Thursday, November 29, 2007
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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!
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!
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
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!
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.
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.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
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.
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
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."
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."
Sunday, November 11, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 9, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, November 4, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, November 2, 2007
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.
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.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
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.
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.
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