The Places I'll Go...

The Ups & Downs of My 29th Birthday

2009-01-15T09:41:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately my birthday video is too long for Youtube. I had to break it up into three bits. It will give you a good idea about my life in Benin City as well as the ups and downs of my 29th birthday.

PART I

PART II

PART III

FELAbration

2008-10-20T20:31:00.000-07:00

I’ve never had my bottom grabbed like when I pushed my way towards the stage through a sea of Nigerian men.

I had come back to Lagos to wait out my final days in Nigeria. I craved the luxuries afforded by the US Embassy digs (hot water, shower heads, couches and cable TV) as well as the company of friends I knew I could trust. To my delight, my visit coincided with Felabration - a week of concerts in honor of the late Fela Kuti, father of Afrobeat, political activist and husband to 27 of his back-up singers. I quickly signed on for the outing to the final evening at Fela’s Shrine (a large music venue built by Fela adjoined to his house where he preformed regularly while he was alive.

The night had started calmly around 10pm. We got to the Shrine and collected all-access passes secured through my “media connections” (I was with the CNN, BBC, AP, etc. contingent). I invented some obscure Internet-based media outfit to represent. Scamming? Who cares, this is Nigeria! With this pass came free booze, free reign back stage and access to a balcony VIP area where all the Westerners were gathered. We climbed the stairs to the balcony and looked over the hundreds and then thousands of young Nigerian men who were gathering below in anticipation of the nights unnamed acts.

The structure was wooden with an A-frame roof made of aging, yet not meriting concern, wood. A few no-name mediocre hip-hop type entertainers tried to warm up the crowd. Big rumors preceded this event - Common, Eryka Baidu, Flea. No one held their breath, however. A few months prior J-Zee and Beyonce failed to materialize at a concert billed with them as the headliners. One great musician, however was guaranteed - Femi Kuti, son to the late Fela. The excitement was high, but the show slow to get going. The crowd suffered through bad DJs and dance squads until finally the “big hitters” came out and jammed until the early morning. Flea and Femi were the only names I recognized.

The media boys were a bit braver than I and ventured first down into the crowd to rock amongst “the people” rather than in the sheltered elite in the VIP area. I stayed behind with the other woman, Kati. We weren’t quite ready to give up the comfort of chairs, elbow room and a sightline to the stage.

After a while one song in the jam session blended into the next. No new (or big) names emerged. We searched back stage to no avail. It resembled the VIP area. Backstage with Fela would have been wild - sex, drugs & afrobeat. Backstage at Felabration was...well...there was an open bar. We sipped our drinks as the boys came by glowing from the energy of the crowd. “You really must go,” they said.

We finished our drink and walked to the edge of the crowd. It was a sea of black. People were packed shoulder to shoulder. One couldn’t sway alone or help being swayed along with those around. We parted our first path and started in. I almost tripped, but the tightly packed bodies kept me up. We met elbows and resistance at first. When people turned to see we were women and WHITE we were pulled to the front, 5 to 10 hands groping us at any given time. Instead of being boxed out like the boys had encountered and endured, we were shepherded through, everyone in front of us wanting “a piece” and taking a handful. Finally we made it to the front. I looked up. Femi was jamming on his saxophone, nearly sweating on my. I checked in with Kati. We had made it. The hands had calmed as we stayed still. Both of us had charted escape routes under the stage. We, however, focused on the music, trying our hardest to ignore men asking for our phone numbers, our hands in marriage and offering us water. We had regained our sightline to the stage.

To our right was a small square platform jutting off the center of the stage. It was populated by photographers and security. We hardly noticed until a series of taps made it our way. Everyone in the immediate area was directing us to the security guard. What could we have done wrong? Was he scared for our safety? Before we could figure out what he was trying to communicate, we were being pulled in that direction. Dozens of hands were pushing us (gently) and then grabbed our legs, lifting us straight on to the platform. I fumbled, trying to get control over my own limbs and grabbing the security guards arms as I was raised above the crowd. When I collected myself I looked up at the thousands of Nigerian eyes on me. No time to think...I smiled, we danced.

Luckily I had been practicing in the discos of Benin City where I was considered “a good dancer for an oyibo (foreigner). I was dizzied by the spotlights and the cheers. I listened and felt the music that was being made a few feet away. The energy was incredible. “This is what a rock star feels like,” I thought.

Race to a Standstill

2008-10-08T20:32:00.000-07:00

There are many reasons one might encounter traffic jams in Nigeria. I’ve experienced the following on my limited travels through the country: flooding, armed robbers, check points, burning fuel tanker, bus crash. I became accustomed to these “hold ups,” but always assumed that there would be a catalyst to traffic. I was wrong.

On the road from Ibadan to Lagos cars and trucks came to a complete stop. I looked ahead to try to see what had happened ahead. Impatient motorists crossed to the other side and drove towards the jam’s epicenter where oncoming traffic normally would be. Two lanes became four (this is a normal response to traffic in Nigeria).

Young men were around directing traffic and helping cars, vans, buses and trucks, trying to improve the hold up. The jam was bad. What could it be? We inched forward. Others tried to squeeze forward. Four lanes became eight.

In the race to get ahead, buses got suck in muddy potholes. Vehicles continued to crisscross over the median. I wondered what they were doing once they reached the issue ahead.

I started to see things moving ahead. But there was no accident, no robbers, no fire - just the proverbial smoke. What had happened?

The Answer: Impatience. Traffic had slowed as it had neared the city. Trying to get ahead, drivers had reacted. Two lanes had turned to 4, turned to 6, turned to 8 until northbound faced vehicles faced southbound traffic and no one could move. It took over 45 minutes to untangle the mess while approaching vehicles complicated matters. I shrugged my shoulders and laughed - T.I.A. (This is Africa).

Powered by JESUS!

2008-10-05T20:30:00.000-07:00

The minibus had broken down 2 times already (20 minutes apart). We had 2 hours left in our journey to Ibadan. There seemed to be a leak in the water. The van kept overheating. The first time the passengers had pooled our water to get us going. The second time the driver had disappeared into the brush in search of a bore hole, emerging 10 minutes later with a canister of water. We couldn’t sustain this. We’d never make it.

We continued slowly. Small motorbikes (okadas) were passing us at about 25 miles per hour. We stopped for a third time - no water around. The van cooled as passengers chose either to get out (and bake in the sun) or stay in (and bake in the van). After a while we re-boarded.

The woman next to me closed her eyes and started rocking back and forth muttering prayers and praising Jesus. The entire bus joined in as the driver turned the key. The engine purred and we moved slowly down the highway. “Praise Jesus!” “Oh Jesus, help us, see us through!” “Jesus, give us the power!”

One by one the passengers stopped vocalizing their prayers, but the woman next to me continued for 45 minutes. So did the bus. We made the 4 1/2 hour trip in just under 8 hours. Thank, God!

"Big Men"

2008-10-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

I walked into the party with my friend, 10-10. Young men and women were waiting around just inside the the large compound gate. We continued through the front door. The room was lined with white leather couches, glass coffee tables, empty bottles of Hennessy and BIG men (well-fed and important).

We walked directly to a man in a white button-down shirt. I was introduced to him as “the Chairman,” with no explanation. I was then seated next to another man who had lived in New York for 25 years while 10-10 made the rounds.

Where was I? Who are these people? I was the only woman inside. I was the only non-Nigerian (probably for miles). I made small talk...

So, what do you do in Benin City now that you are back from NY? He was a contractor and “dabbled” in politics. In Nigeria this told me one thing. Leave that line of conversation. Getting into a discussion about corruption in this country would not be a good idea. I followed his lead and we discussed the upcoming American election - a much safer option (socially and perhaps even physically).

I looked around my surroundings. The plot of land was small and the architecture felt cramped. The living room was taller than it was wide and had an overly steep staircase leading up to a sliver of a balcony which ran around the perimeter of the wall half-way up. The curtains were ample as was the decorative metallic hardware. The floors were polished marble. Each architectural and decorative element seemed to display wealth rather than service any function. Then I noticed the door.

The door was metal and 9-inches to one foot thick. “That is quite a door,” I commented to the nice man from New York. He informed me that it was bullet proof. “Why does our host need a bullet proof door?” It slipped. “For security,” was the answer I got, but not really the answer to my intended meaning. I decided, however, to save my hardline questioning for 10-10.

All of a sudden “the Chairman” stood up and the entire room followed suit. He walked out the bullet proof door and the rest followed out in a seemingly intentional pecking order. I sat alone, wondering what had happened. Again, where was I?

I found 10-10 and we said our goodbyes (to those who were left...mostly young men paying their dues by cleaning up after the party). As I settled into the car I asked about our host, my new friend and “the Chairman.”

My friend: a contractor for the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC), the government agency responsible for distributing oil revenues through public works projects in the Delta. *Note: This does not necessarily mean that the money ever makes it to public works.

Our host: contractor for the NDDC and cousin to the Chairman of the NDDC.

The Chairman: the Chairman of the NDDC.

...BIG men!

Malaria & My Trip to a Nigerian Hospital

2008-09-01T02:54:00.000-07:00

Since arriving in Nigeria, I’ve mostly been hot. When I’m not hot, I’m comfortable. Cold is a word that I reserve for specifying how I would like my bottled water. When I became chilled and goose bumps started popping on Wednesday night, I knew something was wrong.

Within one hour, my forehead was burning up. I returned home from my friend’s house and went straight for my sweatshirt and thermometer. One hundred and two point four degrees. I popped some drugs, collected an arsenal of bottled water and went to bed, telling my Bengali housemate, Rafiq, that tonight I would not be locking my door and that if I did not emerge in the morning, he should come in. I had a sneaking suspicion that this Mac truck of an illness that had hit me might be malaria – the high fever, the pounding head, the aching bones, the fatigue.

Soon after closing my door, dressing myself in socks and my warmest lounge wear and wrapping myself in my silk sleeping sheet that was usually more than warm enough for these Nigerian nights, I began to shiver. I reached for my cell phone and called Rafiq in the other room. “Do you have an extra blanket?” I asked. He brought his blanket and spent the next hour or so brining blood to my extremities by squeezing my feet, arms and hands as well as calming the headache with pressure points and head massage. I fell asleep.

In the middle of the night (around midnight – I had gone to bed at 8:30pm), my fever piqued. I cast off the blankets, tore off my shirt and lay in a pool of my own sweat. I forced myself to drink the line of bottled water that I had gathered with great foresight. I thought I’d call and tell them I wouldn’t be able to go to work tomorrow. I popped more pills in hopes of calming the fever.

As the sun broke, so had my fever. Ninety-nine point eight, much better. I almost felt whole as I called Cynthia, the woman I ride to work with, to tell her I would be spending the day in bed rather than at my desk. She suggested that she still pick me up and we go to the hospital for a malaria test. I agreed, still tired and achy.

A little delirious and still half-asleep I prepared myself for my trip to the hospital. I took money and a bottle of water…I knew that these were the most important things. I didn’t imagine I would stay long and thought that if I had forgotten anything, I could surely purchase it. Other things seemed trivial – my phone, my computer, movies, a book, my iPod, toilet paper.

We pulled up to the hospital. It was a private hospital – one of the best in Benin City. It was a large cement building surrounded by dirt. It almost looked as if it had been newly finished – structurally sound, but still a bit rough around the edges. The doctor was outside and greeted us with a smile, showing us through the front door where the nurses gathered in their white nurse uniforms, some with small white nurse hats. Their dress reminded me of Halloween more than it instilled confidence. They stared at me. I stared at them. One sat me down right there in reception, stuck a thermometer in my armpit and took my pulse. She flipped through a disorganized notebook to find a blank page to write my name on and recorded my data before taking me to the doctor in his office.

I sat down, staring at a large diagram of the female anatomy behind the doctor’s head. “When was you last menstruation?” he asked. What? I’m here for malaria, not a pregnancy test (Nigerians are obsessed with pregnancy, children, fertility, etc.)

“I don’t know,” I replied, a bit annoyed that he wasn’t getting straight to the heart of the issue. I had DVDs waiting for me at home.

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know. Less than a month ago,” I replied. He pointed to the calendar and continued his questioning. I was not of the state of mind that I wanted to expend my precious energy on figuring out when my last menstruation was. I saw little to no relevance (at least not until he had determined that I needed some form of treatment that could endanger a fetus). I knew I wasn’t pregnant and threw out some numbers to appease him, “I don’t know…the 6th…or the 13th.”

“You know you really should know when your last menstruation was,” he said. “It is important to know so that you know when you get pregnant.”

“No sh*t, Sherlock,” I felt like saying, but bit my tongue. I just wanted my diagnosis and drugs so that I could go home.

“What is your blood type?” he continued. Another toughie. I knew I should know this one…I didn’t.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“You should.”

“I know.”

“It should be in your passport.”

“It’s not.”

“It’s in all passports.”

“Not mine.” I pulled out my passport annoyed to be arguing over whether or not blood type is listed in American passports instead of him asking me about my symptoms.

“It is in all other passports. Look next time,” he said still trying to prove his point. “It is important to know your blood type because if you get pregnant and you are…blah blah blah blah…and your fetus…blah blah blah.” I couldn’t believe he was talking about pregnancy again. I could think of many better reasons to know my blood type. As my blood, whatever type it may be, began to boil, he began to ask about my symptoms and I calmed down.

“Fever, chills, sweating, headache, bone ache, diarrhea, nausea, fatigue,” I rattled off the list I had been waiting to share.

He asked a few more questions about other symptoms and jotted notes down in the book. “Sounds like malaria. I’d like to keep you here for 24-hours of observation,” he concluded in less than half of the time he had spent on women’s issues of fertility and menstruation. What? I wasn’t prepared for this! He must have seen the shock and disappointment in my eyes and said that, maybe, if I was doing really well, I could go home in the evening.

I went out to the waiting area and told Cynthia the diagnosis and the request that I stay. A nurse came over and requested that they find someone to stay with me as well as bring some food for me so that I could start my drug regiment. They walked me to my room. I went, first cutting the deal that if I had to stay past 5 o’clock that the driver would go to my house and pick up my phone, computer and some DVDs to keep me sane.

The room was basic. There were two beds with slightly shaky metal frames. The mattresses were covered first in a plastic sheet and then a blue and yellow checkered fitted sheet. There was a pillow and no blanket. A plastic chair sat next to the bed, as did a wooden school desk and attached chair. A small room was to the side blocked by a curtain. Inside was a bag of cement. I lay down.

The hospital was clean – I was grateful for that. I knew it would be basic, but was a little shocked at how basic. I hadn’t expected a TV or an intercom system and could deal with the fact that they brought a second fitted sheet to me instead of a blanket, but had assumed that a hospital (on the higher end) would offer things such as clean drinking water (essential for maintaining hydration), some sort of food (critical to have with some drugs) and toilet paper (do I need to explain?). With a full staff of nurses, it also surprised me that they insisted that I have a babysitter. The company was appreciated, but made me feel like a bit of a burden.

When my food arrived in a small cooler, I ate it up, ready to get on with the drug regiment. Grace, my babysitter for the day, got the nurse to tell her I was ready. She brought in a weathered IV stand. “I don’t want a drip,” I insisted. This sparked a big conversation and the doctor was called in. “Nope,” I shook my head. “I’d like to take the medicine orally.” At first they thought I was afraid of needles. Then I told them that my doctor at home had suggested that whenever traveling that avoid needles. They showed me their sterilized supplies in hermetically sealed wrappers and I politely declined. With a small crowd gathered I looked at the doctor and said that I will start with the oral treatment and that if I got significantly worse, that we could revisit the issue. The American-style medical self-advocacy was a bit foreign to the hospital staff, but went over fine in the end. I got my oral medication and began on the road to recovery.

When 4 o’clock rolled around, I called for the nurse and began my advocacy again. I was determined to go home and spend the night in my bed. The doctor came in and I pinched my cheeks, sat up and looked as perky as possible. “I’d like to go home.”

He smiled and agreed. He also said that my test results were back and that I had malaria (they had taken blood earlier – I had given in and allowed a sterilized and sealed needle for this purpose). We had a brief exchange where he said that even if the test result had come back negative that it would still have been malaria. He used some metaphor about Bin Laden – a malaria test can’t check every blood cell for the parasite, America can’t check every Afghani cave for Bin Laden…even if malaria or Bin Laden aren’t found, we still know they are there. I wondered if he would have used this metaphor had I not been American. I hoped that modern science in Nigeria was more accurate than American intelligence in Afghanistan.

I took my 6 bags of pills and headed home.

Video!

2008-08-12T02:25:00.000-07:00

I've been using a small video camera to capture some of my activities with kiva.org. If you have some spare time, feel free to peruse.

http://www.youtube.com/jaheinzelman

This is Africa…

2008-08-12T02:04:00.000-07:00

Yesterday in my neighborhood I jogged past a very pregnant goat that was startled by my presence as she ate some rubbish at the side of the road.

Today I escaped the rain by seeking refuge in a market stall that sold “bush meat.” Furry heads surrounded me and large rat-looking creatures were splayed out and dried on sticks.

I’ve moved to an apartment without a generator – I can now appreciate the frustration that comes with nightly blackouts lasting upwards of 3 hours.

Two days ago I saw small child naked and squatting over a nicely formed poop outside his house.

Today, same small child, same cement slab by the side of his house, same morning ritual.

I’ve realized how absolutely inept I am at washing clothes – I’ve never lived in a place where I needed to use a Laundromat let alone my own two hands.

The top story on the news the other day was how the some Nigerian religious figure had issued an official statement that a pilgrimage to the Holy land is optional for Christians, not mandatory.

There are chickens outside my office. No one can tell me whom they belong to.

On my 6-hour 330-mile journey from Lagos to Benin City, the driver waved a vendor over to the van at a stoplight and purchased two pairs of boxer shorts.

In one week I saw two dead people lying by the road. It was explained to me that the third one (I thought was dead) was not. He had had a seizure and was just lying there with foam on his mouth. One knows he’s not dead because people are stepping over him rather than keeping a distance and walking around.

A W.A.S.P. in Nigeria

2008-08-12T02:03:00.000-07:00

I am a WASP – white, Anglo-Saxon, Protestant. My parents rarely yelled, spankings were rare and more painful for my mother than me and requests were granted only when accompanied by the obligatory “please” and followed by “thank you.” On Sundays my family sat in well-ordered pews quietly listening to sermons, bowing our heads in silent prayers and rising (as directed) to sing hymns from notations in a book. At school my friends and I were scolded for being late in an effort to train us all in the expectations of the culturally dominant WASPs who value time commitments and punctuality.

For a WASP, Nigeria is a challenge. It is a harsh culture (by my comparison) with none of the comfortable social rules of home. People bark orders that pang on my eardrums. Daily prayers are shouted with chaotic fervor. Ten a.m. means noon…or one…maybe 3pm. People are friendly once one breaks through, but few smiles are plastered on to pretend that there is a fondness for you that is not there. In all of this there is good and bad.

At first I feared that I had signed up to spend 3 months among people who were rude – a people who had no respect for one another. Little things grated on me. Things like being told, “Give me your flash drive” when I expected a softer, “May I borrow your flash drive, please” or having “Are you getting me?” “Am I clear?” and “Do you understand?” snapped at me in between thoughts as if I were a mentally retarded child with an impatient teacher. I’ve come to realize that this is a Nigerian’s way of ensuring that their numerous accents, languages and dialects don’t inhibit communication with me as well as each other. Just as I have accepted that the tones in which people speak, constantly reminding myself that they are not mad, rude or intentionally aggressive…they are Nigerian.

Almost 6 weeks in, I’ve learned to accept and adapt. I’ve quickly been trained to know that the “diplomatic” presentation of my thoughts and/or requests will fall on deaf ears. I must be direct and blunt – using the kind of tone that my mother would employ when she caught me watching TV rather than doing my chores…after three requests. I am most successful when I am truly annoyed with the person to who I am speaking. In church or during morning prayers, I’ve concluded that closing my eyes, bowing my head and following my own tradition is still more comfortable. Waving my hands, knitting my brow and punctuating my prayers with an energetic “In the name of Je-sus!” is too distracting and feels forced. “My way” seems to be accepted. And when I’m feeling saucy, I’ll demand a “please” before submitting to a task or an “I beg-o” as they say in Nigerian Pigeon English. There is a happy balance to everything and I am finding that space and becoming a Nigerian WASP – my skin is thinker and I’m more likely to bite.

Buckets

2008-08-12T02:01:00.000-07:00

In a one-hour flight I went from bucket showers to buckets of $300 bottles of champagne. Benin City and Lagos: 328-miles and a world apart.

Friday 11:00 AM: I arrived at the house of a friend of a friend of a friend, Erin. Her freelance journalist roommate, Will, let me into the armored US Embassy quarters and returned to his computer to finish an article to meet a deadline. With little within walking distance and having been deprived of the comforts of the familiar for the past month, I hunkered down and watched the programming piped in for the American military stationed abroad. There was news, movies, a history channel – all with “commercials” about how everyone “at home” supports our American troops, how important it is to vote, where to get help with alcoholism, how child molestation is wrong and whistle blowing is okay.

Friday 6:30 PM: There was a live band at the “American Club” – a well-lit gathering place serving frozen margaritas from concentrate and processed cheese. It’s a gathering place for American Embassy staff and expats that find themselves missing home. There is wireless Internet, a basketball court, swing set, a pool and a pantry of American goods for sale ranging from Pace Picante Sauce to Chex Mix and Heinz 57. For some, it is a Friday night tradition. For others, it is a place to open the evening with relatively inexpensive booze and a networking hub.

Friday 8:45 PM: High heels and lipstick, five women went to the Bambudah Lounge to meet “friends” – a Rawandan runway model slash socialite and her latest lover, a jovial Lebanese man who attempted to prove himself by sponsoring our drinks with little to no concern about cost. Five women, ten passion fruit martinis, $170 USD. We sat legs crossed on couches listening to ambient beats and discussing who knows who from Harvard and how Bambudah’s brunch was supposedly good. We killed time until we could be appropriately late for our next engagement – a champagne party at a private residence.

Friday 10:45 PM: The large black gate of the compound swung open and the security guards waved us in. We parked among Land Rovers and Mercedes then entered the champagne party through a foyer filled with family photographs. Our hosts were two brothers. Their mother slept upstairs with the help of a sedative. Friendships seemed flat, but the bubbles in the champagne provided a temporary fix. People rattled off where they had gone to school in the States and the UK in perfectly cultivated and clear accents. The dress code was collared shirts, some worn with blazers. Are we in Africa?

Saturday 12:00 AM or so: The party moved to Volar, a dark club with a deep beat. Outside boys hustled to sell gum and mentos for 100 Naira (80 or so cents) as people pushed to purchase tickets for 2,000 ($17). Bodies pressed against one another trying to get in past the newly erected gates. Keeping people out seems to be the best way to get people in. Our affiliation with the boys from the champagne party earned us entrée and a table that was soon covered with more buckets of bubbly. I watched those around me, drunk on money and high-priced booze.

Saturday 12:00 PM: We headed out for food. Lettuce and a latte – two things I can’t get in Benin City, but can at over-priced colonial cafes. Lagos is small…at least “this” Lagos is. Of course we ran into people. Conversation centered on planning beach weekends, upcoming live music events and lamenting the challenges of finding a new crew for the boat, preferably Indians.

Saturday 3:00 PM: We had been invited to a wedding. In Nigeria these types of affairs are open to all who come into contact with an invitation or someone who has. I got more than a reception befitting a friend of a friend of a coworker. We were seated at a prominent central table with the other “oyibos” (white people). Well-wishers showered us with gifts of umbrellas, plates, notebooks, rubbish bins and pens with congratulations to the couple printed in slightly smeared ink. Family members paraded by thanking us for coming, one going as far as saying that our presence (“oyibos”) had added status to this nuptial celebration. In some’s eyes, we were more important that a good band. We were like making the NY Times wedding section.

Saturday 9:30 PM: After a brief rest, we got dolled up again. The girls headed out to a club called “10” and I joined Will for a more low-key get-together at Bar Beach, an outdoor venue of plastic chairs and tables in the sand. The waves were violent and crashed less than 50 yards from where we sat. A man dressed like the wild Fela Kuti danced on a stage and I was introduced to the journalists stationed in Nigeria – Mr. CNN, Mr. BBC and Ms. AP. They were all very nice and terribly interesting. I marveled at the life they must lead. I wish I could have had more time with them, but text message after text message was beckoning me to meet the ladies at “10” and the hard-working journalists were ready to head home.

Saturday 11:45 PM: I arrived at “10” and began to walk through the small rooms looking for the ladies. Will grabbed my arm and pulled me into the VIP room where I found the crew along with 4 bottles of high-end champagne sitting on our table. A glass fell into my hand as everyone chattered about Kanu, the club’s owner and famous Nigerian footballer that now plays in the UK. He was standing arms length away. I was more focused on the wallpaper – gorgeous, black with modern pastel floral accents. The VIP room was in the center of the box-shaped club with windows and crystal curtains dividing us from the masses. The music was as fantastic as the design elements and I lost myself in the beats while also trying to figure out how some of the girls had gotten so intoxicated in the short time I was gone and who these men were buying us champagne.

12:Something AM: The stay at “10” was too short for my taste, but then again, I had been absent for most of the early part. Before I knew it we were off again, following someone’s crush to another club that everyone seemed to detest “on a Saturday night.” When we arrived, I saw why…The club, Caliente, was overflowing with oily oil men, 16-year old Lebanese teens and prostitutes. I almost vomited in my mouth when a 60-something Scottish man with a turkey neck commented that it must be his lucky night when I slid in next to him at the bar. I couldn’t stomach the thought long enough even to get a free drink. The bar tender, a flaming gay Latino, kept sucking on a lollipop and dancing to the music rather than serving drinks. Everything about him annoyed me, especially the cheap red satin button-down shirt that was worn by the staff. A short Turkish man with man-boobs approached the group. It was explained to me that he was in love with Erin and had been for the past few months of seeing her out at clubs – this was very unrequited. In a unified decision we left, the Turk crying and everyone in the car agreeing “Thursdays are the night for Caliente, not Saturday.”

Sunday: The day was low-key – more television, some wireless Internet and the game of Life. Later in the evening we went to see some live Nigerian music at a local art gallery. I was tired, not terribly social and trying to mentally prepare for the next day when I would be visiting Nigerian entrepreneurs, some who make in one year, what I saw consumed in two nights. It was in this no-mans-land that the contrast seemed so stark. While at the clubs or in the markets, the worlds were too far apart. Still, it is only in quiet moments of reflection that I can fathom the great divide between the moneyed and impoverished Nigeria. I am uniquely privileged to have seen and experienced both.

The Little Things That Make Me Smile and Scratch My Head

2008-07-27T01:57:00.000-07:00

There are a number of things here in Nigeria that are just different enough to bring laughter and puzzlement to my days…

“Oyibo” – Wherever I go, people call out “Oyibo.” Naturally, I initially thought this meant “hello” or served as some sort of greeting. I suppose it is a greeting of sorts, but literally means “white person.” It isn’t an insult, just a way to get my attention and a wave. Generally oyibos remain in Lagos, the business capital, or Port Harcourt, where the oil flows. I’ve seen two other oyibos in my first month here in Benin City – not many. I’m certainly an anomaly. I wish I could capture the curiosity and discovery that I see in the eyes of the children I meet. They look at me with a deep attention. Every movement is watched. Every action is noted. For many, I am the first white person they have seen outside of the manufactured distance of a television screen. They are excited and confused. Some try to stay very still as not to let on to their interest. Others creep up next to me and casually rub against my skin or run around giggling with their siblings, beaming smiles on their faces.

Divine Businesses – Nigeria, and especially Benin City, is a very religious place. In the north of the country Islam reigns. In the south, various Christian denominations rule, ranging from Pentecostal to Baptist, Catholic to Apocalyptic. The seriousness of faith is evident just driving down the road passing signs displaying religiously themed business names. Some are expected (e.g. Christ’s Bookshop and Religious Store). Some make me smile in their randomness (e.g. God’s Time Aluminum Co.). Others make me laugh out loud with comical plays on words (my favorite, God’s Power Electrical Supplies).

“This House is Not For Sale” – you will find these words scribbled in paint across houses throughout Benin (and probably Nigeria). From a Western perspective this seems odd. If it is not explicitly stated that the house is for sale, then why would it be assumed otherwise? Why would the aesthetic of one’s home be sacrificed to clarify this seemingly intuitive statement? The answer: fraud within the family. Apparently it is not uncommon for one family member to try and sell the house out from under another.

Soup – Tired of eating a diet based primarily on an endless variety of starches, one evening I decided to order “soup and salad.” Both of these words are used in relation to Nigerian food, however, “salad” is more of a cabbage garnish topped with a dollop of mayonnaise and soup is not spooned into ones mouth, but eaten as more of a sauce with pounded yam and other cassava-based starchy staples. One orders their starch as the main and specifies which soup for flavor (like ordering rice with a side of salmon or a whole grain sandwich with turkey). The difference is subtle, but important. To me, my order of “soup and salad” seemed to me to be a smart alternative to a carb overload, but the looks I got were riddled with confusion and amazement. The restaurant staff was so baffled by my order that it was on the house. From what I can tell as a result of my questioning, an equivalent order in America might be a bowl of alfredo sauce with a side of parsley and an orange slice.

Vegetarianism: Appalling or Appealing

2008-06-27T08:09:00.001-07:00

I am an adventurous eater and I love meat. Typically, subsiding on local cuisine is a highlight of my international travel. When it comes to food, I will unapologetically use the overused cliché, “I’ll try anything once.” After one day in Nigeria, however, I’m wondering if I should cross meat off the list for the rest of my stay.

LUNCH: I dined at the small restaurant that sits on the same property as the NGO I am working with. I had a delicious pile of rice colored yellow with what I imagine was broth and spices. Atop the pile were a few cubes of beef also nicely flavored, but terribly tough. I did my best to cut off small pieces with the dull butter knives offered at the table. Even the small bites squeaked and bounced my molars apart as downward pressure was released. I chalked it up to being a small informal lunch spot with little competition in the area.

DINNER: “Maybe I’ll have chicken,” I thought. After a brief description of the menu items I was not familiar with, I settled on somovita, a polenta-like maize dish, with vegetable soup and my meat of choice: chicken. It sounded delicious. And it was…mostly. The vegetable soup was spicy. Generous amounts of hot pepper made the predominantly spinach “soup” (it was more like a thin stew) exciting. Mmmmm. Fish bones found in the soup led me to believe that it was not just vegetables, but this was fine by my non-vegetarian standards. I appreciated the complexity of flavors. What I didn’t appreciate was small bulbous pieces of what I can only assume was cartilage. Maybe chicken kneecaps? Slices of beef hooves, perhaps? Whatever it was it looked like small mushrooms, but was definitively an animal product. I avoided them and headed for the large piece of meat that sat covered in the green goodness that dominated the bowl. At first I thought maybe they didn’t hear me say chicken. This beef was even tougher than the beef I had had at lunch. I could hardly separate it from the bone and it had a large outer layer of stiff gelatinous fat. This couldn’t be chicken…oh, but it was. Upon further investigative surgery it became apparent that the meat underneath was chicken – the texture and color was a dead giveaway. I couldn’t quite tell which part of the chicken sat on my plate, but I think a piece I had assumed was the bone of the beef when I was operating under the mix-up theory was the neck. I feverously sawed at the unrecognizable piece of poultry. The knife was not up to the task and I carefully tried to pull pieces of the chicken off with my bare hands (the somovita was meant to be eaten with ones fingers so I was well within social bounds). With a tag-team effort by the knife and fingers, I was successful at getting nibbles of chicken off the bone, but it was tedious. Too tedious, really, to make the less than mediocre morsels worth the work. I focused on the vegetable soup and avoiding the cartilage.

The lesson I seem to be learning here is that caging animals and force-feeding them corn to fatten them up and keep them tender is cruel, but is a drastic improvement over eating lean free-range animals in West Africa. I’ll give Nigerian meat a few more shots, but I may just have to become the first vegetarian to be motivated by the lack of animal cruelty.

Unclaimed

2008-06-27T08:08:00.000-07:00

Heather

2008-06-09T21:21:00.002-07:00

There have been a lot of goodbyes on my trip. Some have been easy, some have been difficult. Today I said goodbye to Heather, but strangely after 2 ½ months of travel together, it didn’t seem like a real goodbye as we embraced on the side of the road in Jerusalem. It seemed more like a divergence of paths that would most certainly meet again.

We met in Egypt at Abu Simbal. Heather had just crossed from Sudan and I was on a hunt for other travelers to fill a felucca to head up the Nile. Three days floating and I thought she was alright – a hot & cold 31-year old Canadian engineer who had embarked on the same kind of journey as I had, one of adventure and self-discovery.

The more time we spent together, the more I liked her and the more the similarities between us became evident – to the point of being eerie at times. We solved problems the same way, had the same laissez-faire attitude towards banking, enjoyed the same type of travel experience (prioritizing people over sights and splurging on spas now and again), both peed with the bathroom door open, fairly consistently were drawn to the same souvenirs, obsessed over little things deconstructing emails and events of great and little significance and most importantly enjoyed one another’s company. Of course there were differences that often overshadowed our similarities to people who met us, but our combined personalities made ideal travel partners often playing good cop/bad cop and navigating our way as women through Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and Israel.

I now sit here on the bus heading to Amman where I will fly home in a few day, county the many blessings that have come my way in the Middle East. Heather, despite our little stresses, is one of the greatest. It is a special person you can meet one day and spend the next 75 days and nights with. Thank you, Heather. ‘Til next time, dear friend.

Kosher McDonalds

2008-06-09T21:21:00.001-07:00

Tonight Heather and I took a stroll through Jerusalem people watching and putzing. We stumbled across McDonalds. Some of the Israeli franchises look just like home. Others display signs in blue and white rather than the classic red and yellow. The difference: Kosher McDonalds. Other than the color scheme we wondered what was different. We approached the golden arches and walked inside and stood in front of the menu boards.

“I don’t see a cheeseburger, do you? Meat and dairy is a kosher no-no.”
“No, wait. Is that cheese on the #4?”
“No, I think that is thousand island dressing. Maybe with non-dairy dressing.”
“Is mayonnaise dairy?”
“Sometimes. Maybe here it is just transfats. What about the #4? Hey, look, there is ice cream. Dairy!”

With high-level philosophical conversations such as these around every corner, I wondered how we would ever return to regular life. Traveling offers non-stop entertainment or at least the opportunity for it – the investigation of what differentiates kosher McDonalds from regular McDonalds, just one example.

So, for the answer: #4 was a cheeseburger and we were in a regular McDonalds. Kosher McDonalds does not serve cheese, is closed on the Sabbath and offers ice cream, but in a section completely separated from the rest of the eating establishment.

1984 in 2008

2008-06-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

At the end of the long fenced-in walkway was a small kiosk and revolving entryway that could be locked with the push of a button. We had to show our passports to a young Israeli soldier behind bulletproof glass and proceeded across an empty parking lot. We passed a large poster covering a piece of the wall from top to bottom. “Peace Be With You,” it wished us in English, Arabic and Hebrew. “Peace Be With You,” from Israel’s Ministry of Tourism. Other than this colorful sign everything was grey, blocky and bulletproof.

We proceeded into another covered walkway and descended into a cold and sterile building where we cued up for our departure out of the West Bank. Metal bars wound around the floor keeping us all in line while another remotely controlled vertical turnstile regulated the flow of people entering the next room. We waited, hearing voices being projected over a loudspeaker in the next room where a large x-ray was barely visible around the corner. We waited, as two by two the line grew shorter.

The x-ray machine was sandwiched between two large bulletproof window. A tall man about twenty stood behind one with a large semi-automatic riffle. The other room was vacant. Cameras were pointed at us from every angle. A woman’s voice shouted directives at us, “Show me your passport!” and “Keep moving.” We waved our passports around in the air in front of the cameras. We spoke into the air saying that we were still waiting for our bags to come through the x-ray. The conveyor belt started moving again. “Keep moving,” she repeated still out of sight somewhat reminiscent of the Great Oz – confused, angry and invisible.

Our bags came through and we grabbed them and proceeded to stand in front of one of four doors. The door’s sign read “Wait for Green Light.” We waited. The green light lit up and we shuffled into the next small room where another empty bulletproof window sat and another door stood closed and imposing. Cameras and speakers placed to allow for the soldiers to conduct invasive strip searches without placing themselves in harms way. Luckily our U.S. and Canadian passports gave us a pass on such antics. We waited in front of the next door for its light to turn green.

The door opened onto a larger room where we joined another line. We waited to show our passports and Israeli visas to a young pierced female soldier. Most of those in line were tourists or foreign aid workers, but some were Palestinian. We watched one of every few get turned back, all Palestinians. Those who were approved based on the permissions they presented were also subject to a fingerprint scan before passing through the final turnstile. We were approved and walked out of the blocky maze-like structure, nodding goodbye to another heavily armed soldier lingering behind the final bulletproof kiosk. The next time we passed through, the dehumanizing mechanical nature of the experience stayed the same, but the route changed. Different doors led to different rooms. Changing the path would prove to be challenging for those hoping to plan and execute an attack. Keep them guessing, keep them in.

The Wall

2008-06-09T15:41:00.000-07:00

There are two walkways next to one another divided by grey bars, one buffered by a 30' wall separating Israel from Palestine. There are two signs – Exit & Entrance. I looked to Heather as we approached. Were we exiting Palestine or entering Israel? This was only the beginning of the confusion. A woman repeating “Inshallah,” or “God willing” passed under the entrance sign. We followed, but took our time slowly proceeding down the “entrance” path while looking at the graffiti that covered the wall – “Down with the wall,” “Free Palestine,” “Only God can Judge.” I stopped. One particular image caught my eye. A woman in a headscarf was sprayed on the cold gray wall. The text below read “I am not a terrorist.” I unzipped my backpack and reached from my camera to capture and image that was just about to take on a stronger meaning for Heather and me. As I framed the shot, a woman approached on the other side of the bars heading back into Palestine. She stopped.

The pride she had put into her outfit was apparent. She wore a pressed white blazer and matching hat. She clenched her purse in her right hand. Her hair had been styled for her visit to Jerusalem – only 15 minutes by bus, this was a big trip. But she was walking the wrong way. On the other side of the bars, she was walking back to Bethlehem, agitated. She stopped and spoke to us.

“They said they would help me. They said if I went back to get my papers that they would help me through. When I came back, they laughed at me. They laughed at me.” Her emotions were erupting as she spoke. She had been strong and had held it together, but with kind ears listening the building frustration, shame and anger melted into tears. Her words were jumbled and confused by despair. Her pain was chillingly clear and her story echoed by the graffiti behind her.

“I was born in Jerusalem. This is my home. Jerusalem is my home. They said they would help, but instead they laughed. I am a human. I did as they asked. I took a taxi back home to get my papers. I took a taxi. I had it. I had it. I am not a football. I am a human. I did as they said.” She was crumbling before me. Heather and I both reached through the bars and grabbed her hand as tears streamed down our faces as she continued, “They wouldn’t treat their sisters like this. All they did was laugh…They said they would help, but they laughed at me. They treat me like I’m not human. They played with me. They wouldn’t do this to their sister…”

The woman who had led us under the entrance sign appeared again, now on the other side of the bars still repeating “Inshallah” as she walked, head down, back into Bethlehem. She stopped where we stood with the woman in white, grabbed her hand and led her back as well. Heather and I stood still for a moment. Wiped our tears and in a haze began our own journey through the dehumanizing border crossing from the West Bank back into Israel.

Onward Christian Tourists

2008-06-09T15:40:00.000-07:00

Israel is crawling with tour buses filled with religious “pilgrims.” They wear nametags, feast on buffet dinners and hold prayer sessions at all of the major sites – where Jesus was born, where Jesus died, where Gabrielle told the shepards of Christ’s birth, where Jesus turned water into wine, where Jesus attended synagogue, where Jesus started preaching, Joseph’s carpentry shop, where Mary was told she was to bear the son of God, where Mary dripped breast milk on a rock…you get the picture.

One would think that these would be places of great piousness, places where groups from Sri Lanka to Spain would gather in harmony to celebrate the teachings of Our Lord, Jesus and all that he stood for…one would think these would be places of love and generosity. In reality, however, Christian values give way to fervor. Guides elbow those who aren’t paying members of their group. Priests bark orders at antsy pilgrims trying to get a glimpse before their turn. It’s a rat race in which the idol symbols of Christianity create a momentary fanaticism and in which the cornerstones of Christianity are lost. Granted, the Ten Commandments didn’t specifically include “Thou shalt not yell at your neighbor for waling into your photo,” but the general principles should lead one to this conclusion. It is sad to see the good of Christianity crumble in the very places is should be the strongest. The tour buses can take these people to places where Jesus walked, but apparently can’t make them walk like Jesus.

The Great Escape from Lebanon

2008-06-09T15:11:00.001-07:00

It was Wednesday, May 7th late in the afternoon and our final day of a 3-day rental car. We had driven around the small, but stunning Lebanese countryside. As we neared Beirut we looked at the clock and lamented the fact that our return would be perfectly in sync with rush hour traffic jams (the Lebanese have little respect for lanes and are notoriously aggressive drivers). We had been on this stretch of highway north of Beirut plenty of times before, but on mini buses and in taxis rather than in our own vehicle. We knew what to expect. Or so we thought.

Elissa, my favorite Lebanese pop star was in the CD player. We sung along smiling, turning it down as we came to a checkpoint. Strange, we thought, we had gone through many checkpoints on our 3-day journey, but never one in the middle of a freeway. Most were on rural roads entering and exiting small towns. Additionally, before this one none had checked our passports or inquired about our destination. Usually we just got waived through, two white girls in a Toyota Yaris with a huge “Budget” sticker in the back windshield. Sign #1.

We continued with Elissa towards Beirut remarking that the traffic was unusually light. It wasn’t Friday (the holy day for Muslims). It wasn’t Sunday (the holy day for Christians). It wasn’t a government holiday as far as we knew. I also hadn’t seen many minibuses – only private cars zipping between lanes racing to their destinations. Sign #2.

We discussed. If something were wrong in Beirut the soldiers at the checkpoint would have told us, no? Should we stop and check the Internet? Would the Canadian Embassy on the outskirts of town be open? Our instincts were kicking in. Something was going on.

As we drove farther we counted the tanks. There were more than before…markedly more. Maybe 9 times as many with guns pointed direct at oncoming traffic. Soldiers loitered looking official in what turned out to be the quiet before the storm. We detoured to find Internet, but our brief search was futile. With other cars still heading towards the city center we decided to stop wasting time and get back to our hotel where we could collect more information. If something was wrong, time was of the essence.

As we turned off the freeway towards our hotel, we saw a massive military mobilization. The nearby overpass had been blocked above and below and tires lay strewn across the road (these would later be burned in protest). Three large trucks were parked carrying upwards of 90 soldiers in brown fatigues only two blocks from our hotel. We parked.

Our hotel was an inviting place. The doors were always open welcoming guests into a small lobby where people gathered to share tales of the day and get advice from the friendly family that ran the place. As we ascended the stairs reality struck. The door was closed. This was serious. When we pushed the door open some turned to see who we were. Others remained glued to the television awaiting news from outside. I knew the answer before I asked. “What is going on?”

It was 6:00pm. We needed a plan. Take the rental back (not to the airport as it was on lock down, no one could enter) and leave immediately OR wait until morning to head for the Syrian border. We consulted with the other tourists that had been around all day. One had just arrived and was sticking around in hopes that people would still be going salsa dancing. Others seemed lost, glued to the Internet or hiding out in their rooms watching BBC World or CNN International. We only had one more planned day in Beirut. It was supposed to be a relaxed day on the Mediterranean beachside. Tempting, but self-preservation won out. I called my mother. “We’re okay. We’re leaving. I’ll call you from Damascus tomorrow. This call is expensive.”

The North Beirut Budget rental office was supposed to be closed but due to the forced closure of the airport location, it had remained open a little later than usual. 7:00pm – the man was sliding the chain link gate closed as we pulled up. He slid it open again and checked our car in. We said we were heading for Syria. He called a cab - $100 to the border, what??? No. We could do better with a share taxi. The man at Budget kindly offered to drive us to the bus station where we’d hopefully find others heading the same way. We threw our bags in the back of the Budget vehicle and kindly declined stopping for a beer in route. At the station we found a share taxi for $15 each. We just had to wait for the car to fill up – three more people. We moved our bags into the trunk of our escape vehicle – a ghetto-licious white Cadillac with maroon velvet seats.
Soon a Syrian family arrived and joined the car. We packed the three of them plus baby in the back and Heather and I sat front and center with the driver. Goodbye Beirut. I thought about Rein, the yoga instructor, Yosef, the law professor, Ahmed, our VIP sugardaddy, Mohamad and Bassem, who had taken us to the south, the brothers who ran our hotlel. Heather and I could grab our backpacks, hop in a white Caddy and pull a family Von Trapp (leave), but what could they do? My heart sank for these people who had touched my life and a country on the possible brink of another long and painful civil war. I felt as though I was abandoning them – using my privilege, my birthright. But there was noting I could do. My sympathy was not going to stop bullets, bombs and burning tires. I had to go.

The dark roads to the border were still relatively quiet. Families were inside awaiting news on the next development. Checkpoints waved us through. We arrived at the border around 10:15pm and stamped out of Lebanon with a new challenge: getting back into Syria.

The border guard said that with my American passport I’d have to wait 3 hours for approval from Damascus. Just like before, this was expected, but with an ETA of 3:00am in Damascus, the annoyance factor was escalated. He said that maybe it would be shorter, but our Cadillac and family could not wait. The guard assured us that another taxi would be available to take us. Worse case scenario, we figured, we could sleep on the cold barren floor of the 24-hour border facility.

It’s unclear if the God’s were smiling on us or if suspicious forces were at play, but my visa got processing in record time: 1 hour and 30 minutes. No taxis were outside, but the guards found us a ride with an Armenian Syrian who seemed friendly enough. With few options and the border guards with all of our information as well as his, we accepted.

We drove to the first customs checkpoint. Passport photos matched the passengers. “Who’s bags are those?”
“The American’s,” our driver replied.
“Go.”
We pulled up to the next stop where they checked our car registration. The soldiers pointed at me.
“American,” it was clarified by our driver. I wondered why he wasn’t saying anything about the Canadian in the back seat. We were waved on.

On the road to Damascus, we had successfully left Lebanon. I very selfishly hoped that if war was inevitable that fighting would break sooner rather than later making our epic tale of flight that much more dramatic and confirming our good decision-making rather than proving us to have overreacted. I felt a little guilty for this, but hey, if it was going to happen anyway…

As my moral fabric was stretched by my conflicting feelings and thoughts, I was soon distracted by a wee detour. We pulled up next to a small shack-like house on the side of the road. Pictures of Hezbollah leaders were displayed prominently in the front windows. Our ride got out and walked inside. It is unclear what transpired in the house, but it sent my mind racing. Could this all be an elaborate setup and Heather and I were soon to be en route to a Hezbollah safe house in Syria where we would be used as trivial pawns in the politics of a pending war that’s implications went far beyond Lebanon’s borders? My fears were not quelled when a man accompanied our driver back out to the car and words containing “American” were exchanged.

I grew tenser and tenser as early morning calls and texts (maybe 1am at this point) kept coming in on the phone. Coded conversations activated my survival instincts and I began looking for a way to secure my safety.

“Are you Christian?” I asked pointing to the picture of Jesus Christ saved as the wallpaper on his phone. I got a puzzled look. He didn’t understand. “Christian?” I crossed myself as I had seen on my few experiences at mass or watching mobster flicks. “Enta (You)?”

“Aywa, yes, yes.”
“Me too! Me too!” I said hoping to invoke some sort of guilt and or sympathy that might prevent my “captor” from delivering me into the hands of Hezbollah.

The calls kept coming in and as we neared Damascus he began slowing down as we passed cars stopped on the side of the freeway. He looked inside trying to see if it was whomever he had been conversing with over the cellular network. My hands were shaking as he began to ruffle through some things and grabbed a Red Label box from the back as he drove. Heather seemed calm in the back listening to her iPod. She remained so as we pulled to the side of the road and came to a stop behind a car with a man leaning against the driver side door. Our driver was fiddling with the box which based on the way he was handling it, did not contain whiskey as the outside would suggest. I offered to hold it for him in an attempt to provide helpful and see if it was a gun that he would use to escort us into the hands of Hezbollah. He, of course, didn’t want to hand it over and soon opened his door and exited.

Our lights still on shown on the two men like spotlights along the surprisingly busy highway. Our driver handed over the Red Label box. The other man, slightly portly and in his late 30’s, reached into the pockets of his khaki pants and pulled out a wad of Syrian currency. He counted off more bills than I could keep track of and handed it to our driver. The deal was done, and we were not part of it.

Our driver came back and let us know that “his friend” was going all the way towards our hotel if we wanted a ride. I was still shaking and we declined and requested he take us to the turnoff where we could get a cab. He agreed and we drove a few more miles to a turnoff where he flagged us a cab, negotiated us a good rate and sent us on our way.

Turned out that we had been accessories to help smooth the journey for this well-meaning smuggler. It was a win/win of sorts. Relieved and exhausted by the day, we checked into our hotel and awoke the next morning to news of bombs and bullets in Beirut. God had given me the adventure I was after…and then some.

Yes, it Snows in the Middle East

2008-06-09T15:10:00.000-07:00

Many people have asked me, "Isn't it hot in the Middle East?"

Yes and no. Hot enough to wear sandles all the time (well at least since returning from Egypt), but my toes got chilly as we passed through a newly opened mountain pass in Lebanon and got stuck in the ICE! An old woman had to help us get our guttless Yaris back on track.

The Real Thing

2008-06-07T11:40:00.000-07:00

Documentaries, Associated Press photographs, breaking news…they all aim to give one a sense of being there, of understanding. But nothing comes close to the real thing.

The Palestinian Refugee Camp: I drove by it, nothing more. The walls were high and lined with spirals of barbed wire. A small orchard of citrus trees buffered the wall on the inside. The entrance was blockaded with sand bags and soldiers. Inside acres of homes – permanent homes reminded me that thee were much more than camps, but after decades of use had morphed into neighborhoods. My mind raced with excitement and curiosity. My imagination saw children kicking balls in the street, mothers washing clothes and laboring over the stove. It saw fanatic congregation around a dining room table. I “saw” Iranian money and Western fear. I saw 18 years of Israeli occupation and the children going inside. I saw a world I could never completely imagine or comprehend. Then we were past – on to new neighborhoods in the relaxed beach town of Saida. Ones that didn’t have the history, the tensions and the propaganda to fuel my spinning stories or created the knotted feeling in my gut out of brick, mortar and orange trees.

The Beeka Valley: Where Hezbollah is the people’s party in the Beeka Valley, grown out of social services and good works. In the West we tend to think of it only as an extremist group of terrorists and fanatical Muslims. In America, they are labeled terrorists. In Lebanon they are, to some, heroes – the teachers, the food banks, the advocates for the needs of the common man (yes, man, Hezbollah isn’t quite ready for “person” yet). The truth is somewhere in between. I knew this as we drove out of Beirut towards the ruins of Balbeck, but wasn’t prepared for the emotions and spinning thoughts that joined me on the road. Every 25 meters of road a light pole rose from the center divide for 4km down a main of road. Two banners hang on each – one yellow, one green, both bearing Hezbollah’s iconic symbol. Below hung banners of different political martyrs or leaders. Seemingly calling for unity of this selfless front. I all of a sudden became very self conscious driving my little blue rental car into the belly of a political movement that hates everything that has shaped me as a person…okay, not everything, but as I looked into the faces of the selfless men who died for the cause on the passing banners, I felt small contemplating the passion behind this foreign and fanatical belief system.

The feelings I had driving around Lebanon may not have been fact checked, they may have been driven by emotion and influenced by Western propaganda and/or “framing,” but it was more intense and interesting than hitting play on a DVD or picking up the morning paper over coffee.

Peace of Mind...

2008-05-08T10:10:00.000-07:00

For those of you following my blog and the international news simultaneously, you may have wondered about my whereabouts/safety as Beirut is burning (turns out that many people were wrong in their belief that violence would wait until summer). I was in Beirut on Wednesday, but the quick escalation of tensions and military presence led to a game time decision not to spend Thursday on the Mediterranean, but instead flee the country Wednesday night. With Beirut waking to demarcation lines, burning tyres and roadblocks on Thursday morning, we made the right decision and are now safe in Damascus again, missing Lebanon and sending positive thoughts to all the wonderful people we met while there.

More detail on this adventure will be forthcoming. For now, just wanted you all to know that I am safe.

Yoga With Hezbollah

2008-05-05T08:57:00.000-07:00

So far Lebanon seemed to offer everything I had missed traveling in the Middle East - chunky meal-sized salads, an active nightlife and style. The ecolodge I visited after a big weekend had one more refreshing offering: yoga.

Arriving at the ecolodge I expected to see Lebanese hippies with scraggly beards and lose-fitting pants eating all-organic vegetarian meals properly balanced with lentils for protein. Instead, after the long descent on a bumpy dirt road, I arrived to find the majority of the beds rented out to a number of conventional Muslim families, the women in full dress - hijab, long sleeves, long pants/skirts. There was one trendy hippy soaking in the serenity of this valley venue along the river, but I soon discovered that she was the yoga instructor and had been enlisted by one of more progressive Muslim women to teach a class at 5:00. It was 4:00.

Over the next hour none of the women said hello. They seemed to resent our presence as they puffed their water pipes and watched their children run around. I made a quiet quip to Heather about the potential of them being Hezbollah...or at least supporters. Later this suspicion was confirmed when some we overheard them speaking politics. I looked at their conservative dress and tried to picture how this yoga class with Hezbollah was going to go...and what was I going to wear that would both be acceptable yet provide the freedom that downward dog requires of attire?

The ecolodge deck was covered with 11 yoga mats - 5 on each side and one for the instructor in the middle. The class started promptly at 5 o'clock with 8 of the participants present. Heather and I had taken two mats in the back hoping to avoid the discomfort of accidentally showing crack to Hezbollah. Five uncomfortable looking women huddled close on the other side. The division was stark and verging on confrontational. "Hezbollah" v. "The West" with our new age Lebanese yoga instructor figuratively and literally in the middle acting as the DMZ. Her spiritual intuition caught on and she wanted to broker peace if not understanding. She asked one of the women to move to the mat between Heather in her knee-bearing peddle pushers and me in zebra print pajama pants.

I wasn't sure if she was going to break through the terror that made her eyes expand and shrink at the same time behind her glasses. With hesitation she rose and cautiously walked towards us in her ankle-length corduroy jumper. The discomfort rose a notch. Soon back-up arrived and two men and another woman joined us. Heather and I had already been moved forward at the instructor's orders. Hezbollah, as a result, strategically shifted positions to avoid placing the men behind us in full view of our dangerously seductive bottoms. The class continued with breathing exercises and continued slowly: child's pose, the warrior, the mountain (or downward dog) leading up to salutation to the sun. The pre-teen boys had gathered to watch much to the dismay of their mothers.

If yoga with Hezbollah wasn't uncomfortable enough, the mainly vegetarian diet I had been maintaining while traveling with my legume-loving friend, Heather, was causing some intestinal disruptions. I clenched in the name of peace. If fired, I would have launched a direct hit on the still traumatized woman in the corduroy jumper now behind me.

The class lasted an hour and a half. Some of Hezbollah lost interest around 2/3 of the way through and started putting on the shoes over the socks that they had kept on. Others lasted through the whole session, battling with their insecurities on the fairly public display of body movement. A few asked about classes offered in Beirut and seemed to be drawn to the Thursday morning class that attracted and "older female crowd." While only one offered a smile of acknowledgement and a few words to Heather and me later that evening, I couldn't help but think that this experience had brought all of us closer and given us a bit of clarity about the politics of people. Our silly tensions were based on perceptions of the West and of fanatical Muslims and our assumed perception of us. Our fear of each other's rejection was probably the strongest factor in our pseudo stand-off and could have easily been tossed aside for a comaraderie surrounding a few of our undeniable commonalities like it was hard to touch our toes and keep our knees straight at the same time.

VIPs Beirut Style

2008-04-30T10:38:00.000-07:00

Individually Heather and I both have a knack for getting special treatment. Together we're dangerous.

Scene: Saturday night at Matise, one of Beirut's hottest bars. It's packed with beautiful people. Heather and I are both wearing jeans that haven't been properly washed in a while. I have a black T-shirt and leopard print high heels I bought in Australia for $15. Heather has a black cotton long-sleeve t-shirt and ecco sandals cushioned for comfort.

We enter pushing our way through the satiny dresses, long flowing gorgeous Arab hair, sultry cologne and dress shirts. We try to find an opening at the bar. Our neutral make-up and signature scent of au du deodorant isn't doing much to get us the attention we need. We walk around looking lost avoiding getting burned by the dangling cigarettes of other patrons too cool to care.

A man catches our eye and calls us to the steps behind the bar. He asks us what we want and it is ours. He tells us to stay. Normally we wouldn't be allowed here, but he's the purchasing manager for Matise as well as 14 other of Beirut's hottest bars and nightclubs. We've hit the proverbial jackpot. We're his guest for the rest of the evening.

After Matise we move to Cristal, Beirut's most exclusive reservations-only club. It's just around the corner, but the valet pulls up in our black Land Rover. We drive slowly about 100 meters with the windows down. Another car full of "friends" follows. One minute (maybe less). We get out and a different valet takes the car. This is apparently not a club you can walk up to. We go inside. The walls are black. The ceilings are high. Tables are tiered and a large crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. It's nice although a bit of a cliche. Heather is in heaven with the free table snacks of carrot sticks and pistachio nuts. We have a drink and dance on the pleather benches (the Lebanese apparently don't believe in dance floors at dance clubs).

We leave ahead of the curve. Our host is not one to be caught tailing the in-crowd. On our way out a tall thin blondish woman is arguing with the bouncer. He won't let her in without a reservation. She claims she wants to show her Irish-looking boyfriend the club and that she was here last week with her modeling agency. She emphasizes that she is a model. When this does not work she claims this is racism and that she is being discriminated because of her blue eyes. A little tipsy from the free booze, I interject in the sweetest and most sincerely innocent tone, "No, you're not being discriminated against. You just don't have a reservation. I have blue eyes and was just inside...you just have to know the right people." At this the model started buttering up to me. Stick thin 1/2 Lebanese, 1/4 Brazilian, 1/4 Ukranian model in a minidress and staletos trying to get into a Beirut club by talking to me, chubby American in jeans and a t-shirt. Funny. Our Land Rover pulled up. She didn't get in.

The night ended at a quieter venue, somewhat of an underground bar owned by the uncle of our host. The blues played in the background and we chatted into the night with a host of interesting and cosmopolitan clientèle. Out of the crowds in this swanky and exclusive Hamra establishment we ushered out our night as Beirut's strangest looking VIPs.

Tourism in the Toilet

2008-04-30T10:24:00.001-07:00

500 toilets were placed on an open lot in Beirut. Large signs read "Isn't 15 years in the toilets enough?"* and advirtising a two week line-up of speakers, film and music events promoting peace. For the final event, there were about 200 Lebanese, 6 expats and two tourists (us) in attendance. Wanting more information about the event than we could gleem from the mostly Arabic information sheets, we sat down with a man who looked like he was "involved." A professor of law at the American University Beirut, he started with the typical questions, "Where are you from?" and "Are you working here in Beirut?" The answer to the latter typically raised curiosity at notch..."You are tourists?" In this case it evoked an even more impassioned response, "Why did you come to Lebanon? War could break out any day!" Phrased like this we realized that our typical answers fell short..."I've always wanted to visit Lebanon," "We came for the food," "We're only staying for two weeks." Writing this now, I realize how stupid this sounds. But what isn't stated is the numerous websites, travelers and Lebanese residents we consulted before entering the country. Our decision, however seemingly absurd, was a thoroughly calculated risk.

There are other tourists in Lebanon too. We've met five and seen another five or ten. I suppose it's not your optimal holiday destination right now with large areas of the country inadvisable to travel ("the south" and "the east"). And of course, you will notice many holes in the photographic account of my visit to Lebanon as the soldiers standing guard at all major and minor city sights pop out to force-delete any pictures on ones camera. The upside is the visa is "on sale" down from $20 to enter the country to free and the food and the nightlife is unaffected. War or not, Beirut is still the Middle East's most vibrant city as they say.

*During the Civil War from 1975-1990 many Lebanese sought shelter in the center of their homes and apartments. This was often the bathroom, or toilet.

Next Stop Lebanon

2008-04-30T10:00:00.000-07:00

Aside from the pending civil war, Lebanon reminds me a lot of Northern California - urban cliffs rising out of the sea, lush green mountains an hours drive from Beirut, wine country and a love for culinary delights, a plethora of Mercedes and womens' shoulders. Christians, Muslims and Atheists...okay, no Jews, but...there are ecolodges, ski resorts, yoga centers, theaters, bars, nightclubs, karaoke, fashionistas, hippy intellectuals and political activists. Political activists is where we start to diverge.

Lebanon doesn't have a President. Instead it has tanks and barbed wire, propaganda posters with the faces of past and hopefully political leaders and an uncommonly strong police presence. "Police" may actually be too soft a word. We're not talking your friendly neighborhood K9 unit that makes PR appearances at community barbecues, but soldiers in full camouflage, large automatic weapons and tanks with cannons poised for battle pointing at the traffic passing by. Unlike the stray armory scattered around Jordan, Egypt and Syria, these weapons are around major landmarks as well as on seemingly innocuous back streets. They are strategically placed in case today is the day Lebanon's 30+ political factions take up arms. The core difference, I suppose, is that these shows of military strength are not shows, they are functional.

And the people not in camouflage? They are at restaurants enjoying Sunday brunch sipping coffee or at the clubs with cocktails. The are seemingly worrying more about their hair or getting the latest sunglasses than the big question of - WHEN? The streets are crowded (except for the ghost town-like downtown area that is more like what one would expect). Life goes on. Although, when asked it is on their mind. Most make few predictions, but say "They say it's going to be a hot summer." The same is probably true for Northern California, but the implications are slightly different.

The Rest of Syria

2008-04-30T09:28:00.001-07:00

The eastern part of Syria where we were celebrities forced into using Arabic was really the highlight. What followed will likely go down in my memory as "the rest."

We spent a few days in Aleppo, Syria's business/trade center. It felt a lot like Damascus, Syria's governmental center. We explored the old city's cobbled streets and bustling souq (market), just as we had in Damascus, before leaving for Hama. When we arrived in Hama, a town that boasts about its river powered water wheels, we discovered that the reason they boast about them is that they are the only thing special about the town. We took a long river walk around and spent the rest of the day getting our pictures taken being superimposed on mountain landscapes in photoshop. Add me holding a squirrel, Heather riding a fox, a few tropical birds flying around and copies of our eyes enlarged and slightly translucent overlooking the scene from the clouds. A later version had each of us popping out of eggshells in matching shirts. The whole endeavor was great fun. I'm sure our crazy images are being used as marketing materials somewhere in Syria.

From Hama we spent a day exploring Krak de Chivillers, a huge castle where we continued our obsession with photographs, snapping glamor shots with our own cameras and posing like Charlie's Angels in long stone corridors.

Our taxi to Krak had to return to Hama, but we wanted to go 45 minutes west to the coastal town of Tartous. We were told that if we stood by the road that a minibus would pick us up for a fare. Before a minibus arrived, however, an 18-wheeler carrying what we may have correctly understood as a load of bananas stopped. The ride was short, the road was major and the driver very friendly. We took the calculated risk and jumped aboard.

Tartous was a bit dirty - a rather unappealing touristy "beach" town. We played cards at a local coffee shop where we drew a rather large crowed of staring men smoking arguillas...the usual here in the Middle East. The highlight of Tartous was a small island 3km off the coast - Arward: population 1,500. The Lonely Planet described it as a glorified garbage dump (a description that had oddly attracted both Heather and I to the off-the-beaten path adventure). The description was a bit of an overstatement. There was trash, but no more than many other places in the developing world. We walked around exploring the narrow cobbled streets and the small ship building yards. A young woman sitting on her balcony invited us up to her second floor home. We sat drinking "fresh & cold" a.k.a. orange juice with her and her middle aged brother, making conversation about politics (her views, really, not ours) as well as her brother's various injuries collected on his many trips around the world as a professional boat captain. I was sorry we had already checked out of our hotel or we may have extended our time on the island. As it were, time was forgiving, but not ample. We needed to get to the border in time to ensure entrance to our next stop: Lebanon.

On Demand

2008-04-17T11:34:00.000-07:00

Dier ez-Zur, Syria. The sun had gone down in this rural city a few hours northwest of the Iraq border. We were wondering through the streets lined with shoe shops and sweets looking for sustenance - some hummus perhaps? It was 7:10pm and the restaurant we found was temporarily closed for cleaning (what?#@%!). They told us to come back in 1/2 hour. We wandered around the corner. Before us stood a movie theater. The movie playing, "Millions" (a 2004 release), was in English.

We walked inside. Four men sat in the lobby. "What time is the next showing?" we asked. "Seven" was the reply. I looked at my watch - 7:15pm.

"Now? What have we missed so far?"
"Now." I took the lack of expansion on the second part of the question as an indication of their English ability.
"How much?"
"60 Syrian Pounds." ($1.15)
"Okay. We're in."

We paid our money and pulled the curtains aside to enter the theater. No film. No audience. The lights dimmed. "I'm going to get some water, mai. I'll be right back." I ran outside as the film started.The wheels (or reels) were in motion and couldn't be stopped in this comical scenario of a movie on demand that couldn't wait. The preview was for the movie we were about to see. I made it back in time for the feature film. There was a constant buzz from the audio system. The volume was a little low. I went back to ask them to turn it up. Half way through the movie colored flood lights illuminated the screen from below. The movie stopped. They changed reels. It began again...on demand, sort of.

"Bush Bad"

2008-04-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

If I had a nickel for every time someone asked me what it was like traveling as an American I could fund this trip...or at least a flashy dinner at the Sheraton. Truly, however, I've had few problems. Even in Vietnam I was warmly welcomed...until Syria.

In 2002 George W. Bush declared Syria as part of the infamous "Axis of Evil" (or "Beyond the Axis of Evil" specifically) grouping them with North Korea, Iran, Iraq, Cuba and Libya. Syria was thus labeled a friend of terrorism. Memories are not short here.

In the more isolated towns in Eastern Syria Heather and I are quite the attraction. Our blue eyes and broad smiles draw crowds to restaurants where people watch us eat. We are the subject of numerous camera phone captures and photo requests (one man stopped us on a bridge, took pictures of us with various bystanders and returned 15 minutes later to sell the photographs). People joke with us in broken English (if we are lucky) and our basic Arabic. They give us pastries. They invite us for bottomless cups of tea.

"What is your name?" ...smile
"What is your work?" ...smile
"Where do you come from?" ...screech

The room drops 10 degrees. Laughter tails off. Smiles turn slightly down while eyes inquire about my politics. Some leave it there and move to the next shop passing on the spectacle disgusted by my national origin. Others inquire outright or strongly state their opinion by saying "Bush bad" grimacing or clearly displaying a thumbs down. With my agreement the room slowly starts to loosen, things warm and then..."Tony Blair?" Discussing the complexities of politics is out. Simplicity is the way. "Blair Bad," I shake my head and crinkle my nose. Relief again.

Heather and I have discussed whether or not I should just say that I am Canadian - they'd never know. The problem is that they'd also never know laughter with an American, the kind and curious heart of an American, the human face of an American - all of which transcend policy and politics. That said, there have been times I've let Heather answer the "Where are you from?" question for "us."

Our Palmyra

2008-04-17T10:45:00.001-07:00

Heather and I joke that we can't just have a "normal" tourist day. We try to do the "regular" thing and something always happens. Like at Palmyra...

Palmyra: Syria's biggest tourist sight. It's a 50 hectare area that was once an impressive Roman city. It's vastness is far surpassed by the laziness of tourists who casually stroll down the center colonnade, explore the most notable temple and quickly seek refuge in their air conditioned bus or hotel room. Heather and I opted for the road less traveled and it made all the difference...

A small path diverged in the desert heading towards Roman tombs ripe for exploring. We stopped for a brief water and date break and broke from the masses...well, all 5 tourists that had made it to the end of the colonnade. One, however, had stuck with us - a young local man who had been watching us from a short distance snapping photos of us on his phone with a smarmy smile.

As we started to descent down the slight hill towards the tombs we noticed the man was following us. Having our pictures taken was nothing new, but this man was slightly off. Both of us had a bad feeling. We debated turning back. Instead we stopped to let him pass hoping he would continue on. Five feet, 10, 15, stop. He stalled looking even more suspicious (there is little to pretend to be occupied by in the open desert.) We started again. He started again.

"Yalla! Go!" we said in Arabic and gestured to him to stay away. We asked which way he was going and indicated that we would go in the opposite direction to keep our separation. He went his way, we went ours. Unfortunately "his way" changed course and brought him back to us. We stood rigidly with unfriendly faces, "Imshi! Get Away!" we demanded using a more forceful Arabic term, "Imshi!" He smirked as he continued his path towards us. Seemingly pleased with the distress he had caused, he passed. We moved in the opposite direction continuing to watch behind us. It was over.

We thought about Nicole Vienneau, the 33 year old Canadian woman who went missing in Syria last year. Even at Syria's most frequented sight and in a pair we felt alone, threatened. What had this man's intentions been? What would have happened had we not been so strong? What would have happened had "we" been only one solo traveler? We were safe but thought we should tell someone about our experience. Before leaving we returned to the ticket office where the guides were congregated around the fan. We relayed our story and provided a description of the man.

"Wait 10 minutes." We thought they were getting the police. Instead, the ticket man returned with the assailant in tow. "Is this him?"

"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, mia mia - 100%"

There were some quick and heated words exchanged and SLAP, the young man's head nearly spun around, more strong warnings and an apology followed. He was about to cry from the shame. We were about to cry from the shock.

The guides and the ticket man were quite proud of their show of strength and assured us that our stalker would not return to bother anyone. "Palmyra is safe," they repeated. "Everything okay now?"

We felt sick.

My Syrian Cell Phone

2008-04-17T10:44:00.000-07:00

In most countries I purchase a pre-paid sim card for my cell phone. This gives me a local number for safety, logistics and keeping in touch with local friends. Generally these cares are simply purchased - hand over the money, hand over the card. Just like chewing gum. I was a little bit shocked to find that Syria's MTN network required a copy of my passport and Syrian Visa as well as my fingerprints! Upon further investigation, turns out that many bombs in Syria are detonated remotely with cell phones. This is one card I won't be giving to someone as I exit the country. Yikes!

Fatima

2008-04-17T10:16:00.000-07:00

As I sat waiting for my visa at the Syrian border people watching passed the time. Hundreds of visitors crossed by car and bus. Fatima was among them.

Fatima arrived in a large group of Saudi Arabian women covered from head to toe in flowing black burkahs. Some showed their face, others just their eyes - individuality noticeable through purses and trim on the black fabric that uniformally swept across the floor. They took the seats along the stark white wall. Fatima strategically sat next to me.

She was 12 years old. Her English was about as good as my Arabic, but I could tell that she was a firecracker. Her smile broadened when I said I was from America. "California?" she asked, her eyes bursting with questions she couldn't articulate but was dying to. She subtly, but strategically, lifted her skirt to expose the jeans she wore underneath and readjusted her tarhan showing the blond streaks she had proudly put in her hair. The other women kept their distance, but she relished every moment next to an American girl.

Conversation was difficult. She learned some English in school. She was on vacation in Syria. She like American music (or at least what she had heard of it). I gave her a chocolate. To my surprise instead of eating it she wrote something in Arabic on it to cement the memory. I hoped it wouldn't melt ruining not only her pocket but her souvenir of this meeting. Heather had a bracelet she decided she could part with. We gave it to Fatima in friendship and in hope that she might then part with the chocolate and avoid disaster and heartbreak. Her face glowed with excitement. Having already exhausted our vocabularies, "How old are you?" "What is your name?" "My name is..." we sat satisfied with our exchange and enjoyed the mutual excitement and curiousity that surrounded our friendship, however brief. She soon left with her bus, but ran back a few minutes later to say goodbye and give us a black leather bracelet adorned with bronze studs and crystal sparkles.

As Fatima left, Heather and I contemplated her fate. What would it be like to be born into her society with so much life? Fatima would not be content with handbags and trim. It was a sad thought, but this brief brush with the West could be a highlight in her life. I wish I had gotten her email or an address. I would have liked to continue to follow this remarkable girl as she found her way.

From Jordan to Syria: The Visa

2008-04-17T06:49:00.001-07:00

The guidebook and the Internet say that visas for Syria must be obtained *prior* to arrival and in one's home country. Visas will not be given at the borders. Anecdotally, however, there doesn't seem to be a huge problem...unless you are American.

I met some American students in Egypt who had tried at the border. They had success, but reported having to wait hours for a "full background check" to be completed. For some "hours" was five, for others it was eight, for one unfortunate one with curly hair, a pronounced nose and a Jewish last name it was 32 hours...but he got in, and so would I. I held my breath, brought plenty of water, a book and some nuts and hoped that my Anglo features, German surname and charming smile would cut my time to a minimum.

End Result: 3 hours 13 minutes

What was my secret?
- A generous helping of smiles and bubbly charisma
- The endearing yet strategic use of broken Arabic
- Having Canadian and Hong Kong citizens waiting for me
- Waiting seemingly patiently
- Displaying my newest gold pendant (Allah's name as written in the Koran)
- Passport stamps indicating my conscious avoidance of Israel when crossing to Egypt
- Subtle flirtation with the middle-aged administrator who after the visa was issued asked for my phone number...not for government purposes (men are men all over the world)

Did Jesus Walk on Water?

2008-04-17T06:36:00.000-07:00

My second trip to Jordan (en route to Syria) included my second trip to the Dead Sea, this time for a swim...or a float as it were. I had been warned: don't shave your legs before going in, keep your eyes well clear of the water, rinse off immediately to avoid an itchy few hours. The salt content is nothing to mess with.

The water is so salty that some cite the salination of the Dead Sea to explain how Jesus walked on water. I'm not sure if Jesus walked on water or no (the fact is rather irrelevant in the formation of my religious beliefs) but what I do know is that if he did, the Dead Sea's role in the whole event makes it more plausible.

Remember laying in the pool face up with your father's hand under your back? Relax, keep your body straight, float. None of this technical direction needed here. The salt acts as your water wings. Your bum feels as though there is a partially inflated innertube supporting it. Push down and you quickly pop back up. Hands in the air, feet in the air, doesn't matter. You are floating. No need to tread water. No need to doggie paddle. No need to worry...unless the salt gets in your eye or mouth. Just one drop will burn the taste buds off the tip of your tongue.

The "Travel Checklist"

2008-04-02T10:43:00.000-07:00

It's easy to lose yourself in what I would like to call the "Travel Checklist." It is that helpful, yet terribly unhelpful list of "highlights" provided by Lonely Planet, Rough Guide, Forders or whatever guidebook you may be using. It is that list of scribbles your friend wrote down from their trip outlining what you "can't miss" on your trip. It is your preconceived notion of what you should be seeing that keeps you moving when you really should stay put and enjoy where you are.

One thing I've found in my journey is that the places I remember with the greatest fondness are not those one will find condensed into a text box. They often aren't called out on a glossy map. You won't find them in a picture book on a coffee table. The places I will remember with the greatest fondness are those places from which I will receive a letter every once in a while upon my return home, where I have friends...members of my global family. Flores, Perth, Amman, Siwa...

I see so many tourists who see the sights, but miss the country. I don't mean this in a judgmental way, but am apprehensive about returning to this way myself. It is the reality of eventually returning to a job and only 2 weeks of vacation that leaves little room for what I have come to know as travel. The days of adding 1/2 again the amount of time recommended by the Lonely Planet are limited (although not anytime soon "inshallah").

My Literal Oasis

2008-04-02T09:52:00.000-07:00

I was ready to leave Egypt. I had completed my "check-list" and felt there was little more to keep me in this country that had on too many occasions made me queasy (and not because of bad falafel). But not yet...one last stop and a final chance for a country that I was sure could offer more. Siwa - Egypt's most isolated desert oasis (still visited by tourists and travelers) less than 100km from the Libyan border.

Siwa saved Egypt.

I arrived in Siwa 10 hours after departing from Cairo by bus. The sun had gone down about an hour before and the streets had been lit up by warm orange lights shining onto the dusty road below. 4WDs passed infrequently as did donkey carts loaded with alfalfa. The people smiled and welcomed visitors as warmly as the street lamps appeared. I checked into a budget hotel with my latest travel buddy Heather (Canadian). We opened our guidebook and started to figure out what there was to see and how we should organize them.

The first day Heather and I made it our mission to lift our spirits by lifting the spirits of those in town. Siwa was small enough that the two of us could have an impact if we could coax a laugh or even a smile out of every person we interacted with. While we were very successful in this goal, we spent our first day in this dusty desert town without seeing anything recommended in the guidebook. By nightfall, however, we were more than pleased with Siwa and our first 24 hours and had a car booked out to a nearby lesser-visited oasis town of Qara for the next day.

Qara was okay. Our grandiose vision of a town so happy to see Westerners that they would roll out the food and celebrate with songs and smiles (as the guidebook suggested) was quickly dashed by small hands shoving local textiles and hand woven baskets in our faces and demands for "backsheesh" (or tip) at the sign of a camera. The children of the town had been trained to see $$$ in our blue eyes. We shook it off and enjoyed the day despite, joking around with our driver, Abdu.

By the end of the day Abdu was in love with us...well, me in particular. After returning we cleaned up and met for dinner. He was so handsome I thought he must be Siwa's biggest playa', but we just couldn't turn down the offer of a personal guide gratis for the duration of our stay...did I mention he was terribly handsome? The next day we would join his trip to the Western Desert's dunes and springs and stay the night in the desert.

One of the lucky gentlemen we had made laugh our first day in Siwa had also taken to Heather. Ahmed, was not quite as cute as Abdu, but made up for it by running 3 businesses and working for a local NGO by the very successful age of 26. He joined our excursion and along with 4 Sweedish girls, we set off on our desert double date. We visited Bir Waheed for a soak in the hot springs, splashed around in Cold Lake, visited a fossilized bed of seashells surrounded by dunes, sand boarded at sunset and set up camp before witnessing a spectacular moonrise.

We stayed in Siwa for one week and at last had to rip ourselves away to avoid getting stuck there permanently. It's the kind of place I could see myself realizing one day that I had been there 3 months under an expired Egyptian visa. As it was, we woke up only 7 days into our stay and realized we had barely scratched Siwa's surface visiting a mere fraction of what the guidebook recommended. Instead we had focused on the people, our friendships, the oasis atmosphere, smiles, the hot springs, the moonrises, the stars that lined the horizon and stretched densely across the night sky. Thank you, Siwa.

It's a Shame About Egypt

2008-04-02T09:14:00.000-07:00

Egypt has some of the most impressive sights I have ever seen. The pyramids, if you can believe it, are possibly the least so. The color and details in the tombs, the wealth of the pharaohs' belongings, the scientific feat of mummies, the sheer size of statues and hieroglyphic adorned columns mesmerize their audiences. Unfortunately the striking beauty and easy enjoyment ends at the gate where hundreds of aggressive vendors and scammers harass and hassle tourists by the bus load.

Most people visit Egypt by organized tours - 42 people at a time. They swarm together through the sights as if on a timed game show, seeing only the "musts." Most dress inappropriately for a Muslim nation (shorts, t-shirts, spaghetti straps) and don't take the time to learn about the culture or figure out if they are being swindled and paying up to 6 times the appropriate price for items being sold on the tourist track. The quick money and lack of cultural respect has taken its toll and has trained a nation how to treat Westerners...similarly. Take, take, take.

The end result is that Egypt leaves one with a fondness that is overshadowed by discomfort and anger. Souvenirs are tainted by memories and feelings of manipulation and worse, possible friendships are marred with lingering questions of distrust. Egyptians take advantage and tourists take tours. The cycle continues.

Cairo, Egypt

2008-03-16T04:32:00.000-07:00

Cairo just may rival Beijing for pollution. The sky is beige, the buildings tinted grey and my boogers, black. I have a nagging cough that between the constant cigarette smoke of the Middle East and the pollution just won't go away.

Grim, grit and health concerns aside, the city has a charm. The buildings look faintly Parisian and the tempting aroma of falafel wafts through the streets. The hassles and harassment is much less than anticipated - at least beyond the tourist meccas of the Giza pyramids and National Museum. It feels more like a New York-style hustle, but with women in head scarves rather than Hermes and men with pants belted an average of 3 inches higher than Western standards.

Walking through the streets many men call out "Welcome!" - sometimes to lure me into their shop and sometimes into their pants...both unsuccessfully, of course. The most persistent are those selling perfume and papyrus. They'll go as far as lying about museum hours or directions to entice you to peruse their wares. The scar-like darkened mark on some of their foreheads is no sign of honesty even though it is a sign that they pray regularly, touching their forehead to the ground in the direction of Mecca.

The buildings of Cairo seem to go forever into the horizon and seamlessly transition into Giza where the pyramids spring from the ground. While impressive, the romanticism of the desert pyramids is slightly tainted by the bordering urban sprawl and thousands of daily visitors with cameras flashing around their necks.

At night people congregate on the streets filling up food stalls and coffee shops. Markets stay open late as well. The most devout Muslims press their heads to the pavement covered in straw mats to observe the day's final prayer time while others sip fresh juices and puff on their sheesha pipes with flavored tobacco.

At night people congregate on the streets filling up foodstalls and coffeeshops. Markets stay open late as well. The most devout Muslims press their heads to the pavement covered in straw mats to observe the day's final prayer time while others sip fresh juices and puff on their sheesha pipes with flavored tobacco.

How to Catch the Ferry to Egypt:

2008-03-15T04:08:00.000-07:00

1. Take a taxi from downtown Aqaba to ferry terminal (negotiate before you get in or the price will be overpriced and you won't have the time to argue or you will miss the boat)

2. Walk 200 meters through the gates from the road towards the offices.

3. Find departure tax window downstairs. Note: You may have to wait for the government official to return from the mosque. None of the other milling officials can help you. If the ferry is leaving soon you should pray too.

4. Take departure tax stamp upstairs to ticketing office.

5. Get redirected from ticketing office to customs. Leave Jordan...officially, that is.

6. Back track to ticket office and reserve ticket.

7. Take receipt of reservation across the hall to the "bank." Pay for ticket and change money to Egyptian pounds. Get receipt.

8. Take payment receipt back across the hall to ticketing office. Get ticket.

9. Pass immigration and proceed downstairs to wait for bus to ferry. Present ticket and passport at all requests.

10. Board ferry after having your passport and ticket checked...again.

11. Find seat in least offensive smelling area. Avoid direct contact with men and women with body odor.

12. While crossing the Gulf of Aqaba follow ferry official into 1st class cabin to get passport stamped. Leave passport with the official and take "receipt" for collection (scratch paper with #1 written on it).

13. Deboard ferry providing "receipt" to government official. Flirt with head police officer to get to the front of the line.

14. Board bus to immigration with your baggage.

15. Walk towards sign saying "Arrivals." Oooops...not yet, talk to man who tells you to find the "bank" where you must buy a visa and then visit another unnamed office to collect your passport. Follow his vague directions.

16. Arrive at unnamed office...oooops. Joke around with a little Arabic and smile and they will keep your bag while you follow their more precise directions to the "bank."

17. Find bank. Pay $15 USD. Get flashy visa sticker.

18. Take flashy visa sticker to unnamed office where your passport is being heald. Give to friendly officials to insert and sign.

19. Proceed, again, to "Arrivals."

20. Get passport checked, bags scanned and exit warehouse building into Egypt.

February 29th, 2008

2008-03-10T09:35:00.000-07:00

On Friday, February 29th Israel suspected a gathering of Muslim fanatics. They bombed a section of homes in the Gaza Strip. All of the major news networks reported the event.

According to Al Jazeera, the Arab World's CNN, 32 people were killed including 6 children, one under one year-old. Seventy were injured. The footage was terrifying - babies bleeding, mothers wailing, ambulances not able to meet the demand driving past dying victims, grown men consumed with anger and grief yelling. The headlines: horror and inhumanity.

Prince Harry's return from Afghanistan's front lines was top news on CNN and BBC World. The prince's participation slash location had been leaked by a problematic journalist. The Gaza bombing appeared second or third in the line-up. The headline indicated that an Israeli bomb had killed "15 militants" and "some civilians." The images were brief and sterile - covered bodies, solemn and sedate.

Both networks told the truth. Both accounts were accurate. Both were playing to an audience, inciting anger, prompting cheers from those entwined in one of history's most polarized and uncompromising disputes, encouraging continued indifference.

Five days later 116 Palestinians had been killed and more than 300 injured. Three Israelis had been killed. CNN ran their first headline caliber story. A spokesperson for Jewish Americans was interviewed appealing to the world to sympathize not only with the Palestinians, but also the Jews. Al Jazeera kept repeating a video montage loop featuring dead babies and destruction.

The issue had never felt closer as I watched the television less than a hundred miles from the banks of the Jordan River and the Israeli border. The solution had never felt so far away.

Quiet Freedom

2008-03-10T09:14:00.000-07:00

The landscape of Wadi Rum is striking. It's moon-like rock formations, rose and lavender sands, towering white dunes and spiny scrub impressed immediately. A day-long jeep tour was a visual schmorgusborg. It wasn't until 24-hours into my visit that I was struck with something nearly as rare for a city and suburb dweller - total and complete quiet.

After a night at a Bedouin-style camp in the desert, I set off on a walk. I communicated my route, my estimated arrival time back at the camp and set off for 6 hours of uninterrupted quiet. The only sounds: occasional flurries of wind, rocks beneath my feet as I passed through dry river beds...and my iPod when the quiet finally took on an eerie characteristic rather than a novel one.

Some might think that I ruined the experience with the iPod. What has technology done to the youth of today? I would like to offer an alternative perspective: What the iPod offered was a sense of total freedom. Initially I listened quietly to the music as if on a bus or a crowded subway car. Then, I started humming. I caught myself. Why was I humming when I could unabashedly belt out any melody or almost-lyrics at the top of my lungs. No one would hear. I could screech the highest notes of a Whitney Huston song, butcher the lyrics of a face-paced Snoop Dogg rap, pathetically scat along with Ella Fitzgerald. Quiet turned to complete vocal freedom. I rocked the desert.

Living With the Bedouin: The Women

2008-03-04T06:39:00.000-08:00

The women cook, clean and rear the children. The home is their domain. Once the cleaning is done they lounge on the mats and pillows filling the living room. On cold days they gather around the gas heater. On all days they watch television - music videos, Arabic soap operas, Ugly Betty, all that satellite TV has to offer. They may or may not wear their head scarf.

When a man comes - husband, brother, nephew, uncle - they drop everything. Tea is prepared and if he's hungry, food. A woman is on call. At a moments notice she prepares pita, hummus, baked beans, sardines, fried cauliflower and other Bedouin standards (most originating from a can). She is somewhat of a servant. She hopes that her husband is kind and love is present.

My final day in the village I spent with Menal, an extremely mature and open-minded 17-year-old. I had enjoyed her company tremendously throughout my stay with the Bedouins. Her English was near perfect and her smile contagious.

Menal had just been proposed to by one of the boys in the village. By this I mean her father had been asked for her hand. She told me that he wasn't too attractive or smart. Despite her father's wishes, she would refuse. She told her father that she would marry him if he demanded but would leave after the wedding and divorce (more common than one might think). She would wait for love and for a man who would at least agree with, if not share, her vision for a Western-style monogamous relationship with 1 to 3 children, not 8 to 10. Menal's interaction with tourists and time working on an archaeological dig with Brown University students had rubbed off on her.

Supposedly there are 23 Western women who have married Bedouin men and live in the village. I saw only one and hadn't even seen Barbara (the Dutch girlfriend from the first night camping in Little Petra) for four days. I had seen Tofik, her "boyfriend" recklessly driving her rental car, screeching around corners and crashing into curbs. Even the foreigners seemed to be treated as second-class and confined to the home unless otherwise instructed. I asked Menal about these women whom I couldn't get my head around. She said that many, but not all were treated less than favorably. She quickly and wisely noted that many of these women were older (35-45) and unmarried, often not very physically attractive. This was, of course, a generalization, but an interesting and not too unexpected observation. It seemed that, understandably, relations were not easy between the Bedouin women and the tourists turned tarts...I mean, wives.

Neither seem to have an enviable life by Western standards. While the Westerners are not to be seen, some of the Bedouin women go to Petra and work their small curio stands. Still, most of their activities are dictated by their huspands, fathers and cultural convention. The men are ultimately expected to provide shelter, money and food, but seem to have little other responsibility. They come and go as they please. The women are tied to the home (or other location approved by the man of the house) and are generally left with few choices - sardines or humus, music videos or Oprah.

Living With the Bedouins: The Desert

2008-03-04T04:21:00.000-08:00

On the northeastern side of the mountains of Petra is the desert landscape of Wadi Araba. The dunes stretch for miles and miles along the Israeli border. It's a favorite camping spot of the Bedouin.

We organized a jeep, stocked up on supplies, grabbed our blankets and mats and headed for the desert. Salem, his brother Ahmed and I drove down the curvy mountain road into Wadi Araba. In the desert we stuck to the tracks of previous vehicles. The dunes were small, but could be problematic with the potential to swallow tires without traction or tread. The jeep said "4WD." This brought me great comfort. As we sat by a palm filled desert oasis sipping tea and smoking an Arabic arguilla (or water pipe filled with aromatic fruit tobacco), however, Ahmed clarified that he had dismantled the 4WD because it used too much gas. This raised concern. Not too much concern though as we were well stocked with water and food and were only a somewhat challenging hike away from the village. No one was going to die.

We drove around the dunes, past camels, over shrubs, continually turning an Arabic cassette tape over and over again in the car stereo. We took turns driving, still keeping to the existing tracks.

At nearly 4 o'clock we reached a large dune perfect for appreciating the landscape. The jeep took us up the first bit and we climbed the rest by foot. No people, no cars for miles. A camel or two were barely visible in the distance. The sun would be going down in an hour or so. We headed back to the jeep to go find camp. What we found was our jeep, wheels spinning furiously, digging deeper and deeper into the sand. This was bad. We dug. We pushed. We lifted. We placed sticks under the wheels, but our chances ran out when the battery died of exhaustion. We were stuck. We gathered more sticks adding them to those from under the car and started a fire.

The beauty of the developing world is that there is cell phone reception almost everywhere. Strange, but true. This includes the barren desert where signals stretch from oasis towns. We called for help. It was no AAA, but 5 drunk Arabs came to the rescue.

There as no such thing as an in-and-out job in Bedouin culture. The rescue mission would need to be repaid with tea, food and a rousing evening of song around the fire. First order of business: charge and push the car to safety – it took six men. Second order of business: enjoy. What would have been a relatively quiet evening for 3 in the desert was now a boisterous party of eight.

I was obstaining from drink as a prudent girl should in the desert with 7 men, but others hadn't. Around 11 o'clock things turned and one of the rescuers began to cause problems - nothing dangerous, just unpleasant jealousy over how my conversational time was divided. The party broke up and we drove our separate ways into the desert lit up by a full moon.

The next morning the 3 of us remaining found the battery once again dead. Early enough in the day, I still did not worry. Provisions were high and the village remained within a day's walk. Salem stayed with the jeep as Ahmed and I hiked a few kilometers to the nearest "road." Before an hour passed an old Bedouin man drove by with his truck filled with lare canisters of water. We boarded the truck and drove towards where the jeep sat. The battery soon charged, we were on our way. Back to the village. No more stops.

Living With the Bedouins: The Men

2008-03-04T03:59:00.000-08:00

The Bedouins are no longer nomadic in the true sense, but continue in many ways to display the signs of their past. While now they have permanent dwellings with foundations, four walls and a roof, the men think nothing of grabbing a foam mat and a blanket and sleeping in a cave, tent, at a friend's, inside a monument at Petra or in the desert a few nights out of the week. The village and its surroundings, not the dwelling itself, is their home.

Nighttime excursions often involve friends and drink (both alcoholic and tea). There is a great sense of fraternity. As far as I can tell, few hours or minutes are spent in solitude. There is always someone knocking on your door or inviting you inside theirs.

In the village the young men and boys gather at the billiards hall. The basic cement block building has three rooms – one room contains two pool tables, another a TV and DVD player usually running a recent Bruce Lee-style action movie, and a third room with two Play Stations and two full-sized car racing arcade games. I drew a crowd upon all of my visits: one, because women were a rarity inside the walls and two, because a woman running the pool table for a 5 game winning streak was even rarer.

The older men seem to spend much of their time working to support their families (plural). Unlike places in Turkey where men can have more than one wife, but rarely do, in the Bedouin Village, they do. With enough money men will have up to four (unless they land a coveted Western woman who insists on a one-wife scenario). Infidelity seems quite commonplace. When pressed on the issue, the justification is "it's our culture" - a strange statement as they sit drinking the alcohol forbidden by Islam ("their culture").

The men are responsible for "providing" (as defined by them) while the women are responsible for everything else. This can lead to a lot of time for leisure inside or outside of the home.

Living With the Bedouins: The Beginning

2008-03-04T03:27:00.000-08:00

Once the region's nomadic people, the Bedouin are known for their hospitality. The theory is today they take you in and tomorrow you will do the same for them - a deeply ingrained ingrained sense of Karma to facilitate survival in a rather inhospitable desert.

In 1985 many of the Bedouins were still living in the caves in and around the stone city of Petra. Then tourism and the government intervened forcing them to move into a newly constructed nearby village. Today many still visit Petra daily to operate small curio stalls and coffee shops, offer donkey rides and act as impromptu tour guides to the less regimented travelers.

I met Salem on top of a mountain overlooking the famous "Treasury" (as featured in Indiana Jones and the Holy Grail"). After sharing a pot of the over-sugared tea that I have come to know all too well, he offered to take me up to the "Monastery," Petra's lesser known, but equally impressive site. Stopping along the way for tea about 2 more times, we made our way chatting about Petra, the Bedouin and tourism.

As the sun began to set it was time to leave, but instead of saying goodbye and heading back to my hotel for a boring and isolated night (or worse with the strange Czech man who had befriended me), I accepted an invitation to the Bedouin village to attend an engagement celebration.

With men and women gathering separately, Salem delivered me into the hands of some lovely girls in their late teens who shepherded me into the women's house. We ate mensaf, saffron rice piled high on a large communal plate and topped with lamb stewed in yoghurt. I tried to figure out what was happening, but my lack of Arabic and the limited English skills of those around me proved challenging. It would seem, however, that the men and women sit in different but nearby houses and socialize. The men, in a seemingly rare display of domestic servitude, cook. The entire family celebrates. With sisters, brothers, cousins, uncles and aunts in the dozens, this is a large affair.

After dinner I joined Salem again for a tour of the village. As we walked through the streets it seemed as nearly every 4th house in the 4,000 person village housed a relative of his. We stopped at a few homes to say hello and, yes, drank more sugary tea. Bedouin hospitality was becoming more than just a text box in the Lonely Planet guidebook, but a reality.

The next morning after a good sleep back in my hotel in Wadi Musa (Petra's tourism-driven town), I returned to the village to meet Salem and hike into Petra from a different entrance. Like many places I have traveled, things move slower than in the West. A meeting time of 8:30 am meant a departure time of 10:30 am after a visit to an aunt who upon our arrival whipped up a breakfast of generous proportions and introduced me to a dramatic Turkish soap opera dubbed into Arabic.

Day two with Salem included more sights, more chatting, more trust and an invitation to join him and two others (another Bedouin and his Dutch girlfriend) on a camping adventure to "Little Petra" a neighboring outcropping of the stone city 8km from the major attraction. I checked out of my hotel and leaving my big bag with Salem's family slept in a traditional Bedouin tent made of goat's wool after enjoying a warm campfire-cooked meal of chicken and vegetables in a nearby cave inhabited by a man named Abduhla. The cave was cozy – complete with carpets and a gas lamp. This began my time living with the Bedouins. For the next five days I would live like a Bedouin, eating and sleeping simply, making fires, drinking sugary tea and exploring the culture and landscape.

14, 15, 16 Years Old

2008-03-04T02:52:00.000-08:00

I had never been hit on by a 14-year-old before today...not even when I was fourteen.

The cold Jordanian rain was falling on the Roman ruins of Jerash and I lingered in the entryway of the Southern Theater to postpone the inevitable wet. A young boy stood selling postcards and batteries and offered me a seat. I gladly obliged. I asked him questions about his family and if he went to school. He asked if I was married (why lie to a 14-year-old?)...and then for my phone number. He suggested that perhaps I would like to be his wife. I told him I was twenty-eight. This seemed to matter little to him. I continued on my way chuckling under my wooly scarf.
Down the uneven Roman cobblestones two boys approached me. One wanted to sell me postcards (15) and the other to show me a column that rocked when pushed and an assortment of other sights (16). I was cold, but their smiles and hopeful eyes locked me in. Their basic descriptions of the market, church and butcher kept me entertained until I absolutely had to visit the museum to warm myself. They were there waiting as I emerged only slightly less chilled.

With no real agenda and the sun still high (albeit insulated by clouds), I followed my new friends to a few more points of interest until my fingers felt as though they were blue from the cold. "Come with us," they said. We entered a cave next to the foundations of the ancient Roman residential area. Out of the rain, they retrieved two candles from a hidden hole in the ground. The lit one by one and warmed our hands by the flame.

The boys bickered with a jovial undertone about whose friend I was. Now "married" I teased them about needing to keep their distance. They wanted to sit next to me. We laughed.

They taught me some Arabic words - some good, some naughty. One word that escapes me now was described in broken English as "something not good for your sister." After additional questions, this word that sent them into hysterics seemed to mean "SEX!"

They wanted a kiss, just on the cheek. One complimented my small nose and asked for a kiss. No. The other smiled the most innocent smile and merely asked politely. No. We posed for photographs and they competed for the most seductive pose (this meant leaning in towards me the furthest). We laughed some more.

The time came for me to go - a bit bored with this coy game of Islamic teenage courtship. We left the cave, walked down the hill, they took my hands to say goodbye and simultaneously kissed my left and right cheeks then ran away blushing and giggling. I smiled and again chuckled under my wooly scarf as I headed for the warmth of the coffee shop I had passed near the entrance. Candles and 14, 15 and 16-year-old boys, while amusing, fail to make me warm...or hot.

Amman, Jordan

2008-02-15T15:32:00.000-08:00

Amman is just how I pictureed a Middle Eastern city. It's hills are covered with beige block houses in various states of repair or disrepair. Electrical wires and antenae abound. Hill after hill repeat itself - little to no variation on a theme. The repitition is hypnotic and reassuring. The simplicity, beautiful.

The downtown streets are lined with small shops - spices, perfumes, shoes, clothing, food stalls and cellular phones. Male shopkeepers stand in doorways watching the traffic pass and wait for the next customer. The is no hassle, only the occassional "hello."

February in Amman is cold and grey. Freezing rain falls sporadically throughout the day. It is winter and bitter - one's breath visible in the mid-day air. Everyone is wrapped in jackets and scarves. The people are warm, but not overly. If there is reason for conversation, it is welcoming and unabtrusive, but passing communications can be brief and focused. I wonder how this changes with the weather.

I see mainly men. Women are not uncommon, just less. The women I do see are walking or shopping - with purpose. Loitering seems to be a passtime reserved for the men. Every now and again I look up and see male eyes staring at me from behind the windows of a passing bus, but for the most part I'm just another pair of feet walking down the wet pavement. The air is fresh with a chill that kisses my cheeks as the call to prayer in my ear gives a sense of place five times throughout the day.

My First Wedding Ring

2008-02-15T15:16:00.000-08:00

The average hollywood blockbuster lasts something like 1.5 hours. In that time the average leading lady (Western) meets a man, is seduced and gets naked. It is no wonder that Western women, with which arabic men have little real contact, make assumptions based on what they see in the cinema or on DVDs - we're easy.

The result is simple. Eye contact, smiles or, heaven forbid, a giggle, will get attention. Sometimes it will be an innocent "hello" or "welcome," but sometimes a more direct illicit offer of a personal tour guide or bedroom playmate. While true harassment happens far less than Western perceptions of the Middle East would have you believe, it's nice to have a backup.

"Are you married?"
"Where is your husband?"
"Why don't you wear a ring?"

Yes.
Working.
...I do, or at least now I do...

Partially to compliment my tall tale to be used as needed and partially as an excuse to buy jewelry (a weakness of mine as everybody knows), I took a trip to the Gold Souk (or gold market) in Dubai and bought myself my first wedding ring. Feels nice, looks nice and is sure beats a jar filled with various colors of sand or a stuffed camel as a souvenier.

The Bus

2008-02-15T15:01:00.000-08:00

Islamic law reigns on the Dubai public bus system. Women and men are kept separate with exeptions only for the married who may sit together with the women in the front. Men move to the back, behind the plexiglass partitions.

Overcrowded buses are the norm and will often refuse passengers if there is no room in the appropriate area. Women are nearly always given preferential treatment while boarding, skipping to the front of massive lines of men elbowing to board before capacity is reached. This is both self-policed as well as ensured by the occassional public safety servant. If and when a man neglects to follow the rules, he is quickly repremanded by station police, bus drivers and other passengers.

During one crowded rush-hour journey, a brash man forced himself onto the bus and stood (inappropriately) in the women's section. When the seat next to me was vacated he sat down. I assume he felt entitled as I was obviously not Muslim and Western. Despite my usual ease of interaction with the opposite sex, I found myself speechless and totally offended. He was knowingly disrespecting me under local customs. My reaction surprised me, but provided a curious insight into the power of social norms and environmental conditioning. How dare he sit next to me...how dare he!

I was not the only one shaken. The married couple sitting directly behind took great exception to this behavior. They immediately stood up and demanded the brash man take their seat. The woman, with only her eyes showing through her black veil, sat next to me while the husband moved forward to request action from the bus driver. The bumper to bumper traffic, the overcrowding and the threat of a scene detered the driver from removing the man. The new situation was acceptable and he was content with the little order that had been brought to the chaotic scene.

If Dubai Were a Musical Act...

2008-02-15T14:32:00.000-08:00

...she would be Paris Hilton - glamorous, over-produced, filthy rich and unavoidably intriguing.

In the past 50 years Dubai has gone from a flat and rather uninhabited desert to a metropolis of International standards. And the transformation continues. Strips of 5-star hotels line the sea, each with distinctive character and outrageous design elements. Of the older generation there is the Burj Al Arab - the world's only 7-star hotel (self-proclaimed) where you can dine "under water" or order a maserati from room service. It takes a cool $100 USD to even get in the door for afternoon tea. Dubai's latest accomodation will take oppulence to the next level. Soon the rich and the richer will be able to stay at the top of the world's tallest building (on the 180th floor) or on their own private man-made island at either the Palms or the World - both land fill resorts viewable from space.

Second to hotels, it is a city of malls. Money is a necessity in Dubai and can buy everything from the most outlandish gems and jewels to 2-hours of surreal enjoyment at Ski Dubai, a moderately "challenging" indoor ski slope that took me 7 minutes to get up and about 20 seconds to get down. The man made slope jets out of the Mall of Emirates, the largest and best known shopping center complete with everything from Krispy Kreme to Prada.

Paris Hilton, of course, also has her "help." Only about 18%-22% of the population of Dubai are citizens of the United Arab Emirites. The rest are high-powered business-minded expats who similarly enjoy the lifestyle or impovrished imports from around Asia and Africa who live 18 people to a room in labor compounds or provide domestic help. The latter is here to scrape together enough Dirham to support struggling familes at home. Few of these groups mix beyond what business demands.

Dubai is also home to 30,000 cranes (25% of the cranes in the world). The desert and the culture are quickly being swallowed by skyscrappers and consumerism. The result: Traffic is terrible with roads jammed with Hummers (affordable when gas costs 25 cents a gallon) and overcrowded buses. Women in hajibs can be found carrying Louis Vuitton handbags and lifting their veils to scarf down a hamburger from Burger King as the call to prayer echos through the mall. Expats live quite happily for years sipping $10 Heinikens by the beach and paying no tax. It's a place of stark contrasts - labor and luxury, sand and snow, glitter, glam and gridlock.

Watch out Paris, Dubai is on the rise (literally).

Sydney, Australia

2008-02-03T02:11:00.000-08:00

Sydney feels a lot like San Francisco. The parallels were instantly clear to me...

It's been overcast and the rain has been much like the "barely spitting" rain one gets on a foggy day in the Richmond District.

I went to see a very quirky Mission-style theater production in a small black-box theater that I loved, but made me question the sanity of the playwrite and actors. Just days later I attended a reading by local authors of their "Erotic Fan Fiction" to raise money for a local art cooperative and there were multiple women and men dressed like Joan Jett.

A homeless man yelled obscenities at me when offered food instead of money just as they do in the Haight-Ashbury...and everywhere in San Francisco, really.

The comparisons continue with other more generic similarities such as areas built for and frequented by only tourists (Darling Harbor/Fisherman's Wharf), parks and bridges that play large roles in the cities' identities, large phallic iconic structures in the skyline...the only thing that seems to be missing is an island prison.

A Slightly Exagerated Tale of My Near Death Experience

2008-02-03T00:35:00.000-08:00

Uluru, formerly known by the white man's name of Ayer's Rock, is one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World. It is the world's largest rock...and oh no, not a composite rock you geology fans. Millions of years ago it was formed from sand blowing off a crumbling mountain and collecting in a hole. It was compressed and turned into an underground rock. After some palatial movement, courtesy of mother earth, the tip of the compounded rock popped through the surface and created the marvel that stands today and is 10km in circumference and takes two hours to climb.

I know you think where I'm going with this - did I set out to climb this natural wonder? Did I slip, trip, lose my balance? Did I nearly join the 35 others that have died climbing Uluru since 1985? The answer is simply, no, so let's get that out of your head right now. My brush with death was not so sexy or glamorous, but perhaps of greater discomfort. It all started in a swag.

Swag (noun): Australian term for a portable shelter that is rolled, usually with belongings inside.

From Alice Springs I joined a 3-day camping tour to Uluru, Kings Canyon and the Olgas to take in Australia's most beautiful rocks. The plan was simple - drive hundreds of miles, hike around all day in the sweltering heat and sleep in swags under the outback stars. How could I possibly find myself feverishly close to a meeting with the hooded man in black?

The first day was grand. Up at 5:00 am to catch the bus we drove to Kings Canyon for a few hours of hiking around the rusted sandstone rim. Geology lessons and a swimming hole complimented the experience. Later that night, worn out from the day and with pasta con ground camel in my belly, I had no problem adjusting to the feeling of the swag's stiff canvass casing. The gritty sand left from the last occupant nor the glowing light snoring of one of the camp's occupants could keep me away from dreamland. Unfortunately the cold damp pre-dawn dew could. I awoke around 2:30am with an unbeatable chill and a growing sore throat. This was the beginning of the end.

My wake-up call came at 4:30 am - there was a lot of driving to do before reaching the Olgas (Uluru's lesser known composite rock neighbor). My tingly throat persisted and as we drove through the morning and I felt my temperature rise along with the sun. Surely a 7km hike in 107 degree heat would chase away whatever bug had penetrated my swag and my body, now flashing hot and cold. Surely.

It was hot. I stayed hydrated. It became harder to swallow. Minutes seemed like half hours and then hours. My head started to hurt as if a 1/2" lead pipe had been shoved between my temples. The giant rocks began to resemble familiar shapes - the orange ghost from Pac-Man, a lady's rump bent over a stool, a cuddly bunny...dressed up as the orange ghost from Pac-Man. I drank more water. Later I sought shelter in the air conditioned Aboriginal Cultural Center where I continued to think I was hallucinating, but realized that it was just a very obtuse film of Aboriginal dance - women with enormous sagging painted breasts dancing/hopping on one foot while making alien sounds with their voices and rudimentary bush instruments. I was comforted by the blank stares around me. I was still sane.

Back in the bus I began to sweat. My forehead was on fire. I knew what I needed: antibiotics, the Lord's sweet serum for strep throat. If I can only push through until tomorrow when we're back in Alice Springs....

The rest of the trip went something like this: sleep on the bus to lunch, sleep through lunch, take a Tylenol, drag myself on a "cultural walk" after finding out it was only 300m of actual walking, sleep on the bus, rally to sit and watch sunset at Uluru next to bus loads of retired Americans sipping champagne with fly nets over their heads, eat something...slowly, set up my swag, sleep, sleep on the bus to Uluru, sleep through the 10km walk around Uluru, sleep on the bus home waking only for bathroom stops, re-hydration and more Tylenol.

Back in Alice Springs, I checked into my room and completed the task that had been on my mind for the duration of the 8-hour journey back: visit the doctor, the nearest doctor, the Emergency Room doctor.

I (slowly) marched myself the 4 blocks to the Alice Springs Hospital, still in 107 degree heat. My energy nearly gone, I stumbled into the ER waiting room and took a seat among the other Aboriginal families and filled out my forms. Did I know that as an American I would have to pay for my treatment? Of course..."JUST GIVE ME THE TREATMENT!" I screamed inside my brain...ouch. (Note: Had I been a citizen of the commonwealth or even a nation with nationalized health care I would not have had to fork over the $144 to be seen by a doctor.)

Pulse: high. Temperature: 104.5 degrees. Throat: Pussy and red. The nurse gave me more drugs to reduce the fever. I got a pillow soft bed and fell asleep to the Australian Soap Opera, Home and Away, waiting for a doctor. A strange European murse (man-nurse, not man-purse) kept checking in on me. I tried to listen in on what was wrong with the Aboriginal woman next to me. It was too hard. My head hurt.

2 hours later (fever reduced)...

Doctor: "Feeling better?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want some antibiotics?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Do you want to go home?"
Me: "Yes"
Doctor: "Good. There we go."

She handed me a box of penicillin tablets, instructed me on how to take them and I was on my way, feeling better the instant the cure was in my sweaty little fingers. I would survive.

Note: None of the temperatures in this account are exaggerated in the slightest. If anything, they are rounded down in the conversion to Fahrenheit.

Coober Pedy: Where Clothes Dry on the Line at Night

2008-01-30T17:02:00.000-08:00

Approximately half way between Adelaide and Alice Springs is a small mining town called Coober Pedy. It's run on dreams of opals and tourism. Both are realized in limited quantities these days.

Trees are rare. Sandy dirt is prevelent. Television arrived in 1980.

3,500 people of 42 different nationalities live here - half in underground homes that maintain a fairly constant temperature of 21 degrees celsious. Above ground it is hot and flies feast on the sweat and saliva of dogs and humans alike. It is the kind of place clothes dry on the line at night.

The main street is lined with opal dealers. Just outside the main street large pieces of rusted out machinery litter the road. It seems to be where old mining equipment goes to die. There is a drive-in that shows second run movies every other Friday during the winter and spiratically during the oppressive summer months. Open signs are displayed in storefronts that are closed and there seems to be little urgency in the heat and dust.

People are friendly and hospitable. They have their routines and seem to enjoy the simplicity of life. There are few rules in town, but similarly few people unwilling to find ways around them. Example: There is no mining allowed within the town limits, but "renovations" to underground homes are common and opal is often found while digging out the 5th, 6th, 7th...11th, 12th room.

It's a frontier town. Everyone is a gambler of sorts - betting that tomorrow they'll find and opal vein or that enough tourist will pass through to keep their shop afloat. Fascinating.

A Lot of Nothing Sure is Something

2008-01-20T20:00:00.000-08:00

A game time decision to leave Perth and I found myself embarking on a journey of well over 3,000 kilometers to Adelaide with 11 other adventurous travellers wanting to see one of the lesser-visited areas of Australia: The Nullarbor Plain (and around).

"Everyone" does the East Coast - Great Barrier Reef, Sydney, etc. They ride the tourist train from beach to beach surfing and drinking and interacting with the other backpackers with similar itineraries. While it all sounds great, I wanted to see something different...something uniquely Australian. I concluded that one of the most impressive things that I could see in Australia would be its vastness. It was.

To put this in perspective, Australia is approximately the size of the 48 contiguous United States. The States has a population of 300 million. Australia has a population of 20 million. That's a lot of empty land. In 8 days, I saw a mere sliver of it.

By day we drove (plenty), hiked through canyons and along the cliff-lined seaside, visited towns as small a population: 4, swam with dolphins and sought out roadside kitsch. Some of my personal highlights included:

Corrigin Dog Cemetery
In 1974 Strike died. His best friend/owner mourned the loss and decided to bury him on his farm just outside of Corrigin. As the canine friends of other neighbors passed, their owners were offered plots next to Strike's. Before long, the spot grew into a bonafide cemetery for man's best friends.

Lucky Bay
There is a beach in Cape Le Grand National Park (in the most Eastern part of Western Australia) called Lucky Bay. It's aqua waters and pure white sand are stunning. It has been named one of Australia's best beaches, but due to its remoteness (more than 8 hours from nowhere) it remains relatively un-visited. I was "lucky" to be among the few.

Flat Tire
When I think of the Australian outback, I think of getting stranded. So when our bus got a flat the excitement of the authenticity of the experience was almost too much to handle...didn't really seem to matter that we had just pulled out of a service station 200 meters away. One wouldn't know from the pictures.

Sky Lab
In 1979 the US Sky Lab flew apart in space and began to plummet towards earth. Mass hysteria struck in Australia. The debris was headed for the land down under, but where...Sydney, Melbourne, Brisbane? Answer: Balladonia. The Americans tried to buy back all of the bits of our skylab, but thanks to one small town that was not willing to part with this relic of history for any price, I was able to see and touch a piece of skylab and have the beer cozy to prove it!

Nullarbor Nymph
In 1971, the bar maid and her loyal patrons got bored in the 30-person town of Eucla. Over a couple of beers they devised a plan that would become one of Australia's greatest hoaxes. With some tattered animal skins, a pack of friendly kangaroos and a camera, they sent waves around the world and ignited a search for the infamous Nullarbor Nymph, a woman of the wild said to live among the kangaroos in the outback. Reporters and photographers came from around the world in search of the nymph. None realized they were looking at the nymph every time they ordered a beer. The story put Eucla on the map and I couldn't resist buying the beer cozy.

Record-Breaking Shark
In 1990 fisherman in Streaky Bay set out to catch the world's largest shark...and they did. Inside the Streaky Bay Shell gas station one can read the articles on the 300kg killer and stand next to (or in) the life-size replica that is there today. Again, I couldn't resist the beer cozy to remember this site. (Pictured: Travel buddy Hiro from Japan)

Baird Bay
One can swim with the dolphins many places in Australia and the world, but *usually* the animals are coaxed/trained to interact with fish and regular feedings - not in Baird Bay. This "Ocean Eco Experience" was not only a highlight of the trip, but the highlight. The owner, Al, first started going to Baird Bay to fish. He soon fell in love with the curiosity the sea lions and dolphins displayed and began to swim with them. Today it is his business and I was lucky enough to sport a set of goggles and a mask and frolic in the waters with these creatures. I played fetch with sea lions and their shells and rubbed their bums as they flapped their flippers. When we headed out to find the dolphins, they were particularly playful. Six of them circled the group, weaving in and out, flipping and playing around. The more I/we flipped and dove, the more playful they became. Their speed was dizzying and thrilling at the same time. At one point I could look in every direction and see a dolphin. It made me a bit motion sick, but was worth it. Unfortunately there were no beer cozies to commemorate this exhilarating experience.

Thanks to My Friends in Perth

2008-01-18T20:10:00.000-08:00

All told, I spent a wonderful 2 weeks in Perth. The city itself wouldn't have kept me that long, but the people were grand. I'll miss you all...

Greg
Greg inspired me to come to Perth when I met him my first night in Bangkok. He's continued to be a friend and although we spent only a few days together in his hometown, he was so generous picking me up at the airport at 5:30am, touring around the Swan Valley with me and giving more tips on my upcoming trip to the Middle East.

Meiling and Amy
Our friendship started at a vegitarian food stall in Luang Prabang, Laos. Only having met them for 1 day and 1/2, I knew their offer to get together in Perth was sincere, but their hospitality far exceeded my expectations.
I so enjoyed everything I did with these ladies together and individually from concerts to conversation. Meiling went out of her way to make sure I had friends and Amy was kind enough to let me stay with her as an honorary roommate.

Tom, Patrick and Nick
These Kiwi brothers and Aussie put up with me hanging around there house for two weeks - using their internet, cooking in the kitchen, etc. I had a great time chatting with them as well as venturing out to see Vanilla Ice, to the movies or just hanging around home.

The Self-Proclaimed "Asian Babes"
Meiling's cousins took me in as their own and thanks to them there are A MILLION pictures of me on Facebook.com now. I've never felt so instantly included in a group of longtime friends and family.

I'll miss you all...Thank you!

Drive-Thru Liquor Stores

2008-01-16T20:07:00.000-08:00

America may be the capital of lazy with drive-thru fast food, pharmacies, ATMs and more, but they haven't yet discovered the GREATEST drive-thru innovation yet - the liquor store! Pull up, order, pay and pop the trunk!

Southeast Asia Revisited

2008-01-06T23:03:00.001-08:00

My 3 months in Southeast Asia were filled with many varied experiences of which I've shared the major ones. But there are many small observations that have been lost in my event-focused reporting. Here is the 10 Ten minor details I'll remember about Southeast Asia:

10. You can learn a lot about the local economy and its affluence by what is being advertised on billboards (e.g. fast cars and jewels in Singapore and water heaters in the Mekong Delta)
9. Beware of any establishment claiming to be a karaoke bar or massage parlor, they probably aren't
8. Street food is often cheaper and better than what you can get in restaurants offering an English-menu and things like fried fish heads really are quite tasty once you get over the initial cultural aversion to it
7. There is a definite lack of creativity surrounding marketing one's products - everything is the same and everyone is content keeping it this way (hence the catchphrase used all over "same same, but different")
6. There are many things we think we need, but really just want (e.g. moving vans and hiking boots - they use motorcycles and flip flops)
5. There is a different importance placed on life - this manifests itself in not only working conditions, but also drivers' willingness to get out of the way for ambulances
4. Business owners usually live behind their shops - ask to use the bathroom and you will often be doing your business in the family's washroom, toothbrushes and all
3. Personal injury lawsuits do not exist in Southeast Asia creating ample opportunity for the kind of adventures at which your mother (or any safety oriented person) would cringe
2. Rice is the staple - Meat is reserved for the wealthy or special occasions (one man asked me how much rice we eat each day and was *shocked* to find out that rice was not a daily component of Western meals)
1. Vendors all over Southeast Asia will maintain that their product is in fact "cheaper" than not buying their product at all

Welcome 2008!

2008-01-06T22:04:00.001-08:00

I was thrilled to be invited to a house party for New Years Eve and even more thrilled that it was a costume party ('80's vs '08). I took this opportunity to learn how to navigate Perth's public transportation system while hunting for the perfect outfit.

Recipe for the Perfect Outfit:
1 beige valor and gold square shouldered pants suit
2 large gold jagged edge hart earings
1 pair of leopard print heals with pointed toe
1 bright gold handbag
Pinch of high-impact 80's gold eyeshadow

The celebration continued on New Years Day when I dressed up in my finest backpacking threads and attended Perth Cup, Western Australia (if not Australia's) biggest horse race. It wasn't quite the thrill of the Kentucky Derby which I attended in April, but with four horses going down mid-race, the adrenaline was high!

Western Toilets, Suburbia & Ice Ice Baby!

2008-01-04T02:27:00.001-08:00

On the 29th of December I flew to Perth, Australia. Bangkok Greg of "Perfect Stranger" post fame (end of September 2007) so kindly picked me up from the airport at 5:30 in the morning, took me to his home for breakfast, a shower and a nap. I reveled in the familiarity of his family's suburban home - comfy couch, big screen TV in the den, deck chairs, family photos, toilet paper...Oh how nice it is to sit on a toilet and know that a)it is clean and b)not have to clean oneself with a bucket of water and ones hand. Sheer bliss! It's the little things you miss.

We spent the rest of the day driving the sights, checking me into a hostel (until I moved into my temporary permanent home with a girlfriend I met in Laos) and finding out what was on in Perth.

Perth is the world's most isolated City with thousands of kilometers between it and any other metropolis of note. With only 2 million people in the greater Perth they have some, but certainly not all of the culture and musical acts coming through. An angel must have been looking over my shoulder when I booked my ticket to Perth, however, as just one day after arriving in town a legend was performing: Vanilla Ice!

Thankfully there were tickets left for the show (shocking, I know). The performance was delightfully horrific. Vanilla Ice, the early 1990's white-boy rapping one-hit-wonder turned reality TV star, made no attempt to pretend that he was in fact talented. He knew that the audience would be filled with 20 and 30-something hipsters who couldn't care less what the set was like as long as he performed his one song. And perform it, he did, right smack dab in the middle of his 50-minute set otherwise filled with Linkin' Park-esqe music. The emphasis was on entertaining the crowd rather than trying to convince the crowd of any sort of genuine musical talent and it worked for everyone involved. Bless him.

Although Vanilla Ice provided a nice "welcome back to the over-indulgent media-crazy West," I have continued to feel right at home in this lovely modern city. Since then, I've continued to enjoy the finer things the 1st World has to offer such as hot water, public transportation that runs frequently and bans livestock, department stores that carry bras that fit, salons, meals that don't include rice, lattes, Internet, movie theaters and more. It's good to be home...or at least somewhere like it.

It's a Small World After All

2008-01-04T02:10:00.000-08:00

"It's a small world" is a phrase one hears endlessly on the backpacker trail. People are running into one another in town after town. Is it coincidence? Not really when everyone is carrying the Lonely Planet guidebooks to chart their path. Every now and again, however, there is a *true* coincidence that blows you away...

In early October I turned my passport over to an agency in Cambodia who then arranged my Vietnam visa. I got it back 3 days later with my visa glued in and a stray passport photo of a man in a dusty pink T-shirt bearing the outline of a large Germanic eagle. Strange. It made me giggle and I wondered who this man was. I kept the photo for future smiles and put it in my money belt for safe keeping.

Fast forward December 29th, 2007 at 4:30am Perth International Airport: I was waiting for my bags along with the rest of the passengers on my flight from Bali to Perth. We were a sad lot - eyes half open, grumpy with small beagles sniffing our hand luggage for produce and other food products. I looked around and a man caught my eye. Could it be? Is it the man from the passport photo?

Dirty blond tousled hair, slender build, piercing blue eyes, dusty pink T-shirt complete with outline of a large Germanic eagle...no! I ripped out my money belt and retrieved the photo...yes! It was him!

I collected myself and walked over. I stammered a little so overcome with the coincidence and the early hour. I explained the story and handed him the photo (should have kept it in hindsight). I was bursting with excitement eagerly anticipating his reply. "Cheers."

"Cheers?" That's it? What?!$#? Are you kidding me?

After about 5 minutes of standing there waiting for him to redeem himself, he did...somewhat. "How'd you like Cambodia" he asked. I settled for small talk. He was on his way to a connecting flight to Darwin and would be exploring the East Coast of Australia. He was from the UK and would be returning home in the Spring for his brother's wedding. He was decidedly uninteresting. I wondered why the universe had brought us together. Perhaps it was to provide a little punch of adrenaline at 4:30am so that I could be quick on my feet as I smuggled a small wooden curio through the world's toughest customs line.

Christmas in Flores

2008-01-04T01:50:00.000-08:00

December 25, 2007

While Indonesia is predominantly an Islamic country, the more eastern islands have been greatly influenced by Portuguese colonization and Dutch missionaries. As a result, the island of Flores reports to be 85% Christian. Thinking that a mass with the locals would be more interesting than bikinis & Bintang (Indonesia's national beer) on Bali, I stayed a few extra days...

On Christmas Eve I walked around Ende, looking for a church to attend. Quite a few options presented themselves, but I couldn't turn down the offer from a young clergy candidate to attend the 6 o'clock mass at his church, home to Ende's largest congregation and largest statue of Jesus out front.

Synthesized Christmas music echoed in the church as the bells called the people to come. I sat in a pew near the back hoping to draw little attention to myself. The alter was ornate and flooded with lights. A Christmas cretsch was set up at the base with a rotating disco-effect bulb swirling around and illuminating the baby Jesus and cast. Everything was florescent, electronic, surreal.

The misa, or service, started as a voice flooded the church. No one stood at the microphone. It was like the Great Oz commanding the people to sit, to stand, to pray, to kneel.

The choir sat above the congregation and enthusiastically belted out songs of celebration. Some people joined in, but there were no hymnals or leaflets to guide the masses. Soon the Christmas procession began - young girls in Indonesian sarongs dancing with yellow flower puffs, alter boys and girls carrying sacred candles, the littlest girls dressed as white angels with wings and wands, the church elders and lastly the priest from behind the curtain.

The service was simple and much like any Catholic mass in the world (only in Bahasa Indonesian, that is). I was struck by the incredible influence the Vatican has from Rome to Flores and beyond - same robes, same candles, that smoking ball thing, same "body" wafers, same goblets, same same (but different).

Up, down, up, down, kneel, up, down. We shook hands in peace, took communion and after 2 hours the service ended as the 8 o'clock mass attendees were arriving in hordes.

I returned to my hotel feeling a little bit more like Christmas. I turned on the air conditioning and was pleased to see that one of the four television stations was playing and English language movie subtitled in Indonesian. I spent the rest of Christmas Eve with Drew Barymore, Lucy Lieu and Cameron Diaz in Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. While not Christmas themed, the Angels did provide a little slice of home.

There is not a lot to do in Ende on a regular day so one can imagine how boring a quiet Christmas holiday could be. With few other options and at the insistence of a persistent new friend who had "picked me up" as I explored a local cemetery, I decided to attend mass at a different church on Christmas Day. Again, Rome reigned. Same robes, same candles, same smoking ball thing, same "body" wafers, same goblets, same same.
The alter was also lit, but with a slightly simpler style to the who aesthetic. Like the evening before, the men were dressed in slacks and clean button-downs (mostly Indonesian prints) and the women dressed in their finest, best described as 3rd World sheik - lacy bun covers, glittery yet imperfect machine generated embroidery, traditional sarongs, sequenced sandals, iridescent rayon blouses, sheer sleeves, unmatched accessories.

Babies cooed and cried just like they do in the West. I spent most of the service thinking about what I would cook if I were having a dinner party and planning how I was going to get out of spending the whole of Christmas Day with my graveyard groupie.

The service ended around 10am and using the intense heat (and accompanying sweat)as an excuse, negotiated a successful return to my air conditioned room just in time to watch Oprah's Angel Network Christmas special and read the manual to my newish camera cover to cover. This combination proved quite relaxing. One can't get much more "American" than spending Christmas watching over-produced television programs aimed and making the audience cry and reading the manuals for new toys.

Living the Dream: Eastern Flores on a Motorcycle

2008-01-02T20:42:00.000-08:00

December 23, 2007

My next destination on Flores was Kelimutu, a volcanic crater that is home to 3 colorful lakes. Having had such a great time trekking with William as my guide and translator, I decided to take him along. This time, however, I would travel not by knee-crunching bus, but by ass-kicking motorbike - a regular Che Guevara a la Indonesia.

DAY 1
We got a late start having to organize a more powerful motorcycle (instead of a typical Southeast Asian glorified scooter) for the journey and getting it outfitted with a new back tire. It wouldn't have been a problem to reach our 1st destination, Ende, in one day had it not been rainy season in Flores, showers beginning daily between 12 and 2pm. As we took off around 1:30pm it was beginning to rain - hard. We were quite the sight, the two of us bundled in rain gear and my poncho flapping up and down over my 50 liter/13 kg pack strapped to my back. Rain or shine, this adventure could not be stopped. Postponement, not an option.

We had driven about 1 hour when the rain really started to pour. The pitter-patter of the drops on my helmet were relaxing, but the reduced visibility, wet pants and slippery road were not. We stopped on the roadside and sought shelter in William's uncles 4 room bamboo shack.

The family welcomed us with the same hospitality we had found in Watu. We drank hot coffee and ate savory bananas grilled over the fire in their green skins. The 5 kids ranged from age 6 months to 16 years. I watched as they played with toys made of string and bottle caps and the baby peed on the hut's packed dirt floor - this was normal life.

Three hours later the rain let up and the sun threatened to disappear. We took to the road again, aiming for a small town 30 km away that had a local hotel at which we could spend the night and wait for the clear skies of morning. The hotel owner was hosting choir practice in anticipation of Christmas. I fell asleep to the dueling sounds of carols and the Muslim call to prayer coming from the mosque down the street (Flores is 85% Christian and 15% Muslim).

DAY 2
Clear skies to Ende, one of Flores's main port towns. We wound around the mountainous countryside breaking periodically to regain feeling in our backsides and take a rest from the back, ab and lat workout my bag was providing. This was the life - wind in my face on the back of a motorcycle zipping past rural rice fields, roadside shops, make-shift markets and daily life in Indonesia.

A little before noon we arrived at a beach covered in blue stones. We sat on top of a large pile that had been collected to sell to the Chinese for use as natural color in ceramic art. The clouds rolling in, we boarded the bike once again and headed for Ende. As we arrived it began to rain: clockwork. We spent the afternoon running short errands - plane ticket, the eternal search for Internet, ATM.

The early evening skies cleared and we sat down by the beach - dark sand, sprinkled litter and local life. A group of boys had set up a makeshift net (two oars stuck upright in the sand and connected with a string about eye level). They played a game similar to volleyball, but using only their heads and feet to keep the ball afloat. Excited to have an audience, they put on a show, flipping, diving and tackling one another. The game ended when one of the boys' mothers came to fetch him (angered by his tardy return). We could hear the sound of a broom slapping his backside all the way up the hill.

DAY 3
The road to Moni, the base town of Kelimutu, was stunning. William hugged the curves in the road as I gazed at the landscape surrounding - palm trees, roaring rivers, mountains, cliffs, rocks, lush greenery. The scenery so stunning and vast, no camera could capture it. At one stretch in the road more than 5 Yosemite-quality waterfalls were in view at one time. The world seemed peaceful and again, it began to rain. We continued, occasionally encountering other motorists tackling the road by bike or car.

We arrived in Moni and checked into bungalows just out of town where we could enjoy the sound of the nearby river and William's friend Robert's family. Tired of endless restaurants and Warungs (local restaurants), we decided instead to visit the market and cook a meal to share with the family.

We pealed garlic and onions, chopped carrots and cubed potatoes and (the highlight) killed, cleaned and cooked a duck. The white and feathery friend was so docile - almost as if it new it was to die, resigned to his fate as dinner. CHOP! went his head into a shallow hole in the garden.

The meal, partially cooked over a fire and partially over a one burner stove, was delicious. The whole family joined us - Robert, his wife, his children, his mother-in-law, sister-in-law, nieces, nephews and maybe even a few neighbors, it was hard to tell who was who and since they seemed not to care, neither did we. We feasted and drank tea and local coffee into the evening before retiring. It would be an early morning the next day trekking up to Kelimutu for dawn.

DAY 4
Day four was day one of trying to see Kelimutu. We left the bungalows with great hopes, but as we ascended on our motorbike, the clouds grew thicker and thicker. Visibility dwindled and it became clear that we would not see much more than a few branches in the not-so-distant foreground. We turned back.

With little to do in Moni other than visit the volcano or some local villages (both not optimal in drizzly weather and bad road conditions), we decided to pay a visit to the local billiards "club." Two pool tables sat next to one another in an open air shelter made of bamboo. One table had standard sized balls while the other smaller mini balls. The cues were light and warped. A chicken kept jumping onto the table in the middle of our game. We twiddled away the afternoon playing pool with the abysmally poor local players and drinking coffee. Lazy day.

DAY 5
Good thing it's about the journey not the destination. Kelimutu take two = rain and impossible viewing conditions. With Christmas looming and William needing to get back to be with family, we packed up our bags and headed back to Ende where I sought out the "flashiest room in town" for Christmas - a $15/night air conditioned tiled room with a television. No Kelimutu. No tri-colored lakes. Just an adventure I wouldn't trade for the grandest of view.

Watu Village

2008-01-02T20:11:00.001-08:00

December 17, 2007

At home we have work, cars, supermarkets, bills, nail polish, department stores, packaged meat, appliances...stuff. We know about George Bush, Elvis Presley, Forrest Gump, bombings, births, what Britney Spears and the royals are up to.

Watu has gardens with taro and tamarind, bananas, corn, pineapple, cashews, cassava melons and more. They know of America, but not California. They want an access road for their village, cook over a fire, haul water up the hill on their heads and backs and have a local newspaper from March 17, 2007 to read on December 18th of the same year. Most importantly, however, they have community.

My guide William and I trekked a leisurely 6 hours along the base of a volcano and through a leech-infested jungle to Watu, a traditional Ngada village population 100-something. We first came across one of the village gardens where an old woman was cutting up fruit to feed to the pigs. She greeted us with smiles and pineapples and chatted about village news. She invited us to stay with her and her daughter for the evening. We graciously accepted and headed for the village.

Watu means stones in Ngada and is set in a hillside with many steps leading from house to house. The traditional houses and gravestones keep the ancestors' spirits close. The children play together in the dirt where buffaloes and pigs are sacrificed and come and go like every house is their own. The houses palm frawn rooves (for the most part); a single room for sleeping, cooking and storage; and a porch where people gather to eat and chat.

When we arrived, all of the neighbors came to say hello and stayed through dinner. We spent the evening talking and laughing. Of course, I don't speak Indonesian or the local Ngada dialect, but William would translate and I learned a bit - Ah-nak (children), A-nak (delicious), A-rak (local palm wine spirit) and other words that triggered smiles as I continuously mispronounced and/or confused them.

As the hour got late and the oil lamps burned low, we prepared ourselves for bed, falling asleep to the sound of pigs and chickens quarreling under the house. In the morning, more food, more conversation and an excursion in search of cell reception to arrange our ride home. We struggled arm extended on top of the one rock in the village that we were told we *might* get a signal. After about 25 minutes, we had success and headed down the mountain leaving behind a wonderful group of generous people and a life some beautiful in its simplicity.

200 km

2008-01-02T19:39:00.000-08:00

December 16, 2007

One bus, 200 km, 20 seats, 32 people, 3 babies, one chicken, eight 50 kg bags of miniature onions, countless personal belongings, 3 packages to deliver en route, 13 inches of leg room, one official rest stop, 11 hours & 46 minutes.

The Lonely Planet travel guidebook describes the bus journey from Labuanbajo to Bajawa on Flores as "seemingly interminable." They weren't far off the mark.

The bus circled the small port "city" of Labuanbajo to pick-up passengers starting at 6:00am. I boarded around 6:12. The seat I was initially directed to had no legroom, just a huge bag of onions where my legs would normally go if the seats were being used as intended by the manufacturer. I had to sit cross-legged, all rolled up into a ball. After about 5 minutes, I knew that this would not be acceptable for the, what I thought would be, 9 hour journey. I schemed to change seats, trading mine for one of the few without this onion problem. I settled for a spot in the furthest back seat with just enough leg room to fit my legs if sitting perfectly upright. For once in my life I was glad I never grew to the 5'8" I optimistically reported on my driver's license at age 16.

As we bumped along the pothole ridden "Trans Flores Highway," with some portions rivaling San Francisco's world famous curvy Lombard street with its hairpin turns, nausea kicked in despite the medication I had the foresight to consume. A veteran motion sickness victim, I tried to sleep knowing it would help pass time and suppress the urge to vomit. I dozed.

Unfortunately, the relaxation necessary to escape the hell that my stomach was experiencing created a new problem - slowly sinking into slumber my legs ground into the seat in front of me, applying pressure on my knees as well as digging my bum into the less-than-cushioned seat. Crazy pain kept me lucid and I battled the curves one by one, trying to get what little fresh air was available as the passengers puffed away at cigarettes around me.

The passing scenery was stunning - lush jungle hillsides and volcanic peaks in every direction. The clucking of a chicken in a cardboard box in front of me added to the ambiance. This was traveling: pain, beauty, perseverance and poultry.

Every once in a while we'd stop long enough for the driver to take a leak by the roadside or to chat with someone passing by, but we never got off ourselves (with the exception of the men and boys who rode standing in the doorway hanging off the side of the bus) for fear of being left ruthlessly behind. My bum was asleep and my legs locked into uncomfortable paralysis. I prayed for a rest stop.

My prayers were answered when we came across an overturned truck in the road. Cutting a corner too close, it seemed to have toppled over the side landing head first onto the road below. Huge bags of rice were everywhere. The local village had all come to look. Some sat on the hillside and others on the overturned truck itself. They sold bananas to passer byers and watched the mayhem as other vehicles encountered the mess. Our bus stopped.

If the truck had been a few feet further into the center we could have been stuck for a day or more (a million miles from nowhere, mind you). As it were, we all disembarked as the bus maneuvered between the wreckage and the rocky roadside risking our luggage rather than our lives. I stretched my knees, sorry for the truck driver and his load, but grateful for my lucky ligaments.

We continued on and soon reached flatter and straighter terrain, crossing through rice fields with a jetting mountainous backdrop. My knees still hurt, but I stood up now and again (to the extent the short ceiling would allow), stretching my legs and subjecting myself to the woman seated next to me's comments about how "strong" I was while pointing to my decidedly un-Asian thighs.

Seven hours into the journey we stopped for lunch and a "1-hour" break. The local food was tasty. The bathroom was rank. The driver was impatient and we boarded again after about 30 minutes.

The journey continued - stopping here and there to drop things off, pick things up, chat to other drivers about the road ahead. I periodically dozed but when awake kept my mind occupied with questions like why a "www.gemini.com" decal was placed prominently across the from windshield when I had been unable to find a working computer/Internet connection since arriving on Flores or pondering how tough the chicken meat was going to be after hours of constant stress flapping around its small box wrapped in string.

The sun setting, we pulled into the Bajawa bus terminal (a large flat dirt area). A man climbed to the top of the bus and started untying the mountain of luggage. Another started unloading the onions and other contents of the bus's interior. I grabbed my bag and hopped into a bemo (Indonesian minibus) to the center of town. They blasted Bob Marley for the duration of the 5 minute ride. I checked into a guest house, closed my door, laid down, took a breath and thought about what a truly great journey it was.

Lombok to Flores

2008-01-02T19:33:00.000-08:00

December 10-14, 2007

For USD$100 I took a boat for 3 days and 4 nights to the island of Flores (meals and snorkel gear included). It was basic and rather uneventful. Twelve 20 and 30-somethings crowded onto a cabinless boat sans chairs, sans running water and ample snorkeling/swimming/komodo dragon viewing breaks. Not much to report specifically other than: a good time was had by most, sitting on the floor with perpetually salty skin made my butt sore and rashy, giant lizards are RAD!

Island Paradise

2008-01-02T19:30:00.000-08:00

On Gili Meno's neighboring island, Gili Trawangan (the "party island") I was amazed by what I saw. Not only is there an Irish pub, but also movie bungalows on the beach! What has technology done to the average humans attention span?

Night Fishing

2008-01-02T19:11:00.000-08:00

December 5, 2007

Everything is so peaceful on Gili Meno, a small island (1 sq km) off the Western Coast of Lombok. It takes about 2 hours to walk around the perimeter beaches at a relaxed pace and about 20 minutes to motivate oneself to move from the beach side bungalows to snorkel around the reef just off shore.

During the day I explored the magnificent world underwater with friends I had met on the ferry. The coral was brightly colored with thousands of fish circling round. Sea cucumbers, star fish, sun fish, parrot fish, sea turtles, neons and many more I could not name - all creating a visual masterpiece around me. I marveled at their beauty knowing that, later, they would be dinner.

The sun set and around 7pm we met our boat. As we passed over the reef the sleeping fish below had little idea that the floating object above blocking the moonlight was a beacon of death, the grim reaper headed for them.

When we got to our destination, Dean, our fisherman guide handed us a waterproof flashlight and taught us to use a spear gun. The idea was to snorkel along the surface looking for the sleeping fish under rocks, dive down to pointblank range and BAM! spear the unsuspecting animal. While easy in concept, juggling all the gear and avoiding a lung full of salt water proved difficult. Drowning in the dark lonely Indian Ocean lacked appeal. My deep resolved to avoid that fate well trumped the competing desire to assume the role of underwater hunter, slaying my own dinner. I stayed at the surface, content to watch the locals we had along execute the massacre.

The majestic fish we had seen during the day were equally beautiful flapping vigorously on the end of the spear. We cheered and saluted as the experts surfaced with fish after fish - our job to swim the fatally wounded to the boat where they awaited their next chapter: The BBQ.

"We" caught 9 fish and took the best 4 back to our beach front bungalow for a feast. Still in our swimming suits and sarongs, we eagerly awaited our meal. At a long table set up in the pathway along the sea, we garnished our catch with sambal (a chili and lime concoction), garlic oil, sweet & sour, onion tapenade and/or the simplest sprinkling of lime. I thoroughly chewed each savory bite before swallowing. Mmmmmm. One of the best meals I've had. Anthony Bourdain would be proud.

Solo in Solo

2007-12-29T17:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-12-29T17:49:00.000-08:00

...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

2007-12-04T01:08:00.000-08:00

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 Entourage

2007-11-29T00:42:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-28T05:03:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-27T05:14:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-27T04:09:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-25T03:55:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-25T03:17:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-25T02:40:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-15T20:01:00.000-08:00

...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

2007-11-11T22:34:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-09T21:56:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-08T21:37:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-04T21:28:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-03T21:06:00.000-07:00

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

2007-11-02T20:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Reflections on Vietnam

2007-11-01T04:47:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-31T02:55:00.000-07:00

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)!

2007-10-27T03:49:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-27T03:09:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-25T03:55:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-17T23:45:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-17T23:28:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-16T20:22:00.000-07:00

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!

Nha Trang, Vietnam

2007-10-10T05:45:00.000-07:00

I've made my way north to Nha Trang, one of Vietnam's finest beaches. It is gorgeous. While pricier than other places further south, it is still a bargain. Today I rented the most comfortable beach lounge chair under a palm frawn umbrella for 20,000 dong (about $1.30). I bought a knock off book (best sellers photocopied and bound) for 70,000 dong (about $4.60) and shared a lobster and two crabs cooked in front of my beach chair by a local woman for $200,000 dong (about $12). The lobster was perhaps the best I have ever had complete with a pepper lime sauce mixed up on the spot. Mmmmmm. I got taken for 100,000 dong worth of postcards after losing to some shifty (but adorable) beach kids at tic tac toe and connect for (I lose = I buy). Life is good.

Motorbike: The Official Transport of Vietnam

2007-10-10T04:55:00.000-07:00

Vietnam is teeming with motorbikes. At any given intersection at any given time you will find dozens of bikes revving their little engines ready to take off with the first sign of green (or sometimes yellow or red).

While in the United States we categorize vehicles based on their best uses - station wagons for moms, truck for contractors, sports cars with men with small...garages - in Vietnam the motorbike is the all-purpose transport. Since arriving in Vietnam (and Cambodia to some extent too) I've seen motorbikes with the following cargo:

A family of 5 ranging from age 1 to age 45
Seventy-five bags of goldfish
A mattress
Two live pigs tide down on their backs
One brand new full size refrigerator
...the list goes on

Mui Ne, Vietnam

2007-10-09T04:45:00.000-07:00

After leaving Saigon and doing a disapointing two-day tour of the Mekong delta where they herded 40 tourists around to dog & pony shows, I've made my way up to Mui Ne. Mui Ne is a lesser visited beach town known for its kite surfing and impressive fisherman fleet. The town as a whole was not much more than a string of beachfront resorts and restraunts claiming the most authentic Italian food.

The stretches of beach run north to south, but at night you would think you were in a bay with hundreds of lights lining the horizon - fishing boats. Mui Ne, although relatively small, is home to over 1,000 fishing boats. It was quite a sight.

Necessary or Unnecessary?

2007-10-08T05:14:00.000-07:00

At the War Remnants Museum in Saigon they have, well...remnants of the "American War." This consists mostly of photographs taken by journalists, but also tanks, smaller planes, cannons and the most memorable item - deformed fetuses a la Agent Orange. This was maybe the strangest thing I have seen in a museum...ever.

Food for Thought...

2007-10-07T03:56:00.000-07:00

I double checked my visa for Vietnam and it does read "The Socialist Republic of Vietnam." Interestingly they have no income tax, no sales tax, education is pay-as-you-go and have few social services. Makes one think...

My First Souvenir

2007-10-04T05:13:00.000-07:00

I hate kitsch and my backpack is only 50 liters. This has made souvenir shopping difficult. I don't want the things that will sit in a drawer and 3 to 10 years later when I pull them out someone will say, "Oh, did you go to [insert country here]?"

Today I finally bought my first souvenir in Ho Chi Min City (aka Saigon), Vietnam. I don't know if I was moved by patriotism or my love for jewelry, but I bought two pendants that were taken off of American soldiers who were killed in the War. I find it very strange, but they sell old watches, pendants, binoculars, crucifixes, clocks, lighters, army standard tin openers, harmonicas and anything and everything a G.I. may have had on his person when left for dead. My particular pendants are 1) a circular American eagle seal on the front with St. Christopher and "Protect Us" on the back and 2) a small circular Buddha. They seemed to proved a perfect mix as the pair and were somehow calling out to be taken home.

Mr. Lim

2007-10-04T04:13:00.000-07:00

Mr. Lim was our "tuk tuk" driver in Phnom Pehn and in many ways was the inspiration for the tone of the last post (sorry for the sober reporting, but I think it is one of the most important parts of travel). Note: "our" refers to a small group of women all traveling independently that I have met up with.

We found Mr. Lim as we got off the boat from Siem Reap. The other drivers were jumping on board, grabbing at us, yelling, trying desperately to get our business, but inadvertently turning us off. Mr. Lim stood quietly with his topless straw hat holding a sign reading "For persons disliking noisy and boisterous sounds." Immediately I pointed at him and proclaimed, "He's our man!" He immediately approached me to shake my hand saying, "Thank you for giving me a job."

He helped us find a great hotel and scheduled to pick us up the next day for a tour of the Killing Fields and Genocide Museum. He was very knowledgeable and despite not being allowed to guide us through the sights themselves, he answered our questions before and after.

As we grew hungry we asked him to take us to a "real Cambodian restaurant" - one where they used the full allotment of spices and didn't try to copy Thai curries or American pizzas. He took us to this lovely local restaurant and sat with us as we ate, graciously accepting our offer of food, but not indulging (even slightly). He re-told/clarified Cambodian history for us and was very forthcoming when we asked about his life...

Mr. Lim was university educated. He studied accounting. When he graduated, however, he could not find a job. Professional jobs in Cambodia are scarce and one typically needs to buy a job with about one month's wages. Instead, he decided to teach English while his wife worked in a factory.

When Mrs. Lim got pregnant she had to stop working and Mr. Lim's salary of $20 a month as a teacher was not enough to pay the rent ($25 a month) let alone provide food and other necessities. He quite the job to find something more sustainable. He bought a motor bike and started providing transport along with hundreds of other drivers throughout the city. With the help of a micro loan ($500) from a friendly Australian he added a "tuk tuk" to his services that carried 4 passengers hitched to his moto. Now he scrapes by providing for his immediate family and mother (his father, brother and sister had all died in camps under the Khmer Rouge).

Mr. Lim's voice got softer as he spoke about politics. He expressed his distrust of the government pointing to the Lexus SUV's as examples of "our tax dollars." When we asked why the former oppressors were still in charge and the people didn't vote them out, his best answer was that the people are too worried about feeding themselves to worry about politics.

This is current day Cambodia.

On a lighter brighter note, I did meet back up with Barb and met Barang. They had spent a day outside Phnom Penh visiting a rural school that had 3 pencils for every 10 students and paper depended on the individual's ability to pay. He had bought every child their own pencil and notebook (total 350) to "give back." Barb noted that when they got back to Naples, FL, they were going to have a fund raiser for future support. If YOU would like to give, just email me and I'll pass on the details.

Understanding "Why?"

2007-10-01T20:12:00.000-07:00

I had been struggling to understand Cambodia's dark history and feeling kind of stupid. I'm a graduate of an elite women's college, for gods sake, I should be able to comprehend what transpired between 1970 and 1998. Yesterday it finally clicked - it wasn't that I didn't understand, I was just unable to comprehend.

In Germany the Nazis had a cause. They had propaganda and articulated a clear reason for their actions. While their reasoning was wrong/flawed/evil/etc, it allowed people to "buy in" and lend their support to the regime. It allowed me to "understand."

In China the Communists started out with a real ideology. They were striving to realize a vision for their Nation. The eventual result was corrupt and horrific, but, again, there was a stated cause. It allowed me to "understand."

In Cambodia the Khmer Rouge wiped out half the country's population killing intellectuals, monks, foreigners, entire families of vocal opponents, suspected opponents, accused opponents and even their own "comrades." The driving factor wasn't an ideology and it wasn't well stated. This led to my initial confusion and my unanswered question of "WHY?"

The Khmer Rouge drove urban dwellers to the countryside into work camps separating them from the familiar and their support networks. They dispersed families and destroyed both the social and economic infrastructure of Cambodia - purposely throwing the nation into a state of chaos. They instilled a sense of fear in the masses so great that people were turning against one another with such regularity that people could trust no one. An entire country was enslaved both literally and figuratively.

There was no stated end goal. There was no way to guarantee safety. There is no comprehensible answer to the question "Why?" The best I've come up with: Power, fear and chaos...or just plain evil manipulation.

Now that I've come closer to comprehension of Cambodia's history, I find myself faced with the next challenge - comprehending Cambodia's future. A future where people have little faith in the government to help them or create change. And a future where the most powerful political party holding the top 3 posts, the Cambodian People's Party, is led by the former Khmer Rouge.

Some semblance of order has been reinstated in Cambodia, but hope has not yet returned.