Solo in Solo

December 1st, 2007

Solo is both the name of the city (Eastern/Central Java) where I arrived in Indonesia as well as my status deboarding the plane. The only tourist, I breezed through customs and rapidly acquired my "visa on arrival" at the one gate airport.

The neighboring Yogajakarta is the hub for those wishing to see Indonesian culture. Solo is listed merely as a second option for those craving more. However, the main difference is not the offerings, but the tourists - Yoga had many, Solo has few.


By day I zoomed around the countryside visiting temples and small local shops and factories seeing such things as the art of making a gamelin (famous gong-like instrument) and arak (beloved local spirit distilled from palm sugar). By night I attended performances of shadow puppets and traditional theater with the locals. What I missed in English-speaking company was more than compensated for by the experience of the living art form. The performances weren't canned replicas of an ancient art form repeated nightly for Westerners, but continued to thrill Indonesian audiences (including the odd Westerner).

I was lucky enough to have my visit coincide with a major show put on by the local art college. The audience was packed with young and old people who errupted in laughter when the more traditional characters of Indonesian folk lore met with modern day characters such as the corrupt city official, street vendor and local drunkard. While I missed the benefit of a printed English language pamphlet, the movements and voices of the puppets along with the reaction of the crowd continued to fuel my interest and enjoyment.

"Worldwide" Web

...its a misnomer! From Labuanbajo to Ende on the island of Flores they claim to have Internet. Two broken computers, 5 lines down and one "closed for the holidays" later I gave up - resigned to having no Internet access for over 2 weeks. I'm sorry to have let my ever-eager fans down by not providing travel blog content over the lazy and distracted pre-holiday work period, but I hope that the following posts borrowed from my journal will suffice.

Broadcast Interruption

I'm in Indonesia. It's hot - I'm sweating like I am sitting in a sauna, but am only in front of this computer screen moving my fingers rapidly across
the keyboard. The computer closely resembles the one that I used in
High School (circa 1996) and it is slow. There is no way to upload
pictures at this time and logging on regularly to update my blog is
going to be a challenge (if not impossible) as I work my way east from
Bali toLombok, Komoto (of dragon fame), Rinca and Flores.

I hear by promise to do my best to keep you all informed. In the meantime, when
the Internet is not available, I will write feverishly in my journal
and post it to the blog when technology allows.

Rolling With KL's VIP

I came to Kuala Lumpur to catch a flight. One day, two nights, quick and dirty.

Rolling With KL's Entourage

I came to Kuala Lumpur (or "KL" as the locals call it) to catch a flight. One day, two nights, quick and dirty, nothing terribly glamorous or exciting until...

I arrived mid-afternoon and put down my bags, grabbed my walking shoes and took to the streets for exploration. Staying in the Golden Triangle business district I passed numerous banks, office buildings, franchised American coffee shops along the main road. The most "interesting" thing I saw in this concrete jungle was a side street filled with tiki-style cheese ball bars and clubs with cliche names such as "The Beach Club" and "Dancing Queen." I made note and continued on eventually hopping the monorail back to my hostel down the road hoping to run into a potential dinning partner.

There were no dining partners, only some hippies in the front area drinking beer and waxing philosophical about some minor and pointless details of world. I asked the man at the front desk if there was any good Malaysian food nearby. He was less than helpful and I set out on a hunt for food and started retracing my footsteps from the afternoon. I was a few blocks away when approached by a man asking if I knew where "The Beach Club" was. Funny enough, it was one of the only places in KL of which I did know the location.

Eddie, British guy living in KL, was meeting a friend he had met on a plane from Bangkok a few months prior and invited me along. Sure, I thought. I could always leave if it was awkward or lame, but I couldn't pass up the chance to get to know some locals. Little did I know that these weren't just any locals...they were KL's own VIPs.

We walked into the bar blaring the anticipated cheesy (buy delightfully so) mix of feel-good dance music and found our host, James, and his entourage - a motley crew of about 7 Chinese, Malay and Indian men all looking closer to Silicon Valley dorks than professional clubbers. The tables were loaded with buckets of champagne and two Johnny Walker bottles so large that they were hooked up on swinging metal tripods for easy pouring. Immediately a flute of champagne was put into my hand (garnished with a cherry) by the bar worker who had been assigned to stand by and top off our glasses whenever they got low - sometimes by their own initiative and sometimes at the prompting of host, snap snap.

This wasn't a celebration, just a regular old Wednesday night - the same thing had happened Tuesday, Monday, Sunday...back to last Thursday. No money exchanged hands. All was done on good credit. Apparently James was not only a dedicated partier, but also a shrewd businessman with a textile import/export company, owned a few bars (not the ones we were at) and had numerous government contracts. Most importantly, though, he was a really good guy - a graceful and generous host out to surround himself with happiness more than anything. The DJs, waitstaff and everyone at each cheesy bar we visited were all smiles.

I enjoyed the drink and the dance, but knew that I couldn't/didn't want to keep up with these seasoned VIPs. When the live Thai pop band took the stage for their second set at the second bar, I thought it best to leave. Unfortunately that meant that I missed a ride in the 4 jeeps that would come to pick everyone up, but my departure kept the memory (and the next day) pleasant.

Singapore: Fact or Fiction

There is no litter in Singapore.
Fiction. While litter is more the exception than the rule, it's here. I've seen some paper on the ground and a bag floating in the river. Ha!

The penalty for graffiti in Singapore is flogging.
Fact. Yep, that's true (remember Michael Fay in 1994?) However, there is still some defacing going on.

Gum is illegal in Singapore.
Fiction. You can't get Wrigley's, Extra, Bubblicious or any of the more traditional chewing gum brands, but gum sales are allowed in Singapore for "health related" products including teeth whitening gum and nicotine gum. Mmmm!

The Wonders of the World Wide Web and Singapore

I arrived in Singapore a little overwhelmed. This is a big city and I had only 3 days. I didn't want to get sucked into duck tours (TM) and the tourist trash (expensive and not worth the time). I wanted the real Singapore - you know, the kind you see on the Travel Channel.

I logged on to the Internet and went to the Smith College website. Lishan Yang, a girl who had lived in my dorm was from Singapore. I hadn't seen or talked to her for about 6 years and wondered if she was still around and, more importantly, if Smith was up-to-date with her contact info. I cut and pasted her email address into the "To" field and zipped of a quick "I'm in Singapore!" Turns out she was too (and had Monday off of work) - fantastic. Connection success in under 24 hours!

I've had a great time in Singapore thanks to Shan. I've driven around to different neighborhoods, enjoyed her company at Singapore's world-class Asian Civilizations Museum, asked a multitude of questions about local life, toured around Arab Street and tried a variety of unique culinary treats - e.g. chicken rice, porridge and frogs legs. Today I even had little fish eat the dead skin off of my feet...and boy, did they have a feast! Mmmmm!

Welcome to Bangok...Take Two

WARNING: This post is for mature audiences - reader discretion advised.

My first visit to Bangkok turned me off of the place - all the party boys and unkempt expats strutting around with their "little Thai girls" in tow - bought and paid for. With some of Asia's cheapest flights, however, it seemed to be the best option to launch the next portion of my trip. I booked a flight from BKK to Singapore for the 24th of November and arrived back in Bangkok a day early with a strategy that I hoped would improve my experience the second time around: "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I would go to an infamous Bangkok ping pong show.

Wanting to somewhat balance the evening (and add a little irony to whole night's program), I started at Cabbages & Condoms, a swanky Thai restaurant that runs AIDS education programs with its profits. The atmosphere was top. The food was good. And most importantly, the ping pong show was only a tuk tuk ride away.

Not being much of a sex show aficionado myself...or even knowing any, I put my fate in the hands of the driver. His local knowledge would surely lead my friends and I somewhere that would provide an authentic sex tourist experience (without going over too many lines...this was to be a purely anthropological mission after all.)

We pulled up to a storefront that was tucked among a row of seemingly legitimate businesses. The ground floor was filled with cafeteria-style tables and Thai men looking bored and watching some stale video they must have seen a million times. My assumption was that this charade was merely a decoy for the authorities. Passing officials might write this establishment off as a tame bar worthy of little or no investigation - a thinly veiled cover for the otherwise shady operation we witnessed when shepherded upstairs by a large Indian man. We were charged 600 Baht each and shown inside to black vinyl seats encircling the similarly black stage.

The lights were low. A single girl stood on the stage swaying back and forth to soft rock with romantic lyrics - the kind that make the soundtracks of movies staring Kevin Costner. She was slowly and unenthusiastically pulling a florescent ribbon out of her lady bits. She looked bored. Everyone else looked bored too. I wondered when the ping pong balls would come and how far they would fly.

After the few yards the ribbon came to its end the music switched to an uptempo number more fitting for a strip show. A girl came out in tall shoes holding two coke bottles - one empty, one full. Long story short, she emptied one into the other without pouring it directly. Strange. Happy Birthday started playing as she picked up the bottles and walked off the stage. No one was celebrating a birthday, but a Japanese businessman with wallet open was selected. He was summonsed up to the stage as a girl walked out with a fake cake covered in over sized candles. He held the cake as she used a pipe and her lady muscles to blow them out one by one. He was amused. I was still waiting to be impressed - where were the ping pong balls?

A series of girls came out, all lackluster and looking mechanical in their movements. This seemed like a crap job (not that that hadn't been my assumption). One girl pulled a chain of covered razors out of her and cut a piece of paper into a hat for another Japanese businessman (the first part with her you know what and the second with her hands). Another girl came out with a large blue marker and a piece of white paper. She inserted the pen, crouched down like a crab and proceeded to write "Welcome to Bangkok." Finally a girl came out holding ping pong balls in hand - this was it, this was the true Bangkok experience I had been waiting for hoping it would redeem this otherwise seedy and sad city for me. Surprise...it didn't.

The girl inserted the ping pong balls. I prepared to block any oncoming balls from hitting me. Ping, ping, pong, pong, pong. Three balls dropped out, the first two landing in the glass placed between her legs and the third missing the target. This was the lamest ping pong show I had ever imagined. Where was the danger? Where were the ball flying en mass bouncing off of walls and creating an atmosphere of awe and chaos?

I looked around. No one seemed very impressed accept for the Japanese business men who periodically opened their wallets to keep a bevy of girls draped around their shoulders. There were other curious tourist just like me who ranged from bored to repulsed. We stayed through the rotation and left when the ribbon girl reappeared. Once was enough. I think I've seen Bangkok...don't need to go back.

Found

The majority of my time in Smith's Jordan house was spent at the end of the hallway of the 3rd floor. It was a gathering place filled with laughter and smiles (even during finals). My friends and I would discuss Communism, Capitalism, boys, girls, what was for dinner and well...anything. What I remember the most, however, was the carefree laughter that bounced off of the wallpapered walls.

When I graduated from college I found laughter in new locations - car cabins on road trips, the living room at 2167 Hayes, sunny days in the park, ski cabins...easy. Sometimes I'd laugh so hard I cried, even at little things that probably weren't that funny. It was easy.

Slowly, I don't know when, I started laughing less and less. Maybe it was long hours at work or more responsibility. Maybe it was higher rents or less company as the number of roommates decreased. Whatever it was, it was subtle. And whatever it was I could escape it, with laughter coming easily once again, like when with my Smith ladies on those rare long weekends in New York, San Francisco or Northampton.

I think it was at my 5th college reunion that I noticed a difference. While I enjoyed the company of my friends and chuckled at stories and things, that truly carefree laughter that consumes one wasn't there. I was constrained. No matter hard I tried, I couldn't let go. I couldn't laugh like I used to.

While there were many reasons for my decision to take a break from the life I had created for myself in San Francisco and embark on the adventure of a lifetime, finding my laughter was one of them. It's not really something I expressed to anyone, afraid that it may never come back. But, you'd never guess where it was...Laos.

In truth, it wasn't in Laos, of course - it was in me the whole time, just hiding. With the help of good company and a deep cleansing breath of total freedom, I found my laugh. It's unbridled. It's contagious. It's here again...and this time, I'm determined not to lose it.

The 4k Islands

After Vientiane I continued south, headed for the place where the Mekong spreads into 4,000 tiny islands ripe for exploration. One overnight bus, a 2-hour minibus ride and a boat, I arrived on Don Khong - the largest of the islands (32km).

The landscape in the south of Laos is very different. Flat and comparatively dry. Don Khong was no different, but had one stand-out feature - a beautifully maintained road wrapping around the island. (The Prime Minister of Laos is from Don Khong and had a hand in providing this truly enviable feature.) A few new friends and I hopped onto some rented bicycles. We rode around nearly the whole island. I think we passed 2 trucks, a small handful of motorbikes and even fewer potholes. This road represents political favors at their best.

The cycle loop was about all Don Khong had to offer so we arranged for a boat to two smaller islands right on the Cambodian border where we hoped to see the rare Irrawaddy dolphins, explore Dong Khone and Dong Det by bicycle and sleep in straw bungalows overlooking the Mekong. We were thankfully successful in all pursuits.

The bungalows were basic, but an evening sundowner on the porch made up for the slightly smelly squat toilets and hearing the nighttime snoring of neighbors. The dolphins were cooperative albeit under the water and a little difficult to view with great detail. The bicycles had less than effective breaks and made me feel like the Wicked Witch of the West...

The bikes one finds in Laos are all the same (although do vary a bit in their level of junkiness). They all have seats that are too low, handles that curve in like an old-fashioned tri-cycle, a basket on the front and only one gear. I was the 3rd bicyclist in a line of five. I saw a small boy (probably about 1-year old) crossing the dirt path. "I should stop," I thought. Then his parents called to him to stop. He slowed. I decided to keep going...just as he did. I slammed the breaks, but they were, as I mentioned, less than effective. Before I could dig my heels into the ground the boy had run into my leg and bounced off, landing on the ground. He looked up to see if anyone was watching. Everyone was. He started crying...loudly. I turned red. Onlookers glared at the white foreigner who had "run over" their child. His parents, who had seen the whole thing, brushed him off and indicated that it was no big deal. I felt evil...truly a Wicked Witch in the eyes of this munchkin.

All in all the islands were enjoyable - mellow, friendly and cheap. Not quite the magic that I found in the North, however.

Laos Burrito

The next stop after Vang Vieng was the capital, Vientiane. A "major" city with hints of charm and a small dose of hustle and bustle. With a sore throat and the memory of Luang Prabang still lingering, I don't think I gave it the chance it deserved and perhaps moved on a bit fast. However, no regrets...not even the burrito.

I arrived at dusk and checked into a mediocre hotel on the waterfront of the Mekong River. Rather than lounge in my slightly damp room with walls that used to be white, I headed out to find sustenance. There were plenty of eateries - traditional Laos food, Indian, bakeries, Mexican, Western, French, Japanese, etc. all at my disposal. But there was one I just couldn't shake - Mexican.

Now I knew this was risky. A child of California and a self-proclaimed connoisseur of Mission burritos, I was guaranteed to be let down by the Laos burrito...but how let down? I needed to know. I entered "Tex-Mex" and took a seat on the balcony.


When my order came it looked kind of like a burrito despite the side of steamed white rice. It had a tortilla and some red sauce on top. The filling consisted of stewed tomatoes and some barely spicy bell peppers and onions. The whole thing tasted a little like a meatless and flavorless spaghetti sauce wrapped up in a moderately authentic tortilla. I ignored the cole slaw.

Monica, Chandler, Rachel, Ross and Joey

...are in Laos!

One can reasonably argue that one thing many Asian countries have in common is a culture of blatant "borrowing." Original thought is a new thing in many of the Communist-led developing countries. Tailors are great at copying clothes. Bootleg DVDs are more readily available than toothpaste. And when one business is successful, there are bound to be copy-cat storefronts popping up in the surrounding blocks (sometimes changing the name by one letter to invite confusion). In Vang Vieng, Laos this has led to one very obvious and very disturbing trend...

Vang Vieng is situated along the Nam Song river and stunning limestone peaks. The natural beauty makes this place a must-see destination. However, the town itself is lined with yellow and green Beer Lao umbrellas and cookie-cutter bars all with reclined seating facing wall-mounted television screens -- 92% of which are playing old episodes of "Friends." It seems that each bar has a box set of the complete series which they continually play with short breaks only to switch the disc. Everything is open air so just walking down the street one is bombarded with the classic sitcom laugh track.

A few businesses diverge, but still fewer have branched out beyond the trend of relying on some sort of "proven" branding. For instance, one bar dropped "Friends" after getting feedback that some people don't like it. They now play "Family Guy."

There are the odd businesses that have maintained some integrity and tried to capture the market through their own innovation. Unfortunately, the cafe that boasts only playing "Jack Johnson" is packed every morning while the Organic Farm Cafe directly next door remains relatively empty.

The now problem is that Vang Vieng has been so overrun by the dark side of mainstream Western entertainment that those who flock here are the those who thrive on cultural bankruptcy - the drunk and high 20-something backpacker. Some make a special trip to Vang Vieng from their charades in Thailand and end up spending their entire duration of their visa slurring their words as they tube down the river and jump from rope swings provided by the string of bars. Everyday is a massive pub crawl along the river in Vang Vieng.

Don't get me wrong...tubing and rope swings provided for a enjoyable (yet surreal) break in my travels, but after a day and a half I had to move on and bid an eager farewell to Monica, Chandler and the rest of the "Friends."

Muang Ngoi Wedding

The highlight of Muang Ngoi was not the trekking, the fishing or the chilling - it was the wedding.

Camilla and Eric were on my bus from Luang Phabang. They had first been to Muang Ngoi 4 years ago and stayed 2 1/2 months. They had visited again 2 years ago and rekindled their love affair with the village. This time they were back for one very special reason: to get married in a place and in a way that was meaningful to them.

The day before the wedding the went into the forest to chop down trees for the cooking fires, bought 12 cases of Beer Lao and 12 bottles of Lao Lao or local rice wine (read: rubbing alcohol) and inspected and purchased the only pig available in town. Having extended the offer to help in any way, I went down river with a young local man to deliver invitations to some of the neighboring villages, doing a little fishing along the way. Before retiring to their separate dwellings, they gave me the most wonderful and exciting task of being the unofficial "official photographer."

Around 1pm I met Eric at the restaurant that had become my hub in Muang Ngoi. He gave me the camera and I raced off to find Camilla in an undisclosed location. Seeing that Muang Ngoi is about as big as Mission Street between 18th and 20th (if that), I found her with great ease. She was in a home being adorned with jewels and debating the virtues of blue eyeshadow with the local women. Her hair was piled on top of her head in a conical shape and wrapped with gold beads. It sounds hideous, but was stunning.

I soon went to meet Eric at the other end of town where the men would gather. They dressed this cool-kid Swedish designer in black slacks, a blue button-down shirt and the first tie Camilla had ever seen him wear. The men drank Lao Lao and prepared a man-bouquet for him with the vegetation and flowers readily available in the yard. Someone brought an snoopy umbrella to shade Eric's head (as is customary...the umbrella, not snoopy) and the procession started down the road to meet the bride.

Outside the house in which they were to be wed were all sorts of revelers and a tent set up for the following party. The tent had been put up that morning and was in actuality a large white parachute left over from America's "secret war" on Laos. (Don't know about this? It's true. We launched a offensive by air coinciding with Vietnam - code name: "The Other Theater").

As Eric approached the women by the door washed his feet, removed his shoes and led him to his bride. They knelt together in front of a beautiful shrine of banana leaves, flowers, rice, Lao Lao and assorted nibbles. Both were overcome with tears brought on by happiness. I snapped away.

A local wise man (for lack of a better word) said a bunch of things that I couldn't understand - I'm sure they were blessings, advice and the usual nuptial hurrah. Next the string came out. He tied their hands together in a very meticulous and purposeful fashion. They cried more. It was beautiful. Then string appeared from everywhere! Locals were pulling fist fulls of string from their pockets and tying "blessings" around the couple's wrists as well as the wrists of others. I took a break from the camera to receive some string blessing bracelets of my own.

They ate and drank little bits from the shrine and then exchanged rings (more of their own addition to the ceremony as I understand it). We emerged from the ceremony, everyone smiles. Tables, food and a stereo with huge speakers that could be heard throughout the village awaited us. The generator stayed on well past 9pm that night.

Note: As i was being the dutiful photographer, I don't have any pictures on my camera at the moment. I promise to post them/a link once the happy couple emerges from Muang Ngoi and sends them...but don't hold your breath.

French Rambo

World Lesson #439: Don't be bullied by a middle-aged, tanned and toned, athletic French diving instructor who has something to prove.

Phillipe was on my slow boat to Muang Ngoi. I saw his tanned athletic body, short gray hair and sport glasses and thought, "Pity the souls that get him on their trek." Turned out one of those souls was none other than me.

Upon arriving in Muang Ngoi I strolled the main street inquiring about the various treks offered by the locals. Two days would be good, I thought (this would include one night in one of the more remote villages). Phillipe saw me looking and made his approach. "Are shou looking for a trek?"

Should I lie? No one else seemed to be bouncing around looking for a group. It would probably be good to get two in a posse before collecting quotes and information. Sure - I agreed to look around with him.

Before I knew it, Phillipe was concocting plans of his own..."I sink ve do not need a guide, no?" Long story short, I finally agreed to this half-baked plan and we agreed to meet at 7:30am (two hours before the official treks would go) to set off. I had a first aid kit purchased at REI. He had a compass. We had both made a "mental picture" of the map.

At dinner we met Albert - maybe one of the kindest travelers I have met so far. He seemed keen for a longer trek as well and soon became part of our adventure. We met for breakfast and all got baguettes for the road.

The morning was stunning. We started out past the primary school and village soccer field and were soon following a well defined path through lush greenery. We found the first stop (the caves) without a hitch. The trees opened up into a vast plain of rice fields which glowed golden in the sun with bluish-gray mountains providing an oh-so-scenic backdrop. Phillipe took his shirt off. I offered sunscreen. Nope - too much of a bronzed man after spending the last 9 months leading murky dives for the expat population in Kuwait.

Around 10:30am we arrived at the first village. The children were excited to see us, gathered round and wanted pens. I noticed that Phillipe's ankle was bleeding from a sharp spot on his sandal. He somewhat begrudgingly accepted first aid.

A small boy with a huge gash in his left foot sat down next to me pointing to the dirty swollen wound. I washed it the best I could without pulling out the rubber gloves or fearing some strange contractible disease. Some antibacterial gel and a band aid later, he was quite content to continue romping around the dusty village filled with chickens and third-world dogs.

After a bit of a visit and some spicy soup, we continued on to the next village an approximated 3 hours away.

About 10 minutes into the next leg of our journey we hit a river with no obvious extent ion of the trail. We walked a bit and saw a trail, but was it the right one? We took it and climbed a small mountain into more fields. No one seemed to be around. We kept going, but began to wonder if we had chosen the right path. The path got more and more overgrown.

We saw a family harvesting some sort of root vegetable. The boys steered us back telling us that we were going the wrong way. We continued...but, soon turned back and found the family again. The young girl spoke okay English (okay being used very liberally). She and the family packed up their goods and walked us back to the river where we had lost the track and pointed us in the right direction. We had lost 2+ hours.

Soon after we came across a fork in the road. There was a kind man to point us in the right direction...but was it the right direction? Did he know where we were going? I chimed in, "We only have 2-3 hours more of light. I think we should go back to the village, stay there and find a guide to take us tomorrow."

"No, I vill continue," Phillipe confirmed. Albert did not know what to do with this newly emerged, but inevitable clash of opinions. We brokered a deal - we'd hike another hour and if we thought we were lost, we'd turn back.

This solution was satisfactory for about 10 minutes until panic set in. I couldn't trust French Rambo (a perfectly suited name later used by Albert) to merely just turn around. Suddenly I couldn't breathe. Closely following, I couldn't hold back the tears. I could hear Phillipe in my head saying "Pussy!"

I knew where I was. I knew I could make it back to Muang Ngoi before nightfall. I knew that neither Phillipe nor Albert knew any better where we were going than I did. I knew I had to get out...and now. I announced my departure. Albert wavered, but decided that the rules of team dynamics insist that he go with Phillipe. I was in Muang Ngoi by dinner and booked myself with a guide the following day who would teach me how to fish with a net. Good fun.

After catching three fish of embarrassingly small size, I returned to Muang Ngoi. I went to the restaurant where I knew I would find Phillipe and Albert to hear their tale of adventure. Turned out, it was such a large adventure that they were not there to meet me. It would be another 24-hours before I would see them again. I started working out in my head how I would describe where I left them to the rescue party...if there was a rescue party.

In the end, turns out that they had gotten terribly lost (surprise!) and hiked and re-hiked several mountains with little success and much confusion. Albert sounded frustrated. Phillipe was jovial. I was relieved.

Muang Ngoi

From my journal: Nov 8, 2007

One can only get to Muang Ngoi by boat. You can get as far as Nog Khiaw by bus (about 3.5 hours from Luang Phabang), but the last 1.5 hours must be done by "slow boat" down one of the most picturesque rivers.

Falangs, or foreigners, only started going to Muang Ngoi within the last 10 years. The "crowds" are an even more recent development in about the last 2. The difference: more bungalows and a phone line for emergencies and to let loved ones know you are staying longer. Other than that, it's still a small riverside village surviving on subsistence farming...okay, and tourism these days, but even with the influx of visitors (give or take 25 a day), Muang Ngoi has not lost its magical core.

There is one main street lined with basic shops bearing hand painted signs. The street stretches about 200-300 yards and is packed dirt overrun by chickens, ducks and other assorted fowl. There are no motorbikes or cars, no Muang Ngoi t-shirts, no 5-star (or even 2-star) restaurants, one hot shower and electricity only from 6pm to 9pm when the generators are turned on.

Some disciplined travelers visit for their planned handful of days while others get lost in the ambiance and stay months. There is no sense of time in Muang Ngoi and no real compelling reason to leave. I went for 3 days and ended up staying 5 (a relatively short extension by extension standards).

Trekking to more rural villages, learning to fish with nets, meandering through rice fields, picnicking by the riverside on table cloths of banana leaves fill the days quite adequately. Reading, writing, strolling up and down the "main strip" can keep even them most antsy traveler occupied. I feel like I've done nothing and everything at the same time. It feels good. I think I should go before I get stuck here.

The Bowling Alley

Everything in Laos closes at 11:30 by law. All residents, temporary and permanent, are meant to be at their "registered location" by midnight. However, just like anywhere else in the world, where there is a will there is a way.

For late-night revelers in Luang Prabang, that will leads one to the bowling alley. Nope, it's not a bar with a clever name - it's a bowling alley, complete with shoes (that no one wears) and state of the art electronic score keeping and ball returns.

While I am only an average bowler at home, in a Southeast Asian alley populated mostly by nationalities that were not raised on bowling birthday parties and did not have to turn to the sport for entertainment as minors not allowed at the bars, I was pure brilliance - "el dudarino" in the flesh (for those Big Lebowski fans).

I think I'll stay here a while.

Luang Prabang, Laos

Luang Prabang is one of the only places in the world that you can wake up hungover and robbed and still love the world and humanity.

I had shared a taxi from the airport with 3 Irish girls and a New Zealander. Arriving late, many guesthouses were full and the pickins' very slim. Luckily, we all found accommodation along the same road.

My particular room was $3...and *may* have been worth it for its offerings. It was the cheapest room I've had yet, but also felt like it. The bed was lumpy, the fan was dusty and the door was a large piece of plywood held shut by a hinge and small padlock on the outside and a small sliding hinge from the inside. It would do for one night.

The ladies and I ventured out and tried the local offerings, namely Beer Lao - the tastiest beer in Asia by reputation and in fact. The night was fairly uneventful otherwise and we made our way back to our street behind the post office. I came back, slid the hinge across and fell into a deep slumber.

Around 7am I awoke with the door swinging open freely. I quickly closed it and looked around. My money belt had been sitting on top of my backpack (dumb...I know). I had just stocked up on $900 USD to carry through Laos where banks are few and far between. PANIC!

Credit cards - check.
Passport - check.
Money - $20, $40, $60, $80, $825, $826, $827...

I had been robbed - not blind, mind you, but robbed nonetheless. I looked up and the door I had just shut had once again swung open. Mild headache/hangover aside, I could not blame the Beer Laos, just my poor door latch that obviously was prone to wiggling loose with the slightest tremors common in the fairly rickety 2-story abode. It felt shitty and scary, but compared to some stories I've heard (like being robbed by a cyclo (read: bicycle taxi) driver with a machete), I got off easy, only about $50 in 10 dollar bills were gone.

This is the kind of thing that could ruin not only your day, but spoil a city. Not Luang Prabang. I stepped outside and was rejuvenated - healed by the magical spirit of this town. The streets were quaint, the people friendly. Monks in brightly colored orange robes roam the streets. Horns are used only when absolutely necessary. Vegetation is lush. Vendors leave you alone (for the most part) until you approach them. The air is fresh and the pace scrumptiously sleepy. Every moment is pregnant with positivity.

That said, I may be an optimist, but I'm not stupid. I upgraded to a $6 room in another guesthouse with a door that has a proper doorknob and lock. Perfect.

Laos Airlines

I arrived at the Hanoi airport early for my flight to Luang Phabang, Laos...too early. Laos Airlines only has 4 flights a day and one rotating check-in station. Nothing was posted. I became worried. I soon found the one screen that displayed the right information. Everything would be okay.

An hour and a half before the flight I got in line - a line of 2 other parties. I patiently waited, checked-in and proceeded to my assigned gate in the International terminal. No one was there. I became worried. About 25 minutes before the departure time an announcement was made and a small line appeared. Everything would be okay.

We filed through the gate onto a bus that would take us to the plane...all 14 of us. I hadn't taken any motion sickness medication. I became worried. We arrived at the plane (an ATR 72 for those aviation fanatics, an 80-passenger propeller plane for those not as versed in planes). Everything would be okay.

The 14 of us boarded and sat grouped together from rows 8 to 11 - very weird. No one else boarded and our plane scheduled for 6:25pm took off at 6:10.

The plastic interior of the plane shook a bit more than normal. I read the in-flight magazine to distract myself. The magazine was littered with blatantly improper and sometimes uninterpretable English such as, "Boat Racing Festival on the NamKhan River in the World Herritage City Luang Phabang on 11 Sep 2007. How to funny let' s go and touching yourself." I hoped that Laos Airlines employed better pilots than copy editors. I became worried...but laughed out loud.

The flight was an hour. Not very eventful other than a small meal - one of the only airplane meals my very forgiving palette has ever turned away (except for this strange little purple cake thing). The landing was dark and fast as we took a sharp dive to avoid the mountains, but make the landing strip. Everything was okay.

Luang Prabang, Laos

Luang Prabang, Laos is the type of place you can wake up and realized that you've been robbed and still walk outside and feel a sense of magic.

Reflections on Vietnam

Vietnam is a destination recommended for any history buff or beach lover, culture cravers or nature nerds. There is something for everyone.

The biggest "something" that I'm taking away, however, is a real respect for the human spirit and its ability to forgive and a sadness stemming from the blatant inability of my own government to learn from the past. A few of my thoughts...

From 1959 to 1975 an estimated 3 to 5 million people lost their lives in Vietnam. About 63,000 US troops were killed to protect American interests and limit the spread of Communism. One hundred and twenty billion dollars were spent on the war.

Today as capitalism is alive and well on the streets of Ho Chi Minh City and Hanoi, I am left wondering if it was worth it. While one might argue that an internal struggle to unify a country long divided was unavoidable, I found very little that justifies the escalated warfare, increased hardship and extreme number of casualties caused by American intervention. A natural political evolution brought peace, prosperity and capitalism to Vietnam, not American troops.

If we only knew then what we know now...

We can't change America's actions from 1959-1975, but we can salvage something positive by becoming pupils of history rather than propaganda. Instead 3,806 US troops have died in Iraq since 2003. Civilian deaths are estimated to be over 650,000. And if Bush's request for an additional $196 billion dollars is approved, total spending will exceed $600 billion by next October (all of this happening as he vetoes $35 billion to provide healthcare for 10 million American children and underfunds alternative energy research).

The similarities with what we did in Vietnam are shamefully clear.

Those who know me know how I feel about the war, but at the risk of sounding redundant - let's work for peace and perhaps put that $196 billion towards renewable energy research instead.

Sapa

When my dear friend Heidi gave me her "must-sees" of Southeast Asia Sapa topped the list. I now know why. It is gorgeous - the scenery as well as the people.

The short trip to Vietnam's mountainous northwestern corner wasn't long enough, but with my visa running out, errands to run in Hanoi and a booked non-refundable train ticket, there wasn't much to be done.

Sapa is home to most of Vietnam's minority people. They lead a rather simple existance of growing rice, "silver" smithing and making intricately embroidered hemp clothing and blankets. With the introduction of tourism they also have added pillow shams, baby dolls and decorative wall hangings to their textile repitoire. A trip to Sapa consists mainly of treking (aka hiking) around the hillsides visiting their villages with your very own personal entourage of H'mong women hoping to get a sale at the end of the day (without being overly pushy, of course).

Most conversations consist of "What is your name?" "Where are you from?" "How old are you?" When asked reciprocally, one is bound to get answers such as "Sang" "My village" and a number that looks 2/3 of what you would guess (eg. the woman who was 54 looked 84 and the 28 year-old looked 42). Conversation rarely goes beyond this simple level of linguistic knowledge (although I quickly picked up how to say "No thank you" or "Guchi Yo" to ward of some of the more aggressive sellers).

One notable exception to the language rule was a woman of 30 with a magical demenor who accompanied our group of 6 trekers. She could answer basic questions, held my hand over slippery rocks, clug to me in fear as we crossed suspension bridges and had the most memorable and enchanting smile. Of course, by the end of the two days I couldn't help but buy a blanket as well as a "silver" bracelet that was made by her father. After the sale I asked more about her family and her father to which she told me that he was "very tired."

"Old?" I asked.

"No, tired," she replied cupping her hands together as a pillow and then widely opening her eyes as she motioned like she was slitting her throat.

"Oh...dead 'tired'"...charades saved the day once again.

Goodbye Aeron (for now)!

Aeron and I have traveled together from Phenom Penh, Cambodia through Vietnam (totally just over 4 weeks). She has been a fantastic travel buddy and friend. I'll miss her as our paths diverge in Laos (she's heading through to Northern Thailand as I head south for the 4,000 islands).

Photo: Aeron and me splurging on drinks at the Nha Trang Sailing Club.

About Aeron
Hometown: London, England
Occupation: Speech Therapist
Travel Plan: 3 months in South East Asia, 3 months in Australia/New Zealand
How We Met: Sat next to her on a boat from Siem Reap to Phenom Penh
Favorite Memory: Sharing rooms and restaurants with rats, cockroaches, mice and squealing about it all

Bia Hoi Cool - 2000 VND

Every street in Hanoi's Old Quarter is named after what is sold there (or at least used to be): shoe street, blacksmith street, herb street, towel street, jewelry street...you get the picture. The buildings are narrow as the amount of taxes paid used to correlate with the width of the shop front.

At the crossing of Paper Street and CD/DVD Street (well, that's what they sell now) there is a corner filled with Bia Hoi stalls - theme that bleeds onto the neighboring streets and brings people together. What's Bia Hoi you ask?...

Literally translated Bia Hoi means "Fresh Beer." It's recently brewed light beer served "cool" out of kegs on the street. You can sit for hours (or as long as you can stand the kindergarden-sized plastic chairs and can hold your liquid) and drink your fill for only 2000 Dong a glass (16000 VND to the $1). It is more about socializing than about hard core drinking, as Bia Hoi is notably weak. An evening at Bia Hoi, however, is a pure joy providing an opportunity to kick back with friends (new and newer) and watch the motorbikes, booksellers, tourists and world go by.

Pictured are Will, Geoff and me after returning from 2 days of sailing around Halong Bay. Photo by Aeron.

No English Menu? ...No Problem

Some of the best meals I had with Dave in China were at places sans English menu. It was in this way we happened upon steamed clams, delicious dumplings, delicately flavored cabbage and bean sprouts, etc. When Aeron and I walked into a packed local dive in Danang we didn't think twice until...

They ushered us through the throngs of Vietnamese men out for a Friday evening without their wives, set us up at a table in the back courtyard and handed us the menu. Focused on deciphering the Vietnamese beverage list and choosing an appropriately priced mystery dish, we failed to notice the contents of the cages that surrounded us. Luckily our hosts were more attentive to our possible western aversion and instead of just cooking up the dish we selected, they walked over and pulled out the creature of "our choice" from his cage - a dragon-like lizard measuring about eight inches in length. With a giggle and a thankful smile we declined.Instead of repeating this charade with every menu item until we arrived at the least offensive, I set off on a trip down "death row." Cages filled with all sorts of strange looking animals lined a small alley at the back of the eatery. Many were animals I could not begin to name beyond "fowl" or "reptile." After carefully inspecting every cage I settled on the only one I knew by name: chicken. A pointed finger later and a flailing and squawking chicken was being waved in my face for approval. "Yes, yes" I said knowing that I had just sentenced this creature to death. Fifteen minutes later she would be on my plate (head and all)...and delicious!After digging in to our freshly killed feast, I visited the bathroom to wash my hands. While the feathered and scaled creatures that had watched as we devoured their recently deceased friend provided an element of twisted entertainment, I was horrified to find the bathroom had a large cage containing a gorgeous spotted cat. I immediately asked our only English-speaking friend at the restaurant if the cat was for eating. "Cat? Not cat, puma...no, not for eating." Phew!
Upon further questioning I discovered that while the angelic puma was not being held for his flesh, he would meet the same fate as our chicken. The bones of the puma would be taken and soaked in the traditional Vietnamese rice wine (most closely likened to vodka or rubbing alcohol). When consumed, this concoction would "make the man strong" - a Vietnamese euphemism for sexual virility. Good thing we could read the beverage menu and played it safe with a 333 (or "ba ba ba") beer.

Along with the tasty treats I discovered in China, this culinary adventure is yet another reason I will keep exploring restaurants that don't offer and English menu. However, next time I think I'll look around a bit more before boldly and blindly selecting my meal.

Asian Eggplant in a Clay Pot

Another country, another cooking course. I did a half-day Vietnamese cooking class at the Red Door Cooking School and it was fantastic! We learned how to make squid salad in a pineapple bowl, fresh spring rolls (including the rice paper), Hoi An pancakes, Asian eggplant in a clay pot and vegetable carving. It was incredible food! The easiest for me to relay and for you to make at home is the Asian eggplant:

Ingredients
1 medium sized clay pot (or thick metal pot)
2 Asian eggplants (long and thin) cut into 1cm thick rounds
1 root of lemongrass crushed
1 t salt
2 cups of water

[Sauce Mixture]
1.5 T tomato puree
1 t sugar
1/2 t salt
2 cups water

Directions
Add 2 cups of water to the pot, add the crushed lemongrass (ginger can be substituted) and 1 teaspoon salt. Bring to a boil. Add the eggplant and continue boiling for 3 minutes. Drain all water from the pot, then add the sauce mixture and simmer for approximately 10 minutes.

Serve with rice or noodles.

Yummy! (not "yum" as that means "I'm horny" in Vietnamese)

Tailor Made

I was so proud of myself downsizing from a 10x3 walk-in closet to a 50 litre backpack (and not even full)...and then there was Hoi An. After nearly two months of wearing one of 3 t-shirts and 3 bottoms of varied lengths, I could not resist the whirlwind of fabrics and styles available on every corner (and up and down every street) in Hoi An. Shops are filled with magazines, catalogs, satin, silk, cotton, you name it. You can get tailor made clothing turned around in as little as an afternoon. This incredible speed and the beautiful personalities of the family run "Sarah's Boutique" has made the 5 days in Hoi An into a test of willpower. I got about a C+ getting 4 dresses, a pair of long shorts and a top spending just over $100. I did manage to stay out of the custom made shoe stores and will be dressed to the nines (by traveler standards) for the next few months.

It's Raining, It's Pouring

According to Vietnam's climate chart the "wet season" ended 3 days ago. However, mother nature is never that precise.

It's not so terrible. I managed to work in a good 5 days or so of sunning on beaches and boats before the lasting storm and the overcast wind and rain isn't impeding my time in Hoi An (a very cute river town) other than making the river walk [pictured here] inaccessible. Knock on wood, I haven't yet experienced a repeat of an instance in Nha Trang when an evening downpour resulted in a flooded road that, by the smell of things, had a not-so-healthy mixture of rainwater and raw sewage. The fare for the cab that picked me up at the curb was well worth avoiding wading through the water that itched when it splashed up onto one's skin. Ewwww!

Trick Question: What is Cambodia's Currency?

Technically the reil, but for all intents and purposes, the US dollar. The reil is used, but more as a substitute for nickles, quarters and dimes at 4,011 reil to the dollar. ATMs give you USD.

When I am Old, I Will Wear Yellow

Barb was on my bus from Bangkok to Siem Reap, Cambodia. She was a tall woman in her 70's who wore a black travel vest spiced up with a large yellow fabric flower and yellow cap to match. Later she told me she had 3 hats and 12 wigs - always wearing one. There's no need to worry about your hair.

When she traveled she left the collection at home, however, Her bag was impressively small (about 1/2 the size of mine). I imagine she had learned to travel light after visiting 140 countries since retirement, most of the time depending on public transportation and hostels. She had been headed to Iran September 11th.

This time, she was on her way to Cambodia as part of a larger trip to Burma (after the government started shooting monks in the street, a change of plans was going to take her to Laos or Vietnam). She tried to make Cambodia part of many of her trips after first coming in 1991. At that time Pol Pot still had power in some of the Northern areas of Cambodia and she and her husband paid $20/day U.S. for the privilege of not being shot while in the area around Angkor Wat. At that time she met a 13-year old boy named Barang who spoke English and French. He was busing tables at a restaurant and struggling to pay for school. His mother made only $12 a month and his father had been killed by the Khmer Rouge when he was an infant.

Barb and her husband were so taken with Barang that they offered to pay for his schooling on three conditions:

1) He emailed regularly to keep in touch
2) He sent them his grades and kept performing well
3) And if his mother agreed

They journeyed out to his village to ask his mother. She was, of course, overjoyed and their friendship began. Only later did Barb discover that they had crossed into Pol Pot's territory and the taxi driver, the mother or anyone else could have turned them in for $25,000 US a head. Instead they returned safe and began sending small amounts of money for schooling and necessities. When they sent too much, Barang always returned the change.

As Barang got older he had the grades to go to university, but not the funds. Barb and her husband talked it over and agreed to pay. Right before graduation Barang's mother died of TB and they became his closest "family." They wrote a letter of recommendation to his prospective bride and made the trip to Cambodia to give him away at the wedding. They were now on their way back to see Barang and his lovely wife (former Miss Cambodia).

On this trip, Barb's husband (age 87) had flown from Bangkok rather than taking the land crossing. But Barb had brought friends who were ripe to experience their style of "adventure travel" and she insisted they needed the overland experience - a 7-hour ride on a bumpy 165 km stretch of dirt road. Although ready to be off the bus, I believe her friends, a former corporate executive for Tiffany's and former insurer of Tiffany's, appreciated the experience.

It was with such grace and humility that Barb told her stories. She had a smile and a spirit that even the most hardened criminal would not be able to cheat in good conscience. I will consider myself lucky if someday I have even half the experiences and spirit as Barb. She truly was an inspiration.

Picture Worth a Thousand Words

Thought I'd test out including video in the blog with footage of the daily public jazzercise in Lamphini Park, Bangkok.

Each day around 5:30 pm, Thai gather in the park to do public jazzercise. I couldn't quite capture the hundreds of people in attendence as they were stretched out around a curved street, but this gives you a flavor. As I left, I came accross another fairly sizable group getting started around 6:15 pm. As I sat there I wondered why San Francisco (in all its weirdness) hasn't caught this yet.

Okay, guys...I'll work on this but Cambodian Internet is even slower than Thailand or China. It may be a while before video can grace my blog. Sorry.

Tom Yam Khung

In salivating again today over the memory of the delicious Thai cuisine I had during my cooking class, I thought it might be fun to share one of my favorite recipies. You'll have to go to an Asian market to pick up a number of these ingredients, but at least in the San Francisco area they're never more than a few miles away...


Tom Yam Khung (Sour and Spicy Prawn Soup pictured bottom left)

INGREDIENTS
300 grams prawns, shelled and deveined
200 grams mushrooms, halved
2 lemon grass stems cut into short lengths (best if cut diagonally to expose more flavor)
5 slices galangal sliced into thin rounds for flavor - do not eat(relative of giner, but not - got to the market)
4 kafir lime leaves, destemed and torn (not just lime leaves, you should find these frozen a the Asian market)
3-4 hot chillies broken with a pestle (the small hot chillies about 1 inch long)
4 tbsp. lime juice
3-4 tbsp. fish sauce
2 coriander stems (cilantro), chopped coarsely
4 cups water

PREPARATION
1. Heat the water to boiling. Add the lemon grass, shalots, galangal and kaffir lime leaves. Let boil for a minute or two.
2. Add prawns, mushrooms and fish sauce. Let boil until shrimp cooked (not long).
3. Season to taste with more lime, chillies and chopped cilantro. Remove from heat and serve hot.
4. Enjoy!

Trading Hippies for Expats

I've found it fascinating to visit the expat haunts in the major economic hubs through Asia so far - LAN in Beijing, House of Blues & Jazz in Shanghai, Take Out Comedy in Hong Kong. It is a whole other culture from both the host country and the homeland.

Tonight I returned from a lovely 2-day Thai cooking course 40 minutes north of Bangkok in an area of quaint river canals (www.thaihouse.co.th - highly recommended for those visiting Bangkok). While the friends made were terrific and the food outstanding, to describe it at length would be a bit boring so I'll spare you and move straight to Sukhumvit, Bangkok's expat district.

Instead of returning to Banglamphu, Bangkok's drifter hippie party district, I decided I would be better off in a new location. I settled on the Hostel International Sukhumvit. After a nice cool shower (I'm sweating buckets here) I scanned the guidebook and set off for Soi 33, a street with many English-style pubs, to try and find the local expat rag (see what was going on) and watch the natives (or non-natives as they were). Upon finding the "Big Chili," Bangkok's rather conservative monthly English-language magazine targeted at foreigners, I ordered a beer and started reading...

One thing that really struck me was the "socialite" pages. Every local magazine has them, they are pictures from fundraising galas, snotty celebrations and the like. Bangkok's pictures, however, have a running theme: relatively unattractive white men and Thai women. I scanned through five pages of snapshots only to find 6 white women out of dozens of pictures. When I looked around I realized that a snapshot at that moment would reveal the same shocking scenario. I was the only white woman in the bar apart from a rather loose looking middle aged woman wearing leopard print and deep red lipstick to the pub.

After finishing the magazine I quickly left and ventured a stone's throw down the road only to find another bar filled with relatively unattractive white men and Thai women. I wouldn't have gone in, but it seemed that I had fortuitously stumbled across trivia night and was curious how well I might do in a foreign land (with questions geared toward expats, of course). The answer...not that well. My attention quickly turned back to this obvious and fairly creepy observation.

Thailand, and particularly Bangkok, is known for its sex trade (prostitutes). All of the hostels have big signs saying "No guests in rooms. Especially prostitutes." But what qualifies? There are women who you can pick-up a brothel for a few bucks who obviously fit the definition, but what about the Thai women who become the short term "girlfriends" of visiting tourists (or even longer term expats). They are EVERYWHERE (tourist sights, Banglamphu, Sukhumvit, the Southern beaches...everywhere). They may not explicitly be paid for their services, but are well fed, get new clothes (like the "He's my favorite" T-shirt I saw on the street) and maybe even a chance at striking gold and getting an invitation back to his home country. The whole thing makes me a bit queasy. I'm sure there is love in some of these matches, but I'm not entirely convinced that it is what the women trolling the bar are really looking for or that is what them men think they are getting when they strike up a conversation with the dolled up Thai bird with the fake boobs.

The Perfect Stranger

Dave and I parted ways in Hong Kong - he back to work via a few days visiting friends in Japan and I to Bangkok. I hopped a taxi from the airport and made my way to Banglamphu an area over-run with wandering hippies and Australian and British frat boys. Luckily, one of the bars on the street showed movies every night as I wasn't in much of a mood to chat with anyone, but at the same time didn't want to hold up in my lonely room. So, I spent my first night watching what likely qualifies as Bruce Willis's worst hour, "Perfect Stranger" with Halle Berry. And yes, I've seen some of his other films and will stand by my assertion that it is among the least impressive of his unimpressive movies. However horrific, it did the trick of taking my mind of my emotional overload after saying goodbye to Dave and facing the world for the first time really on my own.

Luckily, the next night, after a day visiting 3 of Bangkok's famed temples, I ventured out open to socializing. Still over-run with hippies and frat boys, I was lucky enough to meet a friendly Australian man from Perth (non-frat boy) who had circled the world over the past 13 months and was now returning to Siagon (his point of origin) to wrap his adventure up in a nice tight symetrical package (also a Virgo).

The company would have probably been enough to help temper my nerves, but he offered so much more than friendship - tales of adventure, words of reassurance, practical advice on both general traveling and destinations of interest and, above all, a message from a higher power that while what one will not always get exactly what one wants (e.g. "Perfect Stranger"), the world has a funny way of helping us out (e.g. Greg, a once perfect stranger, now friend).

Reflections on China

China was an adventure and I enjoyed it thoroughly (especially spending time with Dave and catching up with my expat friend Walter in Beijing), but at times it felt like I was having the same adventure again and again - arrive in a big (pop. 6 million +) smoggy dirty city with crazy drivers, eat in generic (but delicious) homestyle hovels and try to avoid roads filled with the same kind of kitch one finds in Chinatowns accross the world.

It was interesting traveling with Dave and hearing about how places had changed (at least the ones he had visited before) and it seems that China is plagued by unbridled "progress." Major cities have 25 skyscrappers going up each day, tourist destinations are over-run with tour buses full of the Chinese who for the first time in their lives have the economic means to travel, etc. The most enjoyable times were when we visited the "untouched" China - Leaping Tiger Gorge, wandering off the beaten path into smaller neighborhoods and alleyways and even just looking out the window of the train or bus at the countryside. Apparently this is what many of our destinations had been like a mere 10 years earlier. I'd like to go back, but I think seeking out the remaining rural areas would be more rewarding the second time round -- perhaps the Silk Road to get a taste for the "Wild West" of China where a lack of plush hotels and smoothly paved roads keep the neon lights and masses at bay.

Hong Kong Has Everything!

We put it to the ultimate test - Mexican food. Those who have traveled or lived abroad know that Mexican food has the greatest potential for catastrophe, but the nachos in Hong Kong were almost as good as home (we weren't quite confident enough to go for enchiladas or burritos). In addition to nachos, we've been very successful here in our shopping endeavors...tailored slacks and shirts for Dave, a new (more sturdy) day pack for me, new prescription sunglasses for Dave, books for the road, t-shirts, more travel shots for me (1/2 the price they would have been in the states)...and more!

The things that Hong Kong doesn't have, it's getting. We went to an open night comedy night. Granted, the MC and the majority of the performers were American, but actively recruiting among Hong Kong's English and Chinese-speaking funny people. SMOG too! You may be familiar with the brilliant colors of Hong Kong's evening skyline as seen from Victoria Peak. The peak is still there and the tourist still flock there in droves, but the day-glow created by the relatively new smog problem is more depressing than the view is spectacular (The quickly growing manufacturing mecca of Shenzen, across the Chinese border, is largely responsible for this influx of pollution).

Hong Kong also has fast(er) Internet services. There are a someof new pictures up at www.jheinzelman.smugmug.com, but keep checking back as some of the best (like Dave and I dressed up like terracotta warriors) are yet to come.

Y2K Tibetan Monestaries

Zhongdian, Yunnan Province, China is home to one of the most important Tibetan monestaries outside of Tibet. Over 600 monks call it home and welcome visitors into their and sacred temples.

While much of it was how I would expect it based on documentaries, articles and paraphenalia floating around Free Tibet concerts, there were some surprises...

Monks sell curios inside the temples - No, not just insense and prayer beads, but also trinkets and necklaces (some in plastic wrapping labeled "fashion wear")

Monks use cell phones and carry them around in their robes - We saw one whip out his silver Motorola v700 right after leaving a prayer session

Monks take diet pills - Yes, that's right, diet pills. The monk who welcomed us into the main temple (shown above) communicated with us through our crude sign language. In addition to making us hold our hands to the fire, take pictures with him and tell him if we were married, he commented that Dave had some extra meat on his arms and offered him a variety of pills to remedy the situation. (He claimed to use himself through comparison to his arms)

The Things (Birthday) Memories Are Made Of

On the 13th of September we caught a bus from Dali to Qiaotou (the starting point of the Leaping Tiger Gorge trail) looking forward to escaping the throngs of Chinese and foreign tourists. At that, we were very successful.

It had rained a bit in Dali (5 hours south of Qiaotou) so we didn't know if we would be able to hike part of the fragile trail as hoped. At the very least, however, we had read that taxis ran to Walnut Grove (about 3/4 of the way through the gorge) and enjoy the scenery from a guesthouse there. The bus stopped and let us out at Qiaotou which at second glance (after the bus had pulled away) was "lacking in activity." The Chinese places were open so we were not stranded, but all of the establishments bearing English language signs reading things like "Kept luggage," "Free maps," "Hiking information," were closed. Large metal sliding doors covered their storefronts.

If we could only get to Jane's Guesthouse as recommended by the Lonely Planet. Surely they would be open and provide more information. We oriented ourselves with the map in our book and headed up the gorge access road where Jane's would be 1km down the paved road. Our (good) plan was foiled, however, when a police officer stopped us - the gorge was CLOSED!

Our options were few. The hour was getting late and we either needed to flag down a bus to Lijang or Zhongdian (both about 3 hrs away) or find one of the few open guesthouses in this desolate highway town. Then we remembered...

As we had gotten off the bus to men with a taxi had approached us. They could take us to the Naxi Family Guesthouse 5km up the gorge access road. We reapproached them and inquired further. It turned out that they could not only take us to the Naxi Family Guesthouse for 20 RMB (US$3), but could take us all the way to Chateau de Woody in Walnut Grove for only 130 RMB more. This seemed a bit much. We tried to bargain, but they insisted that the fee was fair and included a pay-off to the local police/"guardsman." We went for it.

We got in the back of the van. The tinted windows helped hide us from "the law." W were enthusiastic rebels livin' on the edge in our renegade taxi!

What we didn't quite realize was how "on the edge" we were to be living for the next 45 minutes of twisting cliff-hugging road until we passed our first boulder lying in the other "lane." The massive white rock measured about 4'x5' and provided our first hint of trepidation.

The boulder was soon followed by evidence of landslide after landslide - some bigger rocks and some fields of gravel where smooth asphalt once had been. Most slides had been cleaned up by work crews, but gave reason for concern and reminded us both of our mortality (although we dare not discuss this while still in motion). We focused on the views - breathtaking walls of rock, a lively river and spontaneous waterfalls connecting the two. We would have taken pictures had it not been for the tinted window and state of terror.

At last we arrived at Chateau de Woody - a picturesque guesthouse built into the side of the mountain and overlooking one of the most spectacular sights one sees in a lifetime.

At first we were the only guests, but two other parties soon arrived. We spent the evening eating, drinking, playing cards and soaking in the peaceful splendor which surrounded us.

It rained through the night into morning rendering us "stuck," while providing a most relaxing and grateful 28th birthday on the 14th.

The Things (Birthday) Memories Are Made Of Part II

Please Note: This is a Part II and reading them in order will greatly increase your reading enjoyment.

Heading out on the 15th we were confident that local intelligence was good. The rains had stopped mid-day on the 14th and the other parties had decided to go ahead then. Dave and I used our judgement and decided to heed the advice of our host. We waited through the day and enjoyed the tranquility of a mountain villa all to ourselves.

We grabbed our bags and hopped into the minibus that had been scheduled for us. A little confused, we wondered why "Woody" was taking us rather than a taxi driver, but thought he may have wanted a piece of that 150 RMB we were counting on for our return trip. It seemed reasonable.

Breathing easy I rolled down the window and without crippling terror in my way, I tried to translate this immense beauty into digital media (didn't really work, but you can be the judge once we get an Internet connection that can handle the load of pictures waiting for upload). The remnants of landslides seemed to be distant threats - evidence of one moment in time that was gone. Local intelligence was surely stronger than nature...or was it?

It soon became apparent why a taxi had not come to collect us as anticipated. The road was impassable due to a landslide. Trucks were parked on both sides. I was envisioning a few more days, possibly longer, at Chateau de Woody and hoped we'd get Dave to his flight in time. Then "Woody" instructed us to get out and took our bags out of the back. A group of locals carrying small packages soon descended out of a neighboring truck and started bounding across the rocks...and we were to follow.

The rocks seemed stable enough and "Woody" and the locals were patient with our less graceful style of crossing - tense, rock-clenching, breath-holding, nervous, cliff-hanging, slow and steady. Between my fear of unstable rocks and Dave's distaste for heights I don't know how we made it, but we did, left only with a tremendous memory and a small cut on my right pinkie finger from refusing to let go of a rock as the rest of me moved past.

The Internet is a DANGEROUS Thing...

Upon arriving in Beijing, I noticed that I could not access www.jessicaheinzelman.com -- it was blocked (or rather the blogspot address that it forwarded to was). The government has strict control over what is accessible and what is not. Perhaps the thought of access to blogs was too risky or blogspot had been used to launch a revolution in another county. In either case, it's on the list. (Luckily for all Chinese residents, they can access my blog via www.anonymouse.org, a remote server that allows the viewing of all sorts of contraband.)

Dave and I had been searching for days for an Internet cafe that had some sort of power behind their computers instead of just enough to juice up yahoo, gmail and other email programs. My camera's memory cards were filling up and the situation was getting desperate. We found our first one in Nanjing, but unfortunately did not have our passports on us. "Passports?" you ask. Why would we need passports to access the Internet?

Everyone needs to show ID before being assigned one of the multitude of stations. Most patrons are in here gaming - Halo-type fighting and strategy games - but with all sorts of content out there, one (government) can never be too careful.

In 2000 the government apparently shut down thousands of Internet cafes. Soon more informal stations began to pop up in salons, family businesses and other publicly accessible venues. The information super-highway would not be conquered so the answer was to reinstate the large-scale cafe format with strict rules and regulations and a tracking system -- Dave and I not only supplied our passport information to log on, but also had them scanned (including our Chinese visa page).

Long live China's Democracy! (Hope they're not watching)

Shanghai

Shanghai is brilliant! There is something about this city that feel like home...well, closer to it. There is an sense of class. People are still crazy drivers and crossing the street continues to be closely likened to playing Frogger on the original Atari 2600, but the museums are well lit and have minimal typos in their English language captions. Hell, they have English language captions.

The architecture is inspiring ranging from Art-Decco to Neon-chic. The streets are clean(er) and there just seems to be so much in the way of culture. In the short day and a half that we have been here we've eaten at T8 (one of the "Top 50" restaurants in the world according to Conde Nast) for less than $50 a head, visited the Chinese Communist Party Museum (where Mao and 12 other delegates met in 1919 (?) to set forward their "programme"), walked around the French Concession area, enjoyed jazz at a club owned by a famous Chinese TV star, wandered through amazing glass sculptures in the glass museum, paid a visit to the Shanghai Art Museum and Museum of Urban Planning (where they had a model of all of Shanghai and planning/zoning maps for the hot areas of town available through touchscreen technology), cruised the river and the Bund...and found an Internet cafe with technology and connection speeds strong enough to enable the uploading of pictures.

Great town.

Nanjing

We spent two interesting days in Nanjing where Dave had lived and taught English for a year in 1996-7. They weren't interesting because of the sights (we didn't visit any), but were more interesting because of the unique perspective Dave had on what 10 years had done to this city.

A brand new academic building sat on top of Dave's favorite go-to lunch spot, "Aunties." Trendy clothing boutiques lined the streets were hole-in-the-wall crap shops and street eateries had once been. The school where he taught was there, but had been reconfigured to open on to the main street rather than in an alley behind. There were new skyscrapers and landmarks making some streets unrecognizable. More cars, fewer bikes, more cars parked on the sidewalks. Western food restaurants were plentiful as well as coffee shops (still mostly frequented by Westerners and the hip youth).

These potential changes had been hinted at by our experience in other cities, but I don't think it was until we actually arrived in Nanjing that the extent to which the "New China" had affected his Nanjing.

Tran No. 2

Pingyao to Xi'an: 12 hours in "hard bed compartment"

Dave and I prepared for our long journey by limiting our water and eating very little. Limiting/preventing trips to the bathroom were to be paramount to our enjoyment of this ride.

Note: Pingyao was wonderful, but the best way to describe is through the plethora of photographs we took. Provided we find an Internet connection that doesn't inch along, those will be posted soon.

We boarded the train around 8:30. Others had boarded at the train's origin so the crowds were few. This did, however, mean that the passengers had already staked their claims and gave us a little hassle over us taking the bottom and middle bunks (the ones we had paid for and had been assigned). In the end, our ticket prevailed and we settled in for the journey -- our bags stowed beneath us, our bladders and intestines empty and our iPods in our ears. The lights were soon turned off and everyone retired to their narrow sleeping quarters lining the train cabin partitions.

Under normal circumstances I am a SOUND sleeper. I have slept through fire alarms, fireworks displays, chase scenes, fights, etc. However, my above average sleeping ability was no match for Car 5, Row 10, Top Bunk. His super-hero strength snore was enough to keep me awake for a good portion of the night. It can be most accurately likened to the gutteral sound of a chainsaw starting up. To complicate my complete distraction from slumber, the sounds of 5-10-Top were complimented by a persistent mixture of smells including poop and cigarette smoke as well as the jolting motion of the train that threatened to throw me from the middle bunk at every late night station stop.

I was extatic to get off the train when morning came and even more grateful that the no food/no water scheme had worked and that persistent wafting smells from down the cabin were my closest contact with the unthinkable.

Train No. 1

Taiyuan to Pingyao: 2 hours in "hard seat compartment"

There are different classes on the train with three basic cars:

1) "Soft Sleeper" - High-end private cabin with bathroom. Cost = you might as well fly.
2) "Hard Sleeper" - Dorm beds throught the cabin, shared bathroom (nasty) and reserved for those who have paid/have a bed.
3) "Hard Seat" - Crowded stiff seat with shared bathroom (nastier yet) and hoards of people standing/sitting in the isles.
4) "Standing" - For those who can't pay to sit, this option allows travelers to stand for the journey and/or scavange seats as those with booked hard seats get off.

Our first train journey was from Taiyuan to Pingyao and all that was left were standing or hard seats. We got in the massive line in the waiting room and pushed our way forward through a sea of people who stared at us like we were aliens (unlike Beijing, those traveling 3rd or 4th class from Taiyuan seem to have been less familiar with round-eyes).

When we pushed aboard we waded through the smaller, yet more compact crowd on the train and settled into our seats in the midst of crowds smoking, eating, drinking, chatting. A small boy and his grandmother stood near us. As his 3 year old legs got cranky, he rode the rest of the way perched on top of a bag sitting between Dave's legs. He was a spunky young fellow always trying to get a grab at Dave's leg hair before a scolding came down from his grandmother.

Upon arriving in Pingyao, I was glad for the experience, but ready to pass on "hard seat" travel for anything more than a few hours.

Reflections on Beijing...

We have left Beijing. It is a fascinating city - interesting and overwhelming. The one thing that struck me was the complete and total innundation of "Beijing 2008" (aka the Olympics). I can't wait to watch this chapter in China's history unfold. While Beijing has some luxuries, it also has many...idiosycracies that will be...challenging for the Western traveler (and athletes).

1. Water - No one drinks the water. Everything will need to be purified from the drinking water to the athletic ice. A test run with the Danish rowing team ending in the entire boat leaving with diharrea.

2. Pollution - I can't imagine many records will be broken when the athletes are inhaling smog as they race around Olympic Stadium. The government is trying to get all of the coal burning factories to shut down 3 months before the games to clear the air. I don't know what the liklihood of success is.

3. Language - Few people speak English. Volunteers are already out and about "practicing," but language skills are limited even at top restaurants and hotels.

4. Credit Cards - Credit what?

These are the biggies, but fairly substantial in the grand scheme of things. Dave also pointed out that Beijing infrastructure is going to be exceedingly difficult for the Paralympics (traditionally following the Games) participants to navigate.

What's for Dinner?

Multiple recommendations pointed Dave and I to the Stoneboat Cafe - a picturesque little cafe/bar on a park lake near all of the embassies in Beijing. When we got there, we were disappointed to find that the day we had chosen for our visit coincided with the public works departments maintenance and draining of the lake. Dozens of workers were in and around the now muddy puddle pulling out floundering fish and sticking them into a large vat.

They will likely them back after they refill the lake, we thought. Nope. Towards the end of the workday, the men started filling plastic bags with suffocating fish and taking them home. When the workers were gone, a crowd of people remained...just watching the puddle. Soon, one man charged head-on into the mud with a net and started hunting for the smaller relatives of the older fish that were now on their way home as dinner. With this one man leading the charge, all of the observers joined in. One after another they waded through the mud to the puddle in the center hunting for their next meal out of this drained city lake. While our afternoon by the lake was not as picturesque as it might have been, we may have witnessed one of the most absurd variations from Western culture. While Americans may find treasure in unlikely places (i.e. the street, garbage cans, etc.) we rarely find dinner in public urban landscapes.

Who sells the "The Great Wall Kicked My Butt" T-shirt?

The day started early with a 6am alarm to enable my prompt arrival at a nearish hostel where my tour to the Great Wall was meeting. Around 8am we piled on a tour bus already packed with Western tourists from other hotels and hostels. It's always fun being the last one on and taking the seat next to someone who *thinks* they have narrowly escaped 2-person seat occupancy. In this case it was a grumpy German with ear buds and legs too long to fit in his half of the seat. That's not to say he was particularly tall. No, my legs at 5'6" required diagonal positioning.

The ride to Jinshanling (the portion of the Wall we were to start our 10km trek to our destination, Simatai)was a 4 hours ride away. When we arrived at Jinshanling the two tour buses with our group were the only ones there. We started out as a pack, but quickly spread out as ability and stamina varied. As we started our very steep ascent to the Wall my only thought was that I really should have done the stair master more at the gym. Did I say more? Perhaps at all is more accurate.

I reached the top and the view was stunning and terrifying all at once. The Wall was so vast, winding up and down the mountainous countryside, and like nothing I had ever seen or...climbed.

I would climb to 13 towers some with upwards of 120 steps up and 120 down. The steps varied in size and in condition. Some parts were well maintained while others I feared would crumble under my feet.

Toward the beginning of my journey, I acquired a "friend" who wanted to sell me a souvenir book so badly that she walked 1/2 way to Sumatai with me. She was quite nice and spoke excellent Wall-related English. When asked questions or pushed past tidbits of information about the Wall, her vocabulary showed its holes. She lived outside Jinshanling and her family members were Mongolian farmers. It seemed that half of her village came to the Wall every day either to guide/guilt tourists into buying goods or sell cold waters and cokes to those tearing through their rations more quickly than expected. I found it very ironic that the very people the Wall was meant to keep out (the Mongolians) are now the ones saturating it with their commercial endeavors.

While the conversation at the half way point (the end of the road for my friend) was a bit painful -- I didn't want to buy the book, the other book, the T-shirt, the small purse or any of the other goods stowed away in her shoulder bag and she didn't want to just take the "tip" I was offering her -- I was glad to have the company and the direction on a few shortcuts here and there. After she left, finally accepting my small offering, of course I took the wrong route to a towner and ended up having to back track.

There were times on the 4 hour trek that I thought I was going to DIE. My thighs burned, my calves burned, my heart was racing, my lungs couldn't get enough air and I couldn't drink enough water to keep up with my sweat. There were times where I questioned if I'd rather be working. The answer was, of course "no," but the fact that this question entered my mind provides quite an accurate illustration of my state of mind.

I did make it along with a band of other travelers huffing and puffing. With one final ascent I came to the cement walkway that led back to the buses. Much to my delight, there were options for the route back. I could walk...more OR pay 35 RB (about $5) to ride the zip line down. The answer was simple.

I arrived home at 10 pm exhausted and terrified that I would be so sore that I couldn't use the squat toilets effectively.