yet stressed from trying to catch up the blog, and it just didn't seem real it was the last cab ride we'd take to Don Muang Airport. Bangkok was definitely our home on this trip as we visited the city 9 times during 7 1/2 months! We made the drive to the airport so many times, headed off to so many places that it just didn't register we were heading off for home. But, we didn't feel regret either, so I think that's the perfect thing to be able to say.

What have I missed the most?

Mitten!!! The ability to call friends and family whenever I want. Balsamic vinegar. NPR. A kitchen to call my own. Laptop and internet access whenever I want it. (Pathetic, I know...but c'est la vie.) Not sweating on my upper lip. Farmers markets that don't make me dry heave. Dry feet. Not needing to make numerous decisions each day (what to see, where to eat, how to get there...). Walking down a street in total anonymity. Table cream for tea. Clothes that make me feel, and I suppose look, like me instead of sporty, practical, can sweat to death in, travel stuff.

Did I ever lose the edge on traveling?

There were a few moments in Myanmar when I felt my patience and ability to revel in the moment waning. I don't think it was a function of the country, but instead a function of the hard travel. The lack of electricity and merciless heat sucked, plus I am totally over forced bare feet in public places! Both Andy and I were less receptive to sales pitches and more depressed by people who wanted to scam us for a few kyat. We knew then that we were getting tired of traveling. Of being travelers and backpackers and needing to make a ton of decisions every day. Of always being the other. And we could tell in Bagan as we stood and stared at what are some very beautiful temples with less than the expected glee that our brains are close to full. One can only absorb so many new people, places, cultures, smells, food, etc without getting worn down and desensitized.

245 days is a long time -- does it feel like it?

No. It feels like time froze the moment we left in December because people, places, jobs, pets, life as we've known it have been so far removed from us. It's like Andy and I levitated above the calendar year living in this vacuum of travel, experiences and faraway places. Yet I know tons of things have happened and I know I'm disconnected from people and things I love. It even seems like even the world has changed. I suppose we've probably changed too but it's not clear to me how that manifests in our lives. I'm not sure what type of transition is ahead, especially since Andy and I have an exciting, mysterious, scary new chapter to write in our lives, but I think I may feel a bit behind until we get settled with jobs and a location.

So, no determination of where to live yet? Even after all of this time?

No. Unfortunately. The realities of careers, geography and lifestyle became very abstract and forgettable while we traveled. Not that we wanted to forget them, but just because we were so far removed from regular routines that processing our perfect, future life was impossible. We thought and over-thought and thought some more, and then my dad suggested that we stop worrying, enjoy the trip, come back and research our options in person. And that made sense. Especially because doing research and crunching numbers over here in loud, smoky, slow internet cafes nearly killed us. Alas, we touch down tonight with our minds and options open and it's exciting!

What are my favorite memories from Extravagasia?

It's hard to say, and I won't say because Andy and I are working independently on our personal "hot lists" of favorites from the trip. An excellent project when you have over 20 hours in the air and close to 35 hours of total travel time. Ugh! We'll post them upon return in Portland. Anyway, categories include favorite city, favorite experiences, most over-rated, most emotional, best things seen while riding on a motorbike, moments when I thought "this does not suck!", and others. Stay tuned!!!

How to irritate Andy...

2006-07-26T00:30:00.000-06:00

After spending close to 5,580 hours together -- nearly all in a row! -- Andy and I freaks of nature. Yes, yes, you're probably thinking we were freaks before, or freaks for even going on this Extravagasia, but I assure you it's much worse now. Challenge us to a game of Pictionary or Charades and we'll win in some abstract way using inside jokes that make no sense to anyone but us. At this point, we frequently think the same thing, recollect the exact memory or make similar free associations because so much of our past and present is shared and entwined. We'll be "weird" once we're back to "real" life; please be kind.

Andy and I know intimately which situations generate laughs and smiles for the other, and conversely, we know which ones will fire the other up in frustration. Our travels provided numerous experiences wholly unique to Asia that often appear like regional recurring nightmares, and while we've gotten better at handling them and supporting each other in the moment, they still exist. These little peeves never fail to elicit aggravation, soon after there's laughter and sheepish self-knowledge of "that kind of stuff just really pisses me off". One afternoon in Inle Lake in Myanmar, we'd had one of "those days" and were sitting out the monsoon in a cafe. Over mango lassis, Andy and I made a list of each other's "hot buttons" and felt it would be fun to share. You don't have to worry about us going "postal" upon our return, but there may be other seemingly innocuous things that trigger a petite rant and then quick reparations on how happy we are to have our own internet access and be free and clear of papaya. Again, be kind.

Oh yes, in case you were wondering: thankfully, perhaps impossibly, we still like each other after the journey...and probably love each other more.

So, what really, truly and consistently fires Andy up in Asia? ~> read more

1) Driving poorly -- in any vehicle, any place, any side of the road {note - this is not unique to Asia, but it got a lot worse over here!)

2) Advertising "Genuine Indian Food" and serving a "curry" using oyster sauce

3) Not having Firefox loaded and having an uber-slow connection speeds that rack up cost per minute

4) Honking with an air horn from a small vehicle

5) Saying "The price is normally XXX but I discount for you..." when there is actually no price listed anywhere and the seller just made up the "normal price" to gouge the Westerner and engage in a game of barter warfare (Andy is now a formidable, crafty barterer)

6) Assuming he wants "Western coffee" and serving Nescafe instant instead of the local strong brew laden with sweetened condensed milk

7) Returning his laundry minus a pair of Gap boxer shorts

8) Demanding just-minted US dollars in some godforsaken backwater

9) Charging a hefty domestic airport departure tax for maintenance when the building is a grass shack next to a runway with cats and birds running wild through the terminal

10) Imperfect or incomplete maps in mercilessly hot weather -- a.k.a. "The Hanoi Incident"

How to piss Tiffany off:

2006-07-26T00:20:00.000-06:00

I think Tiffany made the perfect introduction (see her post about what frustrates me), so I will just spill the goods:

How to piss Tiffany off, in no particular order:

1. Surprise her with the addition of Papaya to a fruit platter or mixed fruit plate (she hates Papaya, which grows like a weed over here)

2. Advertise a Coconut Pancake or Strawberry Shake and then say "No have..."

3. Fill a teacup only half full

4. Require that shoes be taken off to walk around brick and stucco temples, with bird poop and bugs and temple shards, and no cleaning crew in sight ... she doesn't feel that's what Buddha would have wanted.

5. Perform illogical security checks ... checking your ticket and passport at the airport door, then at security, then again at the gate, and so on, or similar situations with bags where carry ons are x-rayed before and after check in.

6. Raise a security objection to a safety pin pinned to her money pouch after it made it through security in 5 countries already. This happened in Cambodia just after we had been fleeced for $50 in departure tax and it was not pretty!~> read more

Suffice it to say we carried that safety pin right on with us.

7. Make your cows or goats eat garbage or make your children sell knick-nacks

8. Explain just how fat your severance was and how that allows you to travel in New Zealand essentially as long as you want (this lady was with her mother, no less!)

9. Make a funky and fun fashion item in "one size" which translates as "asian size" ("Nooo Beeeg Siizee")

10. Make the women work and let the men loaf around all day

11. Break your vow as a monk to engage in no business and con her into accepting your guidance around a temple because you "want to practice your english," then demand money for guiding services when she tries to leave

Yes, when you see us again, try not to do these things to her. Somehow, I don't think you folks will be a problem :)

Only in Asia...

2006-07-26T00:10:00.000-06:00

After visiting eight countries in Southeast Asia, Andy and I are well-versed in the region's beauties and eccentricities. And though cultural divides abound, some things, no matter where, no matter how bizarre, are exactly the same. Here's a fun a list we kept evoling in our journals along the way as hilarious parallels hit us. We laughed over them during our last nights in Bangkok and were surprised by how long the list was, as this is even edited. I'm not sure we'll miss a lot of these particulars, but hearing, seeing, smelling or experiencing them in North America will transport us back to Asia in a sensory minute for certain.

You know you're in Asia when...

1) Men have really long nails

2) Garbage trucks play Christmas carols when they back up~> read more

3) Restaurants are brigher than your hotel room

4) The vegetarian menu includes pork

5) You check your ATM receipt and discover you have 83 million whatsits in our account. Sadly, not dollars but dong, kyat, rupee, kip, baht, rupiah or riel

6) Potato chips are flavored "Nori Seaweed" and "Shrimp Paste"

7) You go to the bathroom in a restaurant and run into the pet duck and pet chicken...all three of which are located in direct proximity to the kitchen

8) Whitening creams are far more readily available than sunscreen

9) Watching your step means avoiding open fires burning in the street, whether as reverence to Buddha or as charcoal braziers browning up someone's meat dinner

10) Every drink, in every restaurant or mini-market, is served with a straw and if for some reason it's forgotten, mortal embarrassment and face-saving ensues

11) Mirrors hit you at chest level or below

12) Scaffolding is made out of bamboo

13) The smell of fish sauce permeates the air

14) You're riding on public transportation and a sign across a prime row of chairs reads "Reserved for Monks"

15) Everything in your room is ceramic tile -- the floor, the bathroom, the hallway, the patio ... and your bed feels like it is too!

16) A "kitchen sprayer" near the toilet is considered toilet paper

17) Buddha drinks electric red Fanta with a straw -- judging by all of the altars and offerings we saw, it appear he prefers this over Coke and Pepsi

18) "Massage?" is synonymous with "Hello!"

19) Restaurants use their national airlines' silverware as utensils -- we had the pleasure eating with the cutlery of Air India, Thai Airlines, Lao Airlines, Spice Jet, Vietnam Airlines, Yangon Air and Bangkok Airways on the ground instead of the air

20) The flavors of McDonald's pies are Pineapple, Corn, and Taro

Thaiway Robbery

2006-07-26T00:00:00.000-06:00

On the good-sized island Koh Samui in the gulf of thailand, the taxi and sawngthaew (pickup truck with seats in the back) drivers form what can only be described as a mafia. They charge exorbitant rates to all tourists, who want to visit the next beach or go out to a restaurant at night. This frustrating situation has the unfortunate side-effect of encouraging many foreigners who have zero experience riding motorcycles to rent them, with predictably bad consequences, but that's another story.

We had chosen to splurge on a nice dinner in the next town away, and paid the high price to ride on a bench in the back of a smoky pickup. Sometimes it feels difficult to find a chef in asia who will creatively step outside tradition, but we did really well that night at 'betelnut' in chaweng beach. After a nice meal, we decided to hell with the taxis, we'd walk back to our hotel and let our full tummies percolate. It turned out to be an amazingly longer walk than we thought, nearly two hours! But that's not the exciting part...

We had been walking close to an hour in a half in semi-populated areas, intermittently well lit by streetlights and getting fairly dark, though not nearly as dark as Myanmar streets with the power out. We were not too far from our hotel, around 1am. A car or motorbike would whizz by once in a while. Abruptly, A motorbike with two young thai men stopped just next to us on the side of the road. One said, "Lamai?" which was the name of the beach we were heading toward. I said, "Lamai, yes, just walking," and ignored the men, hardly looking at them and walking right by, assuming they had some sort of sales pitch. Tiffany watched them more carefully but moved ahead.

After we had walked a few paces, we heard the engine roar and the motorbike came right toward us facing into the shoulder, the front wheel coming right between us. The guy on the back of the bike hopped off, saying "I want your bag!"~> read more

to both of us, but it was Tiffany who had a purse over her shoulder. We both screamed "No!" directly into the guy's face. Somehow, though we were tense and afraid, it didn't feel like a mugging, it just felt like any of so many other scams we had encountered along the way. The motorcycle had split Tiffany and I apart, but I just started walking toward the assailant agressively. Then, he pulled out a knife, not a crocodile dundee knife but a large box-cutting knife as was used in the 9/11 highjackings. Scarier in the moment than on the shelf in the hardare store, to be sure. I kept my distance, he started to run toward me and I ran backwards, watching him, but I kept his attention, he did not turn away. Tiffany, by this time, had made her way to the opposite side of the 2-lane road as the two men were distracted by my behavior.

We then had a grand stroke of luck. Nearly at the same time, a car taxi and motorcycle approached at cruising speed from each direction. Tiffany jumped out and stood in the middle of the lane, waving her hands in an X, SOS style in a clear sign of distress in front of the taxi. But... the taxi just honked! Tiffany practically had to dive into the ditch to keep from being hit. She then ran toward the other lane to wave down the approaching motorcycle driver, who stopped immediately for us. In all this commotion, the would-be muggers decided things had gone awry and hopped back on their bike and took off. The motorycle driver who had stopped was northern european and had his female partner on the back. They really didn't understand our frantic English, and stared at us with wide eyes. In any case we had no intention to start a high-speed chase and were glad our assailants had departed, so we thanked the europeans and sent them off.

Upon reflection, we feel that the most remarkable part of this whole scenario was our reaction to the muggers. After so many challenges to tough it out through, we reacted without fear, but with pure anger! This may signal that it is time to go home, but it was also empowering because we felt we won in a way. Our actions might not have been the smart choice, but we were fortunate to come out ahead. If you see one of us walking down the street, don't feel bad if we ignore you. We have had many challenges, from simple street hawkers trying to sell you a souveneir, to police pulling you over for a bribe (in more than one country). This incident, more than any other, taught us that we had become tough travellers, for better or for worse.

In broad daylight the next day, we witnessed a woman crying just after a motorbike had whizzed by, the passenger had cut her purse straps, and stolen the purse. From this, we pieced together that the not-as-intimidating-as-it-could-be knife was normally used for just cutting purse straps in a surprise attack. Tiffany had been very carefult to keep her bag on her side between us, not her side next to the road. We think that our muggers couldn't slash the strap the way they wanted, so they tried another method way out in the dark. But they weren't dealing with your average 2 week vacationers on Samui!!

June 20th - 22nd... Bagans will be Bagans

2006-07-25T00:50:00.000-06:00

Above: The corncob in question

- 5:42am... Get shot up with more adrenaline at this ungodly hour than we've had on the whole trip. Have what we've now come to call "The $20 bill incident".

While buying a ticket for the Mandalay to Bagan "fast" ferry (which took 9 1/2 hours on the Ayerwardy river) the government agent wouldn't accept one of our $20 bills because it had a small black pen mark on it. The bill was perfect -- no creases, no corner bends and crisper than both us and our clothes in this heat -- because Andy and I were taking great care to keep the cash in pristine condition. We'd heard people were picky about their greenbacks in Myanmar, but hadn't experienced troubles with any of the moneychangers or cashiers yet. However, this was our first encounter with a government agency, and unavoidable since they've cornered the market on all river ferries.

And thus, at the butt crack of dawn a Burmese man was criticizing our own currency to us, and asking for a new, even more perfect $20 bill!!!

Impossible!?! Yet possible -- this is Myanmar. Andy tried to explain~> read more

that the black on it was a bank mark used for cataloging, that his dad had been a bank president and these markings were perfectly irrelevant, blah, blah, blah. I seethed because the situation was just flat surreal and then tried to explain to the ticket man that he needed to educate his government on our currency...since they were dollars belonging to our own damn country and maybe they should critique their own kyat instead of ours. It was to no avail. He looked at us solemnly and just said, "Need new money. The government say this is no good." Finally, after letting the nonsense of the situation course through us, we smiled painfully -- very painfully, I assure you all -- and found a new bill in our stash of cash and handed it over in exchange for tickets on the "fast boat".

- 3:46pm... Step off the "fast boat" and feel grateful for the adrenaline crash precipitated by "the $20 bill incident". Why? Because it allowed us to sleep for 6 hours of the ride to Bagan!

- 5:12pm... Stand on red-dirt path in the middle of the Bagan plain surrounded by hundreds (literally -- this is not an exaggeration) of cinnabar brick and whitewashed stucco pagodas and prepare for sunset. Many of the temples have honeyed and ornate stupas rising up into the wispy, clouded sky that reflect the sun with blinding intensity. Marvel at the massive amount of gold and realize this amount could probably feed the whole country. Oh well...

5:22pm... Get accosted by temple sellers. No, I don't need a lacquered bamboo bowl, thank you very much.

5:24pm... Take off shoes for what seems like the jillionth time in Myanmar.

5:49pm... See what is quite possibly our 8,236th Buddha image. I ask Buddha frankly about his opinion on the shoe thing and if he can reign in these temple sellers. Buddha doesn't answer. Andy does answer, however, and tells me I'm nuts!

6:14pm... Climb up steep stairs oh-so-happily in barefeet and avoid bird droppings. Gaze out across the plains and Ayerwady river, seeing temples and shiny stupas north and south, east and west. Marvel at their familiar appearance. What do Bagan's fabled, golden stupas remind us of...? The temples of Angkor? Wat Pra Kaew in Bangkok? Something in Rajasthan?

6:16pm... Determine they look like gilded corn cobs!!! Yes, that's it.

6:17pm... Realize we're templed out and have lost the edge on enjoying monuments. Determine we're changing our flight and leaving Bagan early. It took seven months and eight countries, but we hit our wall. When something wondrous and beautiful reminds you of corn, it's time to leave!

June 15th - 30th... Monking Around in Myanmar

2006-07-25T00:40:00.000-06:00

Monks were a powerful force in our Myanmar experience. The country has over 800,000 of them and the only place we didn't see their ruby robes, brown-black shaved heads and golden alms bowls was when we were sweating in the privacy our hotel rooms. Their desire to practice English is fierce and friendly and we received numerous invitations to take tea and conversation with them at monasteries. On our first night in Myanmar, we met one monk while exploring a temple and ten minutes later, we were sipping Nescafe (and sweating), eating mangoes and Burmese potato chips in his monastery and talking to ten eager monks of varying age by candlelight in broken English and pantomime. It was awesome and yet intense...trying to communicate with total strangers using only a limited number of shared English phrases and the Lonely Planet's Burmese dictionary is challenging. But each time, we found common ground in humanity and the routines of life, sharing with each other basic yet revealing things like our favorite fruits, what time we eat breakfast, if we wear glasses and our hobbies.

Plus, we got answers to important questions such as the following: what makes a monk laugh?

1) Tapping on his hard wooden bed and asking if it's really comfortable.
2) Pronouncing phrases like "I don't eat meat" in Burmese.
3) Explaining there's a Las Vegas hotel named after the city of Mandalay and it costs close to $4 million kyat per night.~> read more

4) Telling him the correction and glasses prescription of Andy's mom, Marjie. A whoppping -12.00! (sorry Marjie!)
5) Asking which team Buddha wants to win the World Cup.
6) Revealing how expensive mangoes are in the United States.
7) Inquiring what a monk wears when his claret-colored robes are in the wash.

By the time we left Rangoon, Andy and I had spent over 20 hours talking with various monks at monasteries and pagodas throughout Myanmar. Most all of the experiences were awesome and increased our appreciation for the country's special blend of Buddhism, and the fact this culture which values spirituality above all else. But, I also freely admit my head hasn't felt so full and I've not been the center of such attention (without doing anything involving a feather boa, that is!) since I was an exchange student to Brazil. At one point in Sagaing, I had three monks, two Buddhist nuns, and five Burmese people sitting in a circle around me listening to me talk in English and answer the monks' questions. It was crazy pressure and yet, crazy cool! People were genuinely interested and intrigued --in a good way-- because I was different and they wanted to be a part of the anomaly. For moments here and there in Myanmar, I felt like a time traveler or cultural explorer. I got to ask and answer questions from a hidden place in the world, unearthing secrets in an embargoed land and revealing the mysteries of life in the West.

Andy too was monk's best friend in Sengaing. This one monk, who we called the Una-monk because he wore a crazy pair of sunglasses reminiscent of Ted Kaczynski, spoke wickedly good English and freaked us out with his range of questions such as "Can you explain the USA's gun control laws to me?", talked to Andy for at least two hours! But, after Andy answered the Unamonk's curiousities, he took us on a personal tour of the temple and taught Andy how to pray in front of Buddha. Suddenly, the temples, spirituality and constant efforts and offerings made a lot more sense to us. It's not every day you meet a monk in dark glasses or get this kind of personal experience!

However, as with many things on the trip, there was a little of the bitter with the sweet during our monking around. I'm now convinced that some of the monks pray and then prey at the pagodas too as we ran into one bad mango at Shewadagon Pagoda and he nearly spoiled the whole bunch for me. Monks are disarming because they're so utterly symbolic of religion, and one that involves the powerful, slightly scary notion of karma. Somehow, when a monk is around, I don't want to screw up and it feels selfish not to spend a few moments chatting in English! Thus, we chatted and soon this spoiler of a monk took Andy and I around to see the Buddha's footprint, diamond-encrusted lotus bud, sacred parasols and more. It was a great tour of Myanmar's most famous, most hallowed pagoda and the setting was dramatic because twilight fell sapphire blue behind the golden stupas. But soon the shine came off the pagoda. As we thanked our monk profusely, he bluntly asked us for money. Taken aback, and crushed because this monk seemed so sweet...not to mention the fact monks take a vow of poverty and are not beg for anything but food with their alms bowls...we stood there for a minute and he repeated his request of money for the tour. Finally, Andy got out some kyat while I stood their silent and disappointed. The monk looked at the kyat which totaled $3 and then said, "I think maybe you pay five US dollars, because you're so rich!?"

That made us both very angry, but having an argument with a monk in a sacred pagoda doesn't seem good for the karma. Yes, we are rich in comparison to he and most all others in Myanmar, but we chose to visit Myanmar, and also it's our choice on how we spend our money. And frankly, you don't expect to get fleeced by a monk for the $5 tour! Andy gave him more kyat with disdain, and the monk immediately started chanting and blessing us since we'd now so generously "donated". But that was the last straw for me! I stalked off between the stupas in my dirty bare feet, saying anything but blessings. And I didn't care. At this point, I was more concerned about his karma than mine and figured Buddha would understand.

June 15th - 19th ... Mandalay daze

2006-07-25T00:30:00.000-06:00

Clothes soaked with sweat (not the rain), and feet dirtier than ever before!

- 8:17am... Wake up and unpeel ourselves from bed like male and female velcro. Turns out sheets are a polyestery-rayon blend (what the hell?) and since the power is out again, we're sweaty-sticky and this fabric doesn't breathe. Ugh!

- 10:22am... Continually feel like visiting celebrity because people greet us with stares, smiles and a gleeful "hello". We're so visible because Andy isn't in a finely-checked plaid sarong (local word is "longi") and I look like a derelict Southern Belle as I've taken to using either a hand fan or umbrella (though in my mind, I like to call it a parasol!) to protect myself from the searing heat.

- 11:04am... Wander around Mandalay Palace and note that Myanmar's intrinsic architectural style seems to look like a Baroque chandelier crossed with an X-Wing Fighter. Unique, for certain!

- 1:09pm... Mull over the fact that Myanmar is auspiciously nestled between Thailand and India, countries with some of the best cuisine in the world, and yet their food is filled with either blandness, eggplant or shrimp paste. We just don't get it! Luckiy, we try one salad with pickled tea leaves, fresh ginger, toasted peanuts, fried garlic, sesame seeds and chickpeas that redeems the country's food status.

- 2:51pm... Curse burmese Buddhism about the "take your shoes off rule" at Mandalay Hill. I continue to question whether Buddha would really want us to be climbing up 1,729 stone steps in our bare feet...? I say doubtful. Especially when the steps smell of incense, urine and peanuts. ~> read more

- 3:26pm... "My skin is like an oil spill meets mud wrestling," says Andy at the top. I am dripping too and look like I've wet my pants, but it's sweat, I assure you. (see photo) View is stunning. See velvet green fields of rice and tapioca, a brown-blue river snaking like a serpentine of cigar smoke through the dry plateau, gold pagodas that look like giant bells and the wedding cake-like tiers of the merlot and canary colored Mandalay Palace.

- 3:27pm... Andy and I determine the view from the top is one of the only exotic elements of Mandalay and think it's extremely funny they named a fancy theme hotel after it in Las Vegas. This place looks NOTHING like their lobby, and the vegas hotel undoubtedly uses more electricity than the entire real city!

- 5:12pm... Recover at Nylon Ice Cream, our favorite place in Mandalay and a complete misnomer in Asia. Nylon is an old-fashioned soda fountain type place with outdoor cafe tables, unique ice cream flavors like taro and durian and rare because it's neither a Western chain nor does the ice cream melt before arriving at your table!!! Even with the crazy eight hour power cycles and outtages, our ice cream was perfectly cool and delicious every time. Andy and I still don't how they do it either. Some kind of dry ice and generator wizardry we guess. At Nylon, myriad young boys whip around in a blur of sarongs serving the iced treats and the only adults in sight are customers. Wealthy Myanmar families (either government or police) pull up in their fat Chinese-manufactured SUVs and the boys race to the windows, take the order, run back behind the revolving door of Nylon's kitchen and then dash back out to the cars with orders in brown bags -- all in under 3 minutes flat. Nylon is magic, mystery and madness rolled into one and I told Andy this could be a setting for a Burmese musical...the orphan boys of Nylon ice cream dancing about in sarongs, singing and serving customers and yet no one knows what goes on behind the counters and in the freezers. Bizarre, yes...but that place just had a feel to it!

- 7:41pm... Andy and I become truly Asian!!! Ride on trishaw 2-passenger 1-driver bicycle wearing flip-flops and holding umbrellas in a steamy-hot monsoon downpour to see a Burmese puppet show. You just don't do this in America...!

- 9:02pm... Best puppet show yet. Learn that Myanmar actually invented the marionnettes! Who knew? A Bamar king wanted a wholly-new type of entertainment and tasked one of his ministers with developing a new form of entertainment. After a few months, this genius presented his monarch with a cast of marionettes acting out tales from Buddha's life and the Ramayana and gave birth to fun with strings attached. Myanmar's puppets are incredible because they're complicated and stringed to the hilt; many of the puppets have over 50 strings and the puppet master can manipulate their eye lashes, eye brows and petticoats!

- 9:03pm... Too bad that culture minister didn't do a better job on Myanmar's traditional music. A live "band" played with the marionettes, including a gong, a xylophone-contraption made of more gongs, three drums, two wooden flutes and an oboe gone wrong. To me, for over an hour, it sounded like someone was stomping on one of those plastic, steak-shaped, squeaking dog toys. Odious, not melodious!

- 11:17pm... It's a miracle! Our guest house has power...government power...and that means the air conditioning is already on and our room is beautifully cold. We settle in to the delicious chill, reveling until 6:00am when it goes off again and sticky velcro routine begins anew.

Myanmar photos available!

2006-07-25T00:20:00.000-06:00

You've gotten a few tastes of our photos from Myanmar with some of our posts, but now all is available to see. There are not as many photos as from some countries, but we got lucky with a few good shots! Please take a look, each photo is a gallery of its own from a different area:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/Myanmar

Myanmar Hospitality

2006-07-25T00:10:00.000-06:00

Myanmar was mysterious for us before we visited, but we had heard good things from other travelers about the people of Myanmar. Honestly, having seen more temples than we can remember or count, the people were the part of the country we were looking forward to the most. They certainly exceeded expectations, which I will try to explain with a story.

We woke up at 5:00 am to rush over to the pier in Mandalay for a 12 hour boat ride down to Bagan. Early in the evening after this journey, we went on the hunt for dinner. Working from a terrible map that had just a few streets labeled, we got hopelessly lost just as it started to rain. Of course, we were without an umbrella, and moments later the rain became a downpour worthy of the monsoon season we were in. We were standing in front of what looked like a junkyard, but was in fact an outdoor body shop in front of a house. Within less than 5 seconds of the downpour starting, two young men rushed out from the junkyard area. They touched our shoulders with authority and said "come, come!" There was not the slightest doubt in their minds that they would shelter us from the rain in their home, despite our very unusual appearance, not necessarily respectable, by Burmese standards.

The young men brought us directly into the house and sat us down at what had to be the dinner table.~> read more

Two women sat there, an older one who was likely the grandmother of the young men, and a plump middle aged woman with beautiful features. The young men immediately disappeared, but another family member delivered tea to us within less than a minute; in Myanmar a weak Chinese-style tea is kept warm in a thermos at all times, for any guest who might arrive or perhaps just for conversation. Given that the women at the table spoke essentially zero english, and we speak essentially zero Burmese, except to be able to say "thank you", which really came in handy in this situation, the conversation was slow getting started. However, we pulled out our hat-trick of language secret weapons. First, the pantomime. Yes, we've been playing pictionary all these months without you. Second, the limited dictionary in the back of the lonely planet guidebook. While we usually have no luck pronouncing anything, particularly in the burmese language, this dictionary also has the phrases written in the script of the country. So in combination with the pantomiming, it is possible to get a surprising amount of information across. The third element in the trifecta may surprise you. It is a photo of our cat, Mitten, laying in the sink. Showing this photo to people absolutely transcends language. Most people in most parts of the world have had an experience with a pet at some point in their lives, and they light up when they understand that you have had that too. It's a wonderful way to transcend the language barrier, and it just about works every time.

We were starting to get hungry since we had been on the way to dinner, but we didn't mention a word to our host family. Before long though, we were served an entire fresh juicy mango that someone behind the scenes cut for us. We didn't know how to thank them, but we tried to show our appreciation as well as we couild. Next, our hostesses broke out some family photos, showing one of the sons was a policeman, and a daughter who had been married in the last couple of years. Unbeknownst to us, the young men had gone to find the member of their family who spoke English the best, who must have been in another part of the town. She arrived soaked, but was quite eager to talk with us, and made it possible to explain all sorts of things since she could translate from both sides. We shared what the weather is like where we are from, which may sound boring but people who have never experienced such cool temperatures (like 70 degrees fahrenheit!) find it hard to believe. We also talked about our jobs and what countries we had visited, and the family shared where they were originally from and where some of the grown-up children were living, to work or with their spouse's family.

In most places where tourists bring their money, there are plenty of folks acting friendly just to get a piece of that money, and of course we had our share of such acts in so many countries. But when it so clearly comes right from the heart, and just small compensation for a mango is flatly refused, It brings straight to our heart the genuine kindness and virtue that can be found around the world. In Myanmar everyone waves at you just because you're a visitor to their country, and so many people go out of their way to help you. The people taught us a very important lesson about the good that can be found in people so different from ourselves.

To Burma or not to Burma?

2006-07-25T00:00:00.000-06:00

Young girls with traces of thanaka on their faces (see description below)

Myanmar/Burma is not your average destination in Southeast Asia. The USA and United Kingdom do not support tourists wishing to visit; the United Nations embargoes trade with the country. Furthermore, the military junta which rules Myanmar under the silly acronym of SPDC (the d stands for democracy but they paid a DC-based messaging firm to come up with their name and it really means dictatorship) despises the West, running a tight fist of control, censorship and propaganda from Tibet to Phuket. Rumors abound about wire-tapped phones and government spies who dress themselves as monks to trick Westerners in to talking about the government, Lonely Planet says not to mention Aung San Suu Kyi unless someone asks you a question first and to never visit her Democratic Party's headquarters unless instant deportation is on your "to do" list. There is no email, no McDonalds, no Diet Coke, telephone calls to the West cost $6 per minute, and electricity is inconsistent. SO, why in the hell did we want to go?

Because Myanmar is the seminal, cultural cross roads of the countries we've visited on Extravagasia and it offered a missing piece in the puzzle of pleasant people that are Subcontinental and Southeast Asian. Because Myanmar has a legendary Buddhist influence that manifests itself in innumerable, un-countable temples that decorate the landscape like glittering gold polka dots, and boasts over 800,000 monks dressed in robes of ruby red...and we couldn't quite fathom that! Because we've heard fables on the backpacker circuit about the genuine magic of Myanmar's people, as well as their plight, and it was a chance to demystify that for real. And because Myanmar gave us the opportunity to experience something radically different with its un-favored trade nation status and belligerent big brother government, the chance to personally glimpse a land that may soon dominate discussions on the UN Security Council once, possibly if, the dust ever settles in the Middle East.~> read more

Anyway, we couldn't resist, made every effort not to support any government-operated businesses and headed off for adventure and first person learning!

And, for the record, is it Burma or Myanmar? Well, it's both...depending on which side of the political compass you reside upon. Burma descended from the British, who colonized it in the 19th century, and stems from the word Bamar. The Bamar people are the largest ethnic group within the country, and most everyone speaks the Bamar language of "Burmese" but it's an amazingly diverse and tribal land with over 135 (no, that's not a typo) distinct tribes. The dictatorship renamed the country Myanmar, which comes from the pre-colonization name Myanma, and the West, who chooses not to recognize the regime, chooses also not to recognize that name. Hence, abroad you hear it called "Burma" but in country we always said "Myanmar".

Myanmar delivered most all of what we expected, plus a lot of the unexpected. Andy and I are so happy we visited the beautiful "Golden Land" as its temples, people, smiles and potential are truly golden. But it was hard travel to sacred places for certain. Little things, like a visa to enter the country or currency, were stressful. At Chiang Mai Airport, the check-in agent was disconcerted by the fact our visa had a pink carbon paper and NOT the white one, and panic erupted on her side and ours. A Burmese agent of some sort--we don't know if he was with Air Mandalay or the government--was paged and he carefully reviewed our documents for a few moments plus questioned the origin of our visa. We'd applied for it in Hanoi and it seems the Thai embassy usually leaves the white slip in the visitor's passport and keeps the pink one. After careful scrutiny and a lot of topsy-turvy tummy and nervousness on our part, we were cleared and checked in. In Myanmar, the local currency in Kyat but the government prefers to get US Dollars (hello, irony!) and there are no banks, no ATMs, no acceptance of credit cards. Thus, we had to forecast all of the money we might possibly need, get it switched from Thai baht into USD, carry it all on us with care as creases, folds and discoloration are unacceptable, convert some into Kyat for local purchases and spend carefully at all times as not to run out!

Arrival in Mandalay was paradoxical. Lovely because sunlight glinted off golden pagodas on the descent and there wasn't a crowd at the airport...only Myanmar-based airlines can fly in and out, and yet bizarre because most of the airport was dark from a power outage! We cleared Customs under emergency lighting, the odd blue tint adding even more drama to our questioning by officials, and we tried not to think about what the lack of power meant to the control tower since our landing was fine. Much to our disbelief, dismay and discomfort, the power outtages continued to be theme throughout our time in Myanmar. It was evil hot in Mandalay and Bagan, and no power means no fans! We sweltered and sweat, dripped droplets on our barefoot climbs up to temples, soaked through pants (no shorts) at monasteries, and oozed liquid whenever we drank tepid water day or night. Many places have generators, but they can't afford to keep them on all of the time and generators can't power every city street light. Andy and I enjoyed extremely dark walks on the crippled, rippled stone and dust streets around Myanmar at night. Walking by an ornate palace lit only by the moon and stars could have been romantic if only it wasn't so hellaciously hot that the last thing we wanted to do was hold hands! Government electricity lit up Myanmar for no more than 50% of our 15 days in the country, usually in varying shifts of 6 - 12 hours at various times of day and night. There was no rhyme or reason, and you can imagine what this does for industry, refrigeration, medical care and traffic control. Electricity was sporadic in some countries on our trip, but never sporadic to the point of scheduled as in Myanmar! This isn't a village issue either -- this is nationwide! In a country rich with natural resources such as rubies, sapphires, teak, oil, rice and more!!!

However, the unmitigated heat wasn't the only thing that made us sweat in Myanmar. There were occasional moments where we excercised a little more caution and awareness than other points in our trip. A few times we wondered if it was okay to nod in affirmation when a monk asked if we knew of Aung San Suu Kyi or wanted our opinion on various political issues. Was that really a monk in monk's clothing with excellent English, or someone else? Why was that monk asking about George Bush and gun control? Seriously, we had these conversations at temples with monks in merlot-colored cloth who pounced on us as if we were prey to practice their English and the tiniest ounce of paranoia set in that was absent in every other country we visited. Plus, we visited the home of local comedians known as The Moustache Brothers, two of whom were jailed for 7 years for using the government in its material of laughs, for their "cultural show" and when they say the house is being watched...well, you're just not sure if that's the truth or good humor. While biking in traffic, and understanding from the Local Burmese that the cops are crooked, you might say we excercised caution by going slow, smiling and yielding to everything. Our passports also never left our sweaty bodies. As foreigners, it's expected you might need to show identification at any point, so they're now extra crinkled and sticky from being near our slick skin for days on end.

You might read this and think we're insane, paranoid, ridiculous...or even all of the above. I mention these things only as interesting footnotes. The Cold War is over and there are only a few places left in the world that we Americans can travel to without encountering the Golden Arches, and it added an edgy, educational new dimension to our travel. Plus, we sense that because of our journey there we can hopefully make a tiny difference in the plight of Myanmar by demsytifying it for a small amount of others and telling of its beauty and how the people of Myanmar deserve more than isolation and embargoes.

More astonishing than the total lack of McDonalds in Myanmar, however, were the people. Its beautiful, friendly, smiling, beguiling people with facial features that roll the Himalayas, Chinese plateaus and Malay peninsula into a unique physiogonomy that lights up with genuine warmth and friendliness whenever you are near. I can't tell you how many "hellos" we encountered each day from the moment we stepped out of our steamy guesthouse rooms. We felt like celebrities walking down the street as everyone called out "hello" and smiled broadly, and like king and queen in a parade as we rode in the open back of a pick-up truck and passer-bys on foot or vehicle waved enthusiastically at us. A majority of Myanmar's faces are painted with "thanaka", a sandalwood paste that functions as sunscreen and moisturizer, so there's something even more magical about a basic Burmese smile and hello -- it's like a mysterious, tribal mask is coming to life and talking to you! Check out the photos and you'll see this ochre mixture on the women and children's faces. The Burmese seemed genuinely glad to see us and whether young or old, they excitedly practiced their English and wished us a good visit in their country. We quickly learned "min-gah-lah-bah" and "jez-ooo-bay" (hello and thank you) and every time we responded with this, giant smiles, peals of laughter and pleasant stares rewarded our butchered efforts. Speaking with people in Myanmar was infectious and we shared more stories with locals, found common ground with other humans more quickly and delightfully than anywhere else in our travels.

Thus after being up close and personal with people throughout Myanmar, from monks and children to restauranteurs and fisherman, we are angry and sad the government does not support its charming, hardworking, deserving people. The cause of Myanmar and for Myanmar is a lot more personal for us. Life there is not easy. Rangoon and Mandalay are infrastructure wrecks, and many of the outlying areas are truly just villages and tribal enclaves. The Burmese people live simply, many quite close to a primitivity that's unexpected with its prime location and resources, tilling the land, living intimately with a core family unit and practicing their special blend of Buddhism...when they're not conscripted to hard labor by the military junta or punished for speaking out for democracy. All the while, trucks are laden to the point of tipping with teak and zoom racously toward ports for trade with China, and gem stones of rich colors abound in government-approved shops. And the people of Myanmar will see nothing from this commerce and profit; it all goes directly into the coffers of the secretive junta and corrupt officials. Yet their genuine smiles abound and we felt more like foreign exchange students than independent travelers. I'm not sure how they manage to live with joy while so un-supported by their government, but I guess that potent mystery is what made Myanmar so marvelous.

The question that now lingers for us is this: despite the ruling party, should the Golden Arches be allowed by the UN and Western World to reside next to those glittering gold pagodas...should the embargoes be eliminated? Andy and I believe yes...passionately, emphatically and pragmatically. Today most all of the Western (democratic) world chooses to punish the government of Myanmar and goad it into change and evolution by cutting off trade, but China, Japan, Russia and India are profiting on the down-low, plus have communication channels of a sort with SPDC. The black market has all but disappeared since these Superpowers, who are voraciously seeking solutions to their energy needs, have side-stepped the embargoes. Right or wrong, it doesn't matter, realism is important -- the Chinese Yuan is now the currency of choice in Northern Myanmar -- and these country's self-interests are succeeding over any trade restrictions and 'un-favored nation' status. This helps the people of Myanmar in the short term, but we don't think becoming a natural resource pawn and provider for China, India or Russia is an answer with hope and possibility. Getting Myanmar a literal taste of what the world has to offer, especially the Western world, and allowing the people to communicate with the other citizens of the world first-hand seems like the only way to inspire and support them so that some day soon, they're empowered to rise up and fight for the changes they deserve without fears of isolation and setback.

My World Cup of Friendliness Runneth Over

2006-07-19T00:02:00.000-06:00

Above: Myself with one of Myanmar's countless wonderful people

People of Indian descent were an astounding 53% of the capital city of Burma (now Myanmar) during the colonial period, when the British colonizers allowed people to pass freely between their colonies of India and Burma. This is surprising because no people of Indian descent are native to the country, though it has many other ethnic groups. Numbers of Indians in Myanmar have declined substantially, but there are still many Indians in Rangoon (now Yangon), though their families may have been here for generations. As you may have read elsewhere on this blog, the people of Myanmar are often amazingly welcoming and helpful, and this ethic seems to extend to peoples who have not inhabited the country for very long, historically speaking. This story is a perfect example.

It seems that more than one of my stories from Myanmar revolves around chapati. Having greatly enjoyed our chapati experience in Mandalay, we were hunting for a similar street-side flatbread and tea shop in Yangon. I saw similar establishments, with the paint can sized stools on the sidewalk, but such places never have a sign in any language, so my best option was to eyeball the cooking section, which usually involved a rickety looking table, a concrete bucket filled with red hot coals, and a huge cast iron wok filled with something or other.~> read more

In one case, it appeared to be a fried rice concoction, and as I leered, a woman wearing a bindi in the middle of her forehead, indicating that she was most likely of the hindu faith which in the overwhelmingly buddhist country of myanmar, gently bid me to sit down at her stand, as her husband worked the coals.

I said I was sorry, that we were looking for Chapati, the only word of which she understood was "Chapati". She pointed to a hot dog cart style vendor selling just pirathas, which are a flatbread in the same family. I somehow convinced her that we wanted curries to go with our Chapati. When she realized what we were looking for, an intense discussion insued between her, her husband, and one or two men crouching on the paint cans drinking tea, I believe in the Tamil language of southeast India. A conclusion was reached as to where we could find what we were seeking, but our helpers had no words to explain the detailed directions. The woman spoke briskly to a man on sitting on a paint can stool. He jumped up, more than 6 feet tall with broad shoulders, a handsome dark-skinned gentleman in a longyi (ankle length skirt), and a nice gap knock-off short sleeved oxford shirt.

The woman said, "My brother take you!" I tried to resist, but he was already walking determinedly and urging us on. We walked a long city block, then two, then three, then turned, then walked two more. I tried to insist to the brother; pointing, trying to ask about which way to turn, that he should go back and let us try to find it. He did not always understand what I was saying, but he was convinced that he was going to take us all the way to the restaurant. We walk perhaps a mile through winding dark streets, the gentleman pressing ahead. Finally, he points around a corner to a halal tea shop, this one actually half inside a building rather than entirely on the sidewalk. He then says his first words to us just before we part; "Football 9:00." I do know what he is talking about, because the Burmese are mad for World Cup football. Through a series of pantomimes and persuations, saying the names of various teams and holding my fist up in cheer, or making a grumpy face, I determine that he prefers France over Spain for tonight's game, but is truly a fan of Brazil, who will play desperately late in the evening against Ghana. This interaction was an awesome way to share smiles and learn something about our ipromptu guide. I began to offer to give him something for his trouble and he flatly refused.

After a wonderful halal meal of bread and curries at the restaurant he led us to, We walked all the way back to the rice stall of the family who helped us. The bindi'd lady was still there, and we thanked her and her husband earnestly for their help. Her brother, however, was not to be seen. He was watching his football games, undoubtedly in the company of more than 10 other burmese huddled around a TV as we had seen. I'm glad he was watching, because both of his teams won!

Best meal in Myanmar: Unexpected!

2006-07-19T00:01:00.000-06:00

Above: a more likely best meal, but not the one described below!

Our best meal in Myanmar may surprise you, as it did us. We went to a traditional burmese puppet show that ran late, until about 10:30. When the government rarely provides electricity, as in Mandalay, things close up early. So we asked our tri-shaw (like a motorycle with a sidecar, except the motorcycle is a bicycle and the sidecar seats two people back-to-back) driver where we could still eat, pantomiming slurping some soup. He understands, but looks puzzled as to what would still be open. We venture a guess, "Chapati?" (a style of bread from India), and since there are no lights on in the city, we can see the light bulb appear over his head so much more clearly! He says "Yes, Chapati, I know, still open!!" and pedals with a newfound resolve through the 20 foot long puddles left by the monsoon rain earlier that evening.

After turning through countless dark streets, it appears that half a block worth of sidewalk is lit up by flourescent tubes hanging haphazardly, no doubt run by a little generator engine. this sidewalk is covered in a lean-to of blue tarps and bamboo, to protect it from the still-drizzling rain. as we get closer, we can see open fires and numerous dark-skinned men in skirts huddling at tiny tables.~> read more

Technically, they are wearing longyi, but it takes some adjustment seeing just about every man in a country in an ankle-length skirt. The trishaw driver points and drops us off, and we pay and thank him for his services. A dark skinned 12 year old boy, still in a skirt and white t-shirt, points us to a "table," which is just a few inches higher than the 8" tall plastic upside-down buckets that we pull up; they are what passes for chairs. When sitting/squatting on these little buckets, our knees easily exceed the height of the table.

We take a look around. There are several other pre-teen boys running in their flip-flops on a layer of thick but wet black street mud, so we try not to get splattered on, and marvel at how they don't slip and fall. Off my left elbow a few feet is a massive sooty and skin-searingly red hot charcoal brazier-boiler that is somehow involved in food production. Sitting back in the corner of the sidewalk is a slightly taller table surrounded by the only women in the area, aside from Tiffany. They have inky waist-length black hair, 6 of them around the table thwacking and pounding chapati dough flat, in constant motion.

We somehow communicate that we each want tea, chapati and some non-meaty curry to go with it. However, 2 sets of tea arrive, the weak chinese style tea that always arrives no matter what you order, and a teeth-curlingly sweet indian style tea for each of us, made by an apparent automaton of a man slinging a ladle of milky spiced tea into another 3 feet away in his other hand, at lightning speed. The chapatis were the pièce de résistance of this street stand, however. A thick flaky flatbread, pure unleavened doughy hot goodness practically tossed from the fire to your table. It made us miss India (which is saying something), and was every bit as good as the offerings from that country.

And indeed, the richness of experience was quite the opposite of the price. After 4 plates of savory potato curry, 2 sweet teas, several glasses of chinese tea, and the 2 huge and wonderful chapatis, our total came to......500 kyat, which is about 40 cents!!

It just proves that in Myanmar, the best experiences don't cost a lot.

Elephants: The Sequel...Rated PG-13 for graphic content

2006-07-19T00:00:00.000-06:00

When we last left audiences, Andy and I were madly typing text and posting photos on our blog at an internet cafe in Chiang Mai, Thailand. Moments later, we grabbed our backpacks, newly-exchanged stacks of crisp, perfect US dollars, our passports with the coveted but pain-in-the-ass Myanmar visas, hailed a tuk-tuk and burned tri-wheeled rubber to the airport. After check-in on Air Mandalay, we indulged in a last bit of the West, Capitalism and all that is embargoed and familiar by sharing a Dairy Queen Blizzard, and started off on our adventure to Myanmar. Burma. Whatever.

Needless to say, a lot has happened between now and then. And while a part of me is dying to share more recent events, especially in the photo realm as Myanmar/Burma offered a landscape of inspiration, I must return to our beloved elephants for a few last words as they touched us...and we literally touched them!

Alas, I was last describing bath time at the Elephant Park. Very little else in life as we know it is like this. For me, bath time entails hot water, spicy-fruity bubble elixirs, candles and warm, post-soak pajamas. Needless to say, bathing elephants involves none of the above. Instead, one walks down a rocky path, carefully dodging grassy-green poop bombs, to a muddy-brown, winding river in a jungle-green lanscape surrounded by 20 elephants of varying size (and tons) and 20 mahouts (young men who are elephant trainers). Bath supplies include large, bristly scrub brushes (like you'd use to scour a floor), plastic tubs and water-friendly clothing. The elephants adore bath time and charge right into the river; the mahouts and us untrained civilians head right into the river after them with brushes and tubs.~> read more

Soon, a surreal scene unfolds: the world's largest land mammals and the world's silliest mammals (humans) cavorting in the river, splashing and scrubbing in tandem glee.

To get specific, Andy and I were leg deep in the river, standing on our tippy toes trying to scrub the leathery, hairy backs of elephants laid over on their side in the river, and then rapidly tossing water from a bucket onto an animal that outweighed us by thousands of kilos to rinse them off. It was completely insane! But they loved it, and we loved it. Getting up close and personal with elephants allows you look deep into their gentle, alert, brown-pink eyes and feel connected with perhaps nature's most magical animal. At bath time, you rub their deep gray and mottled pink skin and feel what seems like crinkles and wrinkles of pliable cement. It's dry, but with coarse bristles of black hair poking out all over their back, head and sides like someone's really bad hair day. Yet the skin is moveable, really quite supple despite the wear and tear of age and the outdoors. At a breath's length, you see their giant column legs bending with ease to reveal crazy round feet and half-moon toe nails that looked to me like a pair of old gray Moon Boots from the 1970's because they're so oversized and squishy. While vigorously scrubbing their backs and upper thighs and making their skin glow like wet granite, you see their thin tails with a toilet brush scruff of hair on the ends, which are completely disproportionate to their giant stature and just have to laugh at the disparity. Bath time also put us right in front of the elephants' fluffy, scalloped ears which constantly swing in delicate synchronized motion keeping flies away--and smiles near--because the motion looks more like they're mischieviously waving at you.

Andy and I had eight bath times with the elephants, and each ended the same way: with the elephants lumbering happily out of the water onto the sandy river banks and immediately covering themselves with dirt, grit and sand! Seriously. The picture at the top of this post is just after the bath. Despite all of our hard work and their avid enjoyment of getting scrubbed clean, the elephants immediately cover their rough-bristle skin with dirt and sand because it serves as a protective sunscreen. During this routine, the magic of their trunks and family groups truly comes to light as each little family of mommas, babies and aunties gathers in a specific area and starts curling dirt into their trunk and tossing the dirt over their heads, them selves, and spraying each other down with their organic form of sunscreen! The babies cavort about, watching their elders and trying to learn the trunk snort and spray routine, but end up playing and chasing each other like human toddlers instead. The adults remain mostly on task with the skincare routine, though sometimes an elephant accidentally grab a small plant and end up wearing the leafy greens as headdress and the others have fun playing with it--even taking turns adorning themselves with the salad hat! Like humans, the mothers and aunts are vigilant with their young, making sure their skin is protected, they've got plenty of bamboo to eat and that the babies are in sight at all times. Otherwise, a rioutous trumpeting that sounds like a saxophone gone wrong begins and the thump-clump of running feet is heard until it's back near Momma or Auntie safe and sound.

The other highlight of a our time at the Elephant Park was an overnight trip up to the "Elephant Haven" where the lucky beasts roam free as nature intended, completely off chains and outside fences eating lychees and bamboo to their hearts' content, for 24 hours. Andy and I slogged through mud, climbed dense jungle-covered hills, traversed a river and crossed one extremely rickety, clusterfuck of a bamboo bridge that I thought for sure would put us in the muddy drink before arriving at the Haven. And while the Haven is heaven for elephants, it's definitely less than heavenly for humans. We thought the Elephant Park was a little rustic with its bamboo bungalows, generators, spiders the size of your palms, cold water and questionably hygienic kitchen. And then we got up to the Haven and found we'd be sleeping under a lean-to and mosquito netting with five other volunteers on a rattan mat and peeing amongst the banana palms. Sigh...sometimes you've go to pay to play with the elepahnts. I'm pleased to say it was all fine, though I willed myself not to need to relieve myself in the middle of the night because it's damn dark in the Thai jungle and bizarre to hear the trumpets of elephants close by! Rustic life aside, being there was a treat because we got close with three elephant families and saw more of their intelligence, community, ingenuity and grace. One of these 10,000 pound animals sneak up on you with more stealth than imagniable, and more than once I turned around and was head to trunk with one of them and found myself jumping off into the bamboo to let them pass!

Above: climbing up to the haven; they had a bath earlier, then covered themselves with dirt as described above.

At Elephant Haven, we also heard painful, unbelievable stories about the dark side of an elephant's life in Thailand. It brought tears to both of our eyes, as well as the other visitors, and we want to share this information in case anyone ever gets the chance to be near the Asian elephants. I mentioned in the "Elephants Part One" post that being close to the creatures gave us big, awesome, natural and unrestrained smiles. However, their affect on us is purely ironic. Throughout Thailand, save for the Elephant Nature Park, elephants are treated anything but awesomely or even naturally, are consistenly restrained and used to the point of abuse. Despite being the natinoal symbol of Thailand (a 95% Buddhist nation, no less) and ubiquitous on everything from Thai baht bills to handicrafts and temple gates, the Asian elephant is mandated by government as "livestock". Elephants are not protected and though wild elephants have diminished by nearly 90% in the last few decades, the government and Thai culture make no allowances for the magnificent, human-like creatures. They're legally used for work...including logging, hoisting tourists about on treks, begging and eating bananas as tourist attraction in Bangkok and performing in Phuket cabaret acts...and there are no rules governing they be nourished properly or treated with care and respect.

Even worse, to train and manage the animals, owners put each baby elephant(like the ones in our photos) through a painful, cruel training period called the "pajan". Each baby is taken away from its mother (for the first time ever), caged for days in a tiny cell, starved, beaten into taking directions such as raising its front legs and sitting, poked by spears, abused by trainers with a sharp hook until blood breaks through the impossibly leather-like skin and they learn how to follow a mahout's signals. Essentially, the baby elephants'...the very animal you can go nowhere in Thailand without seeing displayed or replicated in reverence...spirit is broken and they start a life in shackles, work, begging and tourism with nary a touch of a natural envirnonment for the rest of their life. And elephants live to be upwards of 80 years old!!! For these reasons, on your travels in thailand or elsewhere, please don't patronize elephant street begging, elephant rides, or shows, no matter how beautiful they animals truly are. It only perpetuates this kind of abuse to support it.

Unfortunately, the pajan is only the beginning of an elephant's complicated life in Thailand. Post-pajan, elephants start their life as under the watchful eye and cutting hook of mahouts as "livestock", of which the only mandate is that if an elephant destroys crops it can be shot at or killed in retribution. Can you imagine how that would fly in America if the Bald Eagle was treated that way? Lek Chalert, the teeny-tiny in stature but large in vision and thought founder of Elephant Nature Park, is the grand-daughter of a Northern Thai tribal shaman and gives off a palpable healing energy that connects easily with nature and animals. We had the good fortune to meet and see her at work, and her heart is as big as the elephants she adores. Lek's goal is to have all of Thailand's elephants awarded "protected" status, making hard labor and abuse illegal and enabling them to live freely on preserves like Elephant Nature Park (which is a non-profit and fees go to supporting the elephants) where tourists and Thais alike can learn about and enjoy the magical mammals. It's a beautiful, noble dream and she has some supporters, but also powerful enemies who've already poisoned one baby elephant and threatened her life!!! Why??? Because Thai culture also embraces the mysterious, maddening, omnipotent concept of "face" and challenging the status quo is offensive and threatening to many, especially those who benefit from the current mistreatment.

Once again, the sweet with the extremely bitter. A recurring theme in our travels, but one that is increasingly harder rather than easier, despite our complete exposure to this in country after country, to take. From the Subcontinent to Southeast Asia, we've found cultural contradictions that boggle our Western minds, but learning about the plight of the elephants in Thailand enraged Andy and I. Not that we've sat back and enjoyed the poverty of India and the prostitution of Cambodia, but at least in those countries I'm not seeing the image of starving children on slip covers and massage-boom-boom girls on the "Welcome" signs in the airport. Elephants are absolutely everywhere in Thailand and the fact that they're classified as livestock and unprotected, even though their numbers are dwindling yearly, is so obviously wrong. The fact that elephant owners vying for tourist dollars don't understand if they kill all of the elephants, there will be no more profit left seems so grossly myopic! At least to us, and to other foreign visitors. To Lek Chalert and her team of volunteers running Elephant Nature Park and rescuing elephants, but not to the Thai people of power and or those less powerful making today's dollars from elephants and tourism.

For Andy and I, the elephants' situation can be extrapolated to something we've witnessed on this trip that disrupts our stomach even more than the food. It's a recurrning theme of abusing one's assets, not having a vision, of contradictions that cut deep to the core and leave you a loss for understanding. Whether elephants, teak forests, ancient temples or simple pricing structures, many people--especially those close to tourism--are out for quick, individual profit and don't realize the potential of long-term growth...or destruction. While countries of Western nations like America and Europe aren't always in their finest hour on things such as the environment or preserving national treasures, there is at least awareness and laws get passed, and are not moot due to corruption. Here in Asia, it often seems like people are fighting for their own self-interests on the most individual level possible. That the big picture is impossible to see...that no one even has the notion of vision. And we just don't get it!!! If you abuse what makes your nation great, whether animal, mineral, culture or tourist, it will decay and disintegrate until there's nothing attractive, novel or profitable left. If things don't change, it seems very possible that the memory of an elephant will be necessary in order to remember what was once natural, beautiful and unique in Asia.

We'll never forget the elephants

2006-06-15T10:23:00.000-06:00

They say a picture is worth is a thousand words, so ours should speak volumes on the four days we spent living with Asian elephants outside of Chiang Mai. Or at least more than I can write as we're scurrying and hurrying to get this blogged before heading off to Burma. Myanmar. Whatever. Anyway, look at the smiles on our faces as a baby elephant nuzzles our faces with her trunk, or Andy feeds one fruit or I scrub an elephant teen in the river. Our smiles are big, truly awesome, natural and unrestrained.

One of our most favorite events of this Extravagasia was our swim with dolphins, something about interacting with mammals in a wild, natural setting unnerved and exhilarated us and we wanted to do it again. Andy and I read about Elephant Nature Park in National Geographic, and our new travel friends Gordon and Lucy had visited the park and given rave reviews. After all, where else could you help bathe elephants in a river?~> read more

Certainly not at a zoo. We signed up and headed off to a sprawl of jungle and river in the northwest of Thailand that's a reserve for domesticated Asian elephants called Elephant Nature Park. It's a non-profit rescue organization started by an amazing woman-soul named Lek Chailert who wants to better the treatment of Thailand's national symbol, the elephant. When we arrived, chaos reigned. Animal Planet was there with a crew filming a documentary, volunteers madly unloaded hundreds of kilos of bananas and pineapple in a human chain, construction workers were hammering at bamboo pavilion to repair destruction from an overnight elephant raid, cute but mongrel dogs barked about and elephants of all size and color roamed about in lush green grasses with the occasional majestic, sureral trumpet like a safari dream come to life. We were awestruck.

And we stayed that way for four days. The elephants suck you in with their playful, incredible, unique trunks and you can just sit around and watch them for hours. We certainly did. Watching them play and wrestle with each other, their trunks looking like arms and their tails swishing about in glee like a toilet scrub brush gone mad was better than any movie. They're so huge and wrinkly, their their ears flapping constantly like wings, but have eyes that are utterly human. Pinkish and brown, the giant creature can look eyes with you and make you feel connected, probably just in a mammalian sense but it really feels like a mythical one. Gazing at them at they gaze at you, their trunks shimmying in a teasing dance, you feel special. It sounds corny, but you really do. Andy and I frequently looked quickly at one another and said, "Did you see that? Did you see how the baby, the mama, the giant, whomever, just looked at me?"

Elephants are extremely human creatures; they have routines, families and relationships just like we do. The 30 elephants we lived with at the park chose family groups for themselves and by themselves, and sleeping, playing, bathing within these groups of moms, aunts, babies and teens. Older female elephants are gray aunties to the younger ones, and they fiercely protect their young. The females also protect each other, and one giant pink-gray lady named Mae Perm adopted an older abused and blind female, Jokia, and trumpets, growls, hisses, calls directions to her, plus peels her bamboo stalks, as if she were a human good samaritan. Like us humans, elephants love treats. Twice a day, the herd of elephants are fed by hand -- by us and others, not just their mahouts (trainer) -- bunches of bananas, pineapples, pumpkins and cucumbers. You've never seen anything as amazing as when an elephant's trunk curls out and around a whole pinapple in your hang, feeing it into it's mouth while holding onto the prickly leaves with its trunk and snapping those off efficiently with a crack! It's amazing!!! The dexterity elephants have with their funny, animated and expressive trunks is truly impressive.

Our favorite time as well as the elephants, was bath time. Twice each afternoon, Andy and I, the other visitors, volunteers and mahouts, trekked down to the brown-geren river and scrubbed away on the gentle giants.

for now, that'll have to be enough; we have to head off to burma for 3 weeks (incommunicado), but we really hope you enjoy the photos, which are here:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/Elephants

Thai Us Up, Thai Us Down

2006-06-15T00:10:00.000-06:00

I'm just going to say it: We are Thai food snobs. No bones, no tofu about it. No excuses. No apologies. And the longer we travel, the worse it gets.

My discriminating palate was bad before because Denver's climate doesn't offer the tropical growing season necessary to harvest kaffir lime leaves and thus Thai food was never "quite right" in the Rocky Mountains. I'd whine about this to Andy and he listened patiently while enjoying his Tom Yum Koong with three chilies, not really understanding my dismay and prejudice. Then I corrupted him, kidnapped him to Thailand, India, Laos, Cambodia, New Zealand, Vietnam and next Myanmar, and it's all changed.

Andy has tasted the ambrosias of Southeast Asia, the pastiches of hot-sour-salty-sweet, multiple basils and fresh nutmeg, spicy-rich curry pastes, rice puddings oozing coconut cream, the best mangoes on earth and noodles lovingly fried and tossed with spring onion and egg by hand. Mmmmmm.... ahhhhhh......sighhhh. I've created a monster (albeit a very cute one!), and together we're a two-headed monster with difficult, discerning palates for Thai food.

How could it be, you ask? Let's just say the man now has a taste for fresh baby corn (who knew this even existed?) and watches the Thais like a hawk when they make his papaya salad~> read more

, with 3 hotter than thou mouse dropping chilies, thank you very much! Andy is even on board with me purchasing a stone mortar and pestle before we head home. Hell, he might even carry it for me because it makes the best curries!

Hmm, you might even starting calling us monsters Khing (ginger) Koong (shrimp). I digress... It's not going to be pretty when we're back in the States and searching for authentic food to appease our appetites for nam plaa, som tam and phat thai. You should already hear us now when we've eaten away from Thailand and our taste buds were disappointed: "this soup doesn't have enough coriander root in it", "she used way too much fish sauce", "this needs a lot more lime juice and palm sugar", "they call this Penang curry?!"

Worse yet, we're actually putting our money where our mouths are and taking more cooking courses.

Chiang Mai, where we're kicking it now and enjoying all that the smallish but uber-atmospheric town has to offer with temples, bazaars and it's own moat, boasts more cooking courses and food per capita than anywhere in Thailand. There's so much here to eat, whether on the streets or at a nice table, from early morning to late at night that it's hard to have enough appetite. You step out the door from your guesthouse to put back on your shoes and see they offer a cooking course, and so does everyone of the competitors along the small soi.

Plus, Chiang Mai is home to the legendary black sticky rice pudding -- one of my top ten favorite foods so I wanted to understand once and for all how to make it. What in the hell is that you ask? Think rice pudding, coconut cream and tapioca all blended into one deep purple pudding and served warm. SO delicious. I think Andy also wanted me to learn as to alleviate any future cravings and whining about its omission or poor substitutions on Thai menus back home. He's worried about curry pastes and whether we can purchase anything close to perfect in an Asian market, so I wanted him to see what was involved in that because that is not your average kitchen endeavor.

Do you see? Homemade puddings and pastes! We are BAD NEWS! The even badder news: we're researching cooking classes and asking for private lessons--not just signing up for your average tourist course! Hello, high maintenance!!! Fortunately, we found Baan Thai and Boom. I researched online and found Baan Thai's cooking school, then Andy and I went to inquire if we could choose the menu and cook/geek out alone, and Boom worked with us to create what we wanted and made it happen. Yes, Boom, our petite and smiley Thai instructor -- though she says "Boom" with an attractive lilt of rising and falling tones that makes it sound a lot prettier than the boring onomatopoeia it is in our language.

We spent an awesome day with Boom learning more secrets about Thai cooking, and expanded our repertoire to include clay pot cuisine and a Chiang Mai noodle specialty called khao soy. Khao soy is unique to this area and unique in flavor because it's a melange of Thai, Yunnanese, Indian and Burmese ingredients. Chiang Mai is actually a centuries-old market town and the crossroads for caravans from all over SE Asia; these cultures trekked in from around the continent to meet and trade at the colorful bazaar that still runs nightly and khao soy's sweet-hot curry flavor with both crispy and soft noodles has an exotic taste you just can't quite put your tongue upon, except to know its delicious.

And yes, our desires for black sticky rice and Penang curry paste, in food form as well as written form, were satiated. Boom got the recipe for my ultimate comfort food/sweet craving from Baan Thai's owner and we soaked, sugared, boiled and blended it to perfection in the outdoor kitchen. While eating and swooning, I made meticulous notes...though the proportions are never exactly right. A Thai tablespoon is one of the those short-handled flat spoons that come with soup at Asian restaurants. There's never a Western tablespoon in sight, but I'll muddle through that through delectable trial and error. The three of us made a curry paste by hand, though Andy's hand got the worst of it because he had to mash and smash it with a granite pestle for over twenty minutes! It was a lot of work, although fragrant work because the smell of freshly pounded chilies, nutmeg, ginger, cardamom and lime make a beautiful perfume.

Indeed, those damn kaffir limes are going to be a problem. You need some of the tart fruit's knobby, emerald peel in fresh form for the paste. We may have to take our snobbery for Thai food to another level and start growing some of our own ingredients!?!

Typing that, I'm worried we'll become slaves to our palates and won't ever find jobs since we'll be too busy planting kaffir limes and pestling currry pastes by hand. That could be a problem. Or maybe this is all nonsense and we'll return to the States and forget about this Thai food obsession? Our tongues will get shocked back to semi-bland and forget about the zones that taste hot-sour-salty-sweet all at once? We'll just subsist on Chipotle burritos for him and Whole Foods goat cheese spinach salad with candied walnuts for me instead? Perhaps Andy is just humoring me by saying he tastes the difference between smashed versus processor-pureed curries so I focus on the purchase of one perfect mortar and pestle instead of 18 perfect items in Thai silk? Maybe we'll never cook at home and all of these classes will be for nothing?

I guess the proof will be in the pudding, but my hope is that it's going to be black sticky rice!

7 more fun pictures here!: http://bitjug.com/gallery/CMCooking

Home, home's all deranged...

2006-06-15T00:07:00.000-06:00

These days, Bangkok is home.

As we landed at Don Muang Airport for the fifth time on this trip, we knew the drill and it feels great. We know which Customs lines are the shortest, where to get our luggage cart and go to the restroom, how to dodge the dodgy private taxi touts, and we always have directions to our guesthouse in Thai available for the metered taxis. It's easy. It's nice. Familiarity is nice. When you have constant change on perhaps the most constant basis as ever before in your life, you crave easy little pieces that click into place without hassle or thought. And Bangkok always delivers.~> read more

Back again to New Siam Guesthouse we go. Back to our regular room with air con, our locker for 10 baht a day that houses precious purchases and guidebooks, which is locked securely with Andy's new favorite brand of Chinese locks -- purchased at, where else, our favorite grocery/hardware store in our Banglamphu neighborhood of Bangkok.

We've spent two weeks in five visits to Bangkok and carved out a routine that soothes and satisfies. The only normalcy of this trip, besides each other which is questionable at times, entails New Siam, our locker, a trip to the post office to mail things home to the US (mostly purchases I've made, but Andy's caught on to shopping too!), a trip to the grocery/hardware store for replenishing random things like Dove soap and Duracell batteries, a stop at our favorite juice cart for awesome fresh fruit shakes for 20 baht (50 cents US...you can see why we dread Jamba Juice prices) and selling the last country's Lonely Planet guide plus any fiction at our favorite used book store where we know the man and Andy and he a enjoy refined barter with gentle smiles, patience and logic that always ends well.

Then, in the final and favorite leg of our routine, we're off to KC Guesthouse, which Andy and I discovered on our own wandering around one morning in December. It's our favorite place for food in Bangkok. That's saying a lot, I might add, because we adore the food here, but the ladies of KC make a fantastic, mouthwatering, spice-satisfying, "dry" (only a bit of coconut cream and milk) Penang curry that tempts our tummy and curls our toes. We also love their cold drinks, which are always served with a purple orchid, and the pad thai because it comes in a copper skillet and you can watch one of the old ladies make it with love in a primitive outdoor kitchen that clucks with the chatter of matrons -- and the clucks of live birds. Our most favorite waiter is a young Thai male, tall for Asian standards, who's shy, sweet and giggles quietly in the way of the Thais when he forgets something like sugar for our tea or we notice his new haircut. KC has absolutely no atmosphere; like most places in Asia, the worse the atmosphere, the better the food. But it's not about the backdrop, it's about the fact none of this has changed in six months and that pleases us immensely.

Ah, Thailand....this really is our favorite country so far! In some ways, it hasn't gotten its due on the blog because we're frequently in transit here, need to catch up from other countries with poor or expensive internet, or have missed something it offers (like the best food in the entire world!) so we're off treating ourselves immediately instead of blogging. But every time we return, we're happy. The people are kind and un-pushy, and there's a lot of status quo which neither of us appreciated about life before, though we understand its value now.

But even in Bangkok, Andy and I are strangers in a strange land. It's odd to think that if we were Dorothy, we're not sure where we'd click our ruby heels to in request. Yet we're not exactly homeless. I like to think we're travelers (vs. expats vs. backpackers with dread locks who spend more on beer than lodging vs. locals vs. natives). Being travelers means constant transit, most all of which is good but sometimes throws your sense of time and place. When all of your favorite shoes are in storage, you can't drive your Porsche, you have no paycheck, no routine and can't pick up the phone immediately and call whomever you want to just to chat, life is different. In a fantastic, fabled way and in an odd way. Expectations are different too and we often remove them in order to live more in the moment and experience places, people, cultures freely and without prejudice.

In Bangkok, however, we know what to expect--if only for a few days or hours--and we're thankful. While we (and especially I) wanted to go on this trip to experience the unexpected, it's good to have little doses of the common once in awhile so we can better appreciate the unknown. Once upon a time I never believed I'd crave ordinary, but that's the pleasure of the unexpected.

History and Hassles, then Redemption!

2006-06-15T00:05:00.000-06:00

Central Vietnam has a variety of different experiences for the traveller. The city of Hue is perhaps not as culturally attractive (museums, architecture, etc) as one might hope, so we took a day trip by "dragon boat" outside of the city, on the Perfume River. Hue is unique in having a lot of attractions along a river, making a boat tour a viable option. And it was only $1.50 per person, which seemed to good to be true. More on that later.

Looking back at the photos, I see some beautiful tombs built for various generations of the Nguyen dynasty, which ruled from the citadel in the center of Hue. Unfortunately, the citadel is not what it once was due to bombing during wars with the french and americans.~> read more

China and Vietnam have had a long and complex relationship, most notably that Vietnam was part of China (or occupied by, depending on who you ask) during 110BC–AD40, 43–544, 602–906, and 1406–1427. before, after, and in between, Vietnam has been independent but not always ruled by the same groups.

Because of this long relationship, we noticed Chinese influence throughout Vietnam, and this was unexpected for us, because we did not know about the long relationship but also because the 3 nearby countries we have visited have little Chinese influence visible. This boat trip certainly enlightened us!

However, the boat trip enlightened us in less pleasant ways that at moments made the beauty of the tombs and pagoda harder to enjoy. The aforementioned $1.50 fee for a full-day tour was indeed too good to be true. As soon as we boarded the boat early in the morning we were asked to order basic vietnamese dishes for lunch at $5 each, where these things normally cost around 1 dollar in restaurants. Lunch was supposed to be included in the ticket price, but it was said to be "only tofu, very small!" While we didn't expect a fancy lunch in the tiny price of the tour, neither did we plan to be 5x overcharged for a meal! We initially acquiesced, then I decided against it and, to my suprise, was able to talk the money back.

The first tomb was too far from the riverbank to reach on foot, especially within the total 45 minutes we were alloted for our visit. we climbed the steep path from the riverbank, and ran headlong into what can only be described as a motorcycle mafia. This thick band of men were backed right up to the end of the road, revving the engines and waiting for tourists to get on. The trick is, you have no idea what the trip is supposed to cost, and if you don't negotiate a price ahead of time, the price given after the service has been provided will likely surprise you!

We already knew this, so I negotiated a price of 20,000 dong for a trip we had been told by our boat crew was about 4 km. We prepared to both get on the back of this driver's bike, which is totally acceptable for the Vietnamese, and for tourists as well in cambodia. you can see 5 people on a motorbike quite often in some places. This was met with yells, the kind of verbal noise that could only signify an impending fistfight in America. No, this cartel was dead-set on employing one driver per tourist. OK, fine.

Of course, when we arrived at the tomb, which in fact was around 1/8th as far away as our boat drivers had told us, each motorcycle driver demanded the 20,000 for the one-way trip. Tiffany was just about hitting her limit on vietnamese scams at the time, and she basically told them they could each have 10,000 or stuff it. (Those of you who know her realize that she still did it in a diplomatic way). One of the drivers appeared to turn red and turned away in a huff. We also walked just about in a huff into the walled tomb area, after paying an exorbitant entry fee to the provincial government (and who knows who else is taking a cut) and tried to enjoy it, which we actually did. Upon return, suprise of suprises, we easily found our drivers and just hopped on the bike. They took us back to the boat in short order, and of course then demanded 40,000 for each driver. We told them no, it was far too much (which it was), and gave them each 20,000 and walked off.

At the next tomb, we opted out of the moto and ticket extortion (and therefore the tomb visit) and rested in what shade we could find, because we had been showed the night before by a nice deaf-mute guy who runs a restaurant in town that this one wasn't worth it. The best part was, when we got back to our boat, the old lady who drives the boat was on us like a rash. she was saying "tu duc tomb, you don't pay enough." We had no idea what she was talking about, since we had paid the clearly posted, though exorbitant, 55,000 dong for entrance. "No, for motorbike" she said, clearly angry. Keep in mind, we were miles away from the original moto drivers by now. She said "You pay another 40,000!" We told her politely no frickin way. We eventually figured out that though we had never seen any contact between the boat driver and the moto drivers (and we had paid attention), There is a kick-back scheme involved, and in fact multiple drop-off points for the boats to find the particular moto drivers they are in kahoots with.

Needless to say, this was all a bit stressful and making us wary about the whole thing; we would have rather spent much more on a no-nonsense boat ride but that just isn't the way it works. Sitting around our tiny tofu lunch (which was acutally quite tasty), one of the vietnamese tourists on the boat, who were apparently used to this sort of thing (and I guarantee they paid nowhere near 20,000 each for motorbike rides), offered us some pineapple she had bought, and pushed her rice bowl our way in case we needed extra. She offered us a toothpick at the end of the meal, as well. I'm sure she was from another town since she was sightseeing, but otherwise she looked like so many other middle aged vietnamese ladies we had seen in every town. She didn't speak a word of english, but continued to make gestures to give us a place to sit, and offer little things (like a wet-napkin you might get at a BBQ restaurant) along the way. This little bit of kindness, generosity without expectations cracked the hard shell we were building up against vietnamese people, just when we needed it the most. She inspired us to look further and make an effort to talk to people about things other than "business", and showed us that even in difficult circumstances there are almost always great people around.

A few more photos of this river trip are here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Hue

Inside the boat at lunch. The lady next to Tiffany is who I spoke of above.

Where the dragons descend into the sea...

2006-06-15T00:00:00.000-06:00

Local legend says that long ago when the Vietnamese were fighting Chinese invaders, the gods sent a family of dragons to help defend the land. This family of dragons descended upon what is now Ha Long Bay (hence the name "Bay of Descending Dragons") and began spitting out jewels, pearls and jade. The jewels turned into the islands and islets dotting the bay, and jade became the labyrinth of crystal water channels. The elements linked together to form barriers against the invaders and the people kept their land safe and formed what later became the country of Vietnam.

Reading this, you can imagine why Andy and I couldn't miss out on seeing Vietnam's most important natural wonder! And neither the legendary landscape of dragons and pearls, nor the fact we splurged a little and saw it in style on a Chinese junk, disappointed.~> read more

It was very touristy, especially when you consider that everyone must float on some type of vessel to get out there as it's completely protected and patrolled by UNESCO, so that should limit numbers but it really just increases the junks on the water. But it was worth it because the landscape is something foreign to our North American eyes. Plate tectonics and the Ice Ages just didn't do the same thing in the US that it did over here in Asia.

Halong Bay is a fantastical archipelago of limestone islands, monoliths, caves, grottoes that rise majestically from the Gulf of Tonkin, and truly look like the scales of a dragon's back because they're spiky and covered in reptilean green vegetation. To best explore the area, one needs to be on a boat -- so why not get native and try out a Chinese Junk? Exactly. Yes is what we thought too, so Andy and I signed up a for a small tour that included two days plying the jade bay, sea kayaking through the grottoes and one starry night aboard the junk. Cruising around on a wooden boat with a carved dragon's head pointing out to sea instead of the typical blond, barebreasted woman on its bow was great. Climbing up 422 steep, curvy and rocky stairs to a pagoda with a view for miles and miles of the thousands and thousands of islands was tiring but beautiful. We have photos and you'll see we're "glowing" and it's from sweat and not the view.

Sea kayaking among sheer limestone pinnacles that sprint out of the jewel-green water toward the sky and were carved by wind, rain, water and time to form curves, caves and holes was awesome. We kayaked to some hidden beaches and lagoons and frolicked in the water, even watching the sun throw light and shadow off the dragon scales as it set. We also learned our previous kayaking in Laos and New Zealand paid off as we completely dusted our fellow tourists and even our guide (who was paired with a newbie) in the bay, and managed a few moments alone in a secret grottoes where it was nothing but us, the rock, waves and sky. Most excellent!

Halong Bay has a few giant caves, and I mean enormous as in the size of cathedrals, that are molded, mottled, hollowed and curved, all dripping with limestone stalactites and schist rock. Unfortunately or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, the Vietnamese spotlight many of the formations within the cave, especially the ones that look like animals or Buddhist figures, with canned gel lights and there's now a Disney-esque feel about it. It's good because you can see the formations, but bad because you laugh when you see stone showered in unnatural pink and green light. After all, this is supposed to be a deep, dark cave!

And they take their cave formations VERY seriously here. Trust me! Our guide Phoung, who preferred for whatever reason to go by her nickname Little Mouse, was anal in her efforts to show our group the rock formations. She was frustrated if we lagged behind and scolded when we didn't participate in her lectures and quizzes asking frequently, "What an animal do you see in over there in the rock with the turquoise light?" Little Mouse kept at us and I finally joined in when she asked what animal did we see, way over there, one that's small and not as pretty as others...? I looked at it and said, "A rat!" BIG mistake. Huge! Little Mouse whipped around in shock, scowled at me and then reprimanded: "It is a NOT a rat! A rat is very, verrry beautiful animal? Why you say rat?" Stunned, I just shrugged and squelched my smirk. Andy later found out her age and birthday, and it turns out that Little Mouse was born in "the year of the rat" according to the Chinese calendar and that's where her nickname comes from. Whoops!!!

We have 7 other photos of halong bay you can view here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/HalongBay

Vietnam Tunnels Photos

2006-06-14T22:48:00.000-06:00

While we hope to say more about our thoughts about the vietnam war from visiting the country, for now I want to share some photos from the tours we did to the tunnel areas.

On the first tour we visited the main Cao Dai temple, which is a unique religion in vietnam that fuses elements from many popular religions, most noticeably christianity and buddhism. They have a really wild temple.

On the same day, we visited some truly tiny tunnels used by Cu Chi guerillas who sympathized with the north, at the same time the south was 'secured' by the American army. These guerillas lived in the villages during the day, and fought from these tunnels at night. The Americans could not tell who in the villages was a guerilla.

A few photos from these sites are here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/CaoChi

Later on in central vietnam, we visited the DMZ area, which of course was anything but demilitarized for a lot of the war. The main surviving attraction is the Vinh Moc tunnels, which many vietnamese lived in for months at a time, contributing to the north vietnamese side strategically. These tunnels are bigger than Cu Chi, but you have to remember they were lived in for extended periods. I kept looking for the underground "rooms," but there were only small enclaves (like, maybe the size of 2 dishwashers) off of the main tunnel, and places where the tunnel got slightly wider for meetings. There are also a couple of photos in this set from a new museum at Doc Mieu firebase which you may remember from the war effort under Lyndon Johnson.

Here are these photos, with captions: http://bitjug.com/gallery/DMZ

So, you think you need an SUV?

2006-06-14T00:20:00.000-06:00

THINK AGAIN! (many more): http://bitjug.com/gallery/VietSUV

Buffaloes in the Mist, Pastries by the Fire

2006-06-14T00:10:00.000-06:00

You might say we got Sapa wet. We arrived in Lao Cai, one kilometer from the Chinese border with Vietnam, at 5:17am in a foggy-wet rainstorm and it didn't quit for 2 1/2 days. Good thing we'd hauled the raingear around for over five months -- now we could use it! And did we ever. Sapa was still stunning the rain and we had an excuse to drink warm beverages as we tried to decipher mountains through the layers of mist. Plus, we bargained for a hotel room with a basic kiva-like fireplace--who would've thought we'd want one of those in Asia!? We also got hot water for tea from the restaurant and found a French patisserie (Bless the French!), so we had our first "room service" in months and delicious, crackling fires that had us smelling like Hickory Farms sausages upon our return to Hanoi. Check out the photos!

Sapa is a picturesque village-town in the northwest corner of Vietnam. A former French hill station for wealthy French Indochina colonists who needed a break from, ahem...the heat and luxuries of Hanoi?, Sapa is nestled in the Hoang Lien Son mountain range (dubbed the Tonkinese Alps) and defines what I would have thought to be an oxymoron: a tropical-alpine climate. Who knew? These Alps climb to over 10,300 feet at their highest, the supposedly majestic peak of Fansipan -- we don't know as it never popped out of its heavy shroud of mist -- and they're utterly covered by a chromatic shades of green. Forests of trees, patches of slippery moss, terraced rice paddies, cornstalks, tapioca plant crops, leafy plum trees and rambling roses. The only interruptions of this incredible green are slick slices of ochre (nerve-bending, mud roads) and woven squares of basket-brown (extremely primitive village huts). This spectacular landscape is cut into the sides of hills, through valleys and carves up toward the mountain peaks, and you feel small and obvious exploring the natural splendor.

Sapa is also the land of the Montagnards. French for "mountain people",~> read more

then bastardized by the Vietnamese to become a derogatory term for hill tribe peoples, Sapa is home to the greatest concentration of Vietnam's nomadic ethnic minorities, some of which exist elsewhere in southeast asia s well. The northwest provinces are a crossroads of tribes from China, Thailand, Burma, Tibet and Vietnam, and around every corner of Sapa you spot different native dress, levels of cheekbone, colors of skin and slants of eyes. And it's a primitive, exotic rainbow of colors that feels a bit like you stepped into Cost Plus, yet somehow vividly authentic. Groups like the Black H'mong, Red Dzao, White Thai and Flower H'mong live in villages around Sapa, farming the land and milking-ever-so-gently the burgeoning tourist industry. Luckily, that hasn't happened too fast and you can still visit the people, their villages and tribes and feel like a visitor instead of a voyeur.

Andy and I spent a few days on a rented moto (what we'd call a moped or scooter at home) in between the rainstorms and fog, exploring the velvet green hills and basic villages that are mostly untouched by time and progress. Yes, there are now food stalls that sell bottled water to tourists in each village, and many of the women know "tourist English" and French and pedddle gorgeous, intricate embroidery to visitors, but for the most part, the tribal families farm the land and carry baskets of their crops, their babies and tools on their backs. Water buffalo are the tractors of tribes and rice paddies plowed by hand, planted by hand and picked by hand. So many times, we turned cautiously around a muddy, blind corner in the misty mountains with our horn honking as an arrival announcement, and come upon a slender man in indigo hemp shorts slogging through the mud in barefeet behind a water buffalo and wooden harrow. Or, we'd run into women with the most leathered, lived in skin that contrasted sharply with their colorful, to us fanciful headgear as they headed home to most surely cook a full meal after they'd worked hard with their bare hands in the fields. A very different, almost timeless way of life, for sure. I can't say romantic or idyllic, even though so ascetic, because it just looked like hard, hard work.

Many people, especially the children, smiled at us right away and called out "hello, hello!" as we zoomed along. Picture Andy on the front of a chinese knock-off of a japanese moto intensely focused on navigating slick rock and mud roads, while I sat on the back in my red slicker waving and calling out "hello!" and then asking some if I could take their photo. Many obliged, and I think we got some awesome smiles, crooked teeth and faces that tell a story. We hiked into one village and worried we were truly on in the mixing ground of bird flu. Chickens, pigs, ducks, chicks, piglets, feces, water, mud, humans and trash all intermixed around us. Very near our feet and hands as we climbed the steep paths in the rain. It was a bit unnerving and while we rationally knew we likely wouldn't be infected with anything, it couldn't help but underscore that people in this part of the world live with their animals and waste and land very, very differently and that culture and lifestyle are so embedded in the epidemic that it's no wonder there's a problem in fighting it.

My favorite part of Sapa was during our last minutes in the village-town as we waited for the bus to Lao Cai. Andy and I sat leaning against our backpacks in the first yet last sun of the day. A group of Black Hmong women walked up to offer handicrafts; we could tell their by their indigo skirts, colored cloth belts wrapped in numerous loops, the leg warmer-ish wrappings on their brown legs and grams and many grams of silver jewellery. We declined, but one lady named something close to "Mae" plunked herself and her wares down next to Andy on the step and started talking in tourist English. She asked us both "Where you from?", but she seemed most interested in Andy and I sat slouched back into the cushion of my pack and enjoyed the moment. She gestured with her brown but indigo stained hands in animation with Andy, and he sweetly answered and asked questions right back in simplified English with a good dose of pantomime. Mae was one of 11 children, over 44 years old and had brothers who fought in the American War. She cackled at Andy's age, "You SO yuuuuuhhhhnnnggg!I Ohhllld!!" He blushed, smiled, laughed and clucked right back, "You look so young!! NOT old!" Then she blushed, it was visible even beneath her worn, tamarind colored skin, smiled and laughed too. And I smiled and laughed. Indeed, we're not all so different after all.

we have some photos here, there are more than a few but we hope you enjoy them!

http://bitjug.com/gallery/Sapa

Our Hanoi Survival Guide: 10 Tips

2006-06-14T00:00:00.000-06:00

Hanoi was once the grand dame of French Indochina. Though its facade is now cracked with age, grimy from motorized progress and tattooed with Communist propaganda, Hanoi's unique and charming beauty is umistakable.

Hanoi sprung up among the green lakes at the Red River's bend and water is part of the culture. Spirits and pagodas lurk in the lake, and lovers nuzzle and kiss in the shade of sago palms and government billboards warning about AIDS. The Old Quarter is like New Orleans, except with air-dried laundry handing off the balconies instead of beaded revelers. Life is vibrant, humming and honking on the streets; people are so busy and so eager to do business that it's hard to tell if they sleep. Grilled meat on charcoal braziers made primitvely, portable fro claypots and metal racks dot the street like low statuary. Herbs prick the air with a basil-mint aroma, and the rainbow riot of Vietnamese silk beckons from nearly every other window.

You want to walk, walk and walk some more in Hanoi, looking up and down, left and right because there's a lot to see. And much to watch out for. Motorbikes with baskets of chickens and sludgy, wet gutters are only the beginning. Hanoians are hospitable and helpful, but others are cunning and ready to shed you of Dong. "Buyer Beware" is not exaggerated or naive. We loved our time in Hanoi, but also battled some hot moments of frustration...which thankfully led to cool moments of solution and rejuvenation.

Here are our tips for enjoying, surviving and embracing Hanoi....

1) A Name Is A Name -- Unless it's a Fake~> read more

Vietnam is notorious for knock-offs, and it's NOT always clothing, housewares or electronics. The names of business establishments, whether hotels, travel agencies, restaurants or stores, are copied left and right, next door and the floors above, and it's essential you know the exact address (e.g. 44/1a) of the establishment you want to patronize. The "fakes", which have copied the name exactly or changed it just ever so slightly (e.g. Lotus Cafe and Lotus Cafe 2) and often a fake "recommended in Lonely Planet" sign too. Vigiliance is essential as most of the knock-off places have seemingly helpful citizens outside trying to direct you right into their business instead of your intended choice. A lot of times the knock-offs have the exact same menu, rooms, tours or items, but Andy and I felt it was the principle and didn't like being conned. Thus, we always double-checked the exact street numbers when we had them and were fine, though it keeps you on your toes.

2) Forget About Curbside Appeals

Hanoi has a maze of streets that twist, turn and change names...and have millions of motorbikes. And that's not an exaggeration; Vietnam has 10 million motorbikes and most carry at least two or three people, and maybe some pigs or chickens, on one moto! Plus there are bicycles, cyclos, and yoke ladies--all without lights and traffic rules--to add to the obstacle course. Needless to say, it's intimidating to step off the curb to cross the street. In Saigon, we tried waiting for openings or stepping off the curb and hoping drivers would yield. Ha! No way. In Hanoi, we learned to just step off and start walking into the moving chaos and they'll make room for and around you. At first, it seems reckless to walk into a dark street and feel eight lanes of oncoming motorbike lights coming at you, but then you see they weave and twist and zoom by without ruffling a hair. Soon, you're emboldened, diving right into the madness and feeling like an Ice Capade skating through a crossover routine as you dance and the motos shimmy about. After that, you find it fun and look forward to another death-defying feat on the street.

3) The Yoke Doesn't Have To Be On You

The yoke is ubiquitous in Vietnam. Women carry them in every city and the woven baskets dangling off each end hold everything from flaming hot braziers to lacy bras to ripe bananas. Yokes are the department store, restaurant, supermarket and 7/11 of the country, and many people say the shape of Vietnam itself resembles the yoke. The yoke is no joke, but you must be wary as they're more than a double-edge stick in Hanoi. They can be a double-edged sword. Crinkled, wrinkled old ladies carry them with ease, even though the baskets seem to defy gravity with how many pounds of fresh greens and morning glory they hold. Even though these grandmas smile sweetly and beckon you in Hanoi's Old Quarter, watch out! Some of them really want to put the yoke right on your shoulders and be photographed so they can ask for money. Rather aggressively, I might add. Young women with flowing black silk hair carry yokes bursting with fruit and cheerfully sell it to you...at ten times the normal price. I wanted some pineapple and asked the first yoke lady I saw and she told me "20,000 dong". My mouth fell open like a teeter-totter in disbelief and I responded, "No!!! 2,000 dong and no more!" She and the yoke shook negatively and I started to walk off, but then she called me back dejectedly and said, "OK, 2,000. Don't tell anyone -- special price for you!". Ha, victory!!! I'd been traveling in Vietnam for nearly one month and this time, the joke was on her and not me!

4) Beware Of The Fair(skin) Price

On the same note, buyer beware in Hanoi! In most of Vietnam, there is the Vietnamese price AND the foreigner price. And they are very different. Even if the price seems fair for an ice cream bar, tissues or a taxi ride, the Vietnamese are paying significantly less and your white skin, backpack or foreign accent means you pay a premium. Hanoi was the worst of it, yet conversely, it was the best city and we just rolled with it and acted tough to win certain battles whenever possible. At cultural places, we don't mind paying more for tickets but for basic items like bottled water, it kills us. Andy and I started watching what the Vietnamese were paying for mangoes, spring rolls and toilet paper, and then tried to have that exact change ready and smile sweetly saying, "Vietnamese price" so we weren't screwed. Many times it worked, other times it didn't; at least you feel better trying.

However, I had my lowest point of the Fair(skin) price at the National Museum. Desperately hot, sweaty and surrounded by Saturday visitor locals, we needed water and waited in line at the snack bar like everyone else. I watched and saw people (Vietnamese) paying 5,000 dong for water and was on guard, as was Andy. When it was finally our turn (we'd been passed over at least three times), we asked for the water and how much it cost. "8,000 dong" was the curt answer. Already hot and cranky, I got riled and started arguing about the price change and said we'd seen others paying only 5,000 dong. The woman continued to protest, shake her head and turn away. As Andy and I steamed, she helped others and got distracted. We asked again for a bottle of water and she placed one in my hands as Andy laid down 5,000 dong, and she ackgnowleged the bill. But then, seeing his hands and looking up quickly, she realized we were the foreigners and started saying "No, 8,000 dong!!!" I got mad -- I'll admit it -- and it was not my finest hour. I clamped my hand onto the slippery, frosty top of the water bottle and held on tightly. She tugged back and I held on with determination and relased a firm, indignant litany about the real price, the foreign price, getting screwed and we're smarter than you think...and won the tug of water bottle! The lady was horrified, threw up her hands and turned around as I'm sure I committed a major faux pas in the Asian obsession of "face" but I didn't care. I was tired of being insulted (that's how it felt to me) as I'm certainly smart enough to see what other people pay and know when someone is lying and probably being dishonest. Think about it -- who would know she'd charged me 3,000 dong more? Anyone? Or was it just cream for her? Did it really go into the museum's coffers? Doubtful. Prices are RARELY posted in Hanoi, save for menus, and sometimes getting treated fair-skinned instead of fairly gets you down.

5) Check In To The Hanoi Hilton

Ironically nicknamed the Hanoi Hilton by its tortured American inmates, Hoa Lo Prison is another sad monument to The American War. Unsure of visiting because we were honestly depressed after our day in the DMZ which spurned complicated thoughts on our country's history and future, plus saturated us with the war wounds of both sides, we ended up near the Hanoi Hilton after purchasing train tickets. So, we casually stopped by and had one of the most memorable, jarring and perspective-giving events of our time in Vietnam. Built by the French in the early 20th Century, Hoa Lo has a history of torture whether of Vietnamese by the French or Americans by the Vietnamese. It's solid, squalid and dark with a flat energy that screams to your senses "something very bad happened here". Walking around, Andy and I saw leg shackles, cells that fit a body and nothing more, crinkled and torn photos of former prisoners, and a lot of propaganda on how nice the treatment of US prisoners was. We also happened upon three men talking in one of the solitary confinement rooms, one of whom was tall and spry with snow-white hair, sparkling blue eyes and looked to be in his early 70's; all of the men spoke with American accents. There were no other Western tourists at the Hanoi Hilton that day, and we started talking and learned that we'd stumbled upon Admiral Robert Byron Fuller's first return to Vietnam since his release from the same gate we had entered through in 1973 after 5 1/2 years as a POW!!!

We were stunned. Stunned soon became numb as we listened to the abbreviated version of his story. Tortured, confined in solitary darkness for over 2 years, learned the secret language used by Stockdale and McCain that was a morse code of sorts with broomstick and wall tapping for mental survival, believed dead by his family for three years, released at the end of the war and becomes highly decorated Rear Admiral of the USS Nimitz. Whoa. All from the tall man with thin legs in white socks and sneakers, with Santa-like hair that matched in brightness, who was kind and curious about our travels and seemed like anybody's favorite grandfather. Unexpectedly standing before us was a real hero, who lived through hell but moved on to normalcy and greatness. It was humbling. Meeting Admiral Fuller on the surreal set of the Hanoi Hilton reminded us that so many things in life are insignificant. It was inspiring. Because you so often lose perspective in your own reality and can't remember what's up from down, lucky from unlucky, important from not so important, life from death. Finally, something about America's sad, complex war with Vietnam that was truly black and white.

6) Go See Ho

Ho Chi Minh is a national hero and though he passed away in 1969, you can still see him in the flesh!!! Yes, the Vietnamese government, in all its communist, propaganda-spewing, symbol-loving glory exhumed his body, shot it up with God knows what for decades of embalming (it looks heaping doses of varnish, wax and Revlon liquid concealer to me), lit it with ghoulish lights in a mausoleum that feels like a hybrid of Disney's Haunted House and a shopping mall, and created a mecca-like pilgrimage for its proletariat. It is bi-zarre!! Gazing at his long whiskers and waxy face, you think Ho Chi Minh must have outsmarted Madame Tussaud instead of the US Military since he's here and not in London. But no smirking because you're filing past his spooky body with thousands of other patriotic Vietnamese who adore, admire and bend low in respect to Uncle Ho! Ho is only open a few days a week, for a few months a year, because his body is sent to Russia to have work done!!?? We're not sure what that means, but to us it conjures an entirely different form of plastic surgery.

7) Life is Sweet with Sweet Milk

Vietnam is one of the largest coffee bean exporters in the world, but in Andy's opinion, they should send their recipe for the perfect cup of coffee abroad instead. Ka Phe Sua (cah-fay-sue-ah) is the Vietnamese term for coffee with milk. But it's so much more than Starbucks-au-lait. It's deep, dark, roasted-chocolate, slow-filtered ambrosia with an inch of creamy, sweetened condensed milk on the bottom. Served authentically, it arrives in a glass mug with a stainless steel filter-cup on top and a tiny spoon alongside for swirling the caffeinated sweetness to perfection. In fact, often when it arrives only a few drops of cofee have splashed on the thick layer condensed milk at the bottom of the cup, and you must wait for the rest of the water to percolate from teh filter-cup. Andy learned from solicitous waiters that there's a special quick-whisking hand motion necessary to get the thick coffee and sweet milk whipped into blended balance, and he was a pro by the time we reached Hanoi. Even me, who likes nothing about coffee except that its popularity has increased the availability of hot tea in a big to-go cup, became infatuated with Ka Phe Sua because it's smell is like the darkest of chocolate instead of a burnt Denny's carafe, and because there's an entire ritual around ordering, brewing, filtering, stirring and sipping. I'm all about rituals and fancy hot drinks so in Hanoi, where there was tea beyond Lipton and Caphe Sua in every cafe, restaurant and street stall, Andy and I drank well. Whenever Andy ordered a Caphe Sua, I watched the server's face and inevitably, they smiled with pleasure at Andy saying with a deep smile and respectful head nod, "Ahh, Caphe Sua. You like Vietnamese Coffee!!!"

8) Fun With Strings Attached Is Good

The best $2.50 you can spend in Hanoi is to purchase a ticket to the magical, one-of-a-kind water puppets at the Thang Long Water Puppet Theater. We saw a small show in Saigon but it's minor league compared to the real thing in Hanoi, and I was like a little kid at the big show. Just ask Andy, he was too. In Hanoi, there's a live orchestra, comprised of simple but melodious wood instruments indigenous to Vietnam, and glamorous, silk-clad female singers serenading the puppets' performance. And the stage, which is actually a milky green pond with curtains across one end and floating lotus blossoms and palm trees along the side, is at least 15'x15' and lit dramatically like a rock concert (really!). Vietnam's water puppets are wholly native to the country and developed by the rice farmers as a way to entertain children and adults in the paddies during the floods. The puppets are made by hand of wood, coated in colorful lacquer and have strings and rods that push and pull from below instead of above like traditional marrionettes. The puppeteers, both male and female, stand waist-deep in the water behind the curtain to manipulate the puppets making them move, dance, slither and slide on the surface of the water. The water serves not only to hide the puppeteers and strings of the puppets but also to create a trembling stage full of reflection that utterly absorbs its audience. Suddenly the water ripples and shimmers, and firecrackers pop with a startling, smokey bang! Five dragon water puppets surface, water spurting from their mouths like frothy fire breath, and their colorful, 3' foot long and scaled bodies twist and turn in a serpentine dance on the water. And that's just the opening act...!

9) Use Your Noodles

Hanoi is home to the legendary Pho, a soup so full of noodles the broth is barely visible. A staple most often favored for breakfast and served at tiny tables on the street, Pho is the food of life for the Vietnamese. You see families squatting together, huddled over steaming bowls of Pho in the morning light, quiet in their chopstick kinetics. And yet with this cult following, Pho is never, ever exactly the same. You flavor it to personal perfection each time using piles of fresh herbs, handfuls of mung beans, splatters of chili-spiked fish sauce and flicks of a finger-mixed pepper and lime paste. The noodles of Pho are always fresh from the morning's wet market, and a noodle knocker often rides up and down the street chiming the announcement of Pho for sale. Could anything be more timeless and bewithcing than a noodle knocker that signals the readiness of homemade soup? Pho seems a way of life in Hanoi, and we happily embraced the tradition with open mouths.

Note: Pho's pronunciation is also ledendary; no one with a Western tongue can say it properly. Andy and I were told to say "fur with a soft 'r' sound"...whatever that means. Luckily, the Vietnamese are used to our butchering and reward anything close with a steaming bowl of the noodley brew.

10) Get Thee To The Metropole

The Metropole Hotel is Vietnam's most elegant hotel. A Raffles, Georges V, Savoy and Motel 6...with air conditioning...all in one. WHAT?!?!? One can easily grasp that the Metropole is rife with history and harbors an atmospheric teak bar once graced by the most important players in Indochine like Raffles in Singapore. Similar to the Georges V in Paris, it's an architectural landmark with exquisite courtyards and balconies, all nestled in the most quiet yet most historic neighborhood of a majestic city. As with London's Savoy Hotel, the Metropole delivers a classic high tea service complete with white china, pianist and fine finger sandwiches of cucumber and dill. And all of the above comes at a Motel 6 price of $8 USD per person!!!

At least the high tea part does, and the chocolate buffet as well (you read that right, un buffet du chocolat...ooh, la,la!)-- and that's what matters! Hanoi's Metropole was our haven from the storm of motorbike horns, yoke ladies and monsoon rains. Here, we processed the ugliness, senselessness, depressingly eerie contemporary resonance of the American/Vietnam War. And decompressed from scams in the soothing cool of the Metropoloe's air conditioning so they didn't taint our time in Hanoi. We also rubbed the shiny sweat and sunblock from our glistening faces with REAL cloth towels in their large, spotless bathrooms that sported marble sinks and two handles for cold AND hot water. Andy and I rejuvenated from 5 1/2 months of backpack travel during high tea at the Metropole on three different occasions. Imported darjeeling, warm scones, clotted cream, tiny tarts with perfectly fluffy yet crisp meringue, low-volume music and service with a smile--and without a language barrier--made us human again. Just look at the photos of us at the Metropole...we were in heaven and all for only $8 USD!

We've posted just a few more photos from Hanoi here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Hanoi

Getting Train-ed

2006-06-12T06:21:00.000-06:00

I have a love/hate relationship with the train. Every time we book a ticket, and most especially when we reserve a sleeping berth, it sounds romantic and fun -- such a charming alternative to the bus. Then we board the train and everything changes. Romance is out the open window and splatting unattractively on to the tracks like the sewage from the bathrooms.

Inevitably, there is someone in our seats. From India to Vietnam, we've experienced this and it's so awkward. First, we're always some of the only Westerners on the train, so you're self-conscious as it is and don't want to seem rude by appearing inflexible. Plus, you're guaranteed to be asked "Where you from?" and I never want to perpetuate bad impressions of Americans abroad, so there's more pressure. But, Andy and I try to book specific seats for windows, or a top and bottom bunk so we have a place sit and sleep for the 15 hours on board, which are small things but can be hugely important when swaying aboard a foreign train for hours on end. In Goa, we did the "nice" thing and switched seats with a giant Indian family, only to end up in a section where another family stowed two extra children away, hiding them in the top bunk behind boxes and luggage when the conductor came, and thus we sat eight people in a six person space for seven hours!!!

The ride from Hue to Hanoi on the "Reunification Express" was no different. We waddled onto the tracks with our packs and struggled up the steep steps into our air conditioned "soft chair" car. No, I'm not kidding! The trains in Vietnam are classed in the most honest way by the following categories: hard chair, soft chair, hard bed, soft bed. Needless to say, we're all about the softness here in Asia. The Asian beds and toilet paper didn't portend hope and comfort to me, but since we had a 15 hour ride, we went for soft chairs. This time, we found a Vietnamese lady with her top askance, sporting a lot of breast and nursing her young son..~> read more

She wanted nothing to do with us, ignored us for a bit and then waved us forward to other seats. As Andy double-checked our tickets and I made sure she was indeed in our seats, I kept seeing nipple out of the corner of my eye and it was disconcerting...to say the least. You don't plan to have a confrontation with a total stranger who's half topless with a cute baby!

We were at a loss and weren't sure what to do as we looked around the car which had at least 50 other Vietnamese, a ton of conical hats hanging from hooks by the windows and overhead bins bursting with everything from hanging plants to rice bags. A man jumped forward and spoke to us in English, saying that the lady wanted our seats and could we please sit in hers, which were a few rows up. Unfortunately for her and us, these seats faced other people head-on (not front to back like ours) and posessed a lot less leg room. We'd be riding directly below the blaring tv and staring at strangers two feet in front of us for 15 hours. I wavered but Andy, bless him!, held strong and politely explained that we wanted to keep our original seats. The lady wasn't happy and wouldn't get up, but Andy showed the man how much less legroom there was in her seats and showed him how tall we were in comparison to pretty much everyone in the whole car. She finally pulled her son off her breast, straightened her top and stood up. Soon, she was talking loudly to the people in the row in front of us and displaced them into her original seats and she sat in front of us with her toddler daughter, baby son, frequently exposed breasts and a pouty look on her face.

Sigh... Bygones!!! Sometimes, you have to do what's best for yourself. And I think a 15 hour train ride warranted it.

As the train rolled forward, we settled in for the ride with books and earplugs. Our car had two tvs mounted from the ceiling and they blared louder than an amp at a Metallica concert. Only the music was much, much worse. The tones of Vietnamese are high and clashing to our Western ears, and at a piercing volume in an enclosed space, it's murder. The programming was an ecelctic choice; I'll give Vietnamese Rail props for that. First, they played a B movie with Vietnamese dubbed above (not replacing) the English, then it was a BBC travel show. Next came Kung Fu and finally, the last straw for us, cartoons! Stupified and forlorn, Andy looked over at me and said: "I never thought I'd be watching 'Tom and Jerry' in Vietnamese!" It's one thing to watch Looney Tunes, but it's another thing to watch them when you feel like you're about to go looney tunes!!! Empowered by the fact the tv was blaring louder than the conductor's announcements, I went back to the rail worker in a blue uniform in our car and asked if he spoke English. His head wagged negatively, so in a sudden moment of non-verbal inspiration, I clapped my hands over my ears and made a painful, wincing expression with my faces. He understood immediately and went back to the control panel and turned it down. Yeeessssssss!!!

However, just as I reveled in my victory in my soft seat, the meal carts rolled into our car. As did the unmistakable smell of meat. Damn it! Such a shortlived triumph. Soft seats and soft beds include meals in Vietnam a nice touch but mixed blessing. Normally, a man in a blue outfit similar to a postman serves a partitioned tray of food as on the airlines...in the old days. Usually there's rice, mixed meats in a stir fry, soggy vegetables that smell vaguely of formaldahyde and soup. This was the same...but with an unbelievabe addtion. Behind the tray cart, came the grilled chicken cart! And this was not a cart with sanitary plastic containers of chicken; it was a full banquet cart with chicken legs, wings, breasts and god knows whatever else, heaped to spilling on an open platter. No saran wrap, no foil, no lids, no net, nothing. It seemed they'd had a massive barbeque in the caboose and us passengers could now purchase grilled bird flu to eat over the rice. It was too much for me. Truly the pinnacle of our train travels and travails. As the open chicken cart greasily skimmed by my elbow in the aisle seat, I took a photo. The porter/chicken roller gave me a puzzled-peeved look, but continued pushing on precariously down the aisle, both cart and train jiggling along the tracks like jell-o. As the bird flu on wheels disappeared down the aisle and through the doors into the next train car, I thought with wonder and relief, "That is something you'd never, never-ever see in America."

Thus, just as I'm grappling my dislike of the train, similar to how I grapple with the handrail while squatting to go to the bathroom without falling in--vigorously-- something wonderful happens. And it seems to happen every time we're on the train! Andy and I are just about at the end of our good humour, and suddenly a local shyly but proudly talks to us in English. Or offers us to share in their cup of tea, or try a homemade biscuit. On the trip to Lao Cai, we met two agricultural inspectors heading north to manage the influx of illegal plants from China. Despite the fact they were sleeping in their business attire and had to get off the train with at 5:30am and go directly to work, the men stayed up late and told us about their lives in Vietnam plus gave us tips on where to visit in Sapa. Another gentle old man, who looked a lot like Uncle Ho, made sure we got our complimentary bottles of water and baguettes for the overnight ride. Many of the locals are thrilled to practice their English and it's fun for us to break down our own language to its simplest form to ask questions and answer others return. And even the ones who don't speak any English at all, like the grizzled old couple of at least 70 that looked like elves to us in size, bowed their graying heads and said "thank you" and "good bye" with bashful pride when we parted ways outside of our berth since we'd switched places so they could sleep above and below each other.

The train makes companions of total strangers who don't share the same language. We're stuck in the same 'soft' place for numerous, sometimes innumerable, hours and it's our best, most pure opportunity to interact with local people. On our 14+ hour ride to Hanoi that started off poorly, I had a moment that derailed my negative feelings o the ride. A young, moon-faced college girl sat behind me and finally worked up the courage to speak to me after Andy went off to explore the other classes of service. Shyly, she asked to talk with me in English and questioned where I was from. When I responded, "America", her face lit up brighter than a full lunar eclipse and a look of longing and hope making her black eyes shimmer-shine. "Oh, America!!! I want so badly to go to America! I know of Hollywood and the big cities and I want to eat pizza. And Bill Gates...I admire him so much! I don't think I ever get to go, but I hope and if I work hard and study hard, then maybe."

Oooofff! I felt kicked in the gut. A few sentences of heavily accented, imperfect English and I'm rendered speechless by the impact of the words. Pizza. Hollywood. Bill Gates. America. I can eat pizza every day, visit Hollywood any time I want to brave LA's traffic and get to live in America. Forever, if I so choose, and travel any where else with my American passport. All without having to work and study too hard. Bill Gates, well I probably take his brilliance for granted, as he's VERY popular in Asia but that's excusable since I adore Apple products.

Hearing the young woman voice those simple, innocent things as velvety green rice paddies, dotted with straw-hatted peasants bent over in work, whipped by reminded me of how lucky I am. And how easy it easy is in my 'real life' to lose perspective on that. As we've traveled about and encountered America's past and present, especially in Vietnam, I've found I sometimes have a love/hate relationship with my country. But that's mostly the politics of today and the actions of yesterday. Distilling things like citizenship, fortune and opportunity in to their most basic form, I'm grateful to be American. Trite as it seem, there is truly much to love about carrying a navy blue passport with the United States of America stamped indelibly on it in gold.

Bridge or Dock...the name didn't matter

2006-06-04T00:10:00.000-06:00

We're on a roll again in Vietnam, a spring roll that is...

The rice paper-wrapped goodies are native to Vietnam and we're finding them on every menu, in every form -- fresh, fried and hand-rolled. They're delicious, organic, and interactive. It's pure genius to serve 'only-seconds-ago' grilled meats and vegetables with homemade rice noodles, fresh rice flour pancakes and the biggest pile of fresh herbs you've laid eyes upon outside of your local farmer's market. Mint, basil, lemon basil, cilantro, horseradish leaves, mustard greens and lettuce crowd cucumbers and bean sprouts on stainless steel platters, and once these items are plunked down, you roll with abandon, dip in nuoc cham with anticipation and chomp with satisfaction.

But, as far as we're concerned, spring rolls the high point of local cuisine.

Honestly, we've been disappointed by the food here in Vietnam, each of us in different ways.~> read more (with lots more fun and photos!)

I'm freaked out by the fact pork is the salt of Vietnam! I mean it's everywhere, in everything -- even in items on the "vegetarian" section of the menu -- and the dishes I order without MSG (bad for the migraines, as I quickly learned here) aren't flavorful and I'm now salting my food, shall we say liberally, by opening the shaker and sprinkling grams of grains on food with my fingers! Andy is dismayed by the copious uses of fish sauce, a common herb that tastes of fish, another that tastes of soap, oyster sauce, pork bellies and non-spicy stir frys that stem from China's deep roots in the history of Vietnam. Perhaps our palates are completely shot from their spoiling in Thailand? Or we've gone soft (like our middles) after months of traveling and can no longer taste the nuances? Regardless, we're just not connecting as passionately as we hoped with the cuisine.

Fortunately, one thing in the realm of cooking did not disappoint: our lovely, atmospheric class at the Red Bridge Cooking School in Hoi An. It started at the Hoi An "wet" market, wet because it has a water-slicked cement floor from the baskets of just-caught fish and freshly-washed vegetables that leak on to the floor. A colorful mayhem bustling with ladies in cotton pajama outfits and conical hats who preside over fruits, vegetables, fragrant spices, raw meat and smelly fish, our guide Phi lead us through Hoi An's market maze and taught us about Vietnam's key ingredients. Fluffy piles of herbs and lettuces, electric orange pumpkins and royal purple eggplants, clear amber fish sauce, bushels of rice grains in ten different shapes, dripping wet white noodles in sizes from bedsheets to toothpicks...and meats. I tried to be tough, but the blood of pork, beef and chicken, and fish drying in the heat did me in. This part of a market officially makes me weak in the knees and I was dry heaving something fierce, so away I went to chill out by the basils. Andy enjoyed the rest of the tour unaffected. Lucky!!!

(our guide holding fresh squid in the market. See any fridges? Check out how long his nails are too.)

From the market, we boarded a large wooden sampan and sailed up the busy blue river that breathes life into Hoi An with shipping, trading and fishing. As the car motor powering the boat putt-putted gently, we watched the residents of Hoi An go about their day: hauling up giant nets of fish, driving longtail boats laden with rattan, dredging by hand the ever-flooding river before monsoon season. Wooden shophouses washed in watercolor-like paint, graceful colonial hotels and serene verandahs with oversized rattan furniture drifted by us. Andy and I sat under the sampan's wooden cover absorbing Hoi An's simple charm as a whispering breeze cooled us and rustled the riverbank's grassy reeds. Soon we spied a bright, Chinese red...dock (not bridge??? I guess the red dock cooking school sounded less romantic?)in the distance which floated next to a grassy knoll where cushions and grass mats beckoned you to sit for a glass of lotus tea. An enchanting open air pavilion with a pagoda styled roof, dangling fabric lanterns and 12 work stations with gas burners and bamboo bowls lay to the left...and that's where we were headed to learn about and make Vietnamese cuisine!

As we stepped on to the red DOCK, the afternoon unfolded into four hours of lovely learning, delicious laughter, artful cooking and gastronomic indulgence. Our chef was an animated man in his mid-twenties who gestured madly with his hands, even when they contained a cooking utensil, who'd learned to speak English from the movies. He cracked jokes about his lack of a girlfriend, his overbearing mother and love of cooking in a voice that blended Cary Grant's delivery and Billy Crystal's "you look mahvelous" pronunciation. As our Aluminum Chef (what the Vietnamese woks are made of) chopped away on lemongrass, he warned for us to careful when cutting up herbs as the food would no longer be vegetarian if a finger fell in! And, as he carefully turned a ripe red tomato into a beautiful lotus blossom, our chef confided in us that this trick helps him get the girls, but they never stay long enough to make him mother happy. It was hilarious! Andy and I looked at each other over our recipes numerous times, laughing so hard at this Vietnamese twist on comedy.

After Aluminum Chef's opening monologues, Andy, the other students and I were assigned to our cooking stations for real life learning. We dripped rice batter, flipped rice pancakes and steamed our own rice paper. We chopped the potpourri of herbs that make Vietnam's spring rolls so uniquely delicious and hollowed out pineapple boats in which to serve our slightly sweet, slightly sour squid salad. The best dish came in a surprising form and we never found it again on menus in Vietnam, so I'm glad we got to try it! Iron Chef showed us how to simmer lemongrass in a rich fresh tomato puree, then cook eggplant and other light spices in it for a lovely ragout that tastes rich but with the slightest scent of citronella perfume. My most favorite part was learning how to make fruit and vegetable garnishes as Aluminum Chef believes presentation and plate decoration are very important. We slivered cucumbers and spread them into an Asian fan shape, made roses of carrot skin and even learned how to turn a tomato into a lotus! Andy, master of the knives in our kitchen, proved to be quite a whiz too -- check out his designs in the photos!

And all the while, we cooked and learned along the water's edge. A gentle breeze from the Hoi An river drifted through the pavilion, ruffling palm and banana fronds, and cooling some of the sweat that rolled down our necks as we fried up the goodies for fresh spring rolls over a hot flame. The Red Bridge staff plied us with cold ginger juice and lotus tea -- and even a mocktail of their own making called the Red Bridge Breeze involving orange, lemon and pineapple -- and Aluminum Chef inspected our works (and woks!) of art in progress.

In the end, as I licked my fingers of the juice from fresh dragonfruit, I knew our meal was excellent...though both Andy and I still missed the zesty heat chilies and salted our food. I guess we're just fit to be Thaied, wherever we eat. But, for that day it didn't matter. Even if the red bridge never materialized, the slogan that adorns the Red Bridge Cooking School and Restaurant's menus and recipes is dead on. A "charming oasis of gourmet delights", indeed!

We have a few more photos from this episode on offer here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/HoiAnCC

A Perfect Fit: Making Clothes (and friends) in Hoi An

2006-06-04T00:00:00.000-06:00

Hoi An just might be our most favorite small town in Asia. It's charming, it's romantic. It has a clean blue river and exceedingly cool, unique architecture. Hoi An even has it's own special noodle made with sacred well water called cau lau. But most important of all, Hoi An has tailors! Tailors, tailors, tailors, sewers, weavers, lace makers and more tailors. They beckon at EVERY street corner, plying you with custom clothes made of silk and sewn in mere hours for your whim and desire.

Reflecting on that now, I should probably change my testimony from above and say that Hoi An is evil and seductive with dark dangerous stores that suck you in for hours and wreak havoc on your ATM card. But at least it's in the most decadent, creative, fun and practical way. I mean, really, now Andy and I have new clothes to wear as souvenirs from Vietnam! SO much more practical than a fabric wall hanging, Communist t-shirt or conical peasant hat.

We were lured in to Hoi An by its reputation for beauty and charm, and it lives up to every recommendation! Which was a welcome treat after a stressful bus ride from Danang~> read more (with photos!)

on which we were purposefully overcharged three times more than all 82 of the other Vietnamese on board, squished between a bald Buddhist nun and ten rice field workers in its dusty, un-aired backseat, clinging to our backpacks and clueless as to when to get off. Fortunately, repeating "Hoi An?" with big eyes and a questioning look worked as some of the human cargo told us where to get off and we waddled through the crush of people with our backpacks, steaming from both the heat and the idignity of being flagrantly ripped off. Luckily, our new British friends from Saigon, Gordon and Lucy, were a day ahead and did the leg work on finding a clean, cheap hotel in Hoi An and we were soon off with them to have a semi-cold beer in an old shophouse with a candlelit view of the river. Ahh...sigh...Hoi An!

Lucy and Gordon also did the leg work on researching Hoi An tailors (literally, by walking around), and after dinner, we set off to Thinh Thanh for a fitting of their new clothes ordered only hours before. Now I will admit that I was guilty of 'pre-meditated clothes making' as I'd heard from a Canadian in Queenstown, New Zealand about wool coats and silk pajamas for a pittance and felt I might "need" one of the aforementioned. And, okay...so I'd splurged on an In Style magazine in Phuket and saved a few pages of ideas for a possible 'knock off'. But I had no intention of going crazy and designing my own things. None whatsoever. All of you who know me, know that I need a new pair of Chinese silk crop pants like I need a hole in the head. Be that as it may, thanks to Gordon and Lucy, Thinh Thanh and Vietnam's fabulous culture of sewing and fabric, Andy and I now have 18 new items between us!!!

But first, let me back up, and explain why Hoi An is charming outside of the tailor shops. Once a bustling, vibrant center of international trade, Hoi An was home to Chinese, Japanese, Dutch, Portuguese and Vietnamese merchants who peddled their wares from the 16th - 18th centuries in quaint hardwood shophouses along the Thu Bon River. In these days of yore, tall-sail ships and wooden junks cruised in from the South China Sea and unloaded porcelain, perfume, spices, silver and more for sale and export at Hoi An's port-market. This cross-cultural buying frenzy bore a potpourri of architecture that mingles covered bridges, pink pagodas, teak shutters and French balconies in washed tones of maize, turquoise, aqua, caremel and ruby.

There is something intensely romantic about Hoi An. Girls bicycle by in flowing white silk ao dais, the traditional pajama-tunic dress of the Vietnamese, and grandmas in Chinese coolie hats barter animatedly for mangoes and dragon fruit at the outdoor market. Men with skin as warm and brown as tobacco fish in barefeet from primitive basket boats or wooden canoes, and the incense sticks burning inside of Hoi An's old pagodas are so pungent that your eyes crinkle and nose crumples from the sweet, smokey scent. When strolling at night, fabric lanterns dangle from shops and porches, throwing a color and light show on the black-mirror river surface like silent fireworks. In Hoi An, I feel like I stepped back in time to a Vietnam without war and occupation and glimpsed how things were meant to be.

But back to the clothes...

Andy and I were cautious at first. We watched as Gordon got measured for cotton business shirts ($7) and Lucy tried on the a 'first draft' of her black and gold Chinese dress ($12). I eyed the fabric choices while Andy sat sweating from the heat AND the anticipation of how much I'd be spending. And we both met "Daisy" (that's the English translation of her Vietnamese name, which is MUCH harder to pronounce), who is the front-woman for the Thinh Thanh. She speaks the best English of her multi-member, magical sewing family which includes two sisters, one brother, three cousins, a dog and baby. She asks us casually with a bright, crooked smile and even brighter black eyes that flick back and forth between us and the tv blaring a Vietnamese nighttime soap, "You want to buy sum-theeng?" and points to the styles that adorn bust-and-torso only mannequins. We casually respond, "Not now, thank you. Just looking, but maybe tomorrow."

Frankly, at that moment, I was a little overwhelmed! Thinh Thanh, which probably measured no more than 15' wide by 10' deep, and was the front part of the first level of the family's centuries-old home, literally burst at the seams with fabrics of all color, texture and shine. One one side, worsted-wool with pinstripes and houndstooth for men's suits is piled high, and on one half of the back shelves is floor to ceiling high with cotton broadcloth for tailored work shirts while the other half of the back is a riotous rainbow of Asian silks...some flecked with golden bamboo and dragons and others raw with nubby threads and beautifully pure in their solid colors. The left side of the shop has bolts and bolts of cotton for women's dresses and rolls of wool for coats or skirts, and the center of the store holds extra bolts of random fabric and a tiny glass table, with even tinier metal chairs, where you do your bidding and bargaining with Daisy over a calculator and complimentary bottled water. I wasn't sure how I'd ever begin to choose what I'd like to have made, and I wanted to go home and think about it...and then test the waters to see if I felt custom-clothes were a good fit for me.

So, the next morning, after a cheap breakfast of eggs, baguettes and the best strawberry smoothies ever, Andy and I circled back through the slant-roof shophouse-lined streets to Thinh Thanh. Daisy and one of her sisters, who had a gorgeous oval face and creamy skin which blushed when I complimented her on it, were ready and waiting to relieve of us of our money and inhibitions. Andy and I had a few ideas of what we wanted: some Ben Sherman style shirts in fabric of his own flair and business slacks; a Chinese top in magenta and butter yellow silk and a floaty cotton dress for me copied a style of one I had in my backpack. As I slowly explained what I wanted and expressed my concern about their ability to sew for women with curves (over here, that's any female who is not Asian), but Daisy just smiled, nodded and flapped her hand saying, "Can! Can! Can!" She measured Andy and I with an old-fashioned orange vinyl tape and barked out the numbers in Vietnamese to her sister who sat at the tiny glass table writing our dimensions down in a dog-eared paper book. And told us to come back around 5:00pm for another fitting. 5:00PM!!! That was about 5 hours later, but we did as we were told.

At 5:03pm when we walked in the store, totally sweaty from our sightseeing, Daisy greeted us by pointing to our clothes hanging along the bolts of fabric by the one mirror in the store, and her sister got us bottles of cold water. Which I can never seem to unscrew properly without spilling as many SE Asian companies use the cheapest, squishiest plastic and when holding the bottle to unscrew the slippery lid, water inevitably squeezes out on to me and the floor. I guess Daisy's sister witnessed this in the AM, as she took over opening my bottle for me to avoid any spills...and most likely, to protect the silks in my vicinity. Andy's shirts looked awesome on the hanger, but seeing how sweat-slicked he was, I tried on my things first. Try to imagine sliding into satin and silk when it's 100 degrees and you're already moist and sticky with sweat. It's not pretty...trust me! I managed to get my Mandarin-style-with-a-twist top on, but couldn't get the silk frog clasps closed, so I stepped out of the dressing room (which was a curtained-off area below the stairwell to family's living quarters) with the top open and some of my bra showing. Daisy saw me as I entered back into the store and practically leapt across the room to cover me up and get the fros clasps closed. Obviously, the Vietnamese are very modest and I committed a faux pas, so from then on I was careful -- and she was careful. Every time I needed a zipper pulled down, she did it, then held the article of clothing tightly closed and walked me back to the dressing area. Whoops!

Our clothes looked and fit great, save for a few final nips and tucks, and we finished that up with Daisy pinning things and calling out orders to her sister to write in the old notebook. We had a funny moment of confusion where I wanted something adjusted and she said, "I think more low." Puzzled I looked at the already-low line of the top, and my bust, and couldn't imagine Ms. Conservative wanted me to sport serious cleavage! I told her that I thought it wasn't too low, and she looked back at me with surprise and said, "I think more low is more lub-ly." Andy and I looked at each other trying to decipher that one, and then I realized that Daisy meant "more loose" but says "more low". Once we got through that, which could have been a major clothing debacle if I'd ended up with an ultra-low cut, tight fitting top that embarrassed them the second I walked out of the dressing room, so that was a relief. And that translation came in handy for Andy when getting his slacks altered as "not more low" saved dire consequences!

Back and forth we went from Thinh Thanh to Hoi An's sites, fitting the UNESCO World Heritage treasures of Hoi An in between our fitting schedules. Our initial order of clothes turned out so great, in price and artistry, that we ordered a few more. And more. And more again. And one last item that had me overthinking and obsessing and then deciding with Andy's sweet encouragement, "What the hell?" and designing something of my own in chocolate raw silk that has elements of Burberry, Chloe and BCBG. Each time we visited Thinh Thanh, we spent more time with Daisy and met more members of her family. One sister, who spoke little English, but sewed a lot of my things including some skirts that I had copied out of a Singapore fashion magazine with my own 60's flair fabric, and I pirouetted around the store barefooted in glee when they fit perfectly and looked spectacular. Her face lit up and I hope it was because she knew I was happy instead of crazy. Daisy and her family also adored Andy (who wouldn't?) and I think it's because they rarely have a male client who comes to the store and has his own ideas of style that involves cool colors and fabrics beyond boring, basic broadcloth.

Each time we created, deliberated and were meausured, Andy and I got more time with Daisy and her family. One time, they fed us watermelon as we tried on drafts of clothes. Another time, Daisy asked us how old we were and hearing that I was older, she told us of her first love and almost marriage to a younger man that hadn't worked out because he'd left their town to get work and met someone else. Another time, as her brother raced off on a motorbike to get a shirt from its final alteration for Andy, Daisy told us about her life with her husband, daugther and family, and said how happy she was that everything had worked out, despite the heartbreak of her first love, and how happy she is. The three of us talked at lenght, albeit in simply, animated and abbreviated English so all could understand, about the importance of being happy in life and how grateful we are for good fortune. It was all, as Daisy might say, "quite lub-ly." When Andy and I finally said good-bye to Daisy and her family of Thinh Thanh, we felt sad. Our arms were laden with beautiful packages, but as we walked up the ancient street lit by blurs of lantern and flourescent lights, it seemed like we'd left something behind. I think it was our friendship with Daisy. Over the last four days, Andy and I enjoyed Daisy and her family's company and craftsmanship, we laughed over common feelings and each shared a little life history. Who knew getting fitted for clothes in Vietnam could ever be so intimate?

We have several more photos from Hoi An that we hope you will enjoy posted here (2 pages of photos): http://bitjug.com/gallery/HoiAn

The Call of Saigon

2006-05-31T00:00:00.000-06:00

We arrived in Saigon on May 1st, International Workers' Day and the perfect backdrop for setting foot in our second Communist nation. Vivid yet outdated to our post-USSR eyes, "hammer and sickle" banners and bold red flags with a single gold star hung from trees, buildings and lightposts, fluttering in the hot wind next to Nokia, Nivea and Nike ads. Interesting....communism and capitalism coexisting peacefully on one pole! Seeing the hammer and sickle is still strange to me, especially when it's flying above a street with unmistakable French architecture packed with people in conical hats and bustling with business. It's just not what you expect communism to be.~> read more

But that premise bodes perfectly for Vietnam -- the country is just not what you expect it to be. And it's great!

Because Andy and I stayed in Backpackers Budget Hostels in New Zealand and shared common living areas like the kitchen and bathroom (sigh...glad to be done with that and back to guest houses and hotels!), we talked with a lot of travelers and gathered recommendations and reflections on Vietnam. Most of it was good and we were excited. Tales of dynamic cities, towering pagodas, custom-sewn clothes, oodles of noodles and friendly yet cunning people danced in our heads as we cleared the stony-faced customs officials. In the airport, we were on our guard and pressed hard for our cab driver to use the meter. But that proved no problem, and as we zipped by the May Day/Labor Day decorations, we began to dissect and digest the surroundings of Saigon.

Or, as the government likes to call it, Ho Chi Minh City. Saigon was re-named post the "American War" (that's right...it's NOT called the "Vietnam War" here!), after the country's most revered leader-communist-philosopher-patriot-cult of personality. Ho is everywhere in Vietnam! And his image, which adorns everything from money to mopeds, is a funny cross between a white-haired Mr. Miyagi, Colonel Sanders (KFC recently opened here since Vietnam is no longer embargoed) and a Vietnamese peasant. In fact, we heard a funny story about someone else noticing the similarity between "Uncle Ho", as the people fondly refer to him, and KFC's Colonel and voicing this to a Vietnamese person who tartly responded, "No, Ho Chi Minh was a general!!!"

Besides lipstick red political banners and the face of Uncle Ho gazing wisely at you everywhere, Saigon sports a long, slow kiss of the French. Once the heartbeat of of "Indochine", France's colonial folly in the 19th through mid-20th centuries, Vietnam has the best of Parisian city planning and baguette boulangeries. Every walk in the city includes the smell of crusty French bread, the curvy shadows of art nouveau entryways and a few fountains and circular plazas that remind you only of Paris. Tall, impossibly skinny buildings the color of Easter candy fill Saigon, their decorative balconies sagging under the weight of wet and dry laundry, and their narrowness reflects French tax laws which based the fees on width instead of depth or height. Of course, the clever Vietnamese figured a smart way around that law to house their large families without paying handsomely by building tall (5 -7 floors of curvy stairs) instead of wide! In the city center, there's even a French-built Hotel de Ville that makes you swear you should be searching for the peaks and points of Notre Dame the distance, but then you look closer and see guards in vivid pea-soup green uniforms with red trim and a gold star protecting the doors and remember this is a Communist nation.

However, from where Andy and I sat in Saigon's sidewalk cafes and rooftop bars, on motorbikes and park benches, this doesn't look like or feel like a Communist nation. Capitalism is alive and both free enterprise and free thinking are afoot. There's an open show of religion; you see Cau Dai cult figures, Catholic crucifixes and Buddhist altars on every block. The Bourgeois are out and about, and wearing knock-off Bebe and Diesel! Yes, people wear conical straw hats in Saigon...but while commuting to work at multinational corporations and shops instead of rice paddies. The West inspires what's hot: posters of David Beckham, Mischa Barton and Coldplay adorn stores and all Vietnamese children in the internet cafes happily instant message on Yahoo. Yes, there are bread lines to satisfy our archetypical image of Communism, but it's for a baguette made with "La vache qui rit" cheese, fresh vegetables and some mysterious, terrifying pate--and the Vietnamese are eating this for breakfast or lunch as they dash about their busy, modern day on motorbike after motorbike after motorbike. (check out the link at the end of this message to see just how many there are!)

Saigon is especially vibrant at night. To walk its wide streets, and bravely cross them by taking a deep breath and diving out into the sea of motorbikes, is to see Vietnamese life in it's most pure form. Families sit on their haunches or on the tiniest plastic step stools (that look like a foot rest to me), barely levitating above the cracked sidewalks, gathered around low tables heaped with noodles, rice and grilled meat. A real wood fire in a silver metal bucket sizzles nearby, usually heating a banged-up kettle for coffee or instant noodles, and the whole family of grandparents, parents, children and babies chatter happily while clacking chopsticks against teeth and petite porcelain bowls. The air smells of singed flesh, warm fruit, Chinese herbs, motorbike exhaust and cigarettes...the staples of life in Vietnam...and you see nothing but smiles on both the weathered and fresh faces of Saigon's residents when walking late at night, the time when the work is done and family time begins.

As a whole, we're finding the people in Saigon are extremely eager to do business and make either dollars or dong, day or night. They're friendly, smiling, sweet and without malice toward us, even though we carry the navy blue US passport. They RUN to get change for the big bills the ATM dispenses to enable our purchases, always try upsell and bargain hard for every dong. In fact, bargaining with the Vietnamese is hilarious as you wrangle, dicker, barter and haggle over a price on a calculator in spirited, smiling fashion. Then, when the Vietnamese see your final price, they feign heat stroke and shock and must sit down because your price is so low and they have to feed their children and this price simply won't put food on the table...blah, blah, drama, drama, drama. But, then we start to laugh and they laugh, and we start again on debating a price and usually reach something fair.

But, you simply MUST calculate your restaurant bill EACH time to make sure the frequent errors, which are never in your favor, are corrected. So Andy, Mr. Math, must always be on his toes! It also seems a price isn't a real price until you've seen what the locals paid and then what you're charged. I guess when you're at the heady crossroads of capitalism and communism, something's gotta give. Andy and I find what gives is the clarity and permanence of pricing for those of us already familiar with free enterprise. However, so far, Vietnam's vibrant atmosphere makes that pale in comparison.

More photos: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Saigon

Things We Fear Upon Return...

2006-05-24T09:53:00.000-06:00

Andy and I are talking more and more about "re-entry" to reality, and discovered we each have a few funny fears (beyond the basic "where will we live? will we find jobs? are my shoes still safe in storage?"...okay, so that's just me!)that stem directly from our months of travel in Asia.

Here's a list of things we're afraid of:

1) Entering a store, whether Nordstrom or Jamba Juice, and immediately bargaining over an item's -- any item -- price. "5 dollars for a Large Grape Escape? ... ha, ha. I'll give you $2.50, best price!" At this point, we're so used to reverse sticker shock...sticker prices are always negotiable, the reverse of what's true at home...that I could see us making fools out ourselves at the register.

2) Ignoring nice people on the street, many of whom we know, saying "Hello! Hello!" to us since that's what all the touts do here and we're able to walk by them these days without flinching or responding.

3) Enduring massive depression when we see the limited options of street food...What??? Only hot dogs? No pad thai, sticky rice~> read more

or grilled corn with lemon salt!?!...it's gonna be bad.

4) Ordering with our hands in a slow motion manner that ends with us holding up a finger and saying, "one order" -- pronouncing "one" as a three syllable word
"o-n-e" -- since mistakes have been made and we've ended up with two mango shakes, two plates of samosas and one puzzled server.

5) Experiencing momentary panic attacks when we unconsciously feel our chests for our travel pouches and realize we don't have our passports on our bodies.

6) Driving and crossing the street. At this point, we truly don't know left from right, red from green, stop from run-for-your-life since everything is subjective (who really stops their moto for red lights? which country's pedestrians ever get a 'walk' signal?) and changes country to country, no matter who colonized it!

7) Hoarding small change since no one ever has enough "small money" to break our ATM-generated big bills and make change for cab fares, bottled water and street food.

8) Thinking metric and being slow to understand common measurements as we convert naturally to kilos and kilometers and celsius, then doing the math backward to calculate it into inches, pounds and farenheit. Stepping on the scale will be a real downer too!

9) Dehydrating ourselves on purpose before getting on any form of public transportation so we don't have to use the public restroom facilities, i.e. the squat toilets with mothballs for freshness or the open troughs of urine with ice to cool its temperature and smell.

10) Unconsciously taking our shoes off outside of important public buildings and religious structures. The upside of this, however, is that we'll no longer need to tip the "shoe wallahs" who 'watch' our shoes when we enter temples, tombs and monuments.

Singapore Swings...and India lingers

2006-05-20T00:40:00.000-06:00

Andy and I had exactly 24 hours in Singapore. And no guidebook. Trying to cut corners where possible, we opted not to purchase a book (we'll save that money for Bali!) and instead wing it via websites and information counter maps.

I honestly didn't have a great desire to visit Singapore because I had an image of a tropical, modern Gotham and heard it has no soul, but lots of heat. But, thanks to Andy's surfing wizardry and masterful airline research, it was cheaper for us to fly to Singapore on Tiger Air, stay over for one night and then fly to Ho Chi Minh City than to fly directly via a major carrier from Bangkok so we added it to our itinerary. We even had some spending money available for our stopover thanks to the fare savings, which we'd need in this expensive-for-asia city.

I knew of the charming Raffles Hotel, whose famous Singapore Sling revolutionized cocktails, spicy food stalls and a modern airport complete with sleeping berths and duty free shopping to die for. But as it turns out, there is more to it, some things even a little charming, and we were both pleasantly suprised by our 24 hours in Singapore. Indeed there are modern towers of concrete and glass, but in between, there are petite colonial buildings with Palladian windows and wooden shutters painted in a riot of colors.~> read more

Singapore also has a quaint harbor area where we rode a "bumboat", which is a primitive, wooden tug boat once used to ferry cargo from the big ships in the harbor up the river. Each boat has giant eyes painted on its bow for good luck per a Chinese myth, and the grizzled old man who steered our boat looked Malaysian but the person who sold us our tickets was Indian. Singapore is decidedly diverse, and it's been awhile since we've been somewhere that reminds us of the racial, cultural melting pot that is America.

We did all of our exploring on the SMRT, their subway and train system, and I was shocked to see it was cleaner than many of our hotel rooms on this trip! How do they do it? Andy realized how immediately and pointed to signs that stated fines for nearly everything from littering to eating inside the train, and then above ground, warnings for jaywalking and abusing emergency exits--any of the aforementioned could cost you between $500 and $2000! Unique and somewhat "Big Brother", but it works. We didn't see any trash any place ... until we got on the line headed for "Little India".

I'd read Little India was one of the most colorful quarters of Singapore to visit, so after a little mall hopping (Asia is the only place where Andy enjoys a mall more than I do because they're exploding with electronics and watches, two of his favorite things), we headed out for a bite of tikka masala. It was quite a sensory journey, however--more so than anywhere else we visited on the tiny island nation. On the subway, bits of trash crept up around us as we neared "Little India", along with the smell of hot oil and onions, plus colorful hordes of humans in moustaches and saris crowded us more than anywhere before. Andy and I looked at each other in surprise and silent communication..."Can you believe the change? It feels a LOT like India! Did you see that moustache? Look at that fabric!"

Once we stepped above ground, we had to exclaim to each other. "HOLY COW!?!" was all we could think. Around us, seeping into our senses and pores, was the most realistic, somehow-exported piece of India you could ever imagine! Gazing at the all-male crowds loafing about and talking, the deafening noise level of Hindu music and horns, the posters of elephant-trunked Ganesh and garish signs in gaudy colors, the complete lack of women and smells that ran the gamut from hot peppers to stale piss, we knew we could be nowhere else but India.

Though thousands of miles away and months ago in our travel memories, India's chaos and contradictions were suddenly around us again. It was copmletely surreal. Andy and I walked around in a daze, assaulted by the smell hot dosas and fresh turmeric while fending off eager men selling us gold and knock-off clothes. Yet we were completely absorbed in how authentic, how potent Little India felt to us. Somehow we were suddenly transported from Singapore to Jaipur or Mamallapuram, and every sense in our beings was dialed up to full volume. I realized in living, breathing color that in comparison to New Zealand, Laos, Cambodia, Thailand and Singapore, there is nothing like India. India invades your senses and soul like a virus. But once you're cured and far away from it, some tiny part of you wants to be sick again just to remember what it's like to be confronted by everything humanity has to offer, from the best and brightest to the most squalid and horrific. In India, you must take the bad with the good, but for me it remains a complex, mysterious place that polarizes my senses, feelings and experiences like nowhere else in the world.

...Oh yes, the Singapore Sling was good -- perfectly pink color and way too sweet -- but Raffles' Long Bar where it was invented is right out of Indochine...all dark teak, swaying rattan fans and tunic-topped servers who float about noiselessly. The incongrous part, however, is that they serve bowls of peanuts and in this posh hotel, you munch away and toss the empty shells on the beautiful darkwood floor. And the street food was interesting -- I've now had bean curd pudding, sugar cane juice and an awesome fried coconut and pandan dumpling that would make doughnuts taste like a stale baguette. The airport shopping wasn't so great, however -- the Singaporeans don't like people to "browse" and try on creams and perfumes, and were all over me like the cheap suits I saw for sale in Little India.

Don't be Krabi; there's plenty to eat!

2006-05-20T00:30:00.000-06:00

We overnighted in Krabi, Thailand on our way between the Andaman coast of Thailand and Vietnam. It's a port city without too much to offer travelers aside from cheap accomodation (we stayed at the "city hotel" which was a very good value), and a good airport. However, we arrived off the longtail boat (astoundingly loud narrow wooden motorboats, which have much more bark than bite (they're slow!)) hungry, so we struck out to find a place to eat. As we walked along the waterfront, we found an excellent option!

Think medium sized parking lot (by American standards) with about 100 hot dog stand carts lined up in three rows. Between and outside these rows are many, many folding tables and cheap plastic chairs. Here, they're not selling hot dogs. Oh no. Some stands just sell one item, such as Tiffany's favorite dessert, fresh mango with sweet sticky rice. Other stands, only slightly larger, offer a full Thai menu that's bigger than the Red Robin's menu! Most dishes are under $1, unless you order giant prawns or something else really unusual.

As we walked around, we heard a now familiar sound ... Thunk - squish - Thunk -squish - Thunk - squish ... in rapid sucession.~> read more

This is the sound of green papaya salad (which has no leafy greens). The green papaya itself is similar to cucumber cut in long strings, but it's mixed with fish sauce (better than it sounds, it's used for salty flavor), a few dried shrimp, chilies, lime juice, palm sugar, crushed peanuts, tomatoes, and a longer, zestier version of the green bean called "snake bean" in english. It's all mixed up in the proper order with a careful touch in a large sort of mortar and pestle, the pestle made of wood and the mortar (which is the bowl) made of clay, like a flower pot with a gently rounded shape. As the salad is mixed, a spoon is used to pull up the wet mixture from the bottom (creating the squish sound) and the pestle is then Thunk-ed back down.

We gravitated toward this sound (we love the salad), and saw that the woman making the salads (and sounds) was as well-worn as her mortar and pestle. I asked her for a som tam (green papaya salad) using the thai words, perhaps with miserable pronunciation. She knew what I wanted. I pointed to the large jar of chilies, held up three fingers. The seasoned salad-maker raised an eyebrow. This is one of the spiciest thai dishes, but most farang (westerners) would be challenged by just 1 of these "mouse dropping chilies" which have a fire as big as they are small. She could see I knew what I was ordering, and tossed them in. She gave them 10 solid mashes as I was watching, which caused me to rethink my choice of "3" chilies, since we had mashed them far more gently in our cooking class! I also pointed to the dime-sized dry shrimp, and made a small pinch with my hand to show her I just wanted a little (too many = too fishy for me). Beyond these instructions, I let her work her magic with the recipe and touch of the pestle.

We were directed to take some flimsy seats at a flimsy table on the sidewalk. A few minutes later, my som tam was delivered. I took a bite. Western food doesn't often combine amazing freshness (as in a salad straight from the farmer's market) with fiery hot spice, but it's become one of my favorite things. Three chilies pounded hard produced devlish heat, but I loved it! This was the best som tam I've had yet, and we've had it everywhere we've been from Bangkok south. Only one thing could pair with this explosive salad, and that's an ice cold beer.

Fearing the worst, we asked if beer was available. Of course! What tiny 1-entree food stand on the sidewalk wouldn't have it? Furthermore, it came in 650ml bottles (nearly two cans worth) and was some of the coldest beer we've had in Asia. It's hard to get really cold beer over here, since refrigerator space is at a premium, if the establishment even has one. How they can get frost on the outside of the bottle at a sidewalk place is beyond me; perhaps dry ice is the secret. In any case, we didn't have just one beer to cool down those chilies, and when we were finished, we wandered back to our hotel room more than satisfied with our culinary experience on the street.

Aquamarine seas and Climbing the walls that rise from them

2006-05-20T00:10:00.001-06:00

As I described, we spent a couple of days on Ko Phi Phi. Especially with the Passport debacle, we would have enjoyed a couple more, but I wanted to make another stop before our flight to Vietnam. That place: Railay. Legendary among rock climbers for incredibly overhanging routes with the sea just beneath, like this:

And as you can see from the aerial photo at the top, the beach doesn't suck either. Well, the one on the left doesn't, though the one on the right kind of does. The beach in the foreground of the photo is only reachable by~> read more

boat from the others, or serious bush-whacking. In fact, though Railay is connected to mainland Thailand, it feels more like an island than even Ko Phi-Phi, because it is less developed and there are still no roads running there, everything must come in by boat (including you!)

I set aside a full day to go climbing. It would have been fun to hang around for a week or two climbing most days, but that's not really part of our larger plan. I still had great fun with the time I had. It's critical to have a partner for climbing who is similar to your ability level, and of course be able to find where to climb! I think Tiffany would be good at it, but she just tried the first time in New Zealand, and an organized trip for a day was the same price as the route guidebook, and I also needed to rent all the equipment, so going with the group was a no-brainer. In the end, I found a couple of partners through the group with similar ability, and climbed with them.

Honestly, I think the really amazing climbs require a top condition climber, which I'm unfortunately not right now. It's not just a matter of being in shape; it's being in climbing shape. However, the climbs that I did were a lot of fun, and comparable to some of the better sport climbing I've done back in the states.

It's important for your hands to stick to the rock when climbing, so you don't fall off! If your hands get sweaty, they get slippery. However, there is a handy solution: gymnast's chalk. Considering the temperature was probably in the 90s with nearly 100% humidity, I really had my doubts about the ability of any chalk to keep my grippers dry. As I watched our small Thai guide scurry up the route first like a gecko, sweat poured down my chest and back, despite having no shirt on at all. I wasn't hopeful. When the guide zipped back down, he was ... BONE dry. I still have no idea how it is possible. The thai guides are better climbers than me, to be sure. But they just don't have a problem with physical exertion in this heat. I think they could run a mile and still might not break a sweat.

As I continued to drip on the dirt, the thai guide gave a norwegian guy who was totally new to climbing a 1-minute crash course in belaying, which could also be known as holding the climber's life in your hands. The climber was to be me, so fearing I would put the crash in "crash course" I slowly taught him how to belay again, and explained the words I would use to indicate my needs to him. Then, I hopped on the wall and gave it a shot. Even my first climb was a great one, with interesting challenges, and the wily norwegian got me back to the ground safe as can be (it's a great heritage ;).

Miraculously, even as sweat poured off of my body, the chalk still worked, and I was able to climb just as well as I could in any temperature. This experience was a wonderful reminder of some of the pursuits I enjoy at home, from within the adventure of travel. I look forward to getting back into climbing a little bit at home, though if my equipment ever gets as rusty as what I used in Railay, I'm selling it for scrap metal!

Ko Phi Phi

2006-05-20T00:10:00.000-06:00

Finding that Phuket was a little more packed with buildings and commerce than the beach destination we pictured, we moved on to Ko Phi-Phi, one of Thailand's famous islands but more popular with young backpackers than big resorts as of yet. The Island is an amazing piece of geology, with a long north-south spine of limestone rising 500-1000 feet high, runing parallel to a very similar spine half a mile away. In between, A thin isthmus of sand provides the horizontal part, making an H, and the isthmus also provides the flat ground upon which the island's facilities are built, which mainly consist of one or two level guest houses and relatively cheap hotels.

There are beaches on each side of the isthmus, offering few waves thanks to the shelter of the big spines, but beautiful water and white sand. There is a market on the island offering cheap meals for any and all, but everything must be brought to the island by boat. The island was devastated by the December 2004 tsunami, and perhaps due to the difficulty of removing trash and wreckage by boat, and bringing new building materials by boat, it is still not fully recovered. However, it is relatively quiet this time of year and was a great place to relax for a couple of days.

Unfortunately, most of my first day was spent going back to Phuket. I'd left my passport as a guarantee for a motorcycle I'd rented, and the lady forgot to return it to me, though I also forgot to ask. So I rode 2.5 hours by ferry one way, a little over an hour by motorbike from the pier to the hotel and back, waited another hour, then another 2.5 hours on the ferry. Needless to say, I was ready to jump in the water when I returned in the afternoon!

A few more photos from this beautiful island area are here:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/PhuketKrabi

Fit To Be Thai: Pat's cooking class

2006-05-20T00:00:00.000-06:00

With a name like Pat in Thailand, I was a bit skeptical. But, we'd read about her in both Lonely Planet and "To Asia With Love", so we called from a payphone outside of 7/11 and signed up for 'Pat's Home Cooking Classes'. After hearing that we'd be learning to make our favorites like Penang curry and papaya salad, Andy and I walked inside the 7/11 to pretend to shop, but really just to cool down in its blissfully cold air conditioning and celebrate. Finally, we'd have the chance to learn about the dishes we eat daily with near reverie while in Thailand!

Arriving on a rainy morning foreshadowing the imminent monsoons, Pat, a petite, wholly-Thai looking lady in her forties with a modern hair cut, greeted us with glasses of lemongrass ice tea wrapped in banana leaf and garnished orchids. "Whoa! Nice! Classy and SO Thai," I thought.~> read more

People from Thailand take such care in food presentation and arrangement, truly like no other countries we've encountered so far, and this simple yet elegant start made me positive that Andy and I were going to come away with the best of souvenirs: secrets of Thai cooking.

I was so eager that I wanted to talk tofu, then cook it, immediately. But Pat wanted to sit in the entry parlor to her home and talk about herself, Thailand and us. Very nice, very polite, very Asian -- I felt so American and typical. Here I was ready to rush off to the kitchen and be productive, but she wanted to exchange pleasantries and ease into the moment. Sigh...you can take the American girl to Asia, but you can't take the American out of the girl. Soon enough, Andy and I were in her large indoor, yet open air, cooking studio (it was the largest and most professional of all that we've visited so far) donning burgundy aprons and washing our hands in a clay basin. Pat handed us each cutting boards and knives, and then started going through the exotic yet now familiar ingredients of the Thai kitchen.

For the next three hours, Andy and I choppped, smashed, squeezed, sauteed, stir-fried vegetables, herbs and noodles for curry, soup and Pad Thai (noodles), plus tumbled a jumble of ingredients gently in a mortar and pestle (something that is essential for true SE Asian cuisine) to create a perfectly spiced som tam (green papaya salad). Then, for an hour or more afterward, we sat in Pat's dining room and gorged ourselves on our creations.

What I liked best about the classes with Pat (we liked our first one so much that we called her back that evening and signed up for a private lesson), is that I finally feel like I got tips, shortcuts and insider information so I can replicate some of these dishes at home...wherever that may be. Thai food is exceptionally challenging because there are so many fresh herbs and spicy chilies (which come thanks to the exploration of the Portuguese) and even one "wrong" ingredient spirals the taste off in a less authentic direction. Now I know how to shop for fish sauce (it should be the clear color of maples syrup), you can substitute any fresh mushrooms for straw mushrooms, and Chaokoh coconut milk is the best brand. Pat cooked for six years at a Thai restaurant on Melrose Avenue in LA and convinced a few stars to break their rigid diets and taste her dishes, so she knows what ingredients are available in the US.

Also, Andy and I spent close to 15 minutes under her tutelage squeezing desicated coconut meat (from the older and fuzzy brown coconuts) in hot water to make fresh coconut cream, which we later used for curries. We smashed stalks of lemon grass ever so perfectly (three whacks until they're flat, but no more) and learned how the root of coriander/cilantro is incredibly flavorful and valuable for soups, so we should pound on it too and throw into herby stocks! Plus, under Pat's sharp black-brown eyes, and even sharper tongue that wasn't afraid to tell us when we were doing things wrong ("Too fat!" or "Mmm, no good! I show you!" she'd chirp in the perenially foreign and incredibly shrill rising and falling tones that dominate Asia's languages, and seem to leak into english as well), we picked up a few new knife skills. We shredded kaffir lime leaves into dental floss size strips for fish cakes and Penang with cleaved whacks, while tearing others only in half...because for soups, you need fuller flavor and for curries and cakes, you need only bits of their floral yet tangy limeness.

Pat especially loved Andy (who wouldn't, really?) because he's a whiz with a knife and she could tell that he does chopping and cooking at home. And, he has "very strong, very big (beeg is how Pat says it) hands" for squeezing coconut creme. Each class she smiled and spoke of his hands and strength, and I laughed silently thinking their exchange was a funny, not so wicked twist on Little Red Riding Hood. Sort of a "Little Flowered Sarong meeting Big Bad Western Man-Hands" fairy tale...

In the final moments as we plated hot foods, mounding noodles into dome shapes or squeezing fresh lime juice into soup bowls to make the "sour" of "hot and sour", Pat imparted direction on how to serve with Thai flair. We cris-crossed scallions, sprinkled peanuts and dusted a green layer on white plates with kaffir lime leaves and sweet basil. Now, she nodded with approval, our meal was ready! Thai food is as much about perfect, harmonious presentation as it is about the hot-sour-tangy-salty-sweet layers of flavor. Pat liked to leave us alone to stuff our faces in silence for the first few minutes, then she'd bound back with the same energy as her darling Beagle puppy that adored us and our paper napkins, and ask questions about how much things cost in America (that's very popular over here), gently offer the rental of her mountain house, give advice on traveling Thailand and more.

As we finished the most perfect plate ever of sweet sticky rice and just in season mango, Pat had us sign her guestbook (this is also very popular in Asia and India) and I felt a little twinge of something. It wasn't the heat of chilies in my stomach, it was something different...almost a type of sadness. For the fleeting beauty of the meal, perhaps a little. But even more, I believe, it was about our hours with Pat and how fun and free it was to share food and friendship. Like the Thai cuisine, many of our travel moments are hot, sour, salty and sweet, and also like those definitive, satisfying flavors, I don't always want them to end.

A few more photos from this great class are here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/PatsClass

Diving back into Thailand

2006-05-19T00:10:00.000-06:00

As our plane dipped down from the smoggy clouds in approach for Bangkok International Airport, I looked out at the dense landscape of twinkling lights and cement towers and said to Andy, "Look at that. In our view are more people than live in all of New Zealand! Hello culture shock."

And with that, our wheels hit the ground and we were back in Asia. Exotic, chaotic, crowded, odorous Bangkok...our home away from home on this trip. Though the city isn't our own, it's become so on this trip. We have "our" guesthouse, where the ladies at the desk are uncharacteristically brisk but know us, "our" cafe with the best red curry in the nation, "our" ATM machines with the best conversion rates, and tons of metered (we LOVE the meter!) taxis with full-blast AC and drivers who sing along to pop music as if they're practicing for American Idol. We always seem to arrive back in Bangkok at odd hours, and whether 12:17am or 3:12am, the familiarity is comforting and we feel happy.

We didn't linger, however, and instead headed right back to the airport after 6 hours of sleep at "our" place and two hours of reshuffling warm clothes for cool clothes, jamming our storage locker full of wool and selling our NZ books on Khao San road for a few hundred baht. Though frankly, nothing is cool enough for us...we're in shock -- it's 20 degrees CELSIUS hotter than where we were 24 hours ago in NZ!!! Andy, master of discount airlines and their websites, found us ridiculously cheap tickets($40 each) to Phuket, so off we jetted to Thailand's most fabled, most touristed island in the Andaman Sea..~> read more

The monsoons start in early May, so we jumped right back into Southeast Asia's turquoise-teal warm waters to scuba dive at Thailand's limestone pinnacles and reefs at least once. On our first day in Phuket, we had tea in an air-conditioned cafe called Andaman Coffee that has ripped off everything about Starbucks including its green and white color scheme and snappy CD mixes. I wouldn't say we miss Starbucks per se, but finding a place where I could actually drink hot tea without breaking a sweat was alluring. Inside, Andy spotted a man wearing a dive shop t-shirt who spoke little English and had a whopping sunburn (like nearly all germans in phuket), but he managed to communicate by pointing and pantomiming and got a recommendation from the guy for Sea Bees Diving. Sea Bees turned out to be a German operation that runs as smoothly as those Porsche engines Andy adores. We did a "Super Sunday" diving extravaganza with them, had a dive master named Armin who was hairless, "huuuuge" in the "pump you up" sense and hilarious because he talked a lot like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Like Ahr-nold, Armin had almost perfect English save for a few winning phrases like his pep talk while we lifted air tanks that included "what not kills you, makes you harder!"

With Armin leading the way and telling us we'd "rohck zee haus fah zhuur" on each dive, Andy and I enjoyed a fun, exhausting day in the ocean that ended in typical German style--on time and with a beer. We saw a number of clown fish (Nemo), lion fish, giant grouper, crabs, schools of squid and glass fish and needlefish, but my favorites were the small nurse sharks and the fairly large-but-harmless leopard shark. Thailand has a number of benign sharks that hang out at their reefs and the amazing limestone islands that sink from the sky down deep into the sea and make for dramatic "wall" dives, and we saw them lazing about under rocks and sleeping on the ocean floor while the "cleaner" fish danced around them. Nurse sharks look just like those gray plastic toy sharks, only bigger, but the leopard shark was unlike anything I expected. That guy truly was truly spotted and speckled in brown, black and gold, and looked just like one of my skirts, quite impressive at around 8 feet long!

Phuket itself was in places beautiful, tropical and dreamy, and in others vividly commercial, seedy and totally infested with sunburnt Europeans. It's a huge island with several different beach areas that we explored on foot and motorbike, having one especially fun day where we hit four different beaches and swam up and down the coast, yet there are always traces of commerical plunder. To us, Phuket's unapologetic tourism plus a healthy dose of the sex trade between Thai girls and old Western men overshadows its charm. I'm glad we visited and saw the sunny sprawl that is Phuket, but I'm not sure we'll be back. The diving was rewarding and fun, but both Andy and I are excited to dive deeper into Thailand's western coast and find a different piece of paradise.

Dusky Dawn

2006-05-19T00:00:00.000-06:00

We heard rave reviews about this activity. Well, our guidebook mentioned rave
reviews, and we talked to some people who had talked to some other people. Hmm. This is often the way the reviews come in, and sometimes there is disappointment. But this time, there was NO disappointment!

Possibly the highlight of our trip to New Zealand was the "Dolphin Encounter" in Kaikoura, New Zealand. Here, on the north end of the east side of the south island (got that?), there is a very deep canyon system in the ocean, and it is very unique that in Kaikoura this canyon system comes very close to the shore of the land. Because of the deep water, a large amount of plankton and other marine life comes up nearer the surface than it normally would, which in turn brings the animals that feed on this marine life up.

This means that whales and dolphins in particular are easily spotted here, and in fact kaikoura is a world famous whale-watching destination. However, we had heard about a little more intimate experience, swimming "with" the dolphins.~> read more (with photos)

We were very fortunate to have great weather for our swim day, which is by no means guaranteed.

The day of our swim, we were requested to show up to Dolphin Encounter headquarters at 5:30 am. This building is right along the waterfront, but at 5:30 it was totally dark (just like the sky!), but we saw a mass of people huddled outside the building. Soon, the building opened up and we checked in. We were then sized up for masks, snorkels, fins, and thick 2-piece wetsuits for the cold water (comparable to the oregon coast). Then, we watched a video explaining that we might not see anything, where to find the life vests on the boat we hadn't yet laid eyes on, and that when we are in the water we should squeak madly into our snorkels and possibly dive down into the cold cold water. Quite mistifying, really.

We were bussed to the boat and climbed on. As we steamed on to where the dolphins were presumably located, the sunrise behind the land to the back of the boat took on amazing fiery proportions (see photo). The weather was calm, and we knew it was going to be a good day one way or another.

The Dolphin Encounter people have a specific process figured out. First, the "swimmers" (that's us) get suited up in our wetsuits, fins, masks, and snorkels. Then, the captain finds a pod of 300-500 dolphins, which are easy to see once you're there from the fins on the surface, but I don't know how they find the pod in the first place. Once tight groups of fins are seen totally surrounding the boat, the captain rings the buzzer, which reminds me of this horn blast they used in swim competitions I was in as a kid after they phased out the cap gun. Very loud, sharp sound, and also meant to signal that you should dive into the water! Picture two benches the whole width of a large boat, each level packed with snorkeled and finned swimmers diving into the water!!

However, we were advised to dive smoothly and quietly (good luck with all that gear), so that we didn't scare the dolphins away. Once in the water, all we could see was beautiful blue-green sea, in a pristine color I've only seen in New Zealand. We had bright sunlight making the water glow that day. All we could see was this blue; the water was around 1500 feet deep! So imagine just having jumped in very cold water, looking around frantically, a little bit scared, not knowing what to expect, and ... ZOOM! A grey blur whizzes by you. What was that? A dusky dolphin of course. And you see more, more and more! In fact, they are more often swimming in groups of 2 or 3 than alone, just mere inches between one dolphin's fin and the body of the next.

It's difficult to describe the feeling of seeing animals who can swim with such amazing grace glide by just a few feet in front of your face. Awe is certainly a big part of the emotion. But there's also a bit of desperation, as these amazing marine mammals are just zooming past you, and you'd sure like to have a moment with them. We were taught in our video briefing to sing through our snorkel, which seemed completely ridiculous at the time, but once we were in the water, everyone was doing it! This is intended to get the dolphins' attention, they are very inquisitive creatures. It is also possible to dive down to entertain them. They are surprisingly unafraid, unlike wild mammals on the land.

So, your goal is to make some wild noises or move around to get the dolphins' attention. Inevitably, the first several zip right by, but even the first time we were in the water both Tiffany and I were able to catch the attention of a few dolphins. If you catch a dolphin's attention, he or she will swim around you in a circle, so we would try to swim in a circle ourselves to follow them. It takes all a human swimmer's ability just to keep up with a dolphin's slowest pace. As it swims around you, the dolphin will keep its eye on you, and if you follow it, you can gaze right into its eye. This eye contact is a very personal experience that truly feels like eye contact with a very intelligent being that is interested in you, and even seems to know something about you. Their eyes are deep, unlike a fish. You just feel their playfulness and intelligence during this experience.

After the pod moved, we were loaded back onto the benches on the back of the boat twice more, and again dumped into the water with the buzzer once the boat had found the dolphins again. In the last session, Tiffany had a very touching experience where she was not only able to get a dolphin's attention, but as she swam, the dolphin mirrored her movements. This feeling is just so different from the interaction we have had with any other animals in the world. We certainly wish the dolphins the best, and we will think carefully about dolphins in the future. They are a very special part of our world!

There are a few more photos for your viewing pleasure, including one of a dusky dolphin jumping, as they certainly seem to enjoy doing!:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/KaikouraDolphins

Dying for the Vine

2006-05-02T11:23:00.000-06:00

Visiting the wineries that cultivate the zingy, fruity Sauvignon Blancs which I adore was something I counted down the days until in New Zealand. Especially as we traveled through countries with exactly zero good wine; I craved just one delicious sip to savor with Andy over conversation and atmosphere. [Note: I refuse to count wine coolers as a viable option, though they were available in Laos.] So as we finally journeyed, tasted, swirled, smelled and sipped our way through Central Otago and Marlborough in New Zealand, I was in grape heaven.

Since I probably push the edge of the blog with my near-neurotic food descriptions, I don't want to bore you all by waxing poetic on noses of passion fruit and goose berries and velvety finishes of coffee, cocoa and spice.

In summary:

The bad news is that we couldn't afford to ship any of the fine wines home. Look for Akarua, Kathy Lynskey, Huia, Seresin, Lawson's Dry Hills, Aurum, Chard Farm, Bald Hills and Bladen in restaurants and wine stores. They scored a near 100 points with us, especially Kathy Lynsky and Huia.

The good news, however, is that we didn't crash while riding our bikes through the acres of vines and that we're off to SE Asia and NOT Betty Ford after our days of tasting!~> read more (with photos)

Oh, and Kim Crawford of the ubiquitous Kim Crawford label and screw-cap pioneer, is a guy!

In greater detail:

After drinking in the wines and scenery, it's time to set the record straight on New Zealand's wines: there is a hell of a lot more there to quench the palate than just "savvie" (their term for sauvignon blanc). Whether pinot noir, riesling, rose, bubbles (champagne-method) or gewurztraminer, the Kiwis are concocting some delicate yet definitive, fresh and food-friendly liquid poetry that woos and satisfies the palates like both Napa and the Loire.

We loved our days in the vineyards not only for the wine, but because the lush yet rocky landscapes and charming people enhanced every sip. Central Otago lies on the South Island not far from Queenstown and is filled with rough-hewn, gravelly, bald hills that contrasted beautifully with the autumn leaves blooming gold and crimson halfway up the steep sides. (Remember, we're in the Southern Hemisphere and it's the cusp of autumn there right now! Craziness!) There, the water is a mineral-enhanced blue-green and people bungy jump off single-lane bridges that connect the small, curvy roads that wind through acres vineyards and farmland. It's the world's southernmost wine region and we were on the 45th Parallel...of the southern hemisphere! Marlborough sprawls along the salty sounds and cloudy bays of Cook Strait and gets more days of sunshine than anywhere in NZ. Biking through rows and rows of vines, roses and olive trees on stony soil, we were cooled by the fresh breezes that influence its wine. I believe it's a similar landscape to California's North Coast, but with better 'fush 'n chups'.

Save for the biggies like Cloudy Bay and Brancott, the wineries are small and all about quality instead of quantity. At Kathy Lynskey, we had an awesome tasting with Kathy and her partner Kent, enjoying everything from their renegade and risky (because of the climate) merlots to their fruity, velvety olive oil on warmed-just-for-us ciabatta. While visiting Huia, we spent over 30 minutes talking with a Czech lady who's apprenticing there and hopes to return to Bohemia to develop the industry, and at both Bald Peak and Olssens, we met their respective dogs, Jack and Nola. We also tasted wines with Judy Finn of Neudorf (co-owner with her husband Tim) and heard about her teenage daughter's love of sushi and the fact she feels it pairs beautifully with rose!

My personal favorite interaction, however, was at Aurum, a small family-owned winery in Cromwell. There, we tasted with Joan Lawrence, the wife of the owner, and while swirling their Burgundy-style pinot noir in fancy Riedel glasses, her vintner husband Tony came racing in with a carafe of something that looked like very light beer -- pale yellow and cloudy. "Here," he cried jubilantly while pouring all three of us a taste, "try this! It's next year's Chard!" And indeed it was...young chardonnay, hazy with yeast and sugary like kicky grape juice. Tony was out in the tanks in their barn tasting his future, and we all got to experience it, along with his enthusiam, first hand. A few minutes later, an eight-month old toddler crawled across the tasting room floor and Joan scooped her up without missing a beat in her detail of their worry about rain in the last days of harvest. Baby Mathilde is the Lawrenece's granddaughter, and their French daughter-in-law came through the door next. She and the Lawrence's son are the next generation of Aurum and focusing on pinot noir. In the most hilarious, human moment, Andy and I learned that Joan and the daughter-in-law don't agree on cheese: one is partial to NZ's hard cheddars and the believes singlemindedly in the superiority of French fromage.

As with most great art, the wines of New Zealand are personal. Visiting there, we experienced it intimately in first person and tasted the art-meets-science liquid that is wine in a setting as charming as the old world, yet as unique as the new. Both Andy and I later talked about all of the information we gained at the wineries and how we can't wait to surprise a sommelier who doesn't expect we actually know something about natural yeasts and what a little oak can do to sauv blanc. However, what truly stood out for us and will linger is the appreciation and respect we gained for the people who live and die by the vine to make it.

We have a few photos from central otago here, which includes us doing some other fun things in Queenstown: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Queenstown

AND we've also put together a very short gallery from the famous Marlborough region: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Marlb

Milford Sound: Not So Silent

2006-05-02T02:06:00.000-06:00

Everyone said we must visit. Whether by land or sea, bus or boat, it was imperative that Andy and I take in the wonders of Milford Sound, the heart and soul of Fiordland National Park, so we made arrangements to drive the five hours from Queenstown (not that making Andy drive anywhere after being a tuk-tuk and rickshaw passenger in Asia is a hardship), got reservations at the Milford Lodge for two nights and reserved ourselves spots on a sea kayak, a cruise, the underwater observatory and to hike the last two miles of the world famous Milford Track. If we were doing it, we were going to do it right -- and in as much style as is possible when backpacking. Thus, this meant new rainbow striped long underwear for me to survive the temperatures that are damn cold post-SE Asia, Cadbury hot chocolate and a bottle or two of Central Otago pinot noir.

Driving into Milford is beautiful, but honestly, nearly every journey you drive in New Zealand has moments of spectacular scenery whether it's fields of fuzzy and freshly-shorn sheep, pools of cerulean blue water with a clarity like glass, steep mountains wearing scarves of fluffy white clouds, or dense forests of hodgepodge ferns, beech, pine and palm trees. Driving NZ is a two-fold treat for us too as being in a car is constantly a unique sense of freedom -- we get in, we drive, we don't negotiate the fare, we're in control -- with a glorious backdrop of natural splendor. Add an iPod, and you're in heaven!

Things really got exciting as we emerged on the other side of the Homer Tunnel, an eerie, narrow chunk of rock they've cut through to make a primitive car passage, but one so raw it drips natural spring water from the roof and has the only occasional weak bulb lights that emit a yellowish glow for the near five-minute dark drive.~> read more (with photos)

As bright light cut the darkness, we emerged on the other side of the mountain in a landscape that lived up to its Fiordland name.

Rocky mountains, with green vegetation scaling only halfway up the peaks, rose in sharp, jagged towers on either side of the car and into the distance ahead. From level ground where we sat in the car staring aghast at crystal-clear green-blue water, the cliffs pitched up so steeply to the sky that that you could truly imagine the great forces of the earth clashing together to make this sculptural site. Only the sheer power of Mother Nature and some magical plate tectonics could form something so massive, so intimidating and yet so beautiful.

Sudsy white waterfalls tumble down the fiords like hot icing dripping off warm cake, their fall from hundreds of meters making a dewy, fizzy spray that mingles with the leafy greens and icy blues to create a misty land that makes you actually believe in fairies and sprites. Add to this the occasional glacier peeking out on a rocky cliff into sun-streaked, cloud-speckled skies and you get a view (and photos, kudos to Andy!) so potent and dramatic that it looks like one of those inspiring image posters printed with bible verses and sold to the faithful.

Sea kayaking was, in our opinion, the best way to experience the elements and splendor to the fullest and we spent a full five hours paddling about Milford Sound. I loved skimming over the deep, clear water, touching my fingers to its icy current, and got so excited when seals greeted us that I had the kayak swerving and tipping! New Zealand fur seals are utterly irresistible; you can do nothing but smile when you see them swimming and swirling by your kayak, bewhiskered and sleek, and performing a hilarious, less graceful yet still elegant form of water ballet. Sitting on the water and staring straight up 1,700 meters of naturally cut rocky frontages, you feel the fiords in all their glory and sharp definition.

Andy and I also cruised the entire 16km of Milford Sound to the Tasman Sea on a sightseeing boat (the early sailing because the later ones are filled with tourists dwon for a day trip) and loved it when the captain put the bow of the boat right under one of the waterfalls, seemingly hair's breadth from the craggy rock cliffs, dousing everyone with spray for fun. The steep peaks go straight from sky into the sea, so even anything from a sea kayak to 150 foot cruiser can float up to the walls without scraping bottom. The most astonishing thing for me, however, is the color of the water in Milford, and frankly, all of New Zealand. During our brief hike on the Milford Track, we saw streams, flowing and still, with water that was so perfectly clear that you thought the river beds were empty! And the Sound itself... Its waters ranged from choppy to ripples to smooth, but the hues were everything a blue could be: sapphire, teal, azure, turquoise, midnight, cobalt. No matter how many photos we tried to take, none did it justice. Seeing water like that embodies the definition of pristine and adds an extra layer of beauty and belief that this land is untouched and pure.

What is not untouched and pure, however, though it is heavily regulated, is the number of travelers remote Milford sees in a day. In high season, between 2,000 and 4,000 per day! All three of our days, the sky was abuzz with scores of small planes and helicopters delivering tourists into the tiny airport for day trips, or flying their bags to fancy lodges on the Milford Track. The revving of jet engines and the whirring of propellers was discordant with the stunning scenery and chirping sea birds, and you can't imagine the number of full bus coaches on the road to and from the Sound that made our rental car feel like a Hot Wheels miniature on the narrow alpine roads. While I'm not sure it diminished our experience in any great way, I was surprised. It's that double-edged sword of tourism again for New Zealand as with "The Lord of the Rings". Now that it's been "discovered", finding balance between the natural and unnatural, the desire for dollars and the preservation of what embodies (for now) the definition of pristine, is as awesome as the landscape.

We have a few more photos up; This place makes it easy on the photographer!:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/MilfordSound

Seals of Approval

2006-05-01T01:57:00.000-06:00

After our delightful encounter with seals in Milford, we craved more. And while I don't use that adjective often, it just seems right for seals -- they brought immediate smiles to our face every time we spotted one and they're truly the dogs of the sea that play, tease, roll about in lazy, funny fashion and seduce humans with a whiskered smile. Thus when we learned that Kaikoura offered a seal swim as well as a dolphin swim, we hightailed it there right out of Christchurch, stopping there only for lunch, so we could get it in before the weather and seasons changed.

Kaikoura, which is a beautiful blend of Maui's beaches (blue waters and bright tropical flowers) and Oregon's Coast (rocky bays, picturesque cliffs and windward trees) on the northeast part of the South Island, is home to a New Zealand fur seal colony. Every day, they play on the rocks, swim in the kelp-laden waters, come ashore to rest (even in the parking lots nearby!), mate and replicate in season, and indulge in human interaction led by guides who've known the seals for years. We signed up ASAP and prayed for good weather...

The gods acquiesced and the day dawned clear and bright blue, and the water...sigh...even brighter blue! Andy and I promptly arrived at the uncreatively named but highly-regarded Seal Swim Kaikoura and got fitted for gear. This included a thick (at least 1/2" in your torso where the jacket and long johns both cover) wetsuit (those unflattering but necessary garments! i've never worn so many in my life!) with a full jacket and hood--so buoyant it functions as a lifejacket, booties, masks, snorkels and fins. Our group of 8 people clambered in the open-air back of an old Land Rover like a bunch of Navy SEALS, though definitely not as agile or bad ass. Excited and anxious, for sure -- and totally uncertain of what to expect.~> read more (with photos)

At the water's edge of what is technically the South Pacific, we waded out to a small outboard motorboat bobbing in a rocky bay and the cold temperature dashed my naive hope of anything tropical. The eight of us non-SEALS sat on the floor of the boat and away we zoomed further out into the sea, the captain carefully navigating the rocks and large forests of greenish-brown kelp that splayed across the waves. As we got closer the major portion of rocks that jutted from land way out into the Pacific, I saw a few brown sausage-like shapes swimming in the water and was thrilled -- seals! It was really happening!

Our captain/guide pointed out a number of fur seals swimming in the water, and a few more resting in the sun on the rocks, and said we could dive in. Andy was over the edge of the boat like a true frogman in nothing flat, and I followed, but we later talked about how neither of us knew what to expect. I wasn't scared, but it just seemed rather random and unpredictable -- into the water you go...and look for seals!The first surprise was that the water felt damn cold and invigorating (and that's from an Oregon Girl who knows nothing of warm water), and then I got my bearings and snorkel in, and adjusted to the fact we were not only swimming with seals, but also crystalline waters laden with rocks and forests of seaweed and kelp and bobbing along in consistent waves. This was no Sea World experience in a warm aquamarine pool -- this was the open ocean and you felt the full power and pleasure of the elements.

And then, out of the corner of my mask, as I snorkeled the surface with my head and eyes pointed down and alert in the chilly blue depths, a rocket-like movement of sleek brown with a scalloped tail silhouette stopped me. A seal!!! It took my breath away for a second and I inhaled sharply (not so smart!), but there was residual saltwater in my snorkel from the waves and I got a mouthful of more surprise than just a seal-sighting. Oh well... The seal was gone, but soon another zoomed into sight and this one saw me and turned its head toward me, and was about 5 feet away!Shiny black eyes like flattened ebony marbles looked at me dead on. And whiskers that were thick and looked more like the quill of a feather twitched beguilingly. The seal stopped and kind of levitated in the water, then swam off with lightning speed. Damn -- they are fast! But wow -- the sense of connection and wonder you feel when connecting straight on with a wild mammal's eyes was unreal. It was somehow different than a dog or cat. Maybe it's because we intuitively know those are domesticated animals and seeing one in the wild, and having it see you, and connect with that intimacy was totally different.

Soon another brown sausage-rocket sailed through the water next to me, then turned and swirled around me for a moment, curving its head and tail together to form a furry brown 'o' shape that floated underwater with perfect buoyancy. This seal somersaulted about me for a minute, then uncurled itself and swam two feet in front of me and opened its mouth to show off some fine white teeth! WHOA!!! That made my head spin for a minute...was it playing, smiling or reminding me that I could be lunch? We later found out that the seals chomp at each other in defense occasionally, but never on humans, though for some reason they love to swim and show off their teeth to other mammals. I have to admit, seeing the seal in the water and showing off its teeth brought a momentary surge of fear and reminder that this is an uncontrolled situation, but Andy and I shared stories in the boat as we moved to a new sight and he'd had it happen too so I chose to think of it as the seal "smiled" at me. Coping strategies and delusions, I know -- but it worked!

We were dropped off in another area among the rocks and there we remained in the water for about an hour, swimming with the seals in the sun and sea. Until our chilly bodies, so many millimeters of neoprene notwithstanding, couldn't take it anymore. Totally awesome, trust me! Here, I had two seals that stayed with me for about 10 minutes...swimming along my side and cavorting, sometimes zooming by me showing off their toothy smiles and mirroring me as I swam in short circles to encourage their play. Other times they'd go back to somersaulting and swirling with their flippers and tail touching, plus seals can turn their necks at the most amazing angle and touch their tails so that acrobatic pose was often struck while underwater with perfect grace. I felt connected with those two especially because we just kept looking at each other, their sparkly eyes to my mask, and swimming in playful circles without a care in the world. Having a wild creature stay with you in water and copy your moves is quite humbling and extraordinary.

The next day, Andy and I went back to the colony before leaving for one last look and seal-induced smile. Here, we got some photos since we couldn't take our camera in the boat, and you'll see the hilarious, hydrodynamic creatures as we found them --in the parking lot, catching some rays and sleeping, or shaking off the ocean with a blubbery shimmy, seeming halfway between a dog and a whale. I can't tell you how much that made us laugh! Swimming with the seals is definitely something I'll remember forever. Our day with them and the dolphins is absolutely one of my most favorite on this trip. It was so rare and unlike anything I ever do in my "normal" (whatever that means) life, plus few activities in life give a sense of yourself as a mammal and remind you of the connection and similarities we humans have with other creatures on earth.

Please view our photos of seals in the gallery:

http://bitjug.com/gallery/KaikouraSeals

what an animal

2006-04-20T23:59:00.000-06:00

Some of you know Tiffany's weakness for cuteness. but we're not talking babies here. We're talking animals. But not really dogs, for example. And neither wild zebras. Really, farm animals. Well, we came to the right place here in New Zealand. They have so many. Sheep, of course. But also a variety of cows (including a shaggy scottish breed), Tiffany's favorite the goats, and also llamas and alpacas, along with ostriches and emus. The even have the kuni-kuni, an odd variety of pig that is the first mammal brought to NZ!

We had a couple of different experiences with all of these animals. First, we went to "The Agrodome" near Rotorua, which is an agricultural exhibition tourist attraction, and they have a farm tour where they take you around and show you various plants and animals, but you get to feed some of the animals, which is really fun. Tiffany looked like herself in a little picture she has from when she was about 6 years old at a petting zoo!

Please View Agrodome Photos: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Agrodome

The other opportunity we had was in Queenstown, at the "deer park" which offers guided tours but you can also drive yourself through the animal park and buy food from several dispensers. Imagine several very large animal enclosures draped across some foothills, and you have an idea. There were just about all the animals we had seen before, but we also got to feed the aforementioned kuni-kuni, get up close with the scottish shaggy cows, and practically give the deer a hug! All in all, an unusual tourist experience but one I really enjoyed as well!

Please View Queenstown Park Photos: http://bitjug.com/gallery/SouthAnimals

Life on the Sledge

2006-04-20T03:57:00.000-06:00

Faster than a speeding rubber raft over rapids....
It's a sled, it's a kick board....
It's SLEDGING!!!

And it's a world class sport in Europe and New Zealand, outrageous fun and we did it...soaring over Class 4 rapids on the Kaituna River in nothing but a wetsuit, life jacket, helmet and fins on a sledge.

Say What???

Sledging (or "slihj-ing" as the Kiwis say) is another one of the New Zealand's fabled adrenaline-amping activites and we couldn't resist.~> read more (with photos)

Andy and I read about it in guidebooks, saw brochures and knew it involved water, us and some crazy plastic contraption called a "sledge" but were simultaneously intrigued and puzzled. The only Sledge I knew was "Sister Sledge" and while "We are family" is a great song, I knew this wouldn't translate to white water rapids.

So, we drove to Rotorua in the Bay of Plenty on the North Island, a playground of thermal pools, green and frothy white rivers, even greener acres of sheep pastures, and a plethora of outdoor tour operators with a knack for raising your adrenaline-- and possibly fear quotient by an order of magnitude. As Andy and I arrived at Kaitiaki Adventures at 8:30am, we were greeted by a very perky group of raft and sledge guides with plenty of mojo and moko -- the Maori term for tattooing -- who divided the sledgers from the rafters and started us in training. Adze was our teacher, a native Kiwi and Maori who had crinkly, smiling brown eyes, the most laid-back, encouraging disposition and best accent ever. So great was his rhythm and cadence that Andy and I felt we'd gotten our money's worth just hearing him sing things out like "goize" (guys), "eez-zey-peez-zey" (easy peasy), "ihv-ree-thingz'-kyewl?" (everything is cool?) and "fihrry glyde-ing" (ferry gliding)!

The sledge is like the front half of a sled, curved and hydro-dynamic, but made of the hard plastic usually reserved for snow saucers or drink coolers. About 30 inches long and 24 inches wide, the sledge has metal bars on the left and right front that are your handles. Rule #1 is never, ever let go of the sledge! Hang on to those handles for dear life. Rule #2 is turn your head sideways as you go headfirst into the churning, foamy rapids, so you don't hit the pretty parts of your face on the hard parts of the sledge. Rule #3 is that you will get tumbled upside down in the water, churned and spurned by the rapids, but adhere to Rule #1 and don't let go of the sledge! Instead, hang on tight to the handles, crunch your tummy muscles (if you're lucky enough to have them--ha!), pull the sledge in toward your abdomen and roll sideways in the water -- pushing your sledge forward so you pop back above river-level and ready to float.

"Yeah, right," I thought as I watched with eyes that I'm sure were the size of the $2 Kiwi coin in disbelief, "really easy-peasy."

The next step to get sledge-ready was donning our outfits. Of course, that got me excited, but our sledging numbers didn't include accessories that I was familiar with wearing. Or anything fashionable for that matter. Adze fitted us, if you can even call getting yourself squeezed indelicately and bulging into matte black neoprene being fitted, for full wet suits and booties, plus we got polypropolene long john tops, a helmet, fins and a life jacket. No jewelry either -- and that came from Adze to me as an imperative, not a statement that we wouldn't get any to wear for the sledge ride. Too bad. Andy, myself, a British couple, Adze and our other guide Tak, piled awkwardly in all of our neoprene into a van with our sledges in a trailer towed behind, and off we headed for sledging the Kaituna.

The Kaituna River was distracting in its beauty -- which was a good thing when I saw the foamy white of waterfalls and rapids churning over rocks and knew that we'd soon be in that feisty froth. First, however, Tak and Adze took us down through some caves where Maoris (NZ's native people of Polynesian descent)used to hide the women and children during tribal wars, and then they spoke of their tribes' respect of mother nature and said a Maori blessing before we entered the water. As I eyed the sledges and then the rapids, I personally hoped this was more for our tourist benefit rather than safety, but was taken by the seeming authenticity of the moment as they spoke the foreign but mellodious words in a natural theater of craggy lava rock, velvety green ferns and clear teal river water.

One, two, three -- SPLASH!!! Into the river I jumped, sledge in front of me, landing like with a splat-whack akin to a belly flop. Only the sledge protected me, and I was instantly buoyant in the river and able to thrust about just fine by kicking with my fins with unanticipated control. Excellent! It appears I'll be swimming for this one, instead of sinking!! The Kaituna's currents were strong, really unexpectedly so, and its force wanted to push me and my sledge into the vortex right away. But Tak and Adze grabbed us all by the sledges into a cove area of rocks and went over the rules again: hang onto the sledge, turn head sideways over the rapids, be ready to flip, hang on. And then made each of us practice flipping over, tucking our tummies and rolling back over upright and ready to rock and roll for another rapid. I was both surprised and relieved to find that maneuver wasn't as hard I as expected -- it almost felt natural when you're under water -- and I was now getting excited about just doing it for real.

Soon enough, Tak and Adze had us four sledgers lined up in a row and we burst off the rocks with a push into the open river and got carried away in a current of fun. Floating and maneuvering the sledge was easy, and I loved how fast the river was running and pushing me along. I personally find rafting kind of boring and don't feel like I'm doing anything of consequence when I'm on one, but this was totally different! On the sledge, it was me, it and the river working together (and against each other) and I felt my adrenaline raise as I navigated rocks and eddies, and saw our first rapid section in sight.

Being in the water and seeing the actual physical drop of a rapids section in the river, hearing the water rushing over rocks and seeing the green water turn to milky white foam at eye level was truly exhilirating. I think I let out an unconscious "whoo-hoo!" as I sledged over the rapids, remembering to turn my head, and loved how the river tossed and turned me. It was kind of like going down a water slide, but a lot faster, and was more physical as you had to kick once you hit the bottom of the rapids. Yet you still got that sensation of "liquid stomach" when something is really exciting and unexpected, plus seeing the rapids swirling about you and watching the sledger in front of you disappear into the white water for a moment was awesome and amazing. I got a bunch of water in my mouth, but that was only because I was laughing and smiling -- I didn't know a river could be this much fun!?!?!

We sledged five more sections of rapids, each one a bit better than the last, and finished up with Adze and Tak teaching us how to kick into a rapid, letting the force of the water keep you in place so you're sledging upstream for a moment and feeling the water surge over and pour onto you. I did flip at least once, but it happened so fast and I rolled over naturally, so it wasn't a big deal at all. Really, quite easy-peasy. I know Andy loved sledging too as he kept trying to keep his eyes open to see all of the fun and nearly lost a contact, plus I heard a few other "Yeah! Yippeee! Yee-haw!" out of others -- and no one in our group was even from Texas.

Check out the photos and see us sledging -- it's definitely one of the highlights for us in New Zealand: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Sledging

Bored of the Rings

2006-04-16T01:58:00.000-06:00

Once upon a time, there was a country called New Zealand, full of lush green forests, deep, dark mountains and clear blue seas, that resided blissfully in the quiet of the Southern Hemisphere. Normal humans lived there in a mostly-British style though they had a flair for the outdoors. Few people from the Other hemisphere ever visited New Zealand and nary an elf, hobbit, orc, wizard, warrior or princess existed.

Then Peter Jackson returned like a king from Hollywood, filmed a fanatical triology in its varied, unspoilt midst and forever changed the landscape of New Zealand. The Lord of the Rings, completed ever-so-thoroughly, in three parts was a tour-de-force that changed the country's tourist and physical landscape forever. Crazy people come and visit New Zealand now from both hemispheres, with their "one ring" and capes and pointy Guendolf hats, searching the land for now-film-iar geography from The Lord of the Rings movies. Up hill, down dale and past sheep, these crowds go on tour looking for Mount Doom, Hobbiton and other glimpses of Middle Earth...and often in fully-painted 4WD vehicles advertising "Trilogy Tours" and "LOR".

The Government appointed a speical "Rings" ministerial post to manage the fall out and fall in of tourism from the movies, and he focused on publicizing location shoots, redesigning thousands of brochures to include this information, and putting up the small, cryptic to those not-in-the-know signs that read "LOR" in stark black on white with an arrow pointing off directionally in the middle of somewhere pristine, natural and beautiful. As seen in the photo, "LOR" signs can sneak up on you in New Zealand now...in the middle of a nature preserve or on an idyllic cliff with views to heaven and the blue skies beyond!

And where there's "LOR", there are "LOR"-ers in groups, in cars and jeeps and Rovers, with books, capes, hoods, hats and hordes of cameras and video. Some of them even quote "LOR" lore when on jet boats, as witnessed by the author.

That puzzling phenomenon aside, The Lord of the Rings made a significant impact on New Zealand, in both pride and profit, and spurred a new segment within the tourist industry despite terrorism and SARS scaring the hell out of others in other hemispheres. People who visited before this triology will be surprised when they return and see towers of signage and advertising about "LOR" in New Zealand. Wellington now has a new affectionate nickname, "Wellywood", from the filming and production, and even though the Department of Conservation had most sets dismantled, there are books, maps and instructions with GPS coordinates (!) readily available and for sale for people seeking Middle-Earth.

The moral of the story is that movies can be good for the national economy to the tune of hundreds of millions of dollars, but it's a slippery slope when you're suddenly known as Middle-Earth and must decide if there's a gentle, non-invasive, genuine way to take advantage of the publicity. Even if Hollywood is your fairy godmother, the same rule applies: be careful what you wish for!

The End

surf's up

2006-04-13T03:58:00.000-06:00

I had been looking forward to trying Surfing at some point. Some of you know I have some experience in other board-sports and besides that a love of the water (especially the ocean), but this combination I had never tried. Whenever I visit a beach, I want to swim in the ocean, even if the water is cold.

I had heard, however, from several people who had tried surfing for themselves that it was very difficult and exhausting. You have a few factors, which I experienced firsthand: 1. you have to paddle yourself around a whole bunch to get in position, which tires you out surprisingly quickly, 2. meanwhile you're getting pounded by the waves, and 3. if you can catch the wave, then you try to stand up on the board and promptly slip right off, and you start back at 1. So where's the fun?

Well, I was very fortunate to choose Raglan, North Island, New Zealand to try it out,~> read more (with photos)

because this area has very wide beaches with a very gradual change in depth out from the beach, and the waves break a good distance out from the beach for a large portion of the tide cycle. I was doubly fortunate to arrive on a day when the surf was very small. I didn't know this before I started, but small waves make it easier to catch them (at least with a learner's board), and it's certainly less work to fight them.

So, I took a 1/2 day surf lesson, where I spent about 4 hours out. we practiced how we were going to jump up on the board and stand up on the beach before we got into the water. When we got into the water, I caught the first wave and tried to jump up. For that split second, things were feeling good, but I had a thought of "I can't do this on the first try." Well, on the second try I stood right up and rode along. I was really surprised, because I expected it to be so much more difficult to learn. I must point out again, though, that I had wonderful conditions to start. Also, I have done a ton of snowboarding and quite a bit of wakeboarding, which particularly contributes. And on top of that, all I was doing on that second try was riding along, nothing fancy.

So, I was fortunate to stand up on just about every wave for the whole lesson. My instructor told the other students that it wasn't fair when someone like me was in the class, because I made it look to easy. Needless to say, I was very excited. I came back the next day alone and spent another 4 hours. The waves were much bigger that day, so I had to learn how to apply my techniques to these new conditions. I fell off a few times at the beginning, upgraded to a shorter board midway and fell off a couple of times again, then started falling off even more in the final 45 minutes or so when I was getting REALLY tired.

All in all, I had a great time! I even surfed near Kaikoura on the South Island when we were there much later in the trip. This area has no sand, only 6-36" rocks (not sharp, though), which was a challenge in itself. Make no mistake, I am still quite a beginner, but I feel fortunate to have a good start!

More photos here, including a neat sequence Tiffany took: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Surfing-Raglan

The most hilarious non-adrenaline activity

2006-04-13T03:29:00.000-06:00

It's called ZORBing. No, you don't think you are going to die as you might in bungee jumping or skydiving, which are both very popular here in New Zealand, at least for tourists.

You see, kiwis have invented this huge clear vinyl ball. It's actually two balls, an inner and outer one, with thin bungee cords and inflated air in between. The outer layer ball is maybe 12 feet in diameter, the inner one more like 8.

so, what do they do with these strange things? Stuff you inside and roll you down a big hill, of course!! There is a way to strap a person to the inside. But there's more! The really fun way to do this is not to be strapped inside at all. See, the genius thing to do is just hop in (there's a little hole you can squeeze through, then they zip it shut), and have them dump a bunch of water in. Better yet, make that warm water! Instant washing machine! As you're careening down this hill, you're sliding around inside this huge ball, totally unable to control your orientation.

but wait, there's even more! What can make this even funnier? Add a person you know and love to the same ball! This way you are both flopping around uncontrollably in warm water as this huge ball rolls down the hill, for what seems like 5 minutes but is probably more like 45 seconds.

You may have guessed that Tiffany and I had the chance to try this craziness together. For right now, the place to do it is Rotorua, in the north island of New Zealand. It's right near the Agrodome which I plan to talk about in another post. There is some talk that they will be opening a ZORB operation in the smoky mountains in tennessee. If you have the opportunity, I highly recommend it! We have the photos: http://bitjug.com/gallery/ZORBing

How To Speak Kiwi...

2006-04-05T22:23:00.000-06:00

Per the previous post, not only are we struggling through speaking our own language here in New Zealand, we're also grappling with our listening comprehension. The Kiwis are friendly and it rocks when we ask questions or for directions in English and are responded to in English. But...many times, Andy and I are left bereft. Because we don't understand the words they're using, and sometimes even when we think we know the word, the vowels involved and their pronunciation are foreign.

It's pretty entertaining and we're having a great time trying to speak Kiwi. Maori, however, is a totally different story. Many of the names of cities, streets, mountains, parks and more are in Maori, which is of polynesian descent and similar to Hawaiian, and we're a lost cause. The corker for that was when we were given directions for a short cut and told to turn left at a town called "Fahta-Fahta", which of course gave us the giggles. When we later asked for help at a gas station because we just couldn't find that town on the map, the attendant pointed us to a dot named Whakawhaka!!!

Anyway, here's a little lexicon for your enjoyment:

fush 'n chups = fish and chips. Vowels are entertaining here!

tucker = to eat, "tuck into" does not refer to bed.

flat white = latte involving coffee. A chai latte, however, doesn't involve coffee.

bush = forest

footie = rugby; not your foot.

al-oo-min-ee-yum = aluminum, "aloo-mih-num" as we like to say. You can imagine the confusion when we went round and round understanding what the boat was made out from.

shattered = tired; Andy after mountain biking, not his dreams or anything else.

dairy, pronounced "dearie" = local mini market like 7-11; not cow milking place.

Mackers = McDonalds. Confusing term when asking directions and that was given as place to turn right.

sunnies = sunglasses, which are allowed on jet boat rides but not sledging.

chillie bin = a cooler

Hokey Pokey = not the dance. Toffee-butterscotch flavor of candy, ice cream.
Too bad! You can imagine how excited I got when thinking a restaurant had the hokey pokey on its menu!

tramping = not me, or any other lady, on a night out; it's hiking and you tramp through the bush here in NZ.

How Do We Speak English?

2006-04-05T21:57:00.000-06:00

Since recovering our native tongue in New Zealand, we've had a few moments of hilarity and inarticulateness. We wanted to try and share these with all of you, but they may get lost in translation. Oh well -- here goes!

"You have big size?" Andy asked the clerk in the wool sweater store...
who looked at him quizzically. I started laughing, especially because he'd said "beegh size" without the short 'i' vowel sound like they do in all of SE Asia, and he quickly recovered to ask her if they carried a selection of sizes beyond medium.

"Same, same!" I answered perkily to the waitress...
who looked at me with puzzlement. She'd asked what I'd be having for lunch and I wanted the same thing as Andy. In SE Asia, "same, same" is a huge phrase and used by everyone in description and affirmation. Without thinking, I just chirped "same, same" and sounded like a weird, un-English-speaking animal.

"This one--how much?" asked Andy, pointing to a rafting trip brochure and talking to a Canadian...
who started laughing at him immediately, as she'd traveled through Vietnam before NZ and knew he was speaking abbreviated English.

"No have? Have!?" I asked the seafood seller, while Andy pointed to the menu photo of Green Lipped Mussels...
who just stared back us, looking surprised. Almost like he'd expected that with our white-skinned looks like we'd speak normal English. We wondered if they had the fresh local delicacy of mussels available and went automatically into our Asian questioning mode.

"How many are you?" I asked politely to a British family at a sheep show...
the Mum of the group looked uncomfortably baffled and the father looked at me politely but blankly. Quickly recovering once I processed the silence, I asked, "How many of you are in your family and traveling together?" as they had a campervan and filled a row of seats. In India and SE Asia, that's how you ask 'how big is your group? how many of you are there?, etc' without sounding like a weirdo.

Culture Shock: New Zealand

2006-04-03T00:14:00.000-06:00

We flew 12 1/2 hours way, way south from Bangkok to Auckland on a fine Airbus outfitted with on-demand tv and plenty of American movies we never saw before leaving in December (yes!), alighting in a land where we looked like most of the natives and talked the language. WHOA...culture shock!

Quickly getting in the groove of looking, talking and feeling "normal", we rented a car and remembered what it was like to drive again. On the "wrong" side of the road sure, but hey -- it's all relative these days. The left hand is wrong in India, the right hand of the road is wrong in Thailand but not Cambodia or Laos, and we now know to look left and right, up and down, when crossing the street so it's all good.

As Andy wound our little Toyota Starlet in its manual transmission glory through our first round-a-bout, we rolled down the windows and started to take in the landscape around us. Breathing deep, we smelled nothing but fresh air, and breathed deep again to make sure we weren't dreaming. No pollution! No foreign smells and spices -- just air, fresh and clean and cool. Madness.

And the landscape...wow! New Zealand seems to be one of those places where all you've heard and seen is actually true -- and even better in person. The water is impossibly blue and it crashes into a pristine land of green pastures and jaggedy, rock mountains populated by sheep, cows and charming people who speak a funny, mixed-up-vowels version of the Queen's English. They take tea, love rugby and rarely honk their horns. It's deathly quiet to us and there are so few people on the streets of New Zealand we wonder if we're in the wrong place even when we're right on track.

Our panoramic palette changed dramatically on that plane ride from Asia to New Zealand too, and we're now embedded in a unique spectrum of green, blue, black and white. Gone are the ubiquitous gold temples and orange monk's robes, disappeared is that uninviting brown sludge river water and forgotten is the deep red of spicy curries and hibiscus tea. Trees, ferns, grass and flora native only to New Zealand blankets the nation in tones that rival any jungle; the water is nothing short of insane in its clarity and teal-blue-green color. Black pops out everywhere because it's the color of craggy mountain silhouettes shadowed from sun and the uniforms of New Zealand's rabidly beloved "All Blacks" national rugby team, and white represents the wool of sheep, the sails of boats and the puffy clouds that float above us in the sky but never mar a beautiful day.

Andy and I keep looking around us and then at each other in wonder. Where did we land? Is this all real? Then we visited the ATM, of course, and it was all too real because the prices here are NOT that of Asia. A bit "ix-peen-seeve" as the locals might say. If there's such a thing as fiscal shock, then I guess we're experiencing that too here in New Zealand. $36 US for a room in a hostel without a bathroom? Gulp. Oh well...the "trip of a lifetime" mantra recitation begins.

Besides, there's awesome local wine on every menu, in every grocery store--with real, fixed price tags--and we kicked off our first night in Auckland with an outrageously jammy Pinot from Waipara and savored every sip. This was NOT Beer Lao! And, there's REAL cheese on this pizza. YES!

Plus, the opportunities for new adventures....kayaking, surfing, bungy jumping, sledging, caving, jet boating, tramping...what?!? Directions for it all in English, no less! Adrenaline craziness with nary a cerebral, historical pursuit. Most excellent! Honestly, after 3 months in Asia, we're ready for this kind of culture shock and can't wait to experience it all.

It's The Little Things...

2006-04-02T23:08:00.000-06:00

As we take leave of Asia and journey the hemisphere way south to New Zealand, Andy and I collaborated on a list of random things for which we're very grateful and wanted to share.

The following are items which we've encountered on a near daily basis for the past 3 1/2 months and missed greatly or felt thankful for on our home turf. It's so funny how simple and basic they are...things which rarely enter our mental space and recognition at home in the States but are noticeably present--or really, un-present--in our travel lives.

Enjoy -- and go use these things with a new perspective!

Sewer Covers = Yep, that's right. We're thankful for anything that shields us, to put it bluntly, from falling into shit and smell on the street. In Laos and Cambodia, open sewers gape left and right on the roads and pose precarious, smelly threats to the traveler. You learn to look in EVERY direction when walking and crossing, being especially vigilant on a street corner where these open pits of stink, bacteria, waste and toxic nightmare lurk, unmarked, uncovered and ready to swallow your innocent sandaled feet! I got out of a cab in Vientiane and was wrangling with my pack, not noticing the open sewer with pasty, oily, inky foul water next to me, and almost took a nasty plunge when I got situated and stepped forward. Had it not been for a tall, stray piece of bamboo submerged in the muck (perhaps as some sort of warning marker?) that I grabbed onto for dear life, I would have had a supremely shitty experience.

Shower Curtains = Shower stalls and curtains do not exist in the guest houses and little hotels in which we've stayed for between $6-$20 per night in India, Laos and Cambodia. Instead, your bathroom has a shower head and knobs mounted on the wall between or across from the sink and toilet. It's one big room for showering and when you're finished, it's totally wet, wet, wet on the floor, walls, ceilings, toilet seat, etc! Somehow, we've found this diminishes the sheer pleasure of a shower because you're wiping the whole room down and not wanting to use it for a few hours afterwards.

Paper Napkins = Ahh, absorbent, soft, lovely paper. Don't ever take it for granted again! And napkins -- so much bigger and better than a roll of pale pink toilet paper sitting on your restaurant table. India has plastic napkins that are less absorbent than cement, and felt about the same on sunburned skin. And mentally, we just can't our heads around the toilet paper on the dinner table in Thailand, Cambodia and Laos. You're constantly pulling strands of TP out of kleenex box-like dispenser to wipe curry off your sticky fingers and it feels strange rather than satisfying.

Fixed Prices = EVERYTHING in Asia and India is negotiable for locals, even in supposed "fixed" prices shops! And as a White Westerner/First Worlder, we never pay the same as locals...always more. We yearn for a nice pink price tag sticker that shows what we and everyone else pay at the register, and eliminates the necessary mental psych up for bargaining.

Flush Toilets & Toilet Paper = Though we moved away from the squat toilets of India in Laos and Cambodia, that doesn't mean the porcelain stand ups that we're familiar with flushed themselves! That's right...many a restroom has a toilet and large container, sometimes a bucket, other times a tiled bin mounted on the floor beneath a primitive faucet, full of water. With a bucket or ladle floating in it. One uses this reservoir of water to scoop into the toilets and flush them manually until the toilet water is clear. In many countries, you also use this extra water to douche yourself clean with the left hand, thus negating the need for toilet paper. I love toilet paper, however, and live to see giant rolls of it in a land of flush toilets!

Heinz Ketchup = There is truly no substitute. No other ketchup or tomato sauce competes. It makes everything from chips to eggs to toast to bland fried rice taste better. We found a bottle of it in Cambodia, paid $6 for it and it's traveling with us!

Liquid Soap = Most restrooms and communal washing sinks in Asia have bars of soap sitting in mushy puddle of water for your use. It's awesome that soap is alive and well and ready to disinfect us, and many come in pretty colors like pale yellow and fine scents like jasmine. But, somehow, the moist, community, gunky bar of soap seems less appealing and sanitary than liquid soap and we ache for plastic containers of SoftSoap or wall-mounted white dispensers that you push with an easy flick of your hand, never touching anything unexpected or squishy.

Hand Dryers = Like the communal soap, the communal hand towel is big in SE Asia. We found "the basin" in restaurants from Bombay to Bangkok, Phnom Penh to Luang Prabang, and happily washed up before meals and after temple outings. However, there are never hand dryers -- only a single damp, saggy cotton hand towel that looks like it saw better days in your college dorm room waiting for you, and everyone else, to dry their hands upon. Sigh...ugh. Another concept that it's just hard to get your head around and feel good and clean about. Never-ever have I wiped my hands on my pants so frequently!

Hot Showers = Hot usually means one things in SE Asia and it's the weather, not the water temperature. If you pay extra for a room with "hot water", you hope for the best which is warm to lukewarm, and it's all coming from a little electric heater unit mounted on the wall next to the faucet fixture that lights up a red button when plugged in and ready. I know, I know -- electricity and water all in the same shower and bathroom. It doesn't compute!

But then, neither does Asia. And that's the beauty and bitter-sweetness of it.

The Wheels on the Bus Went 'Round and 'Round

2006-03-24T18:44:00.000-07:00

He was the toughest-looking bloke on the bus. All shaved-head, pierced and tattooed, plus a muscular frame that was nearly double the size of most Asians we see, I noticd him right off and involuntarily felt sympathetic he'd have to squeeze into the Lao bus seats that aren't made for Westerners. As Andy and I boarded the "VIP" bus, which meant we'd paid $7 for our private company ticket and upholstered luxury instead of going public for $3 and metal seats, on our trip through the mountains to Luang Prabang, I surveyed the crowd.~> read more

Mostly Western/White First Worlders, save for a few Asian girls with white men, and all with backpacks and a sunburn from a day on the river in Vang Vieng.

I wasn't looking forward to this bus ride, not that I'd say we ever look forward to a bus ride on our trip, but we'd been warned about this one in particular. The guidebook read "take Dramamine or other precautions if you experience motion sickness" (we hadn't read this anywhere in Lonely Planet India!) and we'd heard it was worth the extra $4.00 to take a VIP coach instead of a regular bus. So, we did and while I don't usually get car sick, I was anxious. The 44 other travelers looked relatively fine, and the air conditioning was blowing at a slow but somewhat cooling pace, so I settled in and read while the road was still straight. My leg room was a little more cramped than expected because the luggage space had myteriously filled up early on (I don't know if the driver was transporting extra cargo or what, but this has never happened before) so backpacks lined the entire bus aisle and I finally got comfortable by resting my feet atop someone's pack.

About forty minutes into our journey, which was already nearly running an hour late for no reason but that we didn't drive away until 10:48am instead of 10:00am, we pulled over on the dirt road. Primitive palm-frond and wood roadside stands lined the side and eager food sellers greeted us, though in the ever-gentle Lao way. Ladies waved and held up pineapple or baguettes, but no one yelled out to me in a loud, more piercing and atonal than a duck-call whistle voice: "Lay-dee, you want pineapple? Buy from me!" as in Cambodia. I stayed inside, as not to be tempted by the foods and fluids that combat my dehydration strategy for long bus rides and no bathroom usage, but Andy went outside to investigate. Apparently, we had bus trouble and the stop wasn't expected. Andy, ever the mechanic and careful engineer, looked stricken when he returned and I was immediately worried we were stuck.

"I just saw our driver pounding the engine and battery terminal with a rock he picked up from the road!" he cried, sounding appalled and yet wondrous. My eyes got big with shock and a lack of hope in reply, but just then the engine fired up, and they got even bigger with surprise. Andy just sat back in his seat shaking his head, and everyone piled back on with a "hurrah!" and off the coach lumbered, turning and shaking on the dirt road, but still rumbling. Later, Andy confessed to me, that he was nervous for the next hour and expected the battery to fall out of its terminal because there were so many bumps on the road and he didn't know what the driver had managed to do with the rock, but somehow we kept moving and he got distracted by other things.

These other distractions included the fact our paved road often disappeared isntantaneously to become only slippery dirt and gravel, and we started an ascent riddled with blind curves and corners. I put on the Ipod with Liz Phair to get inspired by her honest punk spirit and thought distracting thoughts like "What could I do with Lao silk? Would I ever use a woven textile as wall art? No. Well, there are so many here. What about a sticky rice basket? Is that a good souvenir? No. Too hard to carry; Andy won't like that and I'm not a basket person anyway."

Of course, all of these ridiculous, banal thoughts really meant, "This bus ride sucks! I'm not sure our driver could possibly be going any faster!?! He NEVER brakes! And, why in the hell do people honk before they go around a blind corner and breakneck speed instead of slowing down???!!!"

A reprieve came in the form of a lunch stop, and the bus pulled over to another village of roadside stands and nice ladies with food. Andy was skeptical if the bus would ever start again, and I was skeptical of the food options since everything seemed to have slippery pieces of minced meat floating in sauce. Dammit. To be vegetarian in this country is challenging. All of the other bus riders, including Mr. Tough Looking Guy, looked equally happy to be off the coach and madly smoked cigarettes while ordering up food. I finally found a girl whose glass-cased cart had cooked vegetables without pernicious pieces of uknown flesh and guts.

There were however, many mysterious greens, but beggars can't be choosers, let alone vegetarians here and I ordered away. I later learned that I ate some river greens, jungle vines and morning glory, which isn't the same pretty purple flowers that graces yards and fences in America, but some jungle plant that was bitter with a bit of crunch. Mixed with locally-grown mushrooms, cauliflower and carrots plus sprinkled with healthy doses of soy and fish sauce, it was quite good and took my mind off the fact we had at least 4 hours of the journey left!

Back the herd of pink and white backpackers went on the bus, which thankfully coughed and sputtered with life in the engine, and up we started on a continually blind serpentine road of curves. It got very quiet, very quickly. The blind corners that our bus took at seeming Mach speeds was intense and disconcerting, equalled only by the fact that the driver signalled our presence on the narrow road with village on one side and a 1,000 foot sheer limestone cliff drop on the other with only the horn. No braking, just honking -- our drive was puncuated by the vrrrooooommm of him pushing the gas pedal and the blaring beeeeeeeeeeep of the bus's horn for at least an hour. Vrrrooooomm, beeeeeeepp, vrrroooommm, beeeeeeeeeppp. Then finally, once, a Sssccrreeeeeecchhhh! We slowed down -- for seeming no reason as we were practically on a flat stetch of dirt. Puzzled, I craned my neck awkwardly in the aisle, as did many other tense passengers, and we didn't see any animals or trees blocking our way. Then, out of seeming nowhere, a giant logging truck screamed toward us as the same Mach speed of our coach, on our same dirt road, and whizzed past us with centimeters to spare.

Whoa! I and every other person was fully awake now as the bus shook, and then the vrroooom, beeeeeeep routine resumed and we continued climbing. Andy and I could only surmise that our driver had gotten some metaphysical signal from the environment and by knowing the jungle dirt roads so well, that he sensed and knew the truck was coming and slowed to let it pass. I looked around at the quiet group of 44 travelers and noticed all were awake, and many were unconsciously holding the tiny handle glued pathetically in the middle of the seat backs, almost more as decoration than safety. My palms glistened with a sheen of sweat, and for once, I knew it wasn't from the Asian heat.

Sitting on that bus, feeling it wind up and around the hills, hearing it blare and rattle through the moutain curves was unnerving. Andy saw some signs and deciphered that we were zooming up and down some 13%+ grades, which made Vail Pass look dull! Finally, the bus plateaued and pulled over to a clearing at the seeming summit with a lovely green view of limestone cliffs, lush foliage and misty clouds. Travelers piled off the bus with zeal and relief, tripping over the backpacks in the aisle in their haste to get out, smoke cigarettes and pee in the trees. Fortunately, my dehydration strategy was working like a charm, so I stayed inside and watched people from at least 15 countries relieve themselves in the tall green grasses of Laos' jungle-forest. I noticed Mr. Tough Guy and some others chainsmoking and shaking their heads outside my window, and I knew I was not alone in my riding unease.

Five minutes later a downhill version of the vrrrrooooooooommm and beeeeeeeeeeeep strategy resumed, as our bus barreled down toward the valley housing Luang Prabang. Soon the honks were abandoned in favor of sheer speed and the smell of burning brakes, which didn't settle well with me, my palms, or anyone else for that matter, especially when the driver turned off the air conditioning and windows were opened wide for comfort...and yet discomfort. Burning rubber just isn't what you want to smell on a mountain descent! Every passenger was alert and quiet, yet jerking left and right against their will with the dramatic curves. Suddenly, the driver hit the brakes and they worked -- impossibly, thankfully -- and we slowed to let another log truck whip by the bus. Dust, dirt, gravel and brake rubber flew in the open windows of our now un-air-conditioned bus, choking the already strained breathing of its nervous passengers.

As the bus of us tilted further down the mountain of blind corners and dusty curves, the horn and brakes gave it their all. And the Tough Guy's nerves gave out. All of a suddent, out of the uncomfortable silence of 44 passengers came this growling, savage plea with Australian flair: "Could you slow it down a little, use the brakes a bit, for fuck's sake!!! SLOW DOWN!"

No one said a word -- not the driver, not the 43 other passengers, especially not me, who was pleased to decipher he was an Aussie as no one else in the world uses that crazy curse phrase. Vrrrroooooooooommmmmmmmm, beeeeeeeeeeeeppp, vvvrooooooommmmm, beeeeeeeeeep. The bus continued swirling down the hilly curves, the brakes continued to make their presence known through a hot rubber smell, and no one said a thing. Andy and I didn't even know if the driver spoke English and understood what the Australian bloak had yelled out, as certainly no one had translated it into Lao and repeated. I looked around and everyone just sat as still and quiet as was possible with the winds, bends and down, down, downs of the road, hanging onto the helpless, decorative "safety" handle and waiting for the ride to be over.

Two hours and 187 kilometers later, the bus rolled into Luang Prabang and lurched to a final stop. Westerners and backpacks spilled out of the bus immediately, almost before the wheels stopped rolling forward agaist the cement of the station's curb. Cigarettes lit up left and right, hotel touts tried eagerly to grab the attention and dollars of the bus passengers and puffy exhale clouds of relief floated up above the scene. I was damn glad to be off the bus, and my palms were still a touch sweaty as I grabbed my pack out of the storage compartment. I noticed the tough, shaved and tattooed Aussie grabbing his backpack with little effort, and then I felt myself smirking. One bus ride through the mountains and jungles of Laos was all it took to crumble that mantle of pierced pluck. Guess he wasn't quite so tough after all! Looks really can be deceiving.

Part Jungle, Part Garden: Lao Cuisine

2006-03-24T18:42:00.000-07:00

Since we learned the secret of making a good spring roll in Vientiane, and neither it nor the sauce tasted like neighborly Thai or Vietnamese food, I was curious to know more. Lao food is not a cuisine that gets a lot of press, nor a category you see on restaurant signs or menus, so it seemed like a noble pursuit to demystify the sustenance of this lush, jungle-river-rice country.

Luang Prabang, like it did on charm, temples, monks and riverscapes, delivered. Once the capital of Laos and its definite cultural mecca, Luang Prabang has the best remaining chefs in the country because the royal family used to reside here and the cooks stayed even after the royals were, ahem, deposed, and went incognito by cooking more simply in the age of Communism and blending into the new society. Fortunately, one of the few upsides of tourism in Luang Prabang means that there's a desire for rich cultural experiences, including food, and the old ways are appearing again in quaint restaurants and kitchens.~> read more

Ingredient do grow on trees here, as well as on the plentiful river banks of the town's three rivers, and exciting, unique Lao food is afoot -- not to mention a great cooking class run by one of the legacy chefs who knows the true essence of Lao cooking. So, off we went to Tum Tum Cheng (the onomatopoeiac sound that Buddhist drums make) to learn more about the herby, sometimes bitter, sometimes citrus, and astringent flavors that make up the cuisine of Laos.

The food we tasted in Laos lacks the layered sweet-savory-spicy flavors of Vietnam and Thailand, and while we missed that, it was exciting to eat new things, un-ripe things, crazy things that we didn't know existed. At our Tum Tum Cheng class, we learned that Lao people cook with a careful balance of jungle and garden foods, getting 50% of their food from the jungles, which are really a type of monsoon rainforest, that abound on the leafy, hilly topography that characterizes the north, and 50% from the gardens that grow generous and green right down the lapping, muddy waters of the Mekong.

Like India, Lao cooks have a "spice kitchen" that forms the foundation of nearly every dish and our apprentice-to-the-master-chef, Linda (she gave up many classes ago on giving her real name to Westerners since we haven't a chance in hell in getting the rising and falling vowels close to correct), laid them out beautifully for us in a woven rattan basket on a tea-colored teak table, where we sat on claret-hued silk cushions to ooh and aah. Literally. The smells and textures of the ingredients that ground food in Lao taste are familiar, but together the lemongrass, shallots, ginger, galangal, chili, kaffir lime leaves, garlic and fish sauce make something unique. Something more citrusy, slightly bitter and less sugary than what our palate knows of Thai and Vietnamese dishes, a very organic taste that just seems to come from the dirt or wild. I think the rhizomes of ginger and galangal, which looks like a larger version of ginger but has a soapy-piney scent, are the biggest contributors and when chopped, minced and sliced with abandon into a variety of dishes, you get a taste that is solely Lao.

Linda also introduced us to a few other special Lao foods and we got brave and tried the fruits and labors of their gardens and jungles. I say brave because my new favorite dairy animal, the water buffalo,is involved and that took some mental bravery and blocking out to get my mouth and mind behind the effots!!!

jaew bong - crazy chili-garlic paste with cheeky texture, a huge spice kick and earthy aftertaste that comes from the mingling of water buffalo skin with aforementioned ingredients. Ummm...interesting, unique, to say the least. You use this as a spread on top of things like kaipen.

kaipen - freshwater green algae from the Mekong that's blended with sesame seeds, tomatoes, scallions and tamarind. Hopeful cousin of the seaweed sushi wrap nori, I would say. Dried out like hand-made paper, gets crispy in the sun and you eat like chips -- we surprisingly liked it.

klao niaw/sticky rice - way glutinour rice that is more translucent, with longer grains than basic rice and sticks together, hence the name, in a clump when crumpled between your fingers. Forms a great ball for dipping into sauces and dishes -- the Lao use this instead of chopsticks!

jujubes - not the candy! A cross somewhere between a plum and a date; grows in the jungle and looks like deep brown-purple blueberry. Great in smoothies!

banana flower - grows off the end of a bunch of bananas, are large and tapered with a beautiful deep reddish-purple hue on the outside. You peel off leaves to eat and they're a bit like an artichoke, in texture and astringent taste, and frankly, make a better garnish for a salad than ingredient.

khao kham - electric pink rice wine that was sweet and slightly effervescent, like drinking strawberry kool-aid with a kick.

20+ kind of eggplant - not kidding!!! They have eggplant the size of marbles, the size of mangoes, the size of microphones and those purple ones that grace every vegetarian menu everywhere. It was insane -- I'd never seen so many kinds! They eat them ripe and unripe, cooked and uncooked, and often as a thickening agent for stews and soups.

A Buddha-full Afternoon

2006-03-24T17:15:00.000-07:00

One hot Sunday in Laos, Andy and I hired a longtail boat to ferry us up the breezy Mekong River to a mystical-sounding cave called Pak Ou which is supposedly filled nook and cranny with golden Buddha images. Longtail boats are the cars of Asian rivers and look like an extra-long gondola from Venice, with a canopy to cover driver and passenger from blistering sun, and sport an engine seeming off an 1980 Toyota Corrolla that motors you fast and loud across the mud-brown, algae-green waters. It's not quiet, but nothing is in Southeast Asia, so you tune out the revving motor noises and instead sit at water's level and enjoy the scenic lifescape of Laos as you fast-float by the banks of the Mekong.

The Mekong is truly the lifeblood of Laos, as this Utah-sized country is ocean-less and these mighty waters are fertile ground for trade, transportation and tilling the land, and we saw humans and animals using its water in every productive, primitive way during our afternoon cruise. It was a serene, voyeuristic afternoon for us and we loved it because we quietly observed life as the Lao know it. Despite our clothes and skin, we were nearly invisible and while that is something we rarely yearn for in a purely innocent sense at home in America, it's something we've wished greatly for here. Rarely noticed, Andy and I and participated only when a friendly wave from the banks beckoned us to wave back.

Here's a glimpse of what we saw along the Mekong between Luang Prabang and Pak Ou:~> read more

- Families bathing in the brown-green water, sarongs on their bodies which are easily lifted for soapy access and dark heads glistening with shampoo.

- Women in those eponymous, woven rice paddy coolie hats, looking just like an Asian postcard, panning for gold.

- Water buffalo herds, buried neck-deep in the Mekong water, cooling off from a tough day of grazing...or maybe avoiding becoming tomorrow night's dinner.

- Electric green gardens, ripe with herbs, pumpkin, lettuces, zucchini, eggplant and watercress, growing in leafy glory right down to the river's edge.

- Shirtless men sanding longtail boats into shape to make a business on or of the river.

- Women slap, slap, slapping wet clothes against rocks to clean(?) them in the Mekong.

- Child-boy monks playing in the water, their traffic-cone orange robes startling your eyes in contrast to the earthy greens and browns.

- Vvvvvrrrrrroooooooooommmmmmmmmmmm!!! The most deafening motor-engine sound you can imagine, one that seemed totally out of place, and then believable once we got our bearings from the distraction and realized we are in Asia. A flat, surfboard-like speedboat with what could only be a truck engine flies by, rocking us in its wake. The eight passengers on the boat are all wearing lifejackets and helmets! We're puzzled and horrified, and then remember the warning about these commuter boats between Thailand and Laos in the Lonely Planet, and are horrified again by their seeming unsafe reality, and then grateful we aren't on one.

- Families that range in age from grandma to newborn, filling up a longtail boat like our own, out smiling and sailing along the river for inexpensive Sunday thrill.

- Masked-men, scuba-masked that is, on smaller boats with lawnmower engines, putting along...dropping their faces in the murky water to look first for signs of fish or algae, and then dropping their old-fashioned nets to mine the river for edible treasures.

As we sailed gently up to a white, sheer limestone wall, mottled by green vines and dark cave openings, we knew the simple beauty of our Mekong trip would now get even better. Pak Ou is a series of caves, hidden high above the river, turned into a sacred temple for secret worship during the less-than-religious Communist reign. It's filled with over 4,000 Buddha images, ranging from palm-sized statues left as offering to human-size statues that hover in golden, meditative splendor. Worshippers come and give alms to Buddha, and we joined the nearly all-Lao group, taking off our shoes and padding about the cave in socks to take in the incomprehensible number of Buddhas, kneel in respect and light incense. Scented smoke wafted around the gold, tarnished, faded, shiny and peeling Buddha images, stacked hundreds high into corners or piled onto rock ledges and we gaped about. Sometimes you heard a squeak above, and looked up to see the cave light cut by black wingspans reminiscent of a certain superhero.

Being inside of Pak Ou and surrounded by bats and Buddhas was like out of a adventure tale where Indiana Jones is your fairy godmother!!! So cool, so spiritual-magical, so unlike anything in the States...and that after our uneventful-yet-eventul in the best way trip up the Mekong. What an amazing afternoon! It was like for a few hours, we were almost Lao instead of us. This might seem strange but we're finding while traveling, to be on the inside of every day life without feeling like you're on the outside, is a rare treat that is both rewarding and comforting.

Sunset on the Mekong

2006-03-15T04:56:00.000-07:00

We have just a few more photos to share that we took around Vientiane. Please note the last one as it shows that I have become a millionaire! But not in dollars, unfortunately; I'm holding the equivalent of about 100 bucks in the largest bills you can commonly get (each bill is 10,000 lao kip)

the gallery: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Vientiane

He would dye for me

2006-03-14T05:07:00.000-07:00

Andy is setting the male population of Asia on edge. I can feel it. I see mens' apprehension as we set off from a guest house for an enlightening activity that could even be construed as domestic, leaving them with nothing but a blaring tv or tiny, endless cups of coffee. I also see the look of envy, of puzzlement, of wonder in the women's eyes as we fold spring rolls and question the origin of spices.

Andy is unlike the other men on this continent. He cooks, he shops (not by choice), he goes to market and now he's dyed silk textiles using traditional Lao techniques. I am SO lucky!!!

In Vientiane, he further threatened Asia's male race by accompanying me~> read more (with photos)

to a women's cooperative and learning about traditional silk-weaving and dyeing practices. Textiles are the fabric of hope, opportunity and independence for rural women in Laos, and you see weavings of every kind, in every way here -- and all with unique, personal patterns. I'd read about a class at the Houey Hong Vocational School for women and figured it was a rare chance for hands-on learning of a cottage industry. Sort of tie-dye with a natural twist and less-Hippie output, so off Andy and I went.

Three women greeted us oustide the simple compound of cement buildings, each of varying age but all wearing traditional embroidered sarongs, asked that we remove our shoes and sit on a giant grass mat that sprawled in the center of a bustling courtyard. Rooms left and right were filled with piano-sized looms, strings and thread going left and right, up and down, foot treadles and hand boards that smacked together "clack, clack", and the dark, busy, bent heads of Lao ladies in motion. Other rooms reverberated from the whirring of old-fashioned sewing machines, fabric and thread quickly turning about the needle, syrup-colored bare feet pumping the foot pedal and more bent, dark heads. My nose crinkled from an acrid smell and I looked around for the source, cautious because after the food markets, you're never sure what to expect. Next to our mat, a group of men (!) sorted through bushels of dried marigold flowers -- piles of orange petals and green stems -- and stirred giant black witch cauldrons that smoked, spit and hissed. Two others were taking turns on a wooden teeter-totter type of crushing machine and mashing what looked like blackberry marbles but smelled not too fruity.

Another lady bustled up to us in sarong and flip-flops and introduced herself in excellent English as Boanam, the manager of Houey Hong School, and asked what Andy and I were interested in doing -- weaving or dyeing? Dyeing, we said, and I then I proceeded to bombard her with a few questions about the place. What was going on about us? How does this help women? What was that smell? And, what were those young men up to? Andy just kind of smirked at that one, as I've gotten uber-uppity feminist on this trip with all of the women I see vigorously laboring and men I see pathetically lounging. The women around us were from villages and came to strengthen their weaving design skills, so they could either produce textiles with pleasing patterns that might sell outside of Laos, plus learn about the large range of natural substances which can be used as dyeing pigment for greater variety. According to Boanam, many villages only use certain indigenous ingredients like marigold or jack fruit, ginger or indigo, betelnut or coffee, and thus their textiles remain locked in limited colors.

At Houey Hong, women apprentice for design and dyeing, and that's what those men were up to -- making pigments from organic ingredients for dyeing. Only recently, has the school accepted some young men who had no other prospects on a trial basis, to help with crushing, stirring, dyeing only, since the weaving is really women's work. Sigh...progress, but not really. Anyway, the smell making my nose crinkle is the boiling of all sorts of crazy natural fruits, vegetables, bugs (not kidding!), leaves and more that become a gorgeous rainbow of dye colors once absorbed into silk. When the ladies aren't honing their silk weaving skills or setting dyes from fresh pigment, they're learning to sew on the treadle machines of Houey Hong, which are reminiscent of my (great?) grandmother's and similar to what's all over Asia, so they can tailor in their spare time and make extra money.

After cups of weak Chinese tea, a Lao tradition I don't get but was glad for the warmth and caffeine, Andy and I got down to the business of dyeing. The greeting ladies appeared again and showed us a smudged plastic picture book with pairs of happy foreigners holding up textiles. From this, Andy and I determined we were supposed to choose which designs we endeavored to create and while the array of options looked a lot like tie-dye, it was not quite as Spirograph-y or swirly. More whole circles, lines and crosses dominated and as we went to work, we learned that's because the Lao use a lot of Bamboo to help with textile design. Bamboo rings and sticks of various sizes -- popsicle to ruler -- served as the markers that stop the dye from seeping into silk and create the patterns, sort of the way rubber bands do with tie-dye. Lao women also use plastic crinkle paper that reminded me of what we wrap our Easter baskets in to twist, tie and crimp fabric. But there were no pre-cut strips of it, no cookie-cutter presses or machine-made piece. All of the dyeing and design was done by hand, and we sat with our teachers on the grass mat in the outdoors, and learned teacher to pupil, their hands on ours as we folded fabric and twisted it to perfect design tightness.

Andy managed to select the most complicated ones, so he got lots of help and a few extra bright smiles. It was great! He wrapped silk around bamboo sticks and circles, plus then tied everything tight with the plastic wrap. My shawls were simpler to do, and only involved a lot of cutting and tying of plastic, and that was fine as I was most excited to see which colors we could choose for dyeing. Fortunately, the day of our visit, they had a selection of bright hues, as I could see from the chart that a lot of roots and vegetables produce things in the brown-gold range and that didn't excite me. We got to choose from stisk lask, which is a red bug resin and sounds gross, but turns out a lovely pink-mulberry color, jack fruit, a giant bumpy-skinned fruit that's all over Asia and a gorgeous golden tone, and marigold, which made a surprisingly sage green color instead of burnt orange. Oh well -- pink and yellow, I couldn't be happier!

Andy was again a good sport and figured out, once and for all, that he wouldn't be wearing his Lao shawls out in public and chose pink and yellow too. In went our twisted and tied slips of creamy silk to the giant black witch cauldrons, and we got to wander around and see the women weaving and sewing. It's truly amazing how they sit at these giant looms, flipping feminine fingers through silk and slapping the threads together to tighten the weave, and how a complex, uniform and beautiful textile emerges from the seeming chaos of thread, silk, wood and hands. In the weaving rooms, it's completely quiet except for the clackety-clack of the wooden looms -- no talking, no tv, nothing -- you truly feel like artists are at work. After thirty minutes, Andy and I were beckoned back to the grass mat by one of our teachers, who rescued our silk from the black vats and started rinsing them clear and clean. Excited, curious and hopeful, we helped cut off the plastic and bamboo and unfurled our first foray into textiles. Voila! Check out the photo gallery to see how they came out -- we're quite pleased!: http://bitjug.com/gallery/VientianeDC

Though I was probably the most excited, as I got a new bright pink shawl and a super sweet partner who's willing to try the unexpected with me, no matter how close it hovers to the sphere of domesticity in Asia.

Getting Fresh in Laos

2006-03-14T03:25:00.000-07:00

I was not going to let some unnatural catfish the size of blimps and deep-fried frog intimidate me. So what if we experienced that one country south!? This was Laos! Green, quiet, friendly, emerging Laos. And I was ready to demystify its cuisine through trial and taste, to get my hands dirty with whatever local ingredients make-up the repertoire of this jungle-river-rice land. Cooking classes were on the map again in Laos, and I was optimistic -- and Andy a fantastic sport -- so we signed up for one in Ventiane.

Our class started with a trip to a local talat, or market, to learn about ingredients in the ripe flesh. Lao markets, like Cambodia, India and Thailand, are nothing like Safeway or Whole Foods. Perhaps you've visited an Asian market in the States...but that's only tame foreshadowing of the real markets of Asia! Here, the markets where citizens do their daily shopping squeeze into open-air buildings roped off into tiny stalls and burst onto the streets, with fruits and vegetables spilling out on display like colored confetti. The markets have cement floors that are wet with constant draining from hoses and God knows what else, no health deparment codes or plastic packaging revealing freshness or fat, and there are a bizillion products giving off sharp smells that range from shrimp paste to sugar cane, incense to intestines, cooking oil to coffee.

Dai, our teacher and head cook at Thongbay Guesthouse which offered the class, chaperoned us at the market and she moved about the body-width aisles of chaos like a pro, her long black hair swinging with purpose and coffee-dark eyes intent on destination.~> read more (with photos)

First, to her dry goods vendor, where she picked up cooking oil, palm sugar, mayonnaise and fish sauce. (they have fresh fish sauce in laos, but foreigners can't eat it without risking a bout of parasites. if you saw it, you'd understand.) Then, to her rice vendor who had brown woven baskets heaped high with white rice, sticky rice, purple rice, yellow rice, jasmine rice and, frankly, more kinds of rice than Andy or I ever knew existed. Dai ran her slender fingers through the grains of specific baskets, barked out an amount, then placed her Lao kips directly on the white rice in payment as the vendor weighed it on primitive scales. For some reason, the bills of kip never touched hand-to-hand in the market, only on top of the food from buyer to seller. Very strange! All the more reason to be dousing our hands in Purel whenever possible!!!

Andy and I tagged along like kids in any grocery store, asking lots of questions and accidentally getting lost because we looked at some strange thing too long, though we managed not to beg Dai for any unnecessary treats like Oreos or Captain Crunch. Ha! If they'd only had that...sigh. The produce of Lao is varied, abundant and fresh, and it looks beautiful clustered in rattan baskets, piled to heaping as if there was such a bumper crop they had to squeeze it all in to sell at the market. I saw at least 12 different shapes of eggplant, mysterious root vegetables and rhizomes, and pumpkins that range from soft green to solid orange. I was also stunned by the chromatic jungle of fresh greens in the market: cabbages, lettuces, river weeds, herbs, vine plants, algae and more. Not always for the faint of heart, but better than the meat section. Enough said on the topic -- you can view the photos.

And there were surprises to uncover...like dill! Who would have thought dill was alive and flourishing in Laos, and used to season omelettes and stir frys? And twelve kinds of basil? Dai let me taste a few leaves and they spanned from spicy to sweet to licorice to peppery. Myriad varieties of mushrooms made another section of the market look like the moon, all gray-brown-white with bumpy and porous textures. I'm not sure if they're a legacy of the French or not, but over 13 varieties grow in the rice paddies that carpet the country and make awesome additions in Lao soup, spring rolls, stir frys and more.

Laden with bursting plastic bags of fresh ingredients, we piled back in the tuk-tuk with Dai and returned to her garden to learn the secrets of Lao cooking. Our backyard cooking school was unexpected and quite the fairy tale atmosphere for crushing ginger, dicing chili, slicing green papaya and smashing a citrus rainbow of ingredients into salad with a mortar and pestle! Andy and I, ever savants of the spring roll, chose that as our first dish and were startled by the flaky-crispy-crunchy cyclinders of deliciousness that emerged from our hands...with Dai's help, of course. Filled with basic Asian vegetables like carrots, mushrooms and onion and yet more, we think these rocked the house because there was no cabbage (can overwhelm other vegetables), there was potato for increased mashy-smooth texture and taste, and a fresh egg mixed in gently before we rolled them in rice paper that made for an extra custardy inside. Dai also had us chopping away with special Lao tools that put a ruffled edge on vegetables, kind of like crinkle-cut french fries, and we loved their decorative but sharp touch. Later that day, we went back to the market and bought two so we can, hopefully, replicate the fancy chopping and fine food at home.

The Lao kitchen is not only all about fresh ingredients -- it's about the fresh, open fire as well. Everything of importance is cooked over a charcoal flame, not birquettes either so I don't want to think about the pretty forests here, and deep frying our spring rolls was no exception. Dai fired up the coals, fanned them with an electric fan plugged in from the house kitchen with an extension cord that ran across the leafy garden, and they sizzled away in palm oil. (don't say it! my heart has already chided me. but when in rome...) After copious draining, Andy and I enjoyed the springy, fried loveliness with an easy, fresh sauce of lime juice, palm sugar, crushed peanut and white vinegar. Mmmmmmm...Heaven!!! Or should that be Nirvana??? Whatever. They were awesome...and we have the recipe!

Please view a short gallery here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/VientianeCC

Living Out Lao

2006-03-07T03:23:00.000-07:00

Once the Kingpins of Indochine, Les French, coined this phrase: "The Vietnamese plant the rice, the Cambodians watch it grow and the Lao listen to it grow."

Reading that in the Lonely Planet as we flew from Seam Reap, Cambodia to Vientiane, Laos (pronounced "vee-ehn-chee-ahn, louw"...that's right, "louw" -- rhymes with "wow"), we laughed out loud. Andy and I couldn't quite imagine any place in Asia could be so mellow.

We were wrong~> read more

Laos is unexpected -- quiet and serene, low-stress and beautiful. Traveling in Laos' Mekong river-green and gold-temple midst, you'd never know it's sandwiched between the chaotic, industrious cultures of China, Burma, Vietnam, Thailand and Cambodia. The friendly people, who utter "sah-bah-dee" (hello) with genuine smiles, rarely follow it with a sales pitch and go about their daily lives with such gentle equanimity, lilting purpose and lack of loud voices we've wondered if we didn't end up on a parallel continent.

Buddhism is the tour-de-force that governs the national psyche and its doctrine empahsizes a cooling of human emotions which seems evident in the way people act, interact, barter, drive and go about their day. Verrrry mellow, very placid, purposeful but not passionate -- kind smiles and polite interactions that get the job done, but never tread on your sensibilities or stress level. Plus, there are monks of all ages -- from cherubic boys to grizzled grandpas, all with freshly bald heads -- on every street in their orange-peel robes walking to temple for meditation, and with that much karma on the streets, you just have to be on your best behavior. Nirvana is the name of the game for the Buddhists, and traveling here...save for the roads...is pretty damn close.

We started off in the afore-pronounced capital of Vientiane, where a colonial past collided with communism and now flirts outrageously with capitalism.

From 1893 - 1953, the French worked their imperial magic of baguettes, balconies and boulevards...along with the delicious extras of coffee roasting, ice cubes and plumbing. After the debacle of the Indochina Wars in the 1960's and 1970's, Laos was ruled by a Communist government funded by the USSR and trained in Vietnam...in everything but architecture. During this time, concrete block compounds with nary a curve or decorative detail flourished, if you can even say that, and when walking the city you see cement monstrosities with the old emblem of the hammer and sickle butting up to decaying colonial homes with painted shutters and aromatic, white-washed cafes.

I guess you could say the "rice curtain" fell over Laos during that time as it was isolated from Capitalist countries, especially the West, but never fell prey to a masochistic government like Cambodia. Instead, the Communists let the tribes of Laos, of which they're over 70, go about their daily lives of farming the rivers and jungles, grow their beloved rice, practice a government-regulated form of Buddhism and ease, ever-so-slowly, toward modernism without destroying the environment or naivetes in the process. What a concept!!!

And now, there are backpackers, NGO Land Rovers and eco-tourism agents cruising the streets trying to uncover and unleash Laos' potential. Laos gently, suspiciously opened its doors around 2000 to outside travelers and so far, so good. This potpourri of past and progress makes a landscape that's digested a bit like an item on a Lao menu: easy to swallow yet tough to say exactly what's involved. Every point of interest in Vientiane is within easy walking or biking, every activity is hassle-free and you quickly fall into synch with everyone greeting everyone with "sah-bah-dee". It's contagious! Yet, you're not sure why Laos is so laid-back and the traveling cynic in me wonders if this is indigenous or just pre-mass-tourism.

Whatever the case, just being in Laos for a few days we're immediately excited and re-energized from Cambodia. Perhaps learning to listen to the rice grow is the secret?!? I'm not sure, but in the sensory pleasure-puzzle that is Asia, Laos is a perfect fit for us.

Where are we?

2006-03-07T02:30:00.000-07:00

we've been staring at various maps our whole trip, but an idea of where we are might be interesting to some of you....~> read more

Here's a map of southeast asia to get a general orientation:

To review, we flew from Seattle to Bangkok via Tokyo Narita, then on to Chennai, India, returned to Bangkok from Chennai then flew to Phnom Penh, Cambodia. We took a bus to Siem Reap, Cambodia where the Angkor temples are, then flew from Siem Reap to Vientiane, Laos, which is the unlabeled star on the map. Then, we took a bus to Vang Vieng for a couple of days (not on map), then another bus on to Luang Prabang for 6 days, tomorrow is our last day here. Here's a more detailed map of Laos from the lonely planet website:

Next, We'll then fly from Luang Prabang back to Bangkok for a day and a half before our departure to New Zealand for a month. After we return from New Zealand, we'll fly down to Phuket, Thailand for about 12 days, then fly from Phuket to Singapore for 24 hours in Singapore, believe it or not. This saves us a bundle on our way to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) in the south of viet nam on the first of May. we'll head northward through viet nam for the whole month of may, all by bus, then fly back from Hanoi to Bangkok. We have more ideas after that but nothing finalized yet.

Ghastly Past Lives On

2006-03-07T02:17:00.000-07:00

The Killing Fields. Khmer Rouge. Pol Pot. Year Zero. Kampuchea. Or is that Cambodia?

I'm the first to admit that I wasn't sure what those things really were in the context of history and consequence. I know "The Killing Fields" movie won some Oscars, the Khmer Rouge was a guerrilla-communist group and Pol Pot's name is synonymous with evil, but wasn't exactly sure why. After visiting Phnom Penh, its Tuol Sleng museum and the actual 'Killing Fields', I understand intimately and feel somewhat embarassed I wasn't more aware of what's quite probably one of the most modern occurrences of butchery and nonsense living in today's world.

I wrestled with how to write succinctly about a regime that was hobbled by ideology and wanted so pure a form of communism that they essentially killed off any smart or skilled person who might be a threat, imprisoned and tortured others who didn't buy in to agrarian slavery right away, all of which resulted in over two million deaths, and tried to erase the past by starting the calendar over at "year zero" and burning the books, clocks, currency and buildings that stood for it...~> read more

and gave up.

Here's just a brief historical reference: the Khmer Rouge, led by Pol Pot who was known as "Brother Number One" in proletariat-speak, took over Cambodia after it faltered from instability between the Indochina and Vietnam wars in 1975. They had a strong following of young comrades who'd suffered during this time at the hands of the Vietnamese, US, British, French and monarchy, and they joined up in fatigues and black caps to glorify the country through Communism. Overnight, families and lives were broken and sent off to till the rice fields and support the newly-named Kampuchea and its Khmer Rouge totalitarianism. Or else...

Or else they'd end up in the Tuol Sleng prison where they were tortured brutally and utlimately executed grotesquely, with no regard for human life in the dead-dirt pits of The Killing Fields. Men, women, children and infants (yes babies -- who were sometimes thrown up in the air only to be shot dead by guards with rifles) were instantly shipped off to Tuol Sleng if suspected of being a threat the Khmer Rouge, or if merely related to someone who was. Cambodians were imprisoned for singing old, pre-Khmer Rouge songs and killed for maintaining relationships with non-approved comrades. Indeed, it was that random, terrifying, paranoid and senseless. The Khmer Rouge got so caught up in its own doctrine and paranoia that they beat...in every bloody sense of the word...false confessions and accusations out of people, perhaps if only to justify their own fears and cause.

Walking around Tuol Sleng, which was once a secondary school, you see the architecture of classrooms and the remnants of torture. A very bizarre irony. School rooms are filled with metal leg schackles and walled into human-sized cells with primitive brick and mortar, and the playground has various torment tools, such as a hanging platform, water drowning barrels and whipping posts next to horizontal bars. It's quiet and still, and an eerie sense of death and history hangs over it even though sunlight filters into the rooms and cells. Just when you're not sure if this could all be real, you enter a room containing hundreds upon hundreds of black and white photographs and come face to face with the victims. And I say victims, because they don't deserve the word 'inmate' -- none of them did anything wrong. A few might have not bought into the twisted politica dogma of the Khmer Rouge, but none committed a real crime, and many were innocently accused by others trying to save their own lives and end the recurring torture.

Looking at, gasping, looking away, and then looking back at these photos, many of which were laid out in side-by-side "before and after" epitaphs which left little to the imagination, was difficult. There are a lot of common adjectives I could use, but I'm sure most of you have visited somewhere like this...a place that kicks you in the gut and leaves you speechless with the question of "How did this ever happen?"

What kicked me in the gut and the brain harder, however, was something completely unexpected. Seeing the primitive contraptions at Tuol Sleng used for "water boarding", that gruesome technique that simulates a feeling of drowning for the victim and hence triggers some form of confession was eerily familiar. And then I realized why. The Khmer Rouge used and the United States is still using the same technique of torture and that stopped me sick in my sandals.

It just couldn't be...but it was. I remember the news before I left, and we've kept up a little while we've been away online and with foreign news periodicals. You don't forget a detailed explanation of not at all sporting term "waterboarding", nor shy away from thinking about the ramifications when your country and the word "torture" are used in the same breath. Even typing this now seems risky, as I'm sure I sound like some amnesty freak who doesn't love her country...but it's not that. I'm proud to be American and traveling does more than most things to raise one's level of patriotism and gratitude. Trust me. But when traveling, you encounter the unexpected -- in both feelings and experiences.

And at Tuol Sleng I did. I was chilled despite the searing heat to see graphic photos and the ugly tools of torture, up close and personal, from Cambodia's torrid past. Walking by the piles of unlabeled bones which serve monument and warning to a regime of paranoia, fear and unthinking doctrine, you want to believe that kind of disregard for human life doesn't go unnoticed and unlearned. Yet to know in some semblance, those same tools of torture alive today...entering into my own country's history...even when there is so much history to learn from and judge left me puzzled, disarmed, bereft. Less proud.

It's clear that no one, from any country, believes the reign of the Khmer Rouge and its practices were good or productive. Yet, seeing the remains of torture and knowing it's allowed by the Oval Office and happening to humans at Guantanamo Bay and possbly other places today under the auspices of national security, is confusing. Even if the motivation is different, I find a parity in technique and desire between the two governments -- one that's widely believed to be evil and the other which is my own -- and it doesn't settle well.

If we learn anything from history, it should be that there are boundaries between right and wrong that are impenetrable and inexcusable. Similar to freedom and democracy, which many Americans including its forefathers and current president, believe to be incontrovertible rights. So where does that leave waterboarding and torture? I'm uncertain, but my US passport feels perceptibly heavier after Tuol Sleng...a bit like my conscience.

http://bitjug.com/gallery/KillingFields

Not So Innocent Children

2006-03-05T08:40:00.000-07:00

We thought we'd seen it all in India, but Cambodia provided a whole new level of discomfort. Child sellers...and sellers of children...are everywhere. And nothing, neither the tiny bands of kids peddling photocopies of Lonely Planet books in Phnom Penh, nor the sweet faces hawking bracelets and bananas on the beaches of Sihanoukville, prepared us for our enounters among the temples of Angkor.

Siem Reap, the tourist-infested, scam-central city around Angkor Archaelogical Park, boasts more children selling during school hours than India and Thailand combined. And in the most bizarre, repelling, sad way. Every time we arrived at a new temple, a battery of kids, usually ranging from ages three to eight, pounced on us before we'd even climbed out of the tuk-tuk.

Sweet chocolate-almond eyes seared us, and tiny mouths uttered the same eerie phrases of English:

"Postcard, lay-dee? 10 for one dollah."
"Tee-shirt? Storybook? Please, suuhhrr. You want?"
"Cold drink? 2 for one-dollah. You buy from me, kay?"~> read more

And, as we gently waded through them, chorusing, "No, thank you. No. No, thank you!" they whirled 'round and 'round like a twister of tykes trying more urgently to suck us in.

"I have what you want, lay-dee. Anything, you want, I have!"
"I remember you, 'kay? If you buy, you buy from me. 'Kay?"
"I remember you...."
"Where you from, mee-stuhr?"

Jesus. It is SO HARD to try and relay the feelings of strangeness, guilt, sadness, anger and questioning that scene presses on your heart and soul. You cannot imagine the creepy-sweet robotic voices uttering those phrases to you repeatedly. Time after time after temple again. It happens every time you set foot near a monument site, of which we visited over 20, and often as you step away from your guest house. No where is safe in Siem Reap, and there is no good solution on what to do -- either in the moment of the situation or how to remedy it.

Andy and I can't buy something from all of them, let alone every time, and we also question if that's even helpful since their own flesh and blood families are putting the trinkets in their hands, the weird snippets of salesy English in their heads. If the kids bring home even $2 per day, that may never incentive their parents to stop. But, Cambodia has suffered greatly and I can't imagine what many of the families do on a daily basis to survive, so am I, as privileged white Westerner allowed to judge? I don't know.

What I also don't know, but can extrapolate from the disturbing billboards and magazine ads all around Cambodia, is that this explicit selling to foreigners by children leads to deeper, darker things. Child sex and sex tourism. And, after hearing the phrases of, "Anything you want, I have..." and "You buy from me, 'kay? I remember you...", and seeing them delivered with learned manipulation and cuteness that beguiles us from the West, it's easy to see how this might come next as they come of age. If you think about it, when a child knows how to smile at you grandly, instantly illuminating his or her darling, brown-skinned face with white teeth clamped tightly in a magnetic smile, point to your camera and hustle for "one dollah, mister", I feel they've learned lessons more powerful than anything they're missing by not attending school.

Cambodia has one of the worst child-sex trafficking and prostitution problems in the world, and while international organizations are increasing legal action against offenders and purveyors, it's hard to break a lucrative cycle of income. Especially for the families who benefit. The warning is clearly out and about to those of us who arrive in Cambodia, with an ominous photo of an adult and child in a sexy silohuette with stark letters reading "Break the law here and be prosecuted in your home country" at the airport, on billboards and in tourist magazines. To us, it all felt like an awareness-scare campaign and while that's a start, it doesn't save the lives of the once-innocent. What's being done to diffuse the gain from the supply side of these human economics? The government is madly building more and more infrastructure to accommodate tourists and lure our dollars, but nothing to mandate schooling or assistance for children of Siem Reap.

So, as you trek to temples, you have this unpleasant image of children as sex workers in your head, and you're greeted by a bevy of smiling faces eager to sell you up and please you. Ugh. It's so confusing and confounding -- I want to help them all, yet I'm not sure how, and selfishly, this is my trip of a lifetime, so it's a bit of a bummer being accosted and brought down every time you're walking somewhere. Sigh...very selfish, but I'm being honest.

Andy and I cope with this on a case-by-case basis, and while we never just gave out money (after all, there were a plethora of landmine victims to see and consider for that), we did try to buy basic things like postcards and water from them. When possible, we also tried to talk to and compliment them, but we couldn't often get involved in answering the questions of "What your name? Where you from?" as it almost felt too intimate. We and the children knew it wasn't a genuine exchange and segueway to friendship, it was business pure and simple. And that was, perhaps, the hardest part of all.

Photos from Angkor

2006-03-05T08:38:00.000-07:00

I spent some time enhancing Tiffany's "typical day" post below with photos, so you may want to see that first. There are some other interesting photos from Angkor here, though, so please don't miss them, I have added comments to nearly all of them!

http://bitjug.com/gallery/SiemReapAngkor

A Typical Day of Tomb-Raiding in Angkor (with many photos!)

2006-03-04T05:38:00.000-07:00

(note you can click on any photo for a larger view)

We just finished a week in Siem Reap, Cambodia and are the most mentally and physically exhausted since starting our Extravagasia. The temples of Angkor are amazing, inspiring, mysterious and frankly, tiring. I'm saddened they're just now emerging as a wonder of the world and must-see for ancient civilization buffs because the myriad, magnificent temples, breathtaking sculpture, unique cultural traditions and jungle setting of Angkor is absolutely on par with the Pyramids and the Parthenon.

However, I don't want to impart a history lesson on god-king civilizations that sprang from Hindu-Buddhist traditions on the blog. Instead, I thought I'd give you a glimpse of a typical day for us.

We didn't know much about the ancient Khmer civlization or Angkorian temples going in, and learned a ton on our independent tour with two guidebooks and private driver/kind-of guide. Andy and I were truly stunned by how steep the temples are -- each layout is like a five-tier wedding cake of stone with giant, slippery steps for scaling to each level. But the views from the top which include jungle, lakes, rice fields, monasteries, monks and villages are fabulous and unique to the world. And, despite the maddening crowds, there is nothing like scaling temples of rock and stumbling into a quiet alcove filled with nothing but Buddhas, the scent of incense and meditative energy.

Here's how we spent our days:

7:32am -- Wake up and will legs to move. Wonder if somehow, magically, the rules of society have changed and we can just go naked since it's so damn hot and there's nothing in our backpack cool enough to wear. Sigh. Slather selves with sunscreen.~> read more (with more photos)

8:00am -- Meet our driver/guide Heang and get in his tuk-tuk, which is a motorcycle pulling an enclosed backseat on trailer wheels. Zoom off to Angkor Archaelogical Park.

8:33am -- Fight through horrific group-tour crowds filing off buses and try not to end up in some Japanese tourist's photo.* Sigh...impossible. Head away from the crowds with our two guidebooks and start learning about bas reliefs and sculptures endemic to that particular period and temple.

* These big groups, which rivaled only what I've seen around the Mona Lisa in The Louvre, brought out a very impatient side of me which resulted in a breakdown to Andy including a "This is NOT how you take pictures!" bellow because there were SO MANY tourist sheep blocking the path, holding their digital cameras one foot away from their face and trying to take a landscape shot using the screen on the back. Aaaarrggghh! *

8:56am -- Have fun noting specific sculptural relief or recognizing recurring theme of Siva, Vishnu, elephant mounts and celesital Apsara nymphs, and any differences from previous temple or prior century. (we are geeks at heart, after all!)

9:27am-- Stop for small break and eat Quaker Oatmeal Breakfast bar. (I'd never seen these in the States, but we found them for $3.40 in a mini mart and were psyched for breakfast-on-the-go!)

10:14am -- Finish temple. Get accosted by children and women selling postcards, cold drinks, fruit, t-shirts, temple rubbings, bracelets and more. Fight off and buy from first water seller, since there's an etiquette and someone will be pissed if you buy from the person who didn't first yell, "Cold drink, sir?" at you from 50 feet away. (Not kidding!) Pay 400% more for bottled water than we paid in Phnom Penh -- and that's after we bargained!

10:41am -- Visit next temple, which is thankfully off the less-touristed track. (Or at least out of their strictly-scheduled order!) Climb up five levels of stairs, carefully using hands to cling on rock during last part of ascent. My palms and all of me are sweating as it's approximately 900 degrees in the shadeless sun, and Andy looks ready for a wet t-shirt contest in the heat. (that sounds weird -- what I mean is that his shirt is totally soaked through!)

11:01am -- Marvel at view from top. Enjoy various temple colors. Red-brown-gold-gray slabs of rock, laterite, stucco and brick, many of which have a growing tapestry of misty green lichen or velvety emerald and egg-white moss over their rough texture.

11:51am -- Visit third temple, which has less decoration and climbing, but awesome jungle landscape. Essentially, it's 'manmade vs. nature' here and we're climbing over wild fig trees which are choking a temple entryway and walking through leafy vines amongst ruin and rubble. VERY COOL! Take many photos and hope one turns out in the high sun and shadow environment.

12:54pm -- Beg Heang not to take us to another Khmer roadside stand for lunch and more overpriced ramen noodles. Opt for Blue Pumpkin Cafe with its Western-selection of pasta, salad and sandwiches and gift-shop setting. (yes, Blue Pumpkin had something for us all -- Andy could be air-conditioned and eat meat-sauced spaghetti and I could shop, all in non-brain-taxing situation!)

1:53pm -- Go out to "parking lot", which is a sandy sea of tuk-tuks, buses and child sellers, and ward off more armies of cuteness hawking postcards, t-shirts and bracelets. Sigh...

1:57pm -- Enjoy quiet, breezy ride in the tuk-tuk on temple-filled jungle road. See monks and monkeys. Excellent!

2:06pm -- Embark on another temple adventure of steep climbing and beautiful bas-relief sculptures. Feel triumphant that we're schooled in "the churning of the ocean of milk" myth and recognize various elements on the causeway and pediments. Also happy that we visited India first as the ancient Khmer civilizations were greatly influenced by Hinduism and India, and we're noticing some trends.

2:42pm -- Wonder how Angelina Jolie EVER filmed "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" in the exact same place where I now am without looking like she'd just rolled in a slick of oil and sweat and sucked a lot of wind. Damn, is it hot!

3:26pm -- Alight from tuk-tuk at next jungle temple. Take break in shade, hide from sellers and read about its history before hiking 2 km down the leafy, viney path and crossing serpent-covered causeway.

3:51pm -- Enter top-level tower and find Buddhist shrine awash in candlelight and golden statue glow. Colorful prayer flags zig-zag across the stone ceiling and sweet-smiling, shaved-head monk points us to the incense sticks and donation box. We take off our shoes and hats, kneel down with feet behind us and bow heads three times in meditation, then light incense sticks and plant them in ancient, sand-filled urns. Monk smiles approvingly and bows, and we press our palms together in symbol of thanks and bow.

4:36pm -- Buy sweet, fresh pineapple from Khmer lady in sarong...the first one who asked us, of course...for blood sugar surge and eat from plastic bag with giant tooth picks in the back of the tuk-tuk.

5:02pm -- Heang drops us off at one of the four best Angkorian temples for watching the sun set. Unfortunately, other drivers and tour operators also drop their hordes and it's a mass of humanity scaling another root and rock covered hill.

5:04pm -- Spray deet on skin with ferocity. Buy one more overpriced bottle of water and give legs a pep talk. Start the climb.

5:43pm -- See searing pink orb settle into the lavender-gray sky atop a temple with tourists and monks...their colorful robes nearly upstaging the sunset...and watch as the towers and shadows of an empire fade to black.

Amok Time*: Khmer Cuisine for the High Maintenance

2006-03-04T04:25:00.000-07:00

Besides almighty rice, we weren't sure what would be on the menus in Cambodia. And when we first walked the streets of Phnom Penh and saw giant, deep-fried cockroach-cricket-bug things, stuffed frogs and small, freshwater mollusks that people snack on like smelly-fish candy, I was extremely frightened. Frogs mean one thing to me and it's Kermit, not dinner. But, we got brave and entered our first Khmer restaurant as culinary adventures are definitely part of this trip.

Andy by far and away has an easier time eating off a menu than I do. And that's in the States, not just here! Okay, fine -- some might call it high maintenance but I work in marketing, so I like the word "selective". Regardless, being mostly vegetarian, save for a deep love of sushi and wild salmon (the Oregon girl in me), I can leave all four-legged, cute-faced animals for tofu. However, there hasn't been a soybean in sight in Cambodia, and once the arthropods and amphibians entered the menu, it got really interesting.

So, why not fresh-water fish, you say? After all, Cambodia is on the Mekong and that's a mighty river. Two words: giant catfish...which scared the hell out of both Andy and I. In the ubiquitous markets that proudly sell anything on land and water in the open air and sunlight, we've seen some of the Mekong catfish featured on menus and they are whiskered giants that measure over 4 feet in length!!! Their glazed sludge eyes still look mean lying there and, besides the fact they're bigger than a small child, you just know the catfish scavenged the bottom of that brown river for anything -- from mercury to mini vans~> read more

-- to make a good meal. Neither Andy nor I, who aren't big on fresh-water fish even when it comes out of a Coors crystal-clear stream, can make the mental jump here to block out that image so, for us, fish is "off the menu".

Luckily, two dishes saved me time and town again: Squid Salad and Amok. I honestly never imagined I'd be eating so much squid in a non-calamari form, but this Khmer salad created with sliced cabbage, chopped lemongrass, fresh mint and basil, scallions and grilled squid, all spiced with a dressing of lime juice, chili, palm sugar, prahoc (Khmer fish sauce--salty!), garlic and black Kampot pepper is outrageous! So fresh and zesty, crunchy and spicy, sweet and salty -- and totally bug free!!! Defintely unlike any other salads, even Thai versions that include green mango and green papaya, and something that I'll be perfecting upon my return so we can enjoy in the US.

And, to be fair, I want to explain the legacy of exotic, desperate eating in Cambodia. Frogs, bugs and other bizarre things here are neither delicacies nor tribal foods eaten for magical, virile powers -- these foods are simply the legacy of vicious famines and even more vicious government reigns. The Khmers have suffered greatly, mostly at the hands of their own unstable, ever-changing governments, and these constant battles for power and control resulted in burnt rice fields, severe famine, isolation from the outside world and aid groups, and a drastic measures for finding nourishment and survival. Thus, bugs, frogs, fish skin, tiny river creatures and other suspicious mammals became edible options and make the Cambodian menus, even today.

Most other Khmer dishes are a gentler version of Thai food, albeit to those of us who like spice a less flavorful one, but Amok is a concoction all its own. In many ways, Amok is a sauce not far from the Pina Colada base of exquisite coconut creme, but takes the Colada to a deeper, non-cocktail side with the inclusion of a vivid spice paste with echoes of lemon grass, ginger, chili and kaffir limes. Oh my gosh!!! Amok is the most delicate, delicious coconut creme curry in the world, and when paired with vegetables and steamed coconut rice, you have something so rich and delicious that it doesn't matter what else is on the menu...because you're having Amok, again, for like the third night.

For me, the signature notes of Khmer cuisine are lemongrass, kaffir lime and black Kampot pepper. Cambodians use lemongrass more subtly than Thais, and from what I can taste (and learn from puzzled waiters that I ask in a mix of Khmer and English with the help of the Southeast Asian Phrase Book), they often saute it and blend with ginger, garlic, onion and chili to mellow its flavor and texture. This unique fusion of spices is their "masala", and it's then mixed with kaffir lime -- which is the most limey, abmrosial version of lime ever; it tastes like key lime pie and lime jell-o powder smell, all in one bite -- for balanced, savory-yet-sweet citrus notes. To add bounce and zing to anything from cabbage to coconut milk, Khmer cooks sprinkle in freshly-cracked black pepper, sometimes even whole peppercorns, straight from the Kampot province. When mingled together in what could be a just simple dish of vegetables or salad, this citrus-with-a-kick taste makes for flavor and food that even the most high maintenance eater can savor with delight!

*: For any Trekkies on our blog, the title of this post is an homage to one of my favorite episodes, "Amok Time". My dear friend Matt "educated" (though looking back now, I'm not sure that is the right verb for the job) me on Star Trek in high school by screening key episodes. I couldn't resist the play on words for this post. Who knew I could fuse cult scifi and cuisine...Aren't you proud, Matt?

Massage...Boom-Boom!...Massage Boom Boom!?!?!

2006-02-28T01:49:00.000-07:00

Tiffany and I have done nearly everything together on this trip. As boring and over-involved as that might sound, it makes sense, partly because we are traveling for the same reasons (seeing sights like the Angkor temples, enjoying food in India, etc), but also because we tend to have the same threshold. After 4 total days hiking around temples in over 95 degree heat, substantial humidity, and most of all, punishing (that IS the right word) sunshine, we both where "templed out" in a major way.

But I digress. Before we did all this, I was trying to find us a good guide and/or driver for all of this. Now, it's not as if it's hard to find either, with people shouting such services at you from every street corner in town. But what about credibility, english skills, and experience? I was trying to contact a guide recommended on an internet site, so I needed to call him. It was perhaps 10pm and since we don't have our own cell phone set up in cambodia, I needed to walk to any of the "phone booths" you can find on the street, which have an aluminum and plexiglas box which looks like a phone booth, but is to small to actually stand in, and is often filled with junk anyway. However, somewhere nearby to all of these, you will find somebody willing to charge you around 500 riel per minute to use their cell phone. Usually this person is involved in a shop or some other business.

So, I go out to make this call, Tiffany stays in the hotel room where it is cooler and cleaner as there is no need for her to come along. I need to walk only about 600m to the phone booth. I am wearing REI-ish pants and an orange t-shirt with no printing, as I recall. very "normal". so, I walk out of the hotel and immediately, as expected, a moto driver asks me if I want a ride "moto, moto?" I respond "no, thank you, just walking". He comes a little closer "You want smoke?" and again "no, thanks" I hadn't gotten this one before but had heard that many moto drivers would know where to find pot. Next, "you want girl tonight?" I laugh..~> read more

"No, thank you" and apparently he has run out of his script.

In Bangkok and Phnom Penh and to a lesser extent Siem Reap you see a lot of western men, usually between their late 40s and early 60s, out at restaurants and bars with khmer (cambodian) or thai young ladies (early 20s usually). The lady is their "date" though it is quite unlikely they aren't being paid. It is also hard to miss the massage parlors around town, particularly in siem reap, which according to our lonely planet guidebook are rarely 100% "above board" so to speak. However, there are many tourists seeking a foot massage after the temple hikes. There are also a number of bars that "freelancers" (prostitutes sans madame) hang out at to pick up business. Whatever our judgements on this, it is certainly present.

Anyhow, I walk past the shady karaoke-massage place on our street (yes, really) past a few more offers from moto drivers, past another massage place and a gay oriented western owned place that I think offers food and booze as well as massage ???, and I spot a public phone booth. Great! However, you need a prepaid phone card to use the booth. ok, there is a sign next to the booth pointing directly in between two storefronts saying "prepaid card sold here". One storefront seems to be a bar, but here in SE asia you really can't rule out a bar selling prepaid phone cards. the other store is closed, but there's a lady sitting out front on a bench. I approach the lady, asking about phone cards. she isn't understanding me, but beckons me closer. I come over and say it again. still no luck, but she strokes my arm sensually. Huh. There is a moto-driver or security guard coming over, so I bring him over to the sign and just point to it, because it says "phone card here" in khmer as well. "no, no" sounds like the place is closed. ok, so now I'm noticing that the bar has way too many ladies hanging out near the front. uh-huh. time to find another phone booth. as I walk away a young lady sitting on a motorbike strokes my arm again, saying something nice. I think this one might have been a lady-boy but that's another story and certainly a tough call.

So yeah, on down the street. 30m further and I see the plexi-aluminum non-phonebooth I'm seeking. turns out the phone owner runs a fruit stand here. she motions for me to sit down. doesn't speak a bit of english but I have the phone number printed out on paper. we dial. it rings a bit then tones I don't recognize. huh. she seems to want me to wait. OK, I don't need to leave right away. Pretty soon, an attractive middle aged khmer lady with a tight tank top and red underwear sticking out the top of her jeans (in the front) comes up and starts arguing/asking about how ripe various durian sitting there are. I look behind me to see a stack of durian husks, now that must be where the somewhat vomitous smell is coming from. A western guy in his late 40s, (I think american) that looks like he has smoked a dump truck full of weed and cigarettes at led zeppelin concerts shows up, with a pushy-acting khmer girl in her 20s. she seems to want to show off how cheaply she can buy fruit. red-underwear-in-the-front lady gets into a conversation with the (other) pushy girl. Seems to be an argument but those high sharp springy tones in the khmer language could make a friendly greeting sound like an argument.

we try the phone number one more time, same tones. A younger khmer guy comes over and listens. He tells me in great english that the mobile phone I am calling is probably turned off. OK, maybe my guide has gone to bed. I thank the english speaker and the fruit lady and head back, moving quickly past "zanzi bar" which I now suspect to be a freelancer joint.

However, I was quite done yet. As I was about to dip into the hotel gate, a moto driver pulled up. "Massage...Boom Boom!...Massage Boom Boom!?!?!

What can you buy for a US Dollar anymore?

2006-02-28T01:20:00.000-07:00

Well, not much, where it's printed. But if you're in Cambodia, quite a lot! You see, Cambodia uses primarily the US Dollar as currency, even though next door neighbor Thailand, for example, has its own currency system (Baht) as you would expect. $1 buys 2 hours at an internet cafe in Phnom Penh (but only 1 hour if the cafe has A/C. A single G.W. can also net you 8 1 liter bottles of water, believe it or not. If you're in the mood for fruit, you can easily get 2 full pineapples, perfectly cut to remove the hard core and those annoying fibrous dimples around the outside, for a single buck. To rent a 100cc Scooter (the primary mode of transportation for everyone) you'll need 3 of the smallest U.S. greenback, and to stay in a nice hotel room with TV, fridge, sometimes DVD player, and hot water, you'll need 8, 12 if you want to turn on the A/C (which is impossible to resist sometimes).

However, anything less than a dollar is guaranteed to be handled in an entirely different currency. oh no, you won't find quarters, dimes, or any coin, in fact, around here.~> read more

While the official exchange rate isn't exact, everyone treats 1 USD as 4000 cambodian riel. Therefore, if you want to buy a Coca cola (a bit of a luxury around here, though beer can be the same price), you'll need 2 1000 riel bills to cover the $.50 price that may be marked in the cooler. You'll also find 500 riel bills quite commonly (worth 12.5 cents each), and even 100 riel bills, which are equivalent to 2.5 cents. these bills look like it cost well over 2.5 cents to print them, they are usually quite nice in contrast to some of the other denominations. Again, no coins at all, in fact, when we got into the more touristed town of Siem Reap, a restaurant tried to farm off a quarter on us probably left by an american tourist to angkor wat. Fat chance, that quarter went straight into the tip.

The final complication is that the government is for some reason still printing 5000 and 10000 riel notes, though we haven't seen anything larger than that. These bills are 1.25 and 2.50 respectively. Also, since there isn't a reserve bank to exchange old USD notes as there is in the US, you have to be extremely careful not to accept a bill in change with even the slightest tear, even if the tear is sneakily taped, as we once had, because nobody will accept it. Older, distressed bills can face the same problem but are easier to spot.

Therefore, you might imagine that when you get a bill for 2.90, and you can pay it with:

two US dollars, three 1000 riel notes, one 500 riel note, and one 100 riel note

or, if you have the riel, it's better to use that, so:

one 10000 riel note (or 2 5000 notes), one 1000 riel note, one 500 riel note, and 1 100 riel note

but if you only have one 5000 riel note, it's:

one US dollar, one 5000 riel note, 2 1000 riel notes, one 500 riel note, and 1 100 riel note.

It can be a riel challenge to manage all of those bills!

How we take photos

2006-02-28T01:10:00.000-07:00

This isn't a description of where we've been, or the people we've seen. But since you've probably looked at many of our photos, I wanted to say a few things about the way we take them.

Namely, we take them together! No, I don't mean the photos with the two of us in them, I mean we hand the camera back and forth to take a few shots. We have 1 "body" and 4 lenses, and we're certainly not going to carry double that! We find it's pretty easy to share, when one of us gets an idea the other is more than happy to hand it over.

So, how can you tell who took a given photo? The short answer is, you can't. You might have made the assumption that I take all of them, with Tiffany handling most of the prose on this site. However, while I take more than half of the photos, I think she takes more than half of the good ones.

In any case, it's a collaborative effort, and if you see an interesting or fun photo, you can rest assured we took it together, no matter who was directly behind the lens!

all our photos from this trip: http://bitjug.com/gallery/AsiaTrip

Short Gallery from Phnom Penh

2006-02-28T01:07:00.000-07:00

I wanted to post a short gallery of photos we took in Phnom Penh; don't miss the dead chickens!

http://bitjug.com/gallery/PhnomPenh

Smells of Occheuteal Beach

2006-02-22T03:00:00.000-07:00

We're certain the sounds of a tropical beach are familiar to your ears: surf crashing rhythmically on sand, squeals of delight, wind whistling gently through palm trees, and a collective, happy gasp as the sun sinks pinkly into the sea.

For the sights, we have some photos here: http://bitjug.com/gallery/Sihanoukville

But what about the smells?

Cambodia's beaches offered our noses something far beyond your typcial salt air and we had to share. Sitting, sunning, shading and floating on Occheuteal Beach was kind of like attending a sports event with exotic food hawkers. Cambodians don't mess around with boring stuff like popcorn or cotton candy; even a can of beer isn't Budweiser-boring -- here, they offer it from the countries of Malaysia, Cambodia and Singapore.

Ladies wander up and down the narrow strip of sand carrying a yoke-like contraption that involves a narrow stick about five feet long and a triangular set of wires on each end that hold a giant round platter.~> read more

It's kind of like those scales in the produce department at Safeway, only twice the size, hanging off the rod in your closet. Sometimes, one end of the yoke has a fire pit on it that the women use to barbeque you up something fresh!

Other ladies and girls carry only a giant bowl on their heads, carefully balanced in a round pillow made of the checkered krama scarf material, with pounds of fruit or fried this-or-that, and wield a giant cleaver to fresh cut whatever you desire. Watching a seven-year-old whack pineapple from its pesky skin for $0.25, while balancing on her knees and tipping nothing into the sand, was a nerve wracking site, trust me!

All day, women balance the yokes and platters effortlessly as they plod along the beach belting out their buffet items. Wish you were with us to taste the flavors!

- BBQ squid -- fresh from the Gulf, barbeque-cum-blackened up right in front of you.

- Sweet pineapple -- hot sun ripens the so-fresh fruit, which is cut to eat...yum!

- Steamed dumplings -- the warm doughy smell of steamed rice flour dumplings interrupts sun bathing, for sure!

- Roasted Peanuts -- warm, salty, nutty goodness wrapped in newspaper cones.

- Grilled Coconut -- chopped, cooked and rolled into a spring roll with peanuts, mung beans and palm sugar. SO good!

- Durian -- horrible, foul, custard-vomit smelling durian. We're not fans of the fruit!

- BBQ Bananas -- peeled and grilled to perfection; these in Cambodia have a denser, deeper flavor and you get a bunch rolled in a plastic bag for snacking.

- Apple-Rubber-Honey -- otherwise known as Jack Fruit. Gotta try it once.

- Salt-Brine-Fish-in-the-Sun -- just like it sounds. Tiny fish and tiny mollusks are sold, mostly to locals, for munching. Smell usually triggers nose wrinkling. Also triggers question of: "How long have those been sitting in the sun, unrefrigerated?"

- Fried doughnuts and sun-melty-chocolate -- doughnut-like-crisps with gooey tops of chocolate and nutella. Probably remnant of something French, but many good things are here in Cambodia.

Sun, Serendipity & No Straying Off Path

2006-02-22T02:55:00.000-07:00

Southwestern Cambodia borders the Gulf of Thailand is supposedly the "next Southern Thailand" with its sleepy sand 'n surf towns, beachfront dining by palm-oil lantern light and uninhabitated coastal islands. Andy and I decided it our moral duty as independent travelers to check the area out before it's awash in even more Lonely Planet backpackers and, gasp, dreaded "package tour" travelers, so we headed south on the bus.

Yes, the bus -- we got brave again after India since the Cambodian coaches have a small blast of air that circulates throughout (small...petite, tiny, wee...but better than nothing!) and they only sit four across instead of five or six. However, please note, buses don't have a bathroom and if you have the misfortune of needing relief on a ride, you must politely pantomime to the driver, get him to stop and squat near the bus with its big windows and main road!!!~> read more

NOT, I repeat not, in the privacy of the trees or a shrouded path away from the bus.

Why? Because Cambodia is still riven with landmines and it's dangerous to pee off-path. How weird and sad is that??? History is alive and killing even today in Cambodia from the Khmer Rouge, Vietnam War and Vietnamese intervention of the 1970's and 1980s. Many of the scars of its horriffic past are buried only inches under the soil around the country, and millions of land mines laid by various guerrilla groups that terrorized the country are still unknown and unexploded. Yes, millions -- Cambodia has somewhere between 4 - 6 million dotting its rice field, roads and countryside. The complexity and expense of finding them is too much for this little country and the landmines still kill about 45 people a month. Thus, one is advised to stay on path when temple or tinkle seeking, and it's imperative to stay on marked roads and rice paddies whenever exploring.

I'm sure this concept seems difficult to comprehend -- we read it in the "LP" and were kind of dubious -- but all you need to do is walk out of your guest house and see the first limbless beggar asking for money and you know it's real. Sadly, there are so many of these people on the beach and street, you can't give to all of them but it's hard...nothing stops you in your traveler tracks like someone hobbling on crutches without their lower arms and left leg.

Anyway, on a lighter note, we disembarked in Sihanoukville and jumped on a moto, giant backpacks, little day packs and all, and started exploring its myriad beach areas. Serendipity, Victory, Sokha, Occheuteal and Koh Pos greeted us with warm, beige sand and sea-green water that was our warmest yet! I'd say bath water, but I haven't had a bath in months and we're now trading hot water in favor of A/C so that's an analogy which triggers yearning. ;)

We spent most of our week on Serendipity and Occheuteal beaches, staying in a guest house only a short palm-lined walk away for $10, and soaked up the atmosphere. The area is full of charming bungalow restaurants with rattan lounge seating on the beach and free black rubber inner-tubes for riding the wives, and while there are some travelers, it's not the hordes you see in the Thai islands. But, things are happening, and we both feel Cambodia's coast will be wildly different in one year.

You can see and smell the changes afoot, as structures are going up haphazardly -- if you're not careful you might catch a spark from a welder in the eye while the smell of fresh asphalt grinds in your nose when you're suddenly walking or riding on it. (No, not kidding!) Guest houses are appearing nearly overnight, trees are disappearing overnight and we saw crews of krama-covered workers toiling in the heat, digging, paving and laying brick by hand in three stretches of the same main road of Sihanoukville. (the krama is a protective scarf very popular and indigenous here. you see it used in many ways)

In many ways, land development and land mines sum up Cambodia...progress and tragedy mingled in one movement that has positive yet precarious momentum. The country has struggled so long and hard against war, famine, freedom and stability that it's desperate for a prosperous economy and tourism is the seducing light at the end of the tunnel. It often feels like everyone is out for a piece of it -- and subsequently a piece of you, as a traveler. Everything is for sale or going to be, and everyone is selling. We're enjoying ourselves, but the lure of constant potential and a voracious appetite for the dollar means that in Cambodia, we always have to watch our step.

Seven Deadly Reasons Why We Like Phnom Penh

2006-02-17T04:58:00.001-07:00

{Women wearing pyjamas in the street (See: ENVY)}

I could go on and on about where the time went in Phnom Penh, but here's a fun little list of things we believe are reasons why we stayed a whole week.

For some reason, it felt sinful to have this kind of time in a foreign city when one knows there's more of a country to see. But our intentions were virtuous and I think there's a bit of honor in traveling with a touch of temperance, don't you? :D

{SLOTH] = Toilets are most everywhere -- and most even have pale pink toilet paper. Truth be told, the constant squat can make one overwrought!

[GREED] = The US Dollar ($) is the de facto currency -- no kidding! Here, we understand how much we're spending, and how cheap it is! (Cambodia has its own currency, the Riel, but it went to hell with the Khmer Rouge and somehow the dollar emerged as stable years ago. Geez, have we seen some ancient dollar bills!)

[PRIDE] = Cambodians drive on the left, pass on the left and we look right when crossing. Now, that's a system we can master with confidence. It's so easy being a pedestrian!

[ENVY] = Women wear pajamas in the street!!!~> read more

Again, not kidding. And, I don't have mine with me! We don't have a clue about how this came to pass but it's completely normal to see Cambodian women and girls out in the street working, selling, walking, shopping...and all wearing two-piece cotton pajamas sets complete with piping and pockets, and with floral, Hello Kitty! or sleepytime bears cutting Zzzzzzz's on them. It's hilarious. I'm bitter I don't have any with me. And, why isn't this a viable fashion option in the States?

[GLUTTONY] = Non-Governmental Organizations (NGO) that make you feel good about eating and spending. Because of Cambodia's horrific past, NGOs and the UN have a strong presence here and are trying to help the country make good in this new era of hope and tourism. Many opened restaurants that assist local street children, artists, impoverished mothers, AIDS victims and more by giving them jobs, education, skills and such in the food industry. You just feel good eating at these places and it's so great to know that when a sweet smile on a young teen made your meal all that more enjoyable, your extra tip...of maybe only $1...makes a big difference in their lives. Plus, on a selfish note, the NGOs are run by a wildly international staff of volunteers so each menu involves foods that ex-pats desperately miss in Cambodia and include so much, much more than rice.

[LUST] = Kampot black pepper and squid salad. Outrageous, original, pure yumminess! Kampot is a southwestern province in Cambodia that grows exquisite black peppercorns which are salty, zingy, zesty and smoky. So much more than any grocery-store black pepper. In fact, Kampot pepper was a delicacy for French tables during the mid-19th century, but the Khmer Rouge period wiped it out as an export in the 1970's. However, and thankfully, you find it locally and when paired with grilled squid, fresh mint and basil, lemongrass, ginger, chilies, lime, crushed peanuts, lettuce and sugar, you have something special! (and yes, I'm now thinking it might be interesting to become a Kampot peppercorn grower and exporter!)

[ANGER] = No taxis...just moto taxis! Which means a scooter carries three adults at wild angles here and brings new meaning to "Look, Ma! No hands!". Not to be a car-loving American, but this was unexpected. Actually, this means Andy is thrilled and not angry, as here it seems "practical" for us to rent our own. But while this means there are far fewer cars to dodge when crossing the street, we did have to call our insurance company and cajole, then pay to increase the policy to include "hazardous coverage" since we can't get to and from major destinations or arrival points without riding a moto.

Cambodian Daze

2006-02-17T04:14:00.000-07:00

{You didn't think we'd miss out on this legacy of the French, did you?}

We landed in Phnom Penh, Cambodia and somehow didn't leave until a full week later!

(note: for those curious, it's "PUH-nahm-penn" pronunciation-wise)

I'm not sure what happened, but think we were sucked in to the city's mellow, hopeful, happening vibe and just wanted to stay. Honestly, we're probably still recalibrating from India and what seems restrained to us might be chaotic to a newly-arrived-in-Cambo traveler, but we're thrilled the moto drivers only ask once and beggars don't touch when motioning for food.

Somehow, Andy and I whiled away hours in Phnom Penh...slouching in giant, silk-cushioned, rattan chairs anchored under swirling ceiling fans sipping fresh~> read more

juice shakes or iced black tea laced with lemon, mint and palm sugar. And loved every second of it!

And, most probably, French Imperialism also had something to do with it. Inarguably, the French know a thing or two about making a city great and their influence on Phnom Penh is no different. Creamy cafe-au-lait buildings with curly-cue, wrought-iron balconies line the streets, the boulevards are wide with sidewalks and grassy islands of monuments, and there are distinct quarters throughout the city, including one rife with Art Deco. Personally, I can take or leave the baguette, but it's entertaining to see that loaf as the national bread of Cambodia. Plus, where there's French bread, there are good chefs unafraid of baking with wheat flour and the liberal use of salt and pepper. YES...rice is nice, but wheat is sweet! Perhaps most importantly, we owe the luxuries of drinkable, crunchable, cold ice and imported cabernet sauvignon to the French colonists of Cambodia--two things which definitely take the edge off a day of exploration in the hot sun.

Phnom Penh sits on the banks of a confluence of the Tonle Sap, Tonle Bassac and mighty Mekong rivers, and it's an inviting waterfront with Art Nouveau lamps, billowing flags and fruit sellers which beckons a daily promenade. Thankfully, a cooling breeze flows off the water and tempers the city's electic mix of people as there is little shade in Phnom Penh and it's, shall we say, 'Asia' hot here these days. Western-dressed working Cambodians, rural Khmer laboreres (their heads swaddled by the native, gingham-like-checked kramas/scarves), aid workers in linen--albeit wrinkled--business attire, travelers in cargo pants and shoeless children, who should be in school but are instead selling photocopied books (like Lonely Planet and Dan Brown), mix on the streets. And most all are smiling. It's an easy aura for blending, plus there's an energy that things are just happening here. Now.

One of the coolest places to hang out in Phnom Penh, watch the sunset colors reflect off the rivers and catch the first cooling winds off the Mekong is The Foreign Correspondents Club (or The F for those in the know). During the crazy, cruel, schizophrenic times of the monarchy, the Vietnam war and the Khmer Rouge, journalists from all over the world sat in wicker chairs at The F, perched right along its multi-level, open-air, free-fall-to-street balconies and watched the days go by. Literally.

From stories above, foreign correspondents watched the feet on the streets of Phnom Penh and imbibed gin and scotch -- whole bottles are for sale even today -- to loosen the flow of words for deadline. The giant sails of ceiling fans cooled, and still cool, heated debates on whatever zeitgeist issue, and the ever-so-faint aroma of cigarettes past tickles your nose today. Newspapers from world-round are available for a leisure read and there's no rush to plow through a dense article; perhaps the club's only distraction is the static of numerous foreign accents that prick one's ear with curiousity or familiarity. We loved The F and rubbed knees against the balconies, the same which have seen and survived decades of Cambodia's newsy riots and bloodshed, on numerous occasions...sipping French burgundy and soaking up the ghosts of correspondents past.

Dishing On Bangkok Restaurants

2006-02-15T07:55:00.000-07:00

...AND THE VIEW...

(more photos here): http://bitjug.com/gallery/BKK2dinners

Thailand is known for its unique cuisine -- savory yet sweet in every bite, sauces smooth as Thai silk and a spiciness that emulates its hot climate -- and Bangkok's restaurant scene is no less unique or phenomenal. With Michael, we experienced some of the best the city has to offer one dish, drink and location at a time, and we simply HAD to share the details!

Bangkok has one restaurant in particular which takes 'atmosphere' to a new level.~> read more

At the top of the Banyan Tree Hotel rests "Vertigo", a restaurant and bar soaring above the building's 58 floors with nothing to stop you from touching the stars but the smoky curtain of Bangkok's pollution. You arrive via elevator at Floor 58, then wind up two chic, narrow staircases lined with Asian art and alight on the roof, where the view and sheer surprise of its open atmosphere take your breath away...possibly even giving you vertigo. Never, ever before have I been somewhere so elegant and so quiet, so elevated and so open to the world! OHSA wouldn't like it, but we loved it and couldn't get over the fact we were dining at silk covered tables in between four beacons of lighted red warning beacons to aircraft!!!

Every small touch at Vertigo was incredible and memorable...from the gently folded cream petals of a single lotus stem hanging delicately from the ice bucket, to the hammered silver chargers which caught and tumbled the city's jeweled-skyline reflection at your plate...from a menu featuring Tasmanian salmon, Japanese beef and Phuket lobster, to frosty jasmine-scented towels which were seemingly delivered on silent wish-command by servers in white silk and the perfect temperature to cool and refresh one's humid neck. At the end of our experience -- and it was that, much more than just a meal -- we wandered around the candle-lit and skyline-lit roof, looked over the edge and 60 stories down, and tasted chocolate (from their surprise dessert finale of an exquisite truffle) instead of fear. Definitely the most enjoyable case of Vertigo on record!

The Oriental is Bangkok's most fabled hotel, a remnant of the Kingdom of Siam and a posh place to recover from the jungle (like Somerset Maugham did in the Bamboo Bar) or get cured from writer's block to finish a grand novel (like Joseph Conrad did in The Author's Wing). It's beautiful, serene, full of artful touches and dining at The Oriental rolls all of the aforementioned adjectives into one...but with even more flare and lotus flowers.

We dined at The Verandah, which spills gracefully onto the hotel's edge along the Chao Praya, a river whose inky black water serves as a startling, impossible mirror to the surrounding buildings and city lights. Reflections dance off the busy water in front of The Verandah, and a steady stream of twinkle-lit teak dinner boats full of group tourists entertain your eyes and ears. And your nose, not to be left unattended, inhales gentle wafts of jasmine, frangipane and orchid from swaying tree blooms scenting the darkness. Cream table linens dotted by mulberry-paper candle lanterns are neither damp nor wrinkled like we are from the moist heat, and a turquoise, perfume-bottle-shaped resin vase holds a solitary lotus bloom. Simply sitting down at the table and absorbing its sensory beauty was captivating at The Verandah, and we hadn't even ordered yet! Its is an atmosphere of another, less vertical nature, but equally intoxicating.

Honestly, only in Asia, does one find restaurants with this type of elegant serenity and such uncanny attention to detail. Without attitude, no less, and always with grace. Here, it's all about small pleasures performed by hidden hands and quiet smiles...to the most exquisite degree. Despite dense population and urban chaos, eating in Bangkok is never rushed, never just a motion or means to an end. I think some of this unique style has to do with the pervasive Buddhist spirituality that demands notice, offerings and thanks on a daily basis -- many people here just know how to look for and create beauty in the every day. I think this translates to a harmony between life, art, pleasure and the organic which is quite tangible to those who are willing to slow down and live in the moment. Which as Americans, even ones abroad, is not easy to do. But when possible, so rewarding and good for the soul.

** (...So, ironically, The Verandah's drink menu reads much like a Denny's menu! Each plastic page has photos of the Oriental's fabulous, famous cocktails in vivid color and it's easy to simply forego speaking Thai and instead point out one of the Singapore Sling-Bamboo Cooler-Thai Mango Teaser concoction images to the waitress.

However, their garnishes are far from a Denny's pickle or parsley. At The Oriental, there are special fruit and vegetable carvers whose job is solely to adorn food and decorate plates! They make lotus flowers out of carrot, banana-leaf origami animals, watermelon landscapes, pineapple boats and more. We have a photo of them working on their canvasses of fruit in The Gallery. Check it out -- what they can do with a radish or mango in one hour is incredible!) **

Teakin' Out at a Fave Bangkok Destination (w/ family!)

2006-02-12T23:35:00.001-07:00

(more photos here): http://bitjug.com/gallery/JimThompson

Besides comparative solitude, our return to Bangkok brought a special guest star to Extravagasia: my cousin-in-law, Michael Diederich. What a treat!!! He does market research for Microsoft and the planets aligned so his focus groups and our tarriance matched on the calendar.

Andy and I got to hang out and tour with Michael, speak English full time to someone other than each other, share and compare travel stories (he was just in Cairo for business and worked in a few of China's megacities), get perspective on what's up in the US and more. It was awesome!

And, a public shout out to Michael: I owe you big time for bringing me a little fix of In Style, SPF 55, sprinkled sugar cookies AND, most importantly, for lugging back a big-ass bag full of India purchases. I'm not sure who's more grateful -- me or Andy, because he was a gentleman and hauled the woven plastic monstrosity through train stations. Ironically, in India, the sherpa gig is less glamorous than Nepal. So I am now bag-free and aware big belts are "IT" for 2006.

Michael, Andy and I visited one of my most favorite sites in Bangkok from a previous trip, the Jim Thompson House, and it did not disappoint. Even for the boys...and I was so relieved as it's all about~> read more

art, architecture, gardens and silk. Jim Thompson was an American who returned to Thailand post-WW2 and both revived and revolutionized its ailing silk industry. He single-handedly sold Thai silk to the world and made it a desired staple of the Milan fashion houses, thus creating a profitable industry for struggling Thailand and its skilled but uneducated weavers. And, he was a gifted architect and art collector whose eye for objets d'art and preservation gave Thailand's indigenous art history notice to scholars worldwide.

Jim Thompson's house is a teak extravaganza of six native, old homes that were lifted, transported and preserved on his canal-side property, and surrounded by the most lush, tranquil garden of lotus flowers, orchid vines, koi ponds plus a near jungle of elegant tropical plants. The deep cinnabar brown of the six 'A-frame-with-a-twist' roof lines, all perched on stilts, blends yet contrasts in harmony with the waxy green of the jungle plants. Giant urns hold clear green water, alive with tiny minnows and the bright buds of water lilies, along pebbled paths which crunch ever-so-slightly under flip-flopped feet. Ponds bloom with delicate lotus petals, pale pink or cream yellow, their exquisite upside-down-heart-shape blossom and slender stem so different from our garden variety plants of the West. As one meanders through the garden, busts of Buddha with meditative poses and almond eyes peak out at you and the only startling sound is that of tequila-sunrise colored koi jumping in a pond. It is truly one of the most magical places I've visited, especially when you think a city bursting with 9 million people surrounds it.

The six houses were connected into one large, open-air retreat and decorated lovingly with Thai silk and Asian antiquities. Like many places in SE Asia, the feet are considered unclean and you're asked to remove your shoes before entering in a mandartory small-group tour. Thus, padding around barefoot on the dark, slick teak floors, you really feel like you're visiting his home for a small party instead of a museum tour. Stepping up between each room is imperative because Thais believe evil spirits lurk on the floor and traditional homes have tall, teak borders (like 6" - 8") between each room, thus preventing little gremlins from moving into the next room as well as trapping investigative, crawling children in one area. Clever, yet definitely hazardous for us from the West!

Chinese porcelain, life-size Buddha statues, epic silk paintings and the most intricate, carved teak screens decorate the rooms and all were selected by Jim Thompson himself. The overall whole gives one a sense of the unique, artistic beauty that was Siam, Angkor, Burma and more in the mid-centuries, and an immediate appreciation for all that we rarely see in Western museums. Jim Thompson disappeared mysteriously in the highlands of Malaysia in 1967 but luckily, his vision of beauty and industry live on, as well as his bewithcing home. (I've attached a link to their site so you can all see more!): http://www.jimthompsonhouse.com

Michael, Andy and I also rode squished and precarious on a khlong (canal) taxi through one of Bangkok's myriad waterways which are used for everything from commuting and commerce to bathing and fishing. Some people refer to Bangkok as the "Venice of Asia" and while that's a bit of an overstatement, it does provide the context to understand that it's not just your basic modern Asian city. Bangkok has a network of water that is alive with everyday use, so alive that you wouldn't believe the white caps and swells the primtive fan boats with giant diesel V-8 engines generate along its murky shallowness. The water gets so rough that the boat drivers and ticket takers wear snowboard helmets!!! (no, I am not kidding)

And this is water you neither want to touch nor splashed upon you. Trust me. As I was! The khlong taxi is narrow and tightly packed with bench seating for Asian-sized people, so I took the small seat along the side of the boat. Poor Michael and Andy were sardined into the bench aisles which weren't even wide enough to accommodate their bent legs! However, riding along the open side meant I was vulnerable to the green-brown-gray water and protected only by the camping-tarp-canopy-curtain-thing the helmeted boat workers tried to drop in time to block the sloshing splash of a passing khlong boat. Unfortunately, it's solution that doesn't quite hold water. And that water did not dry clear on my glasses or shirt. Ugh!

We also took in some of the other teak around Bangkok, which is plentiful and varied in style -- including furniture, temples, palaces and pavilions. Sadly, some of the teak was influenced by Europe's Victorian age and its rich luster painted over in pastels (blech!), but much of it is untouched from anything but design and natural elements. The three of us are big fans of teak now and have all sorts of ideas for building a pavilion in our backyard, maybe some garden furniture or even getting into screen carving.

If anyone sees an ad on eBay for teak overruns, definitely let us know! ;)